#invincible fandom

thragg and his gardener

Mark had tried to reason with him—if “reason” was what you called shouting through clenched teeth while Thragg stood, unflinching, with small creases between his brows. The Viltrumites were dwindling, he’d said. The Empire needed to live again. Earth was viable—plentiful, adaptable, and resilient despite slowly suffocating their own planet. The humans were... serviceable.

“You would treat them like livestock,” Mark spat.  “No,” Thragg corrected, tone calm as a lecture, voice gravelly. “Like soil. You plant seed in fertile ground. You cultivate what yields strength.” Mark shook his head in disbelief. “They’re people.” “You are half one,” Thragg said, eyes glinting, gesturing towards Omni-Man. “You know their potential.” He paused, pointedly staring at Mark. “You’ve proven their worth in that much.” Mark hadn’t realized what that meant until later—until the reports came in, and your signal vanished mid-patrol.

You hadn’t known about the negotiations. About the quiet agreement Thragg demanded, the one that would allow his kind to “coexist” on Earth under his own dominion. You only knew he’d found you before Mark had a chance to warn you. He could have taken anyone. But he’d chosen you. Maybe because of the connection to Invincible, like leverage, something sentimental to twist. Maybe because he’d seen the fight in you that day, and saw what others hadn’t. Endurance, density, an anatomy that fascinated him for reasons he refused to name. To him, humans were lesser, fragile yet stubbornly alive. You were living proof of that contradiction.

“Your species is flawed,” he said once, staring down his nose at you., “yet evolution occasionally stumbles into art.” It wasn’t flattery. It was possession disguised as admiration.

That day, the street lay split open–cars folded like paper, concrete slabs gutted by force. You could still hear Mark shouting somewhere above the clouds, his voice carried and scattered by the wind. And there he was… Thragg.

Not standing, but looming. He had blood in his hair, blood not his own. He surveyed the ruin like a craftsman inspecting imperfect work and a hen his eyes found you, there was no surprise. He’d been waiting. “You fight loud for something that breaks this easily,” Thragg said, almost bored, watching your punches glance off his ribs. You wiped blood from your lip, a shaky smirk cutting across your lips. That earned a low hum, more exhale than laugh. “Scared?” His hand shot forward, catching your next swing mid-arc. His grip crushed down until your bones screamed. “You mistake survival instinct for courage.”

Before you could retort, the world flipped. He slammed you into the pavement hard enough that your ears rang. You gasped, forcing a breath back in, body refusing to quit even when logic said it should. “Do you believe you can kill me?” he asked, voice steady, with an indulgent expression. The kind of face you’d make reserved for children claiming they could lift mountains. “Maybe,” you panted. “If I’m lucky.”

“Luck is the excuse of the unprepared. Try again.” He released you only to let you swing again, testing you. Every blow you threw landed like raindrops on concrete. He didn’t counter—just let you exhaust yourself, absorbing every blow, almost crueler than mercy. When he finally stepped in, you felt the wind peel off his movement. His hand closed around your throat and pinned you to a slab of crumbling wall.

“You mistake endurance for strength,” he said, eyes cold, appraising. “I’ve broken civilizations that had more spine than you.” You rasped, air stuttering in your lungs. “Guess I’ll add that to my résumé.” That got him to look—really look—for the first time. “Even cornered, you persist in comedy. Defiance through humor.” He didn’t trade witty banter, no, he delivered pronouncements. It made the gravity of this situation, crush you more than they weight of his hand.

“You’re not exactly giving me therapy options.” His grip tightened just enough to remind you how easily he could end it. “The pressure required to collapse your trachea is less than what I am exerting now. Remember that.”

“Then do it,” you rasped. For a heartbeat, nothing moved. Then his expression shifted, something between disdain and calculation. “No. You’re more valuable alive.” He released you; you dropped to your knees, coughing, lungs on fire, never seeming to catch a full inhale. Before you could find your footing, he seized your collar and lifted you one-handed, effortless as breathing.

“You don’t even understand why I bother,” he said, eyes narrowing. “That ignorance is… useful. You fight for a fleeting life. I am offering you a role in the next thousand years of evolution. And your ignorance makes you valuable.” It happened within mere seconds. He didn’t kill you. He could have. He didn’t even knock you unconscious. The air shuddered around you, the ground falling away as he took to the sky—a crimson blur carrying you toward something far worse than death. A purpose. The cell wasn’t a cell, not in the conventional sense. It was cleaner than most laboratories, its walls gleaming with Viltrumite alloy that refracted light instead of absorbing it. You’d been here long enough to map the sounds. The hydraulic sigh of the pressure door from the main door, the subtle hum of atmosphere control, the faint heat of the lasers caging you in. He visited like a clock tower striking the hour. No guard, no chains, just him—filling the doorway, and then the room. His presence always hit before his voice did with a noticeable weight.

“You haven’t eaten,” he said, voice echoing in the silence. “You watching me now?”

“I watch everything I own.”

“Then you’re wasting your time.” He didn’t look at you immediately; he was reading something from a tablet, his posture military in its discipline. “Your people have been… difficult,” he said at last. “Invincible resists simple logic. His compassion will get him killed.”

“Maybe that’s what makes him human,” you replied, sounding reminiscent. “Human.” The word left his mouth like he’d eaten something sour. “A convenient term for weakness.” He set the tablet down, eyes flicking to you for the first time in hours. “He cares for you.”

You held his gaze. “And that’s a problem for you, isn’t it?” his words cut through yours. “It’s an opportunity,” Thragg said. “I’ve learned more about him from your silence than I ever would from his words.” He took a slow step forward. His wide stance drawing your attention. You realized how confined the space truly was when he filled it. “You’re wasting your time,” you repeated.

“No,” he murmured. “Time is a resource. You are a variable. You want me to believe your loyalty is unshakable. But every organism has a threshold.” He circled you—not pacing, no, almost orbiting. You could feel the gravity of his attention, he moved with such frightening ease for someone of his size. The faint, deliberate invasion of space suddenly felt heavy. “I’ve tested your endurance. Physical, psychological.” He stopped behind you. “But there’s one reaction you haven’t yet displayed.” You didn’t turn. “Fear?”

His breath touched your shoulder. “Submission.” You swallowed hard. “You’ll be waiting a long time.” His eyes bored into the back of your head. “That depends on how honest you are with yourself.”

He moved in front of you again, close enough that his shadow framed your body. His voice had dropped lower, into a smoother tone, the kind predators used when they’d stopped pretending not to enjoy the hunt. “The accelerated heart rate. The adrenaline. The tremors. Your body betrays you long before your words do.” You met his eyes, refusing to look away, brows knitting. “You really think you can measure me like a specimen?”

“I already have.” His gaze flicked down and back up again, the faintest smile threatening the corner of his mouth—not amusement, but recognition. “And you hate that it’s true.” Something in the air shifted, not the thrum of violence, not restraint either, you didn’t know what but it was unbearable. He turned, heading toward the door, but stopped just before it opened.

“Invincible has three days to decide,” he said, almost casually. “If he refuses, I’ll show him how easily human resolve collapses under the right pressure.” Then, softer—too soft for comfort, he spoke. “You’ve lasted longer than most.” The door sealed behind him, and the silence he left was somehow louder than his presence.

“... Oh, shit.” Morning came only in theory. In captivity, time bled into itself until you couldn’t tell whether the pale light leaking through the cell’s upper vents belonged to sunrise or to some other planet’s dying hour. You were counting breaths when the door sighed open again. His hair was unbound, uniform half undone, eyes brighter than they should’ve been. Something had changed. The last encounter you two had felt like it was your last day alive. He visited after you refused to eat again, this time having you study every civilization his people had touched. You realized he wasn’t angry at your resistance; he was compelled by it. Every refusal chipped at whatever conviction kept him above instinct. His peace brought you dsicomfort, so, you studied. Books still in hand as he entered.

He didn’t speak at first. He only watched you, long enough for the silence to start feeling like contact. “Invincible still refuses,” he said finally. His tone was measured, but the restraint in it was cracking at the edges. “He speaks of mercy, compromise… as if such things are currency between predators.”

You crossed your arms. “You sound threatened.” He laughed once, the sound low, but humorless. “By him? No. By you?” His gaze flicked up. “Perhaps.” The admission startled you. It startled him, too; you saw it in the brief flicker of confusion that followed, quickly buried under his usual calm. He stepped closer, the floor reverberating under his weight.

“I have been asking myself,” Thragg murmured, “why I haven’t simply ended this. Why I haven’t torn this planet in half and been done with it.” He lifted his hand, fingers brushing a strand of hair away from your face, not gently, but carefully, as though testing what would happen if he did. “You remind me that even strength,” he said, “craves something to measure itself against.” Your pulse kicked hard. “That sounds almost… human.”

“Do not insult me.” But the bite in his voice dulled halfway through the sentence. He drew back, breathing slow. “Every empire collapses the moment it begins to feel.” He turned sharply, as if movement could burn away his impulse over time. “I will not make that mistake.”

“Then why are you here?” you asked. He stopped, unable to answer, annoyance settling across his face. With tense shoulders and a set jaw, he faced you again. There was no smirk, no arrogance—only that quiet, disbelieving hunger of a man aware of the line he’s about to cross. “Because,” he said, each word deliberate, but holding no real explanation, but to him, it was more of an answer than you deserved. “you have made me curious.”

You stood rigid near the doorway, hands clasped behind your back as he'd commanded hours ago. He had you pulled from your cell to be his, “Personla Attendant” he called it. You'd polished his Viltrum Empire medallion clasp until your fingertips went raw, arranged planetorial data by frequency, even adjusted the atmospheric controls to his exacting specifications.

Each task performed under his silent observation, each movement calculated to deny him the satisfaction of visible distress. Yet the weight of his gaze felt different today—less analytical, more... hungry. He always watched you with a certain stiffness—with a hand resting against his inner-thigh. He called you often, like he got off on you performing daily tasks for him.

“Come,” he ordered. The word carried more weight than sound. You hesitated, and it wasn’t bravery—it was a stubborn reflex. He tilted his head, smile cutting sharp. “Even now you question commands. Do you imagine that earns respect?” You didn’t respond, unsure of how far mouthing off would get you.

He was close enough now that the air shifted, heat radiating from him like a star too near orbit. His hand caught your chin, turning your face up as if appraising weaponry. “Mark Grayson protects you. That makes you leverage. But perhaps… more than that.” His eyes flicked down your figure—it seemed clinical, but greed seeped into his gaze. He released you suddenly, pacing the small space with a predator’s patience. “Do you know what separates our kind from yours?”

“Arrogance?” you offered. “Discipline,” he said, voice calm. When he turned again, his expression had changed—something colder, measured, his head gesturing towards the books.. “You wish to understand us? Then serve. Service reveals truth.” You paused. “Serve you how?”

“However I choose.” He replied, curtly.

He motioned you forward. When you didn’t move fast enough, his hand closed around your arm—firm and unyielding, but not cruel. The restraint was effortless. You could feel the hum of muscle beneath his skin, waiting. He guided you to the center of the room, where the floor gleamed like a mirror.

“On your knees,” he said. “I expect you to obey. Whether that comes before or after pain is up to you.” Something inside you bristled—fear braided with defiance. Yet the pull of his authority, the raw gravity of his presence, made refusal feel like holding your breath underwater. You lowered yourself slowly, every motion deliberate, and met his gaze as if daring him to blink first. “Better,” he murmured. “Now, watch.”

He stripped off the upper layer of his uniform with a fluid precision. Beneath the armor, the marks of battle mapped his skin—scars rendered almost ceremonial by the harsh light. “This body,” he said, voice lowering, “is engineered for conquest. Every cell, every breath built to dominate. You understand what that means, don’t you?” You swallowed, refusing to look away. “You think strength makes you right.” He stared down at you, expression unreadable. “No. Strength makes right.”

He knelt then—slowly—until you were both eye to eye. The shift in height didn’t soften him; it made him more dangerous, as though proximity itself could crush you. “Service isn’t submission,” he said. “It’s recognition of hierarchy. You will learn that. And I—” he paused, voice dropping to something rougher “—will test the limits of your endurance.” His fingers brushed your jaw, thumb tracing the pulse in your throat. “Do you know what I could do to you?”

You whispered, “Yes.”

“And yet you don’t flinch.”

“Maybe I want to see if the stories are true.”

The sound he made wasn’t laughter, exactly—it was approval, dripping with threat. “Then earn the truth.”

Before you could even draw breath, Thragg's mouth descended upon yours, crushing your lips beneath his in a brutal claim. This was no tender embrace, but an invasion, like his physiology transformed the act into a primal, all-consuming assault. His lips were a relentless demand, his teeth scraping against yours with a ferocity that left you reeling, each breath stolen as if it belonged to him. The world blurred, spots dancing behind your eyelids as your lungs burned for air.

His hands, callused and warm, slid up your sides with a purposeful roughness, his touch leaving trails of fire in their wake. Through the thin fabric of your tunic, his thumbs found the sensitive peaks of your breasts, thumbs working in short circles that sent jolts of electricity through your body. He pinched and twisted, each movement calculated to extract a response, the sharp burst of pain a stark contrast to the growing heat between your thighs. You gasped into his mouth, the sound torn from your throat by the intensity of it all—and he swallowed it down like a trophy—a low growl of satisfaction rumbling in his chest as he claimed your very breath as his own. With each groan, when you tugged away, he'd yank you back by your nipples with a searing heat sprouting across your chest.

He hauled you into an adjacent chamber, the door sealing with a pneumatic sigh. Thragg forced you face-first against the unyielding wall, retrieving heavy restraints from a concealed alcove—Viltrumite alloys that snapped around your wrists and ankles, splaying you wide, vulnerable. The cuffs dug in just enough to leave marks, ropes dance around your figure, each intricate knot a whisper of restraint that ignites the skin with a symphony of sensation. He tore your clothes with a single upward rip, fabric scattering like ash

He prowled around you, callused fingers mapping your shoulders, your ribs, lingering on the curve of your hip. He spoke with intent. “You will earn my praise,” he said. “Not by surviving. By obeying.” He leaned in, his chest brushing your back, the heat of him seeping through your skin, chest to chest, making your breath hitch as his palm skimmed your thigh, hovering near your cunt without granting contact.

Thragg retreated a step, his face a mask of calculation. He didn’t bother to explain, simply expected you to accept. From a nearby rack, he selected a thin probe—polished and unforgiving, meant for delving deep. He slicked it with a quick swipe of lubricant, then aligned it with your urethra, the cool tip pressing insistently. Your legs went to instinctively shut when cool air hit your skin just before his palm did—a stinging slap across your thigh that left heat blooming in its wake.

"Hold position," You inhaled sharply as it breached, sliding in incrementally, the stretch a fiery intrusion that made your clit throb in response. “Breathe through it,” he ordered, easing it further, the subtle rotation sending sparks of overload through your nerves, your pussy clenching emptily as arousal leaked down the crack of your ass, the sound of slick echoing loudly in the capacious room.

The impacts followed swiftly. Thragg's open hand connected with your ass cheek, the crack resounding, heat flaring across your skin in a red bloom. He struck again, methodically, each swat targeting fresh areas—your thighs, the underside of your ass—while his other hand steadied the probe, inching it deeper into your piss hole. The combined sensations twisted pain into a throbbing ache, your body quivering, cunt dripping onto the floor.

It slid deeper than any human instrument could, a fullness that bordered on violation. Your eye twitched uncontrollably as tingles shot through you. "You learn to accept what strengthens you. Endure." Thragg demanded, delivering a firmer blow to your lower back, the jolt forcing a whimper from your throat. Vulnerability clashed with your inner resilience, mind spinning as your ass stung, the probe filling you with an invasive pressure that bordered on ecstasy.

He halted briefly, probe embedded to its limit, his fingers capturing your breasts, thumbs rolling your hardened nipples before pinching viciously, drawing out gasps. Thragg's head dipped low, his mouth seizing your nipple with a ferocity that made you curl into him, the sudden, intense suction sending waves of conflicting pleasure and pain through your body as he tugged and rolled it between his teeth.

The manipulation was deliberate, each squeeze probing your breaking point: surrender or persist? You locked eyes with him over your shoulder, a spark of challenge in your stare, and Thragg's lip curled faintly—intrigue at the way your body betrayed you with slick need despite the assault. His exhale sounded suspiciously ragged. "Good." The praise landed like a verdict.

At last, he extracted the probe slowly, leaving your pussy tender and pulsing. He released your ankles only to secure your wrists at the small of your back, dropping you to your knees on the grated floor. The head was a deep, angry red, glistening with pre-cum, hair trimmed into a tapered V. He tapped the blunt tip against your cheek, the weight of him heavy against your skin. It was a command and a promise all at once. “Open,” he rasped.

You complied, mouth enveloping the broad head, tongue swirling over the slit, its rather cloying taste overwhelming your tastebuds. Thragg fisted your hair, hips driving forward into your throat, your sounds were garbled, swallowed by him punching that back of your throat with measured force.

Chokes and slurps echoed as drool trailed down your chest, your bound arms straining uselessly. His free hand delved over the curve of your ass and between your legs—digits circling your soaked entrance before plunging three into your pussy, curling to batter your g-spot. His cock stretching your jaw in rhythm with fingers reaming your walls—building a coil of desperation.

"Look at me," he demanded. When your eyes met his, the raw hunger there stole your breath. His thumb brushed your clit with startling expertise, circling once, twice, before withdrawing just as pleasure crested. "Not yet," he murmured just above your ear, the vibration thrumming through your bones. "Service requires discipline." His fingers replaced the thumb, sliding inside you with brutal efficiency while his other hand twisted your nipple sharply. You arched against him with a gasp he silenced by capturing your mouth again—all teeth and conquest and the faintest tremor in his grip.

"Quiet," he ordered his breath fanning your back, the sound sending vibrations through you. When your hips jerked involuntarily, he brought your head down against his pelvis—a warning that bloomed into sharp pleasure. He smelt of cooled metal, a metallic warmth mixed with a hint of sandalwood. "You take it well," he growled, the words muffled against clenched teeth. "Like you were made for this." His pace intensified, hips, words, and fingers working in brutal harmony until your vision blurred. Just as your muscles clenched toward release, he pulled out his sopping wet fingers completely, leaving you trembling on the edge.

"Enough," he rasped, rising to tower over you again. His breathing was uneven, eyes narrow as he studied the flush spreading across your chest. He pressed upwards again your collarbone, he laid a fingertip to your swollen nipple, watching it pucker under his touch.

“Well done,” he said, the commendation rough as gravel, a rare concession. Yet your capitulation masked resolve; you hollowed your cheeks, sucking with fervor, groaning at the praise, drawing a subtle hitch in his breath as his control wavered—hips snapping sharper.

He pulled out abruptly. Hauling you forward by the hips, lifting you effortlessly until your legs wrapped around his waist, your reddened ass thrust out invitingly. Thragg coated his cock sparingly in your slick, he didn’t thrust—he impaled you slowly, inch by excruciating inch. The girth splitting you open in a blaze of stretch and made your vision swim. A low groan tore from his throat as he seated himself fully. You cried out, nails scraping metal as he pounded in, balls smacking your ass with every drive. "Look at me," he demanded.

Your eyes met his—dark, dilated, stripped of calculation. He drove back in with a force that stole your breath, setting a punishing rhythm that rattled the wall at your back. His hand gripped your ass, fingers digging into tender flesh as he lifted and dropped you onto his cock with brutal precision. "Take it," he snarled, the command fraying at the edges. "Take all of it." His thrusts grew erratic, losing their military cadence. You could feel the tremors in his arms, the way his control splintered with every ragged gasp you drew from him.

The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, it almost became rhythm. The slide of breath, the dull thud of contact, the small gasp that broke between you two. You could feel every ridge—every vein of his cock as he moved inside you, the sensation overwhelming and intense like a live wire. It was hypnotic, mind numbing, feeling every twitch and tap against you cervix like a threat. His tongue roamed the expanse of your neck, exploring every inch of your skin, possessively, each touch a claim of ownership. When he found the place where your pulse lived just under the skin, the world seemed to contract to that heartbeat alone—his, yours, indistinguishable.

The muscles of his ass clenched and released with each drive. You were tight—almost too tight. He marked tempo with every motion, the cadence of dominance written not in cruelty but in how many stars he could make you see behind those eyelids.

He edged your clit with teasing strokes, holding your climax at bay, your muscles fluttering wildly around him. His pace fractured, breaths ragged as your tight pussy gripped him. Grinding deep as his mouth crashed onto yours again—less a kiss than a claiming. One hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat. His teeth scraped against your collarbone while his other hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your swollen clit, dragging it against the callous of his fingertips.

His other hand continued to map every part of your, tracing the curves of your spine, watching as your back arched into the air. It was a sight he couldn't describe; it sickened him with anger. Your legs went slack around him, completely surrendering to every mind numbing caress against your walls. His powerful arms were the only thing keeping you aloft, his cock thrusting deep inside you, supporting your weight with each pummel. You bounced with each movement, a rag-doll in his iron grip. Completely at his mercy. The sensation of being held—secured—impaled and controlled, sent waves of ecstasy through you.

"Now," he commanded, circling the swollen nub with bruising pressure. "Come." The order ripped through you, triggering a convulsive wave of pleasure that locked your muscles around him, his fingers grinding your clit until you shattered, juices squirting over his hand. He groaned, a raw, guttural sound ripped from his chest, as your climax triggered his own. You felt him pulse inside you, hot and relentless, his hips jerking erratically against yours.

The air was thick enough to drink.

For a long moment, he remained buried deep, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breathing harshly against your skin. When he finally lifted his head, his expression was of cold fury—not at you, but at himself. He withdrew abruptly, leaving you cold, empty, and slumped against the wall. Turning away, he snatched a cloth from a shelf, wiping himself with mechanical efficiency. His shoulders were rigid, every movement sharp with contained violence. "Return to your cell," he ordered, voice stripped back to its usual gravel. But when he glanced back at you—at the marks on your skin, the flush still staining your chest—his gaze lingered a fraction too long. Something flickered there: not calculation, not strategy. Something raw, and utterly, terrifyingly unfamiliar.

Thragg straightened, fastening his uniform with precise motions, his stare lingering on your form. No tenderness followed—merely contemplation. “You hold potential,” he murmured, voice threading threat with possibility. An indefinate excuse to prolonge holding you hostage. “Persist, and you may yet shape destinies beside mine.” The declaration hung ambiguous, blurring conquest and alliance, your mind adrift in the haze of blurred lines between power and surrender. For someone as unpredictable as him, what was hidden in those words would never be known to be anything besides selfish.

The hydraulic door opened before you reached it. You hesitated on the threshold, glancing back. Thragg hadn't moved. He stood silhouetted against the glowing star maps, head bowed slightly, one hand pressed flat against the alloy table as if steadying himself. The image was jarring. The conqueror of worlds, undone. You took a breath, tasting him on your tongue. "What purpose?" you asked, the question barely a whisper. He didn't answer nor did he look up. His silence was louder than any admission.

You stepped through the doorway. As it sealed behind you, cutting off the view of his solitary, rigid figure, you heard it—a low, shuddering breath, muffled by the thick door.

It wasn't anger and it definitely wasn't strategy. That would be too sloppy for the viltrumite. But you know one thing, it sounded like the first crack in an unbreakable facade.

A/N: My tumblr conveniently saying it has issues processing my post—FOR AN ENTIRE HOUR. Anyway, additional edits will be made at dawn.