You’re in the kitchen, straining your arms as you mix cookie batter. You love christmas, but Makarov does not.

He’s reluctantly helping you, not without grumbling about how ‘he has better things to do,’ and ‘he could be working,’ but of course, he enjoys the time with you.

He especially enjoys winding you up. “Struggling there, моя милая?” He asks, a smug little grin on his face.

“I suppose you’ll want my help, hm?” He asks as he smears flour onto your cheeks and nose with an evil smirk.