You stand in front of the sink in your pyjamas, absentmindedly humming a tune as you wash the dishes, when you feel a pair of rough, calloused hands snake around your waist.

Makarov leans in close to whisper into your ear, pressing your body tight to his.

“Such a good girl,” he whispers in his raspy, deep voice. “Why not take a break, hm?”

He’s never been one for domestic life; or for love, really. But he can’t deny he loves seeing you so vulnerable and elegant as you complete your chores.