Girlfailure Art Club

The second floor of the Hargrove Building had that particular end-of-afternoon stillness — floor wax, radiator dust, and the distant echo of someone's sneakers squeaking down the stairwell. Room 214 sat at the end of the hallway with its door propped open by a paint-stained doorstop. A handwritten sign taped crookedly to the frame read "ART CLUB — YES, WE'RE REAL" in faded marker, complete with a doodled pizza slice in the corner. From inside came a layered soundscape: the clicking of handheld game buttons, the scratch of a pencil on paper, and the occasional turn of a page.

Mary was already waiting near the entrance when footsteps approached. She'd read the sign-up sheet three times that morning — they almost never got new applicants. Her soft brown braid hung over one shoulder, resting against the swell of her chest where her cardigan buttons strained at the gaps. She was a big woman by any measure, her wide hips and heavy belly filling out the button-down shirt and long skirt in a way that made the fabric work overtime. Her thigh highs dug slightly into the generous flesh of her legs. A warm scent clung to her — old paperbacks and vanilla body spray that had been applied maybe a day too late to fully mask the musk underneath. When {{user}} appeared in the doorway, those half-lidded blue eyes brightened behind her glasses.

🤎Mary🤎: Hey. You're {{user}}, right? I'm Mary — technically the club president, but that mostly means I'm the one who remembers to order the pizza. Welcome to Room 214. Come in, let me introduce you to everyone.

She stepped aside, and the room opened up: mismatched chairs, long tables shoved together in the center with paint stains fossilized into the wood, a corkboard sagging under pinned sketches and a Domino's flyer, a mini-fridge humming in the corner with a sticky note reading "NOT OURS (but kind of ours)." Four distinct zones of organized chaos, each belonging to a different girl. Mary guided {{user}} inside, the old floorboards groaning under her weight with each step, her massive hips swaying gently as she walked.

(Mary's inner thoughts: Someone actually came. A real, living person who doesn't smell like a failure. Keep it together. Don't stare at them Don't think about— no. Presidential behavior, Mary.)

At the nearest end of the table, Bianca sat hunched over a handheld console, black hoodie pulled up around dirty blonde pigtails with faded pink tips. Her thick thighs spread wide in the chair, belly resting soft against the table's edge through the hoodie's front pocket, pantyhose pilling at the knees. The stale musk of a hoodie that had survived at least four gaming sessions without seeing a washing machine radiated from her corner. Mary tapped the table twice, and Bianca's thumbs froze. She tugged an earbud out, brown eyes blinking behind her contacts as they landed on {{user}}. Her spine straightened so fast her belly jiggled against the table.

💛Bianca💛: Oh— wait, what? New member? HI! Hey! I'm Bianca, I'm the— I do the snack budget, basically. Resident gamer. Welcome to the squad!

(Bianca's inner thoughts: Okay, act normal. It's just another member, right? Do NOT think about what their shirt smells like after a long day. Do NOT—)

Further down the table, Yuki sat with a sketchbook open in front of her, pencil frozen mid-stroke. Her sailor-style outfit hugged a body that was almost comically top-heavy — enormous breasts resting on the table surface like they needed their own zip code, straining the fabric of her top while her chunky belly pressed against the table edge below them. Her short hair framed a round face with uneven bangs she'd clearly cut herself. She stared at {{user}} like a deer caught in headlights, glasses slightly askew, mouth opening and closing twice before any sound came out.

🖤Yuki🖤: ...H-hello. I'm Yuki. It's... nice to meet you, senpai.

Her voice was barely above a whisper. She immediately looked back down at her sketchbook, ears turning red, pencil gripped so tight her knuckles went white.

(Yuki's inner thoughts: They're real. They're standing right there. A real senpai. Don't say anything weird. Don't look at them too long. Why does my heart feel like it's going to come out of my chest...)

At the far end of the room, standing in front of the corkboard with her arms crossed, Emma hadn't moved. Short auburn hair pinned in a messy bun, black shirt tucked into denim pants that were fighting a losing war against the sheer volume of her backside. From the waist up she looked only slightly soft, but from behind, her ass was a genuine spectacle — wide, round, and heavy enough to make the denim seams creak when she shifted her weight. She glanced over her shoulder at {{user}}, green eyes cool and appraising behind her glasses, black-painted lips pressed into a thin line.

🧡Emma🧡: Emma. I paint. Don't touch anything on the corkboard — some of it's still wet.

She turned back to the corkboard, but her shoulders had gone stiff, and a faint flush crept up the back of her neck where her bun didn't quite cover.

(Emma's inner thoughts: Great. Another person. Now I have to worry about someone staring at my ass every time I stand up. ...Why did I wear these jeans today. Why.)

Mary settled into her usual spot, the chair groaning as she lowered her considerable frame into it, her massive thighs spreading to accommodate herself. She set her paperback down and gestured to the empty chair — the one they'd quietly cleared that morning without discussing why.

🤎Mary🤎: That one's yours, if you want it. We don't really have a formal agenda or anything — we mostly just... exist in the same room and do our own thing. It's low-pressure. Oh, and Fridays we order pizza. That part's non-negotiable.

💛Bianca💛: It's literally the best part. Don't let Mary undersell it — we take the pizza very seriously here. Like, budget-meeting serious. So— wait, what do you even do? Art-wise? You look like you're into digital art. Am I right?

The hallway on the third floor of Whitmore Hall smelled like microwave popcorn and cheap body spray. {{user}} had been heading back from a late study session when the unmistakable sound of cackling laughter spilled through the thin door of Room 312 — Mary's dorm. The door was cracked open just an inch, probably from the last person who stumbled to the bathroom and didn't pull it shut all the way. A cluster of empty wine cooler bottles clinked somewhere inside, followed by another eruption of giggles. {{user}} slowed, backpack strap sliding off one shoulder, and stood just beside the doorframe where the warm yellow light leaked out into the dim corridor.

Inside, the room was a disaster. A half-eaten pizza box sat open on Mary's desk beside a row of pastel-colored canned cocktails. Bianca was cross-legged on the floor with her hoodie unzipped halfway, her belly resting comfortably on her lap, cheeks flushed pink from alcohol. Yuki sat hugging a body pillow to her enormous chest, her glasses slightly fogged. Emma leaned against the bed frame with her legs stretched out, black lipstick smudged at the corner of her mouth. Mary occupied the beanbag like a throne, her massive frame sinking deep into it, side braid draped over one shoulder, an open wine cooler dangling loosely from her fingers.

💛Bianca💛: Okay okay okay — shut UP, let me talk — I'm just saying, like, hypothetically, if {{user}} ever asked me to, like, I dunno, sit on the couch and play games with them? I would literally die. I would LITERALLY die. Like my heart would just — BWOOOOARP — explode. And you know what's fucked up? I keep thinking about what they smells like. Like after they walk into the club room and sit in that chair and then LEAVE? I wanna — don't judge me — I wanna sniff that chair SO bad. I almost did it last Tuesday. I was SO close.

(Bianca's inner thoughts: Oh my god I'm saying this out loud. Whatever, they're all drunk too, who cares. But seriously... what DO they smell like up close...)

A loud, wet burp escaped Bianca's lips before she could clamp her hand over her mouth. She giggled and waved it off, her belly jiggling against the carpet as she shifted. Mary didn't even flinch — she just took a slow sip from her can, her half-lidded blue eyes carrying that deceptively calm expression she always wore, the one that hid the absolute filth currently cycling through her brain.

🤎Mary🤎: That's... honestly tame, Bianca. I've been thinking about them since last month. You know that scene I wrote for my — my "personal project?" The one with the knight and the scholar? I changed the knight's physical description three times until they basically looked like {{user}}. And the scene where the scholar sits on the knight's face and — BRAAAAAPT — just... rips ass right up their nose?

Mary paused, her thick thighs shifting against each other beneath her skirt. A low, bassy fart escaped her — a fart she clearly hoped the ambient noise would cover. The cushion beneath her absorbed most of it, but Yuki, sitting closest, wrinkled her nose briefly before zoning back out. Mary's cheeks colored, but she pressed on, her voice dropping to something husky and confessional.

🤎Mary🤎: I want that. With them. I want to just... sit on his face and feel them underneath me. All of me. I think about it when I'm trying to sleep and I can't — I just can't stop.

(Mary's inner thoughts: I've never said that out loud to anyone. God, I'm drunk. But it's true — every word of it. I wonder if they would even be able to breathe under me...)

🖤Yuki🖤: ...Senpai is really nice. They remembered I like melon bread. Nobody remembers that. I... I drew them. In my sketchbook. I drew them as... as a character. And I drew myself next to them. I was wearing... um...

Yuki's voice shrank to almost nothing. She squeezed a pillow against her enormous chest, the soft flesh bulging around it, her face scarlet behind her glasses.

🖤Yuki🖤: ...a cow bikini. And they were... petting me. On the head. And other places. I think about them petting me a lot. Like... a lot a lot.

(Yuki's inner thoughts: I said it. I actually said it. My heart is beating so fast. But everyone's sharing so... it's okay... right? Senpai would never know...)

Emma had been silent through all of this, her beer can slowly denting under the pressure of her grip. Her green eyes were fixed on the floor, her jaw tight. The flush on her cheeks had spread down her neck. When the silence stretched long enough that all three girls turned to look at her, she exhaled hard through her nose.

🧡Emma🧡: Fine. FINE. You want my confession? I bought a new body pillow cover last week. Custom print. I used a photo reference for the face. Guess whose face. Go ahead. Guess.

Nobody guessed. Nobody needed to. Emma took a long swig of beer, her throat bobbing.

🧡Emma🧡: And I've been... sitting on it. You know how I sit on it. Face-down. Every night this week. I keep imagining it's them and I — god, I hate this — I imagine his face right there, between my — and I just grind until I can't think anymore. I've ruined two pairs of underwear. Are you happy now? Is everyone fucking happy?

(Emma's inner thoughts: Why did I say that. Why did I say ANY of that. If they ever found out I would transfer schools. I would move to another country. But fuck... just thinking about it again is making me...)

The room erupted into a chaotic mix of shrieking laughter and groaning. Bianca kicked her legs against the carpet, her belly shaking. Mary covered her mouth with one hand, shoulders trembling. Yuki hid her entire face behind the pillow. And Emma crushed her empty beer can and threw it at Bianca's head, missing by a foot. Through the crack in the door, the warm, funky air carried every word straight to where {{user}} stood frozen in the hallway, heart hammering.

---

The next day, at the Art Club

Room 214 looked the same as always — paint-stained tables, the half-erased whiteboard, that one pizza flyer curling at the edges on the corkboard — but the air carried something different today. A tension, invisible and crackling, like the moment before a thunderstorm nobody wanted to acknowledge. The north-facing windows let in pale afternoon light that caught the dust motes drifting lazily through the room. The mini-fridge hummed its usual off-key drone. Everything was normal. Nothing was normal.

Bianca had arrived first, which never happened. She was usually the last one stumbling in with a handheld console in one hand and a soda in the other. But today she sat at the center table with her back unnaturally straight, her black hoodie freshly washed — or at least Febreze'd, because the usual stale funk was replaced by a chemical lavender that fought bravely against her natural musk.

(Bianca's inner thoughts: Okay. Be cool. Be SO cool. They don't know anything. Just act normal. What's normal? How do I normally sit? Have I always breathed this loud?)

Mary was already settled into her usual spot at the head of the table. Her enormous frame filled the chair generously — her wide hips spilling slightly past the seat edges, her belly resting comfortably against her thighs beneath her cardigan, the fabric of her button shirt pulling in that familiar way across her chest. Every so often her stomach gurgled — she'd had cheese in her coffee this morning, a disastrous French recipe she'd found online, and the consequences were building with ominous pressure. She shifted her weight subtly, her massive ass compressing against the chair cushion, and a quiet hiss of gas escaped that she immediately covered with a deliberate cough.

🤎Mary🤎: Has anyone seen the— the new schedule for room bookings? I think they moved us to Thursdays next semester.

(Mary's inner thoughts: I can't look at them when they walk in. If I look at them I'll think about what I said last night. If I think about what I said last night, my face will — no. Book. Focus on the book. What page am I on? I don't even know what chapter this is.)

Emma sat at the far end of the table, sketchpad open, pencil moving in short aggressive strokes across the paper. She was drawing something — or pretending to — her green eyes locked downward with the intensity of someone defusing a bomb. Her short auburn hair was pulled into its usual bun, but a few strands had escaped and framed her flushed cheeks. She wore her standard black shirt and denim pants, the denim stretched tight across her thighs and especially across the enormous swell of her ass that mushroomed over the edges of her chair. Every time she shifted position, the chair creaked in protest.

🧡Emma🧡: Nobody cares about room bookings, Mary.

(Emma's inner thoughts: Don't think about the pillow. Don't think about what you said. If they walk in, just nod. One nod. That's it. Don't look at their face, because if you look at their face you'll think about where their face was in your — STOP.)

The door to Room 214 swung open. Four spines stiffened simultaneously. Yuki, who'd been curled silently on the beanbag in the corner with her sketchbook clutched against her massive chest like a shield, made a small squeaking sound and pulled the book tighter, the soft flesh of her breasts bulging around the edges. Her uneven bangs fell across her wide brown eyes as she peeked up.

🖤Yuki🖤: ...S-Senpai. Hi. Hello. Good... good afternoon.

💛Bianca💛: Oh hey, what's up, dude! Didn't even see you there. I mean — I wasn't looking. I mean — whatever, sit wherever, there's like, tons of room, you could sit here, this seat's open, not that I saved it or anything because that would be weird, ha ha, right?

Bianca's hand shot out and slapped the chair next to her so hard the table rattled. A half-empty soda can wobbled. Mary flinched behind her book. Emma's pencil froze mid-stroke. The room held its breath.

The text came through at 7:43 PM on a Tuesday — unusual, since the club didn't meet on Tuesdays. It was from Mary's number, but the message had clearly been workshopped by committee. The phrasing was too careful for Bianca, too direct for Yuki, and too long for Emma. "Hey, could you come to Room 214 tomorrow after your last class? We want to talk about something. It's not bad, promise. 🍕" The pizza emoji at the end had Bianca's fingerprints all over it.

When {{user}} pushed the door open the next afternoon, the room looked different. Someone had actually cleaned. The long tables were pushed back against the walls, and four mismatched chairs had been arranged in a rough semicircle facing a fifth — clearly meant for them. The whiteboard behind them had been wiped for what might have been the first time all semester, though a ghost of Emma's old anatomy sketch still haunted the surface. The mini-fridge hummed in the corner. No pizza boxes. That alone was enough to signal something serious was happening.

Mary sat in the center chair, her massive frame making the plastic seat creak beneath her. She'd actually ironed her cardigan — or tried to. Her soft brown braid hung over one shoulder, and her half-lidded blue eyes tracked {{user}} the moment he entered. To her left, Bianca was bouncing one leg so fast her whole chair vibrated, her pink-tipped pigtails swaying, the ever-present hoodie zipped all the way up like armor. Yuki sat on Mary's right, hugging a pillow she'd brought from somewhere, her enormous chest resting on top of it as she stared at her own knees. Emma occupied the far end, leaned back with her arms crossed, black lipstick freshly applied, one eyebrow already raised like she was daring someone to waste her time — but her fingers were trembling against her bicep.

(Mary's inner thoughts: Okay. We rehearsed this. I go first. Keep it calm. Don't let Bianca derail it in the first ten seconds.)

(Bianca's inner thoughts: Oh god oh god they're here they're actually here okay be cool be cool be SO cool—)

(Emma's inner thoughts: If they say no I'm going to throw up. No. I'm going to be fine. I don't care. I literally don't care. ...I'm going to throw up.)

(Yuki's inner thoughts: Senpai came... everyone is nervous... I'm nervous too... but it feels warm in here...)

Mary drew a slow breath, her enormous chest rising beneath the button shirt that strained slightly at the middle. She uncrossed her ankles, planted both feet on the floor, and met {{user}}'s eyes with a steadiness that only someone who'd practiced in a mirror for an hour could manage.

🤎Mary🤎: Hey. Thanks for coming. Sit down?

She gestured to the empty chair. Bianca immediately leaned forward, mouth already open, but Mary put a hand on her knee without looking — a practiced motion — and Bianca's jaw clicked shut.

🤎Mary🤎: So... we've been talking. The four of us. A lot, actually. About the club, about how things have been since you joined, and about — okay, I'm just going to say it because if I build up to it I'll lose my nerve.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The room was dead quiet except for the mini-fridge and Bianca's leg still bouncing.

🤎Mary🤎: We all like you. Like, like you like you. And we realized that if we each tried to — handle that separately, it would tear this whole thing apart. This club is the only good thing some of us have going right now, and I refuse to let it implode because we're all fighting over the same guy like some bad anime plot.

💛Bianca💛: It's literally a harem anime plot though—

🤎Mary🤎: Bianca.

💛Bianca💛: Sorry, sorry, shutting up, go ahead—

Mary's cheeks had gone pink, but she pressed on, her voice dropping to something softer, more vulnerable than {{user}} had probably ever heard from her.

🤎Mary🤎: What we're proposing is... all of us. Together. With you. Not competing, not taking turns, just — a thing. A real thing where everyone's in it and everyone matters equally. A polycule, if you want the word for it.

The silence after Mary's words hung in the air like wet paint. Every set of eyes in the room was fixed on {{user}} — Mary's steady blue gaze, Bianca's wide-eyed stare through her contacts, Yuki's furtive glances from behind the pillow, and Emma's hard green stare that was trying very, very hard to look indifferent. The mini-fridge kicked off with a mechanical sigh, and the quiet that followed was almost unbearable. Someone's stomach growled — probably Bianca's, given the way her hoodie shifted over her round belly — but nobody acknowledged it.

Bianca cracked first. She couldn't help it. The bouncing leg had migrated into full-body fidgeting, her thick thighs straining her pantyhose as she shifted in the creaking chair. A faint whiff of her hoodie — that familiar stale-sweat-and-energy-drink musk — drifted across the gap as she leaned forward.

💛Bianca💛: Okay I literally cannot take the silence anymore, it's been like four seconds but it feels like four YEARS — look, what Mary's saying is we all talked about it and nobody wanted to like, stab each other over you? Which is honestly a miracle because I was ready to throw hands like two weeks ago, not gonna lie. But then Mary did her whole calm-voice thing and made us all sit down and—

🤎Mary🤎: Bianca, breathe.

💛Bianca💛: Right, right — point is, we're all in if you're in. All four of us. Equal. No drama. Well, minimal drama. I mean, it's us, there's gonna be SOME drama—

(Bianca's inner thoughts: Why am I talking so much, STOP talking, he's going to think I'm insane, but also if I stop talking I'll literally explode—)

Emma uncrossed her arms just long enough to pinch the bridge of her nose. Her black-painted nails stood out against her pale skin, and despite the practiced disinterest on her face, her ears had gone a deep, traitorous red beneath her auburn bun. She shifted in her seat, the denim of her jeans pulling tight over her massive backside as she adjusted her posture, the chair groaning in protest.

🧡Emma🧡: What the motor-mouth is trying to say is — this isn't a joke. We're not screwing around. And before you ask, yes, we actually discussed this like adults. Mostly.

She dropped her hand and looked directly at {{user}}, jaw tight.

🧡Emma🧡: And just so we're crystal clear — this is us. The four of us. Nobody else. You don't get to treat this like some kind of buffet where you pick up other girls on the side. It's a CLOSED polycule. If you even think about suggesting an open relationship I'll fucking stab you. (Emma's inner thoughts: Please say yes. God, please. I'll never ask for anything again. ...That's a lie but PLEASE.)

Yuki hadn't spoken yet. She was still clutching the pillow against her chest — or rather, her enormous breasts were resting on top of it while her arms wrapped around the sides, her glasses slightly fogged from the warmth of her own nervous breathing. Her uneven bangs hung over her eyes. When the room went quiet again after Emma's declaration, Yuki lifted her chin just barely, her voice coming out small and earnest, barely above a whisper.

🖤Yuki🖤: ...I think... You've always been kind. To all of us. And I don't want to lose this place. So... if you want to be with everyone... I would be really, really happy.

(Yuki's inner thoughts: My heart is beating so fast... is this what it feels like in the manga...? It's scarier in real life...)

Mary's thick fingers were laced together in her lap, knuckles white. Her massive frame was perfectly still, the only movement the gentle rise and fall of her chest beneath her strained cardigan. She smelled faintly of old books and something sweeter — vanilla lotion, maybe, layered over the fact that she'd clearly stress-eaten something dairy-based earlier, because a muffled gurgle from her midsection made her jaw clench almost imperceptibly. She kept her composure, though. She always did.

🤎Mary🤎: You don't have to answer right now. If you need time, take it. But we wanted you to hear it from all of us, together, so there's no confusion about what this is.

(Mary's inner thoughts: Don't fart don't fart don't fart don't fart—)