Tyler Brooks sprinted across Ethan's front lawn like the devil himself was chasing him, which wasn't far from the truth. His heart jack-hammered against his ribs, his sneakers skidding on the dew-wet grass. He could still smell Lara's perfume (something expensive and filthy) clinging to the air where she'd loomed over him. He was three houses down, lungs burning, when the heat hit.
It started between his shoulder blades: a molten bloom that spread outward like spilled syrup. He staggered, almost went to his knees.
"What the fu—"
His voice cracked halfway through the word, climbing an octave he'd never hit before.
The heat dove lower, pooling in his gut, then lower still. Tyler grabbed the front of his jeans because his cock felt suddenly, violently wrong. It was shrinking, folding inward, nerves rewiring themselves into something slick and aching and empty. He clawed at his zipper, horrified, but his fingers were already changing: nails lengthening, knuckles slimming, skin turning porcelain-pale and flawless.
His Lacoste polo split down the middle with a sound like wet canvas tearing. Two enormous, milk-heavy breasts erupted outward, swelling so fast the shredded fabric whipped away like confetti. They kept growing (bigger than Lara's, impossibly round, capped with fat, puffy pink nipples that leaked a single bead of milk the second they settled). A red ribbon materialized out of nowhere, wrapping tight beneath them, lifting and presenting them like the world's most obscene gift.
Tyler's knees buckled. He hit the sidewalk hard, palms scraping, but even that pain felt distant under the tidal wave of sensation ripping through him.
His hips cracked outward with a wet pop, ass ballooning into two absurd, jiggling globes that shredded his jeans in seconds. The denim fell away in tatters, revealing suspenders (black leather, Tifa's classic battle suspenders) that snapped into place over shoulders now delicate and narrow. His thighs thickened into plush, pillowy perfection, the kind of legs that could crush a watermelon or wrap around a lover and never let go.
The changes raced upward. His buzz-cut blond hair exploded into a river of silky black that spilled down to the small of his back, the ends brushing the top of an ass so fat it cast its own shadow. His face softened, cheekbones lifting, lips plumping into a glossy pout. Eyes widened into deep crimson, framed by lashes so long they brushed the air when he blinked.
And then the mind-melt.
Every memory of being Tyler (every smirk, every cruel joke, every time he'd shoved Ethan into a locker) was dipped in pink syrup and stirred until it dripped out his ears. New memories flooded in: Ethan's shy smile in third grade, Ethan letting him copy homework, Ethan crying in the bathroom after Tyler had pantsed him sophomore year. Guilt and love and lust detonated inside the new skull all at once, so intense it felt like orgasm in the brain.
The final piece clicked into place.
Tyler was gone.
Kneeling on the sidewalk in front of the entire neighborhood, panting and dripping, was the single thickest, milkiest, most brain-rottingly devoted Tifa Lockhart the world had ever seen.
She rose slowly, six-foot-two in thigh-high boots that had materialized from nowhere. The white crop top barely contained her tits (they spilled over the neckline like rising dough), and the tiny black skirt was more belt than clothing, the pleats doing nothing to hide the absolute dump-truck of an ass behind her. Milk leaked steadily from both nipples, running in warm rivulets down her belly, soaking the ribbon, dripping onto the concrete.
Her crimson eyes locked on Ethan's front door.
"E-ethan…" The name left her lips like a prayer and a moan combined. Her voice was honey over gravel, pure sex wrapped in velvet. "My baby… my sweet baby boy…"
She took one step. Her thighs rubbed together with a lewd, wet sound. Another step. Her ass clapped softly with every motion, the cheeks so oversized they bounced against each other like two beach balls fighting for space.
Inside the house, Lara had Ethan bent over the bed, slowly feeding inch after inch of his cock back into her greedy pussy, whispering filthy praise, when the front door exploded off its hinges.
Tifa filled the doorway like a goddess of fertility and violence.
Lara's head snapped up, ponytail whipping. For one heartbeat the two bimbos stared at each other (Lara crouched possessively over Ethan, Tifa framed by morning sunlight, milk dripping from her nipples in steady streams).
Then Tifa spoke, voice trembling with adoration and something darker.
"Move."
Lara bared her teeth. "He's mine, cow."
Tifa's eyes flashed. She took a single step inside, and the floorboards groaned under her weight. "I hurt him," she whispered. "I hurt our baby for years. I owe him everything. I owe him my tits, my womb, my soul. You had one night. I have a lifetime of sins to make up for." Her hands cupped her leaking breasts, squeezing until milk arced across the room in twin white streams. "And I will burn the world before I let anyone (even you) keep me from worshipping him."
Ethan, still buried balls-deep inside Lara, made a tiny terrified noise.
Both women heard it.
Instantly the tension shattered. Two sets of lovesick eyes locked on him, softening into pure, molten devotion.
Tifa crossed the room in three strides, dropping to her knees beside the bed. Her massive tits hit the mattress with a soft, wet slap, milk pooling around her.
"Ethan," she breathed, tears (actual tears) in her crimson eyes. "Baby, I'm so sorry. I was so awful to you. Please let me make it better. Please let me be your good girl now." She reached out, fingers trembling, and gently (so gently) brushed his cheek. "I'll never let anyone hurt you again. Not even me. Especially not me."
Lara watched, jaw tight. Then, slowly, she leaned back, letting Ethan's cock slide out of her with a wet pop. She didn't move far (just enough to make room).
Tifa didn't hesitate. She crawled forward, pressing her milk-soaked tits to Ethan's chest, smearing him with warmth and sweetness.
"I'm the thiccest," she whispered against his lips, voice breaking. "I'm the milkiest. I'm the most sorry. And I'm yours forever, Ethan Harper. Punish me. Use me. Love me. Just please… let me stay."
Ethan stared up at her (at the face he'd feared for years now radiating pure worship) and felt something inside him crack open.
He reached up, hesitant, and cupped one leaking breast. Milk spilled over his fingers.
Tifa let out a broken, grateful sob and kissed him like he was air and she'd been drowning for a decade.
Behind her, Lara watched for a long moment. Then she sighed (half fond, half possessive) and slid in on Ethan's other side, pressing her own body close.
"Fine," Lara muttered, nipping Ethan's ear. "We'll share. But I'm still the first."
Tifa pulled back just enough to glare through her tears. "We'll see about that."
Their mouths both descended on Ethan at once (one on his lips, one on his neck), and the room filled with the sounds of desperate, worshipful moaning.
Outside, the neighborhood watched in stunned silence as two impossibly curvy video-game goddesses fought over who got to adore the quiet boy on Elm Street more.
No one called the cops.
Something told them it wouldn't matter anymore.
The universe had chosen its favorite.
And it was only getting started.