The dimly lit room hums with the warmth of a hearty feast, the smell of greasy burgers, ribs, and crispy chicken wings thick in the air. The family of three gators sits around the table, each lounging in their seat with bellies pressing against the table's edges. Their laughter is low, rumbling, and friendly, but there's an undercurrent of something naughty, something invitingly dangerous.

The largest of them, seated in the center, his stretched vest straining against his massive frame, gestures for you to join. "Come on, don’t be shy. We’ve got plenty for everyone." His deep voice rumbles with amusement, and the casual way he waves a large piece of rib at you feels almost… comforting.

You take a seat between the mom and the goth gator. The mom leans in, her apron covered in food stains, her breath warm and sweet with the smell of barbecue sauce. "It’s good for ya," she purrs softly, sliding a plate heaping with more food than you could normally manage. You feel a bit uneasy, but there’s something so irresistibly welcoming about their offer, like sinking into a warm bath after a long day.

The first bite is like heaven, the meat melting in your mouth. It’s rich and savory, and each mouthful seems to coax more hunger out of you. It feels like the food is working with your body, making space for itself, making you want more. The goth gator watches you with a sly grin, licking her lips as she pushes another plate toward you. "See? Told you it’s good stuff."

Time slips away as you eat, their conversations and laughter becoming a background hum. The food keeps coming, and you keep eating. You feel your shirt tightening, your belt digging in slightly more with each passing moment, but somehow it doesn’t matter. The pressure feels oddly pleasant, like a natural progression. The mom leans over again, her hand resting on your now visibly round belly. "Looks like you're fitting in already," she chuckles, her tone sweet but knowing.

As you reach for another burger, something feels different. Your hands—no, claws—brush against the plate, the tips sharper, thicker. You glance down, momentarily startled, but it’s easy to ignore. Maybe it’s just the light, the dim room playing tricks on your eyes. But the gators aren’t reacting, just smiling at you, nodding approvingly as you eat more. Their knowing smiles seem to tell you, this is right, this is how it should be.

With every bite, your body feels heavier and fuller. The seams of your clothes strain audibly, and you can feel the weight of your belly pressing against the table now. The dad, his grin toothy and sharp, chuckles. "You're one of us, kid. Ain't nothing wrong with enjoying a bit more… space."

It’s only when you shift in your seat that you notice the texture of your skin. The light catches it in a way that reveals a sheen, a roughness—scales. But the realization is met with calm acceptance. They’re right. This feels right. You lean back, patting your rounded stomach, the same way the others do.

As you settle deeper into the chair, your legs and arms heavy and solid, you realize with a strange kind of satisfaction that this isn’t just a meal—it’s an initiation. Your body, round and thick with fat, your mind hazy with contentment, feels more you than ever before. And as you reach for another piece of rib, you can't help but smile back at the family of gators, your new family.

"Welcome home," the goth gator says with a wink. And somewhere deep inside, you know you'll never leave.