Ultimate Simpette

Going to sleep was hard.

Tossing and turning, flipping and fluffing your pillow.

You would think that with how tense your muscles were with Conquest around, your body would just drop, but no. At the end, sleep evaded you. The sun rose, and you had to get ready for work.

In the mirror, your eyes were red. It was like you aged ten years in a single night. Skin around your nose was congested. You swallowed, and your mouth tasted sour.

You figured time was not on your side, and it was gonna take a lot of work to get you looking somewhat passable.

In a hurry, you did your hair, washed your face, and moisturized with a gallon tub of cream.

Satisfied you looked somewhat presentable, you stepped out of the bathroom to your living room, ready to confirm last night and maybe face the fact that you're fucked, life sucks, and you have been visited by a living, breathing atomic bomb.

In the living room, you looked around. There was no crater-like dent in the couch. There was no slightly ajar door, and there was no sound of air wooshing through an open window.

Like having an alien abduction.

Did that shit really happen?

The Pentagon was still going crazy.

It was like when you used to work in fast food, and the rush of customers made service sloppy, leading your coworkers to ignore the smaller things.

At the end of the day, nothing changed; you were never given the time of day.

—--------

It eats at you. Makes your chest hurt.

Every light was green as you headed home, like the universe was serving you up on a platter. You actually wished there was some traffic. What if you were wrong? What if last night was actually real, and Conquest was gonna kill you at a place you thought was safe?

You expected something. After all that, the boogeyman did say he would be back.

But there was nothing. You checked everywhere.

You can’t help but think he was watching you sometimes. While washing the dishes, you poked your head up to the sky. Clear.

You liked keeping the windows open; there were no neighbors, but it made you paranoid. You shut the blinds. Double checked the windows. Attached a chair to the door as a stopper. Threw flour on the floor. Realized that was dumb; that thing could fly. Instead, you strung threading wire in and around your house. Kept the lights on in every room. Put a large knife under your pillow. Set an alarm to ring every two hours and repeated your mission. Looked around the house again while carrying said knife. Researched defensive attacks for enemies online. Ran drills on where to run and where to hide. Last resort, ran the numbers on how long it would take to call the GDA to your place. This was every day for a week straight; the only real vacation was work.

In the second week, morale died off, and you, too, were getting tired. You stayed late at the headquarters not because you wanted to get a promotion, but to spy on your coworkers, maybe they knew something you didn’t. They talked about sending choppers to areas of interest, and you swerved your car to the side when city helicopters whirled above.

You can’t eat. You spent your paycheck on over $2,000 worth of motion detector cameras with 360-degree motion, HD video, 2-way audio, and infrared night vision.

Maybe you were going overboard. It was tough, meticulously going frame by frame on a one-minute video of a civilian captured during the Conquest fight, only to realize the camera was pointed in the wrong direction. The only information you gathered was that the cameraman had poor eyesight.

You rationalized that it really was stress. It was getting to you. It was an open secret that talking to work therapists in the GDA meant your job was as good as gone, so no, you weren’t gonna risk it.

—-----------------

Work was starting to go back to normal. A small dedicated team was left to Conquest’s whereabouts, and you were back to dispatching heroes.

You spent your lunch with your associates. Money was tight, and you stole a few pinches from their plate.

You stopped hesitating about inserting the key into the knob of your home.

When you opened your door, you didn’t stand by ready to run at any sound. You swung it open and tossed off your shoes and clothes.

You were worried you would have another stress-induced hallucination, so you took it upon yourself to relax. You actually started cooking more home-cooked meals. Took the time to sit down at the table. Even started considering getting a gym membership.

It didn’t mean you stopped being aware; you still checked the locks before bed. But for now, you were starting to get hopeful. Life, at least at home, was somewhat serene. Besides, all those stupid cameras did was capture a squirrel getting run over on the other side of the street.

To clear your head, you put on some music. Loud, contagious. The salad on the island needed more dressing.

You swished your body around, twirling toward your fridge.

Kneeling down, you scavenged. Ranch? No. Ceasar. Proud of your choice, you stood up and lost all feeling in your fingers. Sauce plopped and exploded. A single drop landed on white boots.

Your gaze climbed upwards. Prickly heat like a thousand tiny needles scattered over your cheeks.

Right in front of you stood Conquest.

You stopped breathing.

No.

No, it can’t be, he’s not supposed to be real. He’s not supposed to be here.

The more mass an object has, the harder it is to stop its motion. Ask yourself how someone like Conquest was able to move across your living room to your face.

With one hand, your cheek was in his palm. He tilted your head upward. You were face-to-face with what you thought was a manifestation of your anxiety.

“I didn’t tell anyone,” you said, gasping as the hand around your jaw tightened. “I never told anyone, I promise,” you repeated, your face remained squeezed by Conquest; the pressure from his hand was increasing. He’d pop your head like a grape, splatter the juices around.

He squinted. “I believe you. Else I would've had a worthy fight.”

He stilled. “Fascinating how long it takes your blood to calm.”

He lowered himself to your head, mustache brushing over the tips of your ears before sinking to your neck.

Your heart battered against your ribs. Eyes rolled toward the ceiling. Lifted inches off the ground, you hovered and realized you were flying.

He lowered to the floor far more gently than expected. It's almost too delicate, as if he were aware of how weak you were.

Music rolled on. Some ridiculous ad featuring car insurance played.

The floor was hard and cold; it stung where your shirt had risen. Your hands tingled as they traced the ridges in the vinyl floor.

Limp legs were pried apart. Your panties ripped like tissue. You focused on your breathing.

At first, you didn’t react to what he was doing; you could feel it, but you didn’t dare look down and confirm what you suspected. It's fear that allowed you to ignore the sensation.

“I don’t have much experience in this. Most of the time, this sort of thing is solely about procreation. Sad, I wasn’t sent to this planet for that purpose.”

Knees on either side of your legs.

Both his enormous hands engulfed your waist, splaying out on the bare skin below your rib cage.

They stayed there for a moment before rolling down over to the curves of your hips.

Pausing, one hand rested on your hip, and the other trailed down toward the middle of your thighs.

The lower his hands slid, the more you could feel his warm breath venting against your neck.

You kept your eyes up, searching for irregularities on the ceiling. You were doing everything you could to not remind him that you were a living being. You wanted him to think of a toy. Grow bored with your existence.

You felt it then, a prod below. Two fingers pressed at your entrance. The other hand remained at your hip. He didn’t force himself in; he lingered, waiting for your body to respond. Then he ran it down your slit. It made your stomach clench.

Leaning his weight further on your chest, his mustache pressed against your collarbone. He mumbled straight through your breastbone, but you didn’t know what he said.

His thumb found your clit, grazing over it, running down the slit, and back up again. 

He applied pressure. Sluggishly dragging the pad of his thumb over the bud. Despite the fear, your body betrayed you, slicking against his thumb. Your anatomy’s way to protect you from the roughness.

You wished he had finished, but he didn't remind you of a sex-crazed individual consumed with lust. There was no fight in you either, no way for him to fulfill some sick power fantasy. If he wanted power, he got it in the fight with Mark. This was something different. It felt like he was running a checklist.

Conquest hummed against your chest. You listened to the smacking of his digits on your skin, gathering the slickness. He spread two thick fingers and inserted, but not too much. It was massive, stretching. He held them inside you, turning his wrist to map you internally.

After aimlessly rubbing and touching, it was getting to be too much. He found that you reacted more when his thumb landed on your clit. Your hips involuntarily buckled and twitched.

You closed your eyes when it came. He didn’t increase his speed. He anchored over your swollen clit, the other hand clipped to your pelvis. Muscles contracted, a gasp tore out, spine arched, and your thighs trembled. For a few seconds, horror turned to an explosion from your nervous system.

When you opened your eyes, you felt light. Nothing to fasten you to the ground, you finally looked down. Conquest once again was gone, but this time you knew he was here, for the floor beneath you was lubricated.

Taglist: @joyfulllittlething @shslsimpette @missmannequin

The ground was shaking. Miniature earthquakes kicked up specks of concrete.

Conquest was winning. Mark and he were launching each other into buildings, well, it was mainly Conquest fulfilling this task. It was like watching fireworks. Nice from a distance, but you never wanted to be too close, and you never wanted to be the one holding the pyrotechnics when the flame reached the fuse. So, was there any wonder why you were internally screaming, "Hurry up and get me out of here"?

Why’d the higher-ups have to send you into the battle? Not like you were much of a trooper. But here you were decked out in layers of synthetic Kevlar fibers, hands shaking as the tips of your fingers typed away on your electronic tablet, stopping when sounds of explosions quelled.

You looked up. Head swiveling side to side. Eyes scanned over the prettiest shade of blue. It was a beautiful day.

It wasn’t good for the wrangle to hush. It just meant that the fighting bodies were traveling.

Your job should have guaranteed you a nice spinny chair, coffee, and watercooler talk, but no. You're just a simple underling reporting on and dispatching heroes to fight or help any remaining civilians. 

In your ear, “manage the scene near Omni Kid” sounded out, and you were teleported near the child, Oliver, you believed. The kid looked bad. Real bad. Your eyebrows scrunched up, and your mouth twisted, and right before you could give your condolences, the director appeared in the corner of your eye.

In a crisp blue suit, and brow cocked up, he yelled to the men in his ear, asking if anyone or anything was ready to be scrapped together.

As the medics prepared Oliver, it was as if everyone, in that moment, gained a sixth sense.

This large meatball of pure muscle managed to evade Cecil’s orbital sensors, but it couldn’t avoid detection from those on the ground.

Only a few feet away lay the absolute perfect killing machine. A cosmic butcher. With its singular beady eye hidden beneath its lowered lid, its face was blank. It skimmed over each face, and your heart began to thrum. Only Conquest’s own weighty breaths were audible.

Suddenly, its symbolic upper hair twisted upwards. Its mouth opened, revealing a mashing of teeth. The goliath had found prey.

Your vision blurred, and your feet felt light. Its gaze was fixed directly on you.

—------

“Lost him?! How can we lose someone like that…FUCK.” Cecil’s fist slammed on a desk.

As abruptly as Conquest materialized, he evaporated. Windows shattered as Conquest blasted through the air, and hands shot to cover your eyes. All in the ‘safety’ of the indoors, you were left to watch the rest of the fight onscreen.

A bizarre report then traveled a few minutes after. At the request of Invincible, left in a bloody puddle, a truce or something more ominous was agreed. All that beast said in response was “I'll let you rest, but I expect a better fight soon,” as he projected through the sky.

The Pentagon frenzied.

You, on the other hand, tried to keep your cool. You were hallucinating, yes, that was it. Surely your eyes were starting to fail.

For once, you were grateful for your bottom-tier position. This time, it was the higher-ups scrambling to locate enemy number one. As the clock neared quitting time, you robotically gathered your uneaten lunch and headed home.

You don’t remember entering your car, buckling in, or driving as far as you did, just the squeezing on the steering wheel.

Eyes roamed as you arrived in the suburbs. Only affordable because the area was still under development, most houses were skeletons. No neighbors.

Getting out of your car, you rummaged in your bag for your keys. Grunting as you reached the bottom of the bag and sighing as you finally entered the key in the knob.

Like steam, the stress of your job rose above your shoulders.

Your home looked dark even when you went to turn on the lights. The shadows were too long.

You sluggishly get out your work clothes and shower. Rubbing the suds in your hair, all you think of is what happened out in the field, how scared you were. You blinked and rubbed your eyes. You were finally out with a long shirt and pajama bottoms.

You get out to the kitchen and shimmy around trying to find something good to eat in your nearly empty refrigerator. After considering a browning salad bag, you opted to get a metal spoon and a tub of half eaten icecream.

Grabbing the remote and plopping down on your couch, you scrolled endlessly on your chosen streaming service and finally decided that, since your ice cream was starting to melt, you would watch a lazy reality show.

Spoon dangling from your mouth and finally resting your head back on the couch, your eye noticed movement.

There, sitting down beside you, almost floating, not even causing an indent, sat the most wanted man on earth. The man who had beaten Invincible into a red pulp. Conquest.

The spoon dropped with a clank, and when it fell, the whole house quieted save for the dramatic music emitting from a tense moment onscreen. That scar looked deeper in his skull, and the metal from his fake arm shimmered on.

Mouth agape, you could not speak. You wished you had just jumped up from your place, but your heart grew heavy and shackled you down.

You don’t move. Eyes stayed glued to a corner of the floor. Had it always looked that uneven? 

How easy it was for him to drag Invincible’s body through a city and cause that much destruction.

Your thighs tighten as he moves closer to you. His breath doesn’t feel heavy or grunting, more like a trained dancer, graceful and light. It’s actually starting to make sense as to why he was never detected when he entered Earth’s atmosphere.

Everything freezes. Maybe he’ll grow bored and leave. Or maybe he’ll give you a fast death. Please don’t drag it out.

You think it worked.

He lets out a sigh.

With his good hand, he touches your bicep. The tips of it grazed over whatever hair remained there, dragging down to your forearms.

A normal response to such stimuli would be to shiver, but your body locked up tighter, turning you into a living marble.

“Even your breathing is different. Unique. No creature on Viltrum compares. I'm starting to realize why that worm was so sentimental.”

He grasps under your armpits, pulling you in the middle of his lap.

You were never much of a fighter, even if all GDA agents were required to attend a yearly seminar.

With your back to his chest and his rib cage rising, the TV in front of you is clearer to see and blurrier. The voices drone on.

“Look at me,” you aren't given much time to fulfill his request before he grabs the bottom of your chin.

Facing him on the monitors is different from seeing him in person. Every pore, the white from his eye, that scar across his face is magnified.

His mustache twitches upwards.

“You're different from the Viltrumite women.” he drops his smile, and you wish it weren’t so abrupt. “Soft?”

He slides his arm across your stomach, and his hot breath on your neck snaps you back to the TV.

Conquest laid his head on your shoulder. He reached down and picked up the spoon from where it had fallen and inspected it, twisting the metal as it shone and gleamed in the television's blue light. He cleaned the spoon with his uniform as he picked up the sloshing bucket of melting white cream. Then he dipped the spoon and scooped out a chunk.

“Here. Nutrients, I suppose.” The spoon neared your face; afraid he would shove the metal into your lips, you complied and opened, taking in the white cream.  It tasted too sweet now, but as you were about to swallow it, Conquest put a finger on your neck, the exact spot where he would be able to feel you swallow. You downed it, and his finger ran chasing the sensation until it landed in your stomach. Grabbing at you. Kneading fists full of pudgy flesh.

—--------------

Conquest keeps you trapped. His thighs are like a bear cage.

His hands are still on your stomach he remains like that for a while. Your breathing is shallow; you don’t move at all.

“Are you afraid?” There’s a pause, and you contemplate whether responding meant more constriction around your waist. Before you could reply, he answered his own question. “You should be.”

He sighs.

“I’ll return for you afterward. And if you tell anyone, I'll flatten the land around you.”

Like a doll, he pulled you off of him.

You remained still, certain that the predator would return. Maybe he was playing a trick on you, and when you fell for it, well, God only knows what he would do to you.

After a few minutes spent analyzing every sound and buzz, your thighs unclenched, and they felt tired. Like removing a few tons from your body. Maybe this feeling would help you get just a few minutes of sleep, you hoped at least.

You didn’t let your guard down. Your ears adjusted to every sound, even jumping when your refrigerator began to buzz.

You should tell someone. Yeah, you should, but all that answered back was the words from Conquest.

Besides, what would the GDA do? Being around the director gave you a front seat to some of his more questionable tactics. They would treat you like a dangling piece of cheese in a grand trap, or worse, an experiment, guilt-tripping you into thinking it was for the greater good, when you knew full well that the director valued a more utilitarian view of morality.

A sharp pain in your fist, and you realized that you had clenched your fist so tight that the nails were starting to dig in.