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Freed’s back is small, and slender, and impossibly soft for all the muscle it hides, but Laxus thinks that’s fine as he pulls the rune mage against him. He curls an arm around Freed, protective, possessive, and inhales the scent of dried sweat and shampoo that lingers.
Freed fidgets and mumbles a protest, but it’s lost in the ridiculous pile of pillows and sheets he has about him. In time, though, he quietens, his breathing soft and even and content.
Laxus presses his knees to the back of Freed’s thighs. The skin is warm and yielding, and Freed squeaks, and Laxus laughs.
In the morning, Freed will awaken with hair standing on end and pad soundlessly out of the room to make coffee, leaving Laxus snoring gracelessly and taking up two-thirds of the bed.
But that’s then, and this is now, and Freed is unusually lenient as Laxus butts his nose against his captain’s ear, dragon-slayer canines scraping against Freed’s neck teasingly.
“Laxus?”
“Hn.”
“Don’t bite…where people will see.”
Not so lenient, after all.