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girl is a god-damn problem

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One thing about being city wolves: full-moon nights are a lot less likely to end with them covered in blood than in glitter. Angel loves it, the rush of adrenaline that goes through the whole city, the way they all become one pack, one breathing pulsing joined-at-the-instinct-level life force that runs the streets and bows to the moon. Humans throw open the doors to the bars and clubs and let the pack move through, trying to pick up a little bit of the energy, to steal a little bit of the magic. Let them try it, Angel thinks; what they steal won’t turn out the way they think it will. Not even close.

Ireland doesn’t like it as much; the press of people around her, human bodies and blood and bone, makes her itch under her skin. It makes her growl, which Angel also loves. She rides herd on Ireland all night when they run with the moon, presses her body up against Ireland and feels the growl roll through both of them. She keeps Ireland back from the humans, holds her in the pack, and then takes her home as the night turns into morning and gets to keep all of that pent-up energy for herself.

Angel comes out of the change hot and wet, ready to go, but Ireland’s itchy at first, always; she needs a few minutes to come back to herself before she’ll come around. Angel gives her her time, gives her her space, waits it out and looks her body over, admiring the echoes of the wolf that linger in her skin and muscle until the moon is completely gone.

Finally Ireland looks up, naked and sweat-shiny in the spill of city light coming in through the windows. “Better, babe?” Angel asks, smiling from her place on the bed, fingers twisted up against her cunt, enjoying the wet slide of them against her inner muscles. No reason not to stay ready while she waits out Ireland’s restless post-change itch.

Ireland nods and runs both hands through her hair, pulling it back from her face in a way that draws the skin back, too, making it taut like a mask for a moment. “How much time do we have?”

“A couple of hours.” Angel can still feel the pack bond between them, buzzing with want and need. It’ll fade out by sunrise, but it’s only faded enough now that she can’t feel the whole city. Ireland’s in the same room as her. They’ve got each other’s heartbeats in their throats.

She can tell how hungry Ireland is, how she wants to sink her teeth into something and rip out flesh, to send blood running down her chin, to paint her skin and nails and hair crimson. Angel’s still riding herd; she’s not going to let her do that. Ireland can get her mouth full of flesh, she can get as wet as she wants to, but she’s not going to get herself in a bad way.

“Get over here, babe,” Angel says, and Ireland growls again. It doesn’t sound right coming from a human throat; it’s too gentle, too choked-off and wrong, but the way she stalks across the floor to the bed is still wolfy. It’s something in the way the body moves, Angel thinks distantly, settling back against the pillows and offering Ireland her slick fingers. Ireland sucks them into her mouth, flicks her tongue against them, then pulls back and dives down between Angel’s thighs.

Ireland has rage under her porcelain skin that would tear her open if she didn’t have a wolf to channel it, Angel thinks sometimes. As it is she fights and fucks like somebody’s out to get her. Angel tries to be there when she can to keep her from getting in too much trouble with the fighting, but she’s no saint and she’ll take as much of the fucking as she can get. Lips and tongue and scraping teeth and hands holding her thighs apart, fingers pressing in hard enough that Angel’s skin will come up in bruises even though the lingering wolf in her skin--yeah, she’ll take all of this that Ireland can give out. And then she’ll turn around and give it all back to her girl. All fours on the bed, facedown in the pillow, thighs spread and cunt open for as much of Angel’s hand as she can take--

Ireland turns her head and bites, a quick slash of teeth down Angel’s inner thigh. “Fuck,” she says, her voice hoarse and thick, mouth slick-hot and red. “You’re gonna rip my hair out.”

“Sorry, honey.” Angel lets go of her hair and twists her fingers into the sheets instead, anchoring herself. “Got carried away thinking about what I’m gonna do to you next.”

“Focus on what I’m doing right now.” Ireland wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. Her pupils are blown out, her face red and sweaty, and she still looks better than any of her photoshoots. The wolf never bleeds through in photos the way she is now. Neither of them ever lets go enough.

“You are,” Angel says, licking at her own teeth, wishing she still had fangs to mark up Ireland’s skin, “a perfect thing.”

Ireland rolls her eyes and shakes her hair back, shifting her body against the bed to go down again. “Save it for morning.”

Angel lets her have her way, lets her get her mouth on Angel’s cunt and eat her out like she’s going after prey. The sheets are already soaked through under Angel’s hips and she’s pretty sure they’ll be moving out to the couch when the sun comes up, because once Angel’s through with Ireland there’s going to be no saving any of the bedding. Through the fading pack-bond she can feel the eager pulse of Ireland’s heart, throbbing in her cunt, and she knows Ireland’s going to make her work just as hard for it as Ireland is now.

She can’t wait to get started, but she will. They’ve got time. The moon is still singing.