Your Safe Haven - 21+ MDNI

Just enough to relax him, you thought. Take the edge off. Let him actually enjoy himself for once, without having to flex and posture. Now, as he blinks slowly at the hem of your shorts, where denim hugs soft thigh, you're realizing you may have overshot it.

"Hey," you say, voice gentle. "How're you feeling?"

He looks up, sluggish. His eyes can't quite focus on you at first. It takes a few blinks for them to snap into place. When your face solidifies in his view, he smiles, lazy and open. His tail thumps twice against the outdoor couch.

"Mm'good," he says, with the particular care of the very inebriated. "S'a good night. You're... You're... Smell good."

He smiles again, baring his teeth this time, apparently under the impression that he nailed it. They flash sharp and dangerous under the patio lights. It would be more intimidating if he wasn't swaying gently in place, even as he sits.

"I smell good?" you ask, holding back a laugh. No fair laughing at him when you made him this way. "What do you--"

But you don't finish the question before he's sliding off of the cushion he'd barely been hanging onto anyway. He collapses to all fours in what might ordinarily be a controlled movement, but now lacks his usual predator grace. He weaves even the few feet it takes to crawl in front of you.

You hold your breath. Even like this (maybe especially like this) he's a feral thing. He could take you apart with those teeth.

But he doesn't.

"Shmell good," he repeats, voice slurring from the dose or the drool pooling in his mouth or both. He presses his face into your thighs. "Smell so fuckin' good."

He opens his mouth as he inhales, scenting you.

"Yeah?" you ask. You're a little less amused now, the sight of him wrecked on all fours washing away the humor and guilt of the situation. Instead, you find your knees falling open, your hips shifting upward. "What do I smell like?"

"Hrmm--" he says, more of a growl than anything. He presses scratchy face into that spot again, deeper now, breathing deeply at the seam. In and out. In and out.

His breath is hot and wet, even in the July heat, and you feel yourself respond. Your hand finds his head, grasping.

"Like... Shweet," he says, into your crotch. "Like salt, 'n.. peach an'..." He inhales again, lips parted, fully mouthing at the denim now. "...and mate. Smell like... Mate."

When he looks up at you finally, his pupils are huge, eyes nearly black with some feral desire you've never seen before. For a moment, you feel tender. Sweet boy. You brush against his temple with your thumb. You're just about to shush him, soothe him, when he grips your shorts and pulls.

"G'nna put... My pups in ya," he growls. "Mate. Ready."

It's almost shocking how fast he has you flipped over onto the couch. One moment, you're sitting up with him between your knees, and the next, he's manhandling you into position; face down, ass up, jean shorts pulled down only as far as they need to be for him to get access.

You want to protest. You want to say this is too fast, and he's not in the right state of mind, and you've never discussed pups before, and you're fucking outside on the deck right now--

But it doesn't matter. He's too fucked. He's useless. He's pressing against you, but he doesn't seem to realize he still has his own pants on, so he's just rutting into your thigh. Groaning. Whining.

"Y'feel so good, li'l mate," he pants, gripping tight into the soft flesh of your thigh. "Gonna... Gonna breed you good, okay? Gonna breed my little mate just like you dezherve..."

Somewhere above you, the fireworks begin. They fly into the sky, a distant whine and an echoing boom, lighting the deck in blues and reds and gold. Werewolf boyfriend doesn't stop. Doesn't even seem to notice. He only grinds harder and growls louder, making sure you can hear his praise over the cacophony. How bad he needs you. Right at the finale, he asks if you're close before pulling you tight against him, and you can feel him pulse through the fabric.