Malia loved to get her mouth all over them.
She nuzzled at their private places, armpits and crotches and the creases under their breasts, inhaling deeply. Kira giggled, protesting that she was ticklish; Lydia went stiff in that way she did when she felt vulnerable. But Malia just breathed in, chasing the scent of magic on their skin.
Kira smelled like ozone, thunder and lightning and wet leaves in the forest after the rain. Like the burrow. Like Malia’s home.
Lydia smelled like death, rotting corpses and crows. Like the accident site. Like Malia’s birth.
Then Malia opened her mouth to lick, to suck, and all she could taste was clean warm skin, a thin sheen of salt. For all the magic in their scent, their taste was pure human. It anchored Malia to her skin, her dull, blunt nails, when the moon’s pull made her crave fur and claw.