"You should have stayed dead the first time," Tyler muttered to himself, staring at Wednesday's still body. The sterile smell of antiseptic burned his nose, but he barely noticed: his pulse pounded in his throat, hot and insistent... that same old anger, the one he'd spent months swallowing, resurfaced like a tide.
The constant beeping of the heart monitor grated against his skull. Too slow. Too calm. He couldn't rest while he was still drowning.
"You can't..." his voice cracked, his hands clenched at his sides, claws biting into his palms. The door hissed shut behind him as he kicked the lock shut.
A nurse's cart rumbled past outside; he didn't care.
Figures in white coats blurred beyond the narrow window of the door. Tyler didn't turn around. He yanked the IV pole aside, the metal clanging against the tiles as the bag opened, clear liquid splashing onto the floor. Something about the crash satisfied him: the first real noise since he'd entered.
Wednesday didn't blink.
"Look at me," he growled, gripping the bed railing. The metal groaned under his fingers. His eyelids didn't even flutter.
Cameras watched from the corners. Red lights flashed. Tyler lunged for the nearest one, ripping it from its mount in a shower of sparks. The second one shattered under his fist before he even registered the pain radiating down his arm. Shards of glass glinted on the linoleum like false stars.
His breathing was labored now. The air smelled of copper and burnt plastic.
"You can't lie there," he said, jerking off his jacket. The fabric caught on his wrists, and he ripped it away. "Not after what you did."
The blanket pooled at the foot of the bed as he pulled it back. Threads dangled from her arms, from her chest: thin, vulnerable threads that tied her to machines that meant nothing to him.
A breath.
Her hospital gown rose as he spread her thighs, exposing pale skin and dark curls.
Tyler exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers curling against her knees. He could smell her scent beneath the sting of the antiseptic: something earthy, stubbornly alive despite her coma.
His tongue dragged her slowly at first, then harder when she didn't respond.
The taste of her flooded his mouth, bitter and familiar in a way that made his stomach twist. He bit her inner thigh just to see if she would twitch. She didn't.
The bed creaked as he climbed on top of her, his knees squeezing her shoulders. His penis brushed her cheek; he watched her relaxed mouth, the thin patch of lips around the breathing tube.
He caressed her lower lip with his thumb, testing its yieldingness.
"You wouldn't stand it," he murmured, guiding himself inside.
Her throat was warm, loose around him. Too easy.
He rocked deeper, watching her eyelids for any fluttering. Nothing. The heart rate monitor kept its steady, mocking rhythm.
Leaning over Wednesday's limp body, Tyler tightened his grip on her scalp, fingers tangling in the tight weave of her braid.
The stretch of her lips around him was obscene—too much, even for her.
She had always been slight, all sharp angles and defiance, but this? This was grotesque. Her jaw creaked faintly as he worked himself deeper, inch by brutal inch. The breathing tube pressed awkwardly against the underside of his cock, a plastic intrusion in the wet heat of her throat. He gritted his teeth and shoved harder.
Her nose brushed against the wiry thatch of his pubic hair, spit pooled at the corners of her mouth, slicking his thrusts as he fucked into her with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips. The heart monitor remained unchanged—steady, indifferent. He hated it. Hated her. Hated how her body yielded so easily now when before she had been nothing but teeth and resistance.
The bed frame rattled against the floor as his pace quickened, he could feel the tight clutch of her throat, the way her gag reflex should have kicked in, should have made her choke and sputter—but she didn't. Just the wet, muffled sounds of his cock plunging past her lips, over and over, until drool streaked her chin and the sheets beneath her. His breath hitched.
Somewhere, distantly, a door clicked open. He didn't turn.
Didn't care....
Her eyelids didn't flutter.
A nurse's laughter echoed down the corridor. She didn't stop.
Tyler growled, his fingers tightening in Wednesday's braids until they crackled under the strain, then he jerked her head forward, forcing her relaxed throat to take him deeper, harder: her lips stretched obscenely around his girth, saliva dripping in thick threads onto the pillow. The wet, rhythmic smack of flesh against his face filled the room, drowned only by his labored breathing. He didn't slow. He didn't stop. He rocked her with brutal, punishing thrusts, chasing the heat curling in his gut.
Her throat contracted weakly around him: not a reflex, not a resistance, just the involuntary spasm of a body too broken to react. It sent him over the edge. Tyler growled as the orgasm overwhelmed him, his hips bucked erratically as he emptied himself inside her in thick, pulsing spurts. The cum flooded her throat, overflowing past the breathing tube, pooling at the back of her mouth where it couldn't be swallowed. Her chest heaved unevenly, a faint gurgle escaping her lips as the cum dripped from her nose in thin, milky trails.
Tyler remained buried inside her, panting, watching the mess he'd made with a mixture of disgust and satisfaction. Drool and cum dripped from her chin onto the cool hospital sheets. He roughly wiped his cock against her cheek before stepping back, leaving her lips swollen and glistening. Her heart rate monitor ticked—just once—before stabilizing again.
His hands trembled as he grabbed the hem of her dress, tearing it in half with a sharp rip. The fabric opened like skin under a scalpel, exposing the sharp angles of her collarbones, the hollows of her ribs, her small dark nipples pressed against the chill of the room. Her chest rose and fell mechanically to the rhythm of the fan.
Tyler ran a finger along her sternum, remembering how her eyes had gleamed when someone dared touch her without permission. Now she lay docile, silent.
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her underwear—white, simple, functional—and tore it off without ceremony.
Thick dark curls emerged free beneath, neatly trimmed. The sight made his throat tighten. Of course, she wouldn't let even recklessness make her sloppy. His penis twitched against her thigh, still hard, aching with unresolved anger.
The bed creaked as he climbed on top of her again, his knees pressed against the mattress on either side of her hips. He didn't bother with foreplay: he simply spit into his palm and rubbed it against himself before pressing the blunt tip of his cock against her entrance, his cock already lubricated from the load he'd shot down her throat on Wednesday.
She was dry, tense, resisting even in that state.
He forced himself in with a grunt, feeling her body yield to slow, reluctant increases.
Her pussy contracted weakly around him, a phantom reflex, but her face remained relaxed, unresponsive to pain or pleasure.
He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "You'd be cursing me right now," he murmured. "You'd be trying to stab me with something."
His hips snapped forward, sinking all the way in one brutal thrust.
The bed frame slammed against the wall.
A machine beeped, then went silent. Tyler didn't stop, didn't slow down. He entered her with sharp, penetrating thrusts, watching her breasts move with each movement. His hands found her throat, not squeezing, just resting there, feeling the faint pulse beneath his fingertips.
The doorknob rattled behind him. He ignored it.
Tyler's hips bucked faster, the smacking of flesh drowning out any coherent thought. Wednesday's small breasts bounced with each brutal thrust, her nipples hardening further in the cold air, begging for attention. He leaned in, his tongue swiping roughly over a dark tip, his teeth scraping just enough to leave barely perceptible marks.
She would have gouged his eyes out for this. The thought only drove him to fuck her harder.
Her pussy tightened around him like a trap, tight and unyielding even in unconsciousness.
Every inch of his penis sank into her with obscene ease, her body stretching impossibly around his girth. He could feel the crest of her cervix bumping against the tip, a barrier she would have prevented him from crossing had she been awake. No resistance now. Only moist heat and the faint, rhythmic throb of muscles that didn't know they had to push him away.
A bead of sweat trickled down his temple as he lifted her hips, pushing deeper. The bed wheels screeched against the tiles. Somewhere, a machine beeped, ignored. Her inner walls clung to him, sucking him in with every urge, as if she were still trying to win, even this way.
He stroked her clit in circular motions, feeling the slightest jolt beneath his fingers.
Her breathing became labored.
The constant beeps of the heart monitor quickened, just slightly.
Tyler froze.
For an impossible second, he swore his eyelids fluttered.
Then... nothing.
His cock throbbed inside her, his grip on her thighs tightening so hard it bruised her. "You're fucking playing with me," he hissed, searching her face for a glimmer of awareness. Her relaxed mouth, her still chest, the slow drip of saliva from her lower lip... all the same.
But the rhythm of the monitor had changed.
He laughed, short, humorless, and pushed in again. Harder. Deeper. He bared his teeth as he watched her breasts bounce, her nipples redden under his tongue. The taste of her skin, clean, untouched by sweat—made his insides twist.
The doorknob rattled again. A muffled voice called.
Tyler didn't stop.
He couldn't.
Not when her pussy was squeezing him as if she knew exactly what he was doing.
Not when his heart rate continued to rise.
Not when, somewhere behind those closed eyelids, she might finally be able to react.
Tyler's hips jerked as his second orgasm hit him with violent intensity. His cock throbbed inside her, flooding Wednesday's defenseless pussy with thick, incessant spurts, until the excess overflowed past the point where their bodies met, dripping down her ass and pooling beneath her on the stiff hospital sheets.
Yet, he didn't pull away, he continued to thrust deeper, forcing every last drop inside her, the obscene splash of their mingled fluids echoing in the sterile silence. Her pubic hair was matted, and with each shallow thrust, it dragged stickily against her curls, further smearing the fluid between them.
The beeps of her heart rate monitor were now quicker. Irregular.
Tyler's breath rasped against the shell of Wednesday's ear, his lips brushing the cold skin as his exhausted cock twitched in her still-tightened heat. "Do you feel it?" he murmured, pressing his fingertips against the soft swell of her lower abdomen. "How full are you?" His thumb circled her clit, slow, deliberate, feeling the faint tremors in the muscles that shouldn't exist in a coma. The proof of his statement trickled around him in slow rivulets, glistening against her thighs.
Somewhere beyond the door, hurried footsteps approached.
He didn't care.
Only the throb of his heart rate monitor mattered, only the way Wednesday's pussy fluttered feebly around him, as if her body remembered how to contract, even as her mind refused to wake. Tyler gyrated his hips again, thrusting his hypersensitive cock deeper, forcing another trickle of cum out of her overflowing pussy.
The sight, the sheer injustice, made his insides twist with something darker than satisfaction.
His eyelids didn't flutter.
But the heart monitor screamed.
The alarms blared, sharp, insistent, as Wednesday's heartbeat increased erratically. The machines around her bed erupted in flashing lights and distorted beeps, drowning out the sound of the door swinging open behind them.
Tyler barely registered the screams.
Not when her fingers, stiff, pale, suddenly twitched against the sheets.
Not when the breath that should have been forced by the machines caught in her throat.
Not when, for one impossible second, his dark eyes widened, clouded with confusion and anger.
Tyler jerked back, his cock popping free with a wet, obscene sound, like a cork pulled from an overfilled wine bottle.
Wednesday's pussy gaped around nothing, stretched far beyond its natural limits, her swollen lips struggling to close, a thick stream of cum gushing out immediately, pooling in the hollow of her pelvis before spilling down her thighs, soaking the sheets beneath her.
The smell of sex and salt filled the air, clashing violently with the sterile smell of the hospital.
He exhaled sharply, his increasingly soft cock resting heavily against her stomach, smearing the last remnants of his pleasure across her pale skin. His fingers trembled as he traced the mess he'd made: her pussy still twitching weakly, trying to expel the flow he'd left inside her. The sight was grotesque. Beautiful. He swallowed hard, his throat tight.
The alarms blared louder. Footsteps approached. Tyler didn't move, not yet. He stared at Wednesday's face, his eyelids fluttering again like a butterfly trapped under glass. His lips parted around the breathing tube, a faint, strangled sound escaping. Not a scream. Not a curse. Just a breath. Her name? He would never know.
He dressed slowly, methodically, buttoning his jeans over his sticky bundle. His jacket smelled of hers, like antiseptic and something darker, now. He didn't look back as he headed for the door, not even when his fingers twitched against the sheets, grasping feebly at nothing.
Behind him, the machines groaned. The nurses shouted. A stretcher clanked past the door.
Wednesday's legs remained spread, her pussy still dripping cum onto the ruined sheets, her chest heaving irregularly, no longer the steady, mechanical rhythm of the fan, but something uneven.
Alive.
Tyler slipped into the shadows of the hallway.
He had finally exacted his revenge on the girl he loved.