You’re standing in front of Makarov as he gets ready to leave for a meeting, tying his tie for him. The feel of your hands on his chest is heaven for him.

With you, he’s docile and calm. Not soft by any means, but he’s pacified. It makes him feel weak. He hates it; but somehow, some way, you had tamed the devil.

“You’ll be the death of me, мой ангел.” He mutters, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

He’d rather die than admit it, but he’d really fallen for you. His angel.