Ethan tried to reason with them at 6:47 a.m.
He really did.
He stood in the kitchen in his old hoodie and jeans, clutching his backpack like a life raft, while his mom (blissfully oblivious, humming as she poured coffee) asked zero questions about the two half-naked video-game characters currently glued to his sides.
"Lara, Tifa, I have to go to school. Alone. It's senior year. Attendance matters."
Lara, wearing nothing but one of his T-shirts (stretched to breaking over her ridiculous tits) and her thigh holster, pressed her entire body against his left arm and pouted.
"Absolutely not," she said in her posh, murderous accent. "Tyler 2.0 is still out there somewhere, and God knows how many others want to hurt my baby."
Tifa, on his right, had somehow squeezed into an old Midgar High gym shirt she'd found in the laundry. It now read "MID AR HIGH" because her milk-soaked breasts had obliterated the rest of the letters. She was leaking through the fabric in two perfect wet circles.
"Seconded," she murmured, nuzzling his neck. "We're your girlfriends now. Plural. We go where you go. End of discussion."
Ethan opened his mouth.
They both kissed him at the same time (Lara claiming his lips, Tifa sucking gently on his earlobe) until his knees buckled.
His mom glanced over, smiled fondly, and said, "Have a good day, sweetie. Don't forget lunch!" like this was normal.
Ethan gave up.
He walked to school sandwiched between two six-foot-plus fertility idols who refused to let even an inch of space exist between them and him. Lara had one arm locked around his waist; Tifa had the other. Their massive tits bounced in rhythm with every step, drawing stares from every house on the block.
By the time they reached the front gates of Westview High, the entire student body was already gathered outside, phones up, recording.
Ethan wanted to die.
Lara and Tifa looked ready to start a war.
The second they crossed the threshold into the courtyard, the whispers stopped. Dead silence. Four hundred teenagers just… stared.
Then the principal, Mr. Hargrove (fifty-five, divorced, perpetual coffee breath) stepped forward with a clipboard and the expression of a man who had not been paid enough for this.
"Ethan Harper," he began, "you cannot bring… whatever this is… onto school property—"
Lara stepped in front of Ethan like a human shield, ponytail flicking.
"Touch him and I'll wear your spine as a belt," she said pleasantly.
Tifa cracked her knuckles. Milk dripped from her nipples onto the concrete with soft plips.
Hargrove took one look at the two of them, swallowed, and muttered, "I'll… be in my office."
He practically ran.
First period was AP Calculus.
Ethan slid into his usual back-row seat. Lara and Tifa stared at the tiny desk like it had personally offended them.
Lara solved the problem by picking the entire desk up, tossing it aside, and sitting in Ethan's lap, facing him, legs spread wide so her bare pussy pressed against the bulge in his jeans.
Tifa took the seat behind him, reached forward, and rested her leaking tits on his shoulders like the world's softest scarf.
Mrs. Patel walked in, took one look, and dropped her dry-erase marker.
Class never started.
Second period English: same story.
The teacher tried to separate them. Tifa stood up (slow, deliberate), milk soaking through yet another stolen shirt, and said in the sweetest voice imaginable, "If you make Ethan sad, I will sit on you until you stop breathing."
The teacher called in sick for the rest of the year.
By third period the school had surrendered.
Desks were removed from Ethan's row entirely. A couch appeared (nobody asked where it came from). Lara and Tifa took turns riding him slowly under a blanket while the health teacher just… taught sex ed to the rest of the class using them as live examples, voice shaking the entire time.
At lunch they refused to let him sit at his old empty table.
Instead they marched him to the senior table (the one ruled by the football team and cheer squad) and stood behind him like palace guards.
One of the linebackers, Derek, opened his mouth to make a joke.
Lara leaned down until her tits were on the table in front of him and whispered, "Finish that sentence and I'll make you deepthroat your own femur."
Derek shut up.
Tifa gently placed a lunch tray in front of Ethan (heart-shaped sandwich, little note that read "Made with love and breast milk ♡"). Then she climbed into his lap again, facing the cafeteria, and began feeding him by hand while Lara stood behind him braiding his hair and kissing his neck.
The entire room watched in stunned, horny silence.
Half the girls in school started sweating. A few looked faint. One sophomore boy came in his pants without touching himself and had to be carried out.
Last period was gym.
Coach Ramsey blew his whistle and tried to make Ethan run laps.
Lara walked onto the track, planted herself in front of the coach, and said, "He doesn't run unless it's into my pussy."
Tifa added, helpfully, "We can do the laps for him. We have more than enough ass to burn the calories."
They proceeded to jog the track together (four massive tits bouncing in hypnotizing waves, two colossal asses clapping loud enough to echo off the bleachers). Every male student (and half the female ones) forgot how to blink.
Ethan sat on the bleachers between two goddesses who spent the entire period taking turns making out with him and threatening to murder anyone who looked at him wrong.
By the time the final bell rang, Westview High had quietly rewritten every rule in the handbook.
Dress code? Gone.
Attendance policy? Now optional for Ethan Harper.
PDA ban? Repealed in a 30-second emergency faculty vote.
As they walked home (Ethan once again sandwiched, too shell-shocked to speak), Lara kissed his cheek.
"See, baby?" she murmured. "School is much better now."
Tifa nuzzled his other cheek, milk dripping onto his shoulder.
"No one will ever ignore you again," she promised. "Or hurt you. Or even think about it."
Ethan looked back at the school. A banner was already being hung across the entrance by the AV club:
WELCOME TO ETHAN HIGH
Home of the Fighting Harpers
He closed his eyes, felt four enormous breasts press against him from both sides, and accepted his fate.
Tomorrow would be the same.
And the day after that.
And every day after that.
Because his overprotective, jealous, perfect bimbo girlfriends had decided the entire world now revolved around one shy, blushing boy.
And the world, whether it wanted to or not, was going to obey.