malpractition

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Bell that makes you girl 🔔

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Kigurumi yuri by janetdutt

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Nobody calls each other “terminally online” anymore. I think that’s because everyone is terminally online now. Jobless too. And ugly as fuck. Stains all over our shirts. Stupid as well

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My Melody and Kuromi (2025)

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I caused her a lot of trouble

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scanty and panty

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Doll girls & they’re all roommates. Which one’s ur fave?

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youre not fucking listening to me its not a "chuuni" eyepatch I have an actual cursed demonic eye and I have to keep it covered or I see terrible things and bleed from the socket and pass out Im not a fucking chuuni its a serious real problem

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Important NL clip

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we got the first ever pig over here

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northernlion deciding what to stream next

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She started off small, quiet, anxious. It was how she'd been raised, it was what women were to her—ankle-length skirts, small waists, a perpetual diet, downcast eyes—and even after she got out of the church and got away from all that, it was already a habit.

Then she met you.

She stood out at Dyke Night, standing quietly in the corner in a long, red dress that was new and fit badly, baggy, a bold color on a nervous, unflattering cut. You were there watching all the people drinking and mingling in their ironic, niche t-shirts and vintage crops and bizarre combinations of flannel, and there she was, something new, picking at her nails and sipping seltzer water. You walked toward her quietly, saying a soft hello when you were close enough for her to hear you, but she still jumped, and your heart melted. Who was this soft, sweet, scared girl? What was she doing here all alone?

You gave her a soft smile, asked her name, gave her yours in return. She smiled back and you were dazzled, already lost in her warm green eyes, the long folds of her skirt, the brilliant gravity of her grin. You pulled her aside to a quiet corner of the patio, pushed a beer into her hand, asked her where she was from, and that's where it all started.

The blush crept into her cheeks, and her country accent, a lilting around the vowels, came out. You're both grinning now, leaning closer towards each other, every little fidget bringing you closer to her until you can see the constellations of her freckles. Finally, you ask the question you already know the answer to: "So, what brought you here?"

"I'm. . . hungry, I guess. I want something new," I guess," she said, "new experiences. New people. New food."

"Oh, sweetie, I love a girl with an appetite," you say, leaning forward, your belly pushing over your cut-off shorts, your tits almost falling out of your top. "I think I can help you with all of those."

She smiled, blushing, grinning from ear-to-ear but not quite looking at you. "I was hoping you could."

It's been a year now since you met her at the bar, the night you now call your first date, and it's hard to recognize her. She wasn't playing it up; she'd seen and tasted so little of what this life has to offer, and even now there were still so many firsts you wanted to do with her, even after you'd already shared her first beer with her, her first kiss, her first real orgasm. She was hungry, hungrier than you could've ever guessed, and it was all you could do to keep up with her, but you wouldn't trade it for the world. You were there when she first saw the sea at sunset, when she saw her first redwood, when you cooked her the first authentic Mexican food she'd ever had, and the delight in her eyes were what kept you going, amongst other things.

"Baby," she calls from the other room, her voice low and flirty, "can you help me get dressed? I'm stuck." You round the corner and you're dumbstruck by what you see.

Gone is the narrow waist, the slim jawline, the air of quiet reserve, all of it buried under a hundred pounds of soft, new fat and a confidence bordering on arrogance—she calls you over with her eyes. "This doesn't fit anymore," she pouts, "what happened? Did you shrink it?" It takes you a second to realize it, but it's the red dress from the first fateful night. Her tits, swollen and stretch-marked, pour over the pitifully small cups, a stray bit of areola making you bite your lip. Her belly is tight against the fabric, her belly button a soft dimple in the red, the pert roundness of her gut deforming the entire line of the dress, her side rolls flowing out of the zipper she's holding with both hands. She didn't even try to close it herself, that's why you're there, but it's cute she pretends to make an effort.

"You've been greedy, my girl," you say, helping her to her feet without her even asking, examining the hopelessly small dress with amusement. "All those new restaurants, all those nights out, all those late-night food deliveries, they have to go somewhere, honey. Look at you. This big, soft, stretch-marked gut. These tasty udders. That giant, wobbly ass." Your hands punctuate your sentence, her moaning when you grope her, and wandering from her ass to between her legs as you stand behind her. "And this big squishy fupa, baby. What would they think of you back home? Would they even know you? You look like you ate that shy girl who I was eyeing across the bar all that time ago." She was helpless, leaning into you, grinding her hips into yours. "Anyways, let's help you get dressed."

Your forearms straining, you manage to pull each side of the zipper together with one hand and force it closed with the other, watching the fabric stretch thinner and tighter against her in the mirror, every curve and roll and dimple highlighted, all the more sexy for how this used to drape on her. "God, what did you do to yourself?" you ask.

"It's not my fault," she mumbles, nuzzling her head against you. "You feed me too much."

"I'm just letting you try new things, baby," trying to sound sexy as you can while forcing the zipper closed, its teeth clicking begrudgingly together as you slowly push it closed. "I didn't force that food down your throat. I didn't make you order more food after you came home stuffed. I didn't—"

You both gasp as the dress gives up, side seam bursting, her hips bulging out of the seam. She shimmies a little and the seam rips entirely, and the little laugh she gives as it falls to the floor leaves you burning. "It's okay baby," you say, pulling her towards you, slipping her fingers right where she likes it, kissing her neck, feeling how heavy her belly is on your arm and how wet she already is, "I'll get you something new."

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