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, though he’d rather cut off his tongue than admit it.

With you, he’s slightly more pacified. Not soft by any means, but he’s somewhat less cruel.

It makes him feel weak. He hates it. Despises it, even.

“You know, I can do that myself.” He mutters, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.