Mark was seen by many as a cold person. And in a way, they weren’t wrong. His expression rarely softened, his tone stayed measured even in moments of rage, and his eyes — those sharp Viltrumite eyes — always seemed to be analyzing, judging, never feeling. But it was all a façade. A mask he wore because that’s what he thought strength looked like. He wanted to be like his father — a warrior carved into the history of the empire, powerful, ruthless, remembered.

Yes, he was a bit sadistic. Authoritarian. Occasionally insensitive to the point of cruelty. But never with you.

With you, something cracked. Something gave. Mark fell the moment he saw you — not in the gentle, poetic way humans fall in love, but violently, almost painfully. It hit him like a collision, like a meteor finding its target. He didn’t just love you; he fixated. You became his soft spot, his weakness, his rebellion. He even dared to disobey one of Viltrum’s most sacred obligations — the one that demanded he spread his bloodline, fathering children across colonies and forming a selection of concubines. Mark refused. For you. For the absurd, irrational idea of loyalty he couldn’t explain to anyone, not even himself.

He returned from another mission today — battered, exhausted, and still managing to look arrogant about it. The moment he stepped into your shared quarters, the air seemed to shift. You knew the routine by heart now: the suit came off first, a light kiss on the forehead, then, a bath, the streaks of blood (his or someone else’s) washed away. As his mate, you helped him with everything — bathing, dressing, eating. Sometimes patching up wounds, other times just listening to him complain in that sarcastic, tired voice of his.

It wasn’t servitude; it was ritual. A quiet moment of peace after chaos.