After confessing his love for Lisa for what felt like decades, Milhouse was exhausted by her constant rejection, and now she was leaving for college, and he was once again denied what he desired most.
He didn't plan for things to go as they did that night, but when he saw Lisa drunk, stumbling through the party after having made out with boys she didn't even know, he saw red. All those years of devotion, of carrying her books, of listening to her problems, and for what? To watch her throw herself at anyone but him.
Through the night he noticed just how she kept getting drunker, how she struggled to talk, how she struggled to walk, and eventually how she started drifting off on the couch. Throughout the night he'd formed a plan, and as soon as she was mostly out of it, Milhouse lifted her up in his arms and carried her up the stairs into one of the bedrooms. She opened her eyes for a moment, but barely registering anything before passing out yet again.
Milhouse closed the door behind them with his foot, Lisa's head lolled against his shoulder, her breath warm against his neck as he laid her down on the bed and stared at her unconscious body.
"I've always been there for you, Lisa," he said, sitting beside her on the bed. His hand moved to her hair, stroking it with a tenderness. "Always. And what do I get in return?"
Lisa mumbled something incoherent, her eyes fluttering slightly.
Milhouse's hand trembled as he traced her jawline. Years of rejection twisted into a terrible moment of decision. The sounds of the music from downstairs faded away as all he could hear was his own heartbeat.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered, his fingers moving to the buttons of her blouse. "You always were. But you never saw me, did you? Not really."
He undid the first button, then the second, his breathing ragged as he was moving unto uncharted territory. "I've waited so long, Lisa. I've been your shoulder to cry on. I've been your friend when no one else was there. And for what?"
His hands slid beneath the fabric, touching her skin. It was warm and soft like he always imagined it would be
"You could have chosen me," he whispered, his voice cracking as he pulled the blouse open. "All those times I was there for you. All those times I listened." His hands moved to her skirt now, tugging it upward. "But you never chose me, did you?"
Lisa remained motionless, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. The alcohol had claimed her completely, leaving her defenceless against what was happening.
"You're perfect," Milhouse continued. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he positioned himself over her. "So perfect, and you wasted it on them. On guys who don't even know your favourite saxophone player." He finished unbuttoning her blouse, then tore at the fabric with sudden violence. The sound of ripping cloth filled the quiet room as he exposed her bra, a simple white cotton thing with a small bow in the centre, simple, yet gorgeous, just like her.
His hands moved to her legs, pushing them apart roughly. Lisa's head rolled to the side, a small moan escaping her lips as her unconscious body responded to being manipulated. Milhouse moaned as he slid his fingers beneath her underwear. He worked his fingers inside her, his breathing growing more erratic, full of need from years of rejection.
"You wanted me to suffer," Milhouse whispered as he unbuckled his belt with one hand while the other continued to violate her.
He yanked his pants down, pulling out his pulsating cock as Lisa lay motionless beneath him, completely unaware of what was happening. Her unconscious state only seemed to fuel his anger and desire, she was still ignoring him.
"You're so beautiful," he murmured, positioning himself between her splayed legs. "So perfect." Then his voice hardened. "But you're cruel, Lisa. So cruel to me."
He thrust into her violently, a groan escaping his lips. The bed creaked beneath them.
"I would have treated you like a queen," he panted, gripping her hips with bruising force. "This is your fault," he growled, driving deeper, feeling her body yield unwillingly beneath him. "You made me like this."
His hips slammed against hers with increasing fury, the headboard knocking rhythmically against the wall. His fingers traced her cheek as he leaned down and planted a kiss on her unresponsive lips, the taste of other boys seemed to linger on her lips, the taste of betrayal.
Sweat dripped from his forehead onto her unconscious form as he thrust harder, drowning out the pain he felt. His thrusts grew erratic, his breathing ragged. He tried to make their first time last, but he'd desired her for so long it was impossible. A strangled sound escaped his throat as his body tensed, his fingers digging into her hips as he shuddered through his orgasm. Opening his eyes he stared down at the love of his life, a fleeting feeling of guilt passing through him as the pain of rejection spread through him.
Milhouse pulled out and collapsed beside her, chest heaving for air. For several minutes he just lay there, staring at the ceiling as his breathing gradually slowed. The realisation of what he'd done began to settle over him like a heavy blanket. He turned his head to look at Lisa, still unconscious on the bed. Her clothes were torn, her body exposed and vulnerable. Something twisted in his gut, he wished it was remorse, but it was more like peace.
Milhouse rose and dressed himself, adjusting his glasses. He straightened his clothes, buttoned his shirt, and smoothed down his hair, all while watching Lisa.
A wave of pleasure washed through him. He'd remember the moment forever.
Milhouse took one last look at her sprawled on the bed, memorising every detail. The torn clothes. The marks on her skin. The dishevelled hair. She might never give herself to him, but he finally had a memory of them together.
With a small, satisfied smile, he turned and walked to the door. His hand lingered on the knob for just a moment before he twisted it open. The sounds of the party flooded through the open door.
He stepped through the doorway and pulled the door closed behind him with a soft click. Up till then he always thought being invisible was a curse, but for once he appreciated that nobody seemed to see him.