In your time of being Makarovs trophy lover, you quickly learned something about him. He wouldn’t let you lift a finger. He’d spoil you absolutely rotten, buying you whatever you wanted, wether it was clothing, food, or just random items. He’d dress you in the mornings he was home, he’d hold you close at all times… not one second was spent where you didn’t feel like a prince/princess. Today, while tying your shoes, Makarov sneaks into the room.

“No, no, no. This won’t do. Hands up.”