#not technically

Carlos has gotten familiar with feeling the tug of his wolf deep in his chest. Sometimes it settles at the base of his skull, or low in his gut, and his father had told him he would start feeling the need to knot soon, but so far he hasn't experienced it outside of his rut a few times a year.

Generally, his wolf is easy to handle. It likes long workouts, meat heavy meals, and playing in the mud. Carlos also likes being able to keep track of everyone he cares about, scent lingering in his nose. Some people smell sweet, others like hints of spice, all sorts of different notes that Carlos enjoys feeling coat the back of his throat as he inhales. Most people smell good.

Jos Verstappen smells like rot. It's always made Carlos' lip curl— he's seen his father do the same. It's the kind of rot that sticks to your teeth, lingering long after the offending presence has been removed.

It's nothing like Max's scent, faintly tinged with apricot and dew, the feeling just before it rains when Carlos' feet sink into the grass outside. He could bottle Max's scent and live off of it all by itself— a surprisingly strong feeling for his rookie teammate he hadn't expected himself to have.

The problem is the way Jos' scent sticks to Max. Carlos can smell it from here, faint enough that he knows Max is a few rooms down, but strong enough that his wolf is agitated. There's a threat, something making them unhappy, something to fix.

He changes course. Data review can wait, because his wolf is grumbling unhappily in his chest, and the scent of Jos-and-Max is making his lip curl unpleasantly. Max isn't supposed to smell like sticky tar and sulfur, he's supposed to smell excited and eager and more often than not, stupidly horny.

Max doesn't know that Carlos is keeping that secret for him, that Carlos can see it in the twitch of his fingers and the spice of his scent each time he gets out of the car. Carlos will keep it between them anyways— Max is young, everything gets him hard.

He fights the urge to sneeze when he gets closer, noting that the Jos-scent is strong but not oppressive the way it would be if the man was behind the door. It's the only reason he doesn't knock before he swings it open, but Max bodily flinches away from the doorway, red rimmed eyes widening. The blue of his irises is too watery, and he furiously scrubs a hand across his face before straightening up.

"Carlos, mate, can I help you? Have you heard of knocking?"

He smells sad. He smells sad, and gross, and if Carlos doesn't do something about Max, he's going to do something he'll really regret about Jos. His wolf is loud inside of him, pressing against the squishy flesh between his ribs, demanding penance. Something has upset Max, Carlos' rookie, and he smells wrong.

Priorities.

He hadn't actually thought this far ahead, and the way Max is staring at him, half glaring, short hair spiky where he must have been running his hand through it, has his wolf taking far more of the reins than he'd normally allow.

"I have something for you, back in my room."

Carlos isn't stupid. He's not some new pup, unfamiliar with his instincts— his wolf wants a den. This isn't new. What is new is that his wolf has decided Max needs to be a part of this den, and rational Carlos is having a hard time remembering why that would be a terrible idea.

Max narrows his eyes suspiciously, but he follows him into the hallway, trying to discreetly wipe at his eyes again. He thinks Carlos is being weird, but he's still doing what he's asked, and it makes his wolf singsong, an internal harmony of minefixclaimscent.

"This had better not be a cockroach, Carlos."

Max's attempt at lightening the air curls something warm in Carlos' chest— he's a problem solver at heart, even if he can't tell what Carlos' problem is. He wants to scent him now, but he bites down on the urge. Getting caught by someone pinning Max to the wall and covering him with a real scent isn't exactly a position he wants to be in, and it's not a good space to den down and guard. He's thinking of the large closet in his hotel room— a surprise upgrade he'd gotten after they arrived. It has a sliding door and good floor space, enough room that even Max and his lanky legs will be able to fit comfortably.

He's nodding to himself as he keys Max into his room, only catching the slightest odd look from his rookie teammate before he leaves him standing in the middle of the room. Duvet, a few of the pillows, and the throw blanket over the back of the chair are all tossed into the closet. He can see the confused look on Max's face, head quirked slightly to the side.

"What is this, a blanket fort?"

Carlos hums, distracted.

"Something like that."

He's got the pillows arranged so that Max won't hurt his back, and it's lined up in a way that once Carlos is done and settles on top of him, he'll be able to pull the throw blanket over them both. He stands back, hands on his hips as he assesses it. It's not the worst den he's ever started— certainly good enough for this.

"In."

He jerks his head at the closet as Max snorts, crossing his arms. He's clearly still confused, although there's a hint of incredulous amusement as well.

"I am not getting in your closet pillow fort, Carlos."

Carlos' wolf doesn't like that answer, and neither does Carlos.

"Would you just— Max, come on. The pillows do not bite."

He's not technically lying— it's not the pillows that are going to leave indents in Max's skin. Just Carlos.

Max shifts his weight from one leg to the other, clearly debating.

"What do I get out of it?"

Carlos wants to rip his hair out. Max never just listens, always has to have some kind of deal or benefit. It's a Jos mentality, and seeing it here, where Carlos is about to den, makes him grind his teeth.

"I won't tell your trainer about the kinder bars in the factory locker room."

Max's eyes narrow, straightening up in offense.

"How do you know—"

"Get in, Verstappen."

There's a hint of a growl in his voice, enough that Max startles slightly before toeing his shoes off and slinking into the closet. He's clearly unsure where to step, and he still smells like tarhurtfear as he awkwardly sits in the middle of the pillows. He frowns up at Carlos.

"Alright dickhead, what now? Do you want to play princess while we are in here also?"

His voice cracks on dickhead, and Carlos thinks about how it's going to sound when he scents him, when he finally gets rid of that disgusting miasma that clings to Max. He doesn't respond to his rookie teammate, instead finding his workout clothes from yesterday, his team kit from earlier today, the jacket he'd worn to media that he'd sweated through almost immediately, and his pajamas.

Max wrinkles his nose as Carlos steps closer with the pile, leaning away from it as he tries to stand. Carlos is blocking the only exit, and Max clearly realizes that, eyes darting between Carlos and the doorframe.

"What the fuck, mate, that shit reeks. Are you going to suffocate me with your gym shorts? I do not think Franz would appreciate that, cunt."

Carlos huffs a laugh, tossing the clothes where he thinks the den needs it. He's kind enough that he lets his socks land closer to Max's ankles on the other side of the den. His wolf is pressing against him uncomfortably, ready to fix, and he doesn't have much sense left to try and convince himself otherwise.

He drops down on top of Max, listening to him wheeze as he gets the full weight of Carlos crushing him for a moment before he wiggles properly. Max is squirming underneath him, scent going markedly alarmed as he tries to shove at Carlos.

"Hey, what the fuck, get the hell off of me—"

Carlos gives in and growls, letting his teeth rest lightly against Max's neck. His teammate keeps unintentionally grinding against his hip, and he's going to realize that Carlos is—

Max's scent goes bright with fear, freezing underneath him, and Carlos sighs. It's a heavy, wet noise, dragged deep from his chest. Thinking human thoughts is hard, and he doesn't have many left.

"I am not going to fuck you, chill out. You just smell gross."

"I smell gro—?"

Max's voice is pitched high with disbelief, cracking on his vowels. Carlos gets a sharp nail hooked at the edge of his shirt and rips. Max jerks underneath him, eyes wide.

"You just said—"

"Hold still."

He's getting annoyed now, and he only feels slightly bad at the way Max shuts his mouth hard enough he hears his teeth click. It doesn't take much to get the rest of his shirt torn off, tossed outside of the den into the hotel room. It's not his first time seeing his teammate's bare skin— they've had more than a few unfortunate accidents— but it's the first time he gets the satisfaction of knowing he's going to scent him.

There's a few freckles across his skin, frame still awkward in a way he hasn't grown into yet, but he has a pretty chest, and Carlos rumbles lowly as he shoves his jaw along Max's neck, trying to eliminate the tar scent.

Max makes a cut off noise, high pitched in his throat. He smells scared, but not unreasonably so— and he'll adjust.

"Carlos...?"

He'll keep it like this for a second, let Max get used to him as he pulls his own shirt off, tucking it between the pillows before plastering them chest to chest. He rubs his cheeks along his pecs and noses into the crook of his shoulder, rumbling while he does it. Max fits well underneath him, and Carlos has gone about the whole inducting a new pack member thing wrong, but Max isn't a wolf, thankfully.

His father is going to tear him a new one for the breach in tradition, but that's a Later-Carlos problem. Max's fear has calmed slightly, morphed into a steady confusion.

"Carlos, mate..."

Carlos hooks his fingers into Max's waistband and feels his breath hitch underneath him. He knows he has the barest hints of a shift, fingers just slightly too long, nails too sharp, eyes too wolf. Even if Max doesn't know exactly what's going on, the human part of him is surely raising alarm bells.

He gives him a few seconds to decide if he's going to try and fight Carlos on this. He hopes the answer is no, because Carlos will win, and if they have to physically fight about than Carlos will want to cement that victory with a proper submission— one he doesn't think Max would be particularly thrilled to give.

Max's lips press into a tight line, but he lifts his hips.

"Do not tear these, I only have one other pair."

Good, he's being good. Carlos rumbles, fumbling with the button before he's sliding down Max's skinny jeans. He hooks his pinky claw into the fabric of Max's boxers at the hem, dragging them with his jeans even as Max jerks, hands flying down to try and tangle with Carlos'.

He snarls, a clear warning in the small space of the den, and Max's eyes blow wide as he freezes. Carlos finally gets his jeans and boxers off, tossing those into the hotel room as well. Max still has his socks on, but they don't smell like tar, so Carlos will let him keep them. His teammate is anxiously shifting underneath him, and he shimmies out of his own jeans in record speed, dropping the fabric near Max's hip before he leaves his underwear near Max's hand. The disgusted look on his face has him rumbling.

Max will like Carlos' scent eventually— it will mean safety and protection and den. It will mean Carlos— and by extension, his own pack— are clearly staking a claim that Max is theirs. It will make it harder for the tarsulferpain scent to linger on his skin.

Max's eyes flick down and blow wide.

"What the fuck is wrong with your dick?"

He sounds... not as horrified as Carlos was expecting. If anything, there's a strong note of intrigue, and he's started to smell the familiar spice in Max's scent that means he's getting turned on.

Sure enough, Max's cock is half hard against his hip as he furrows his brows at the small bump of Carlos' unpopped knot.

He simply fits his teeth around the swell of Max's chest in response, nipping into the muscle as he tangles their legs together, grinding his cock into the crease of Max's hip. His fingers are exploring the rest of him, mapping out each place that has his teammate making small noises, grinning when he gets a palmful of his ass and Max's hips jerk so hard their cocks rub together.

"Carlos,"

Max's voice is pitchy, and he's rock hard now, pressing up against Carlos to try and get friction. His hands are gripping tightly into the pillows, and Carlos snuffles against his neck before sliding down his body, rubbing his cheek against Max's stomach as his fingers dig into the soft meat of his thighs. His wolf is so loud, a cacophony of claimbreedpack, and Max whimpers when Carlos nudges against his cock.

"What the fuck— oh my god, what is even happening right now,"

Carlos gets a grip around his calf and bends Max's leg up and against his chest, and his scent explodes with jasmine and cinnamon, pupils blown so wide they're nearly black when Carlos looks up at him.

He's sort of regretting telling Max he isn't going to fuck him— he's clearly panting for it, and he smells like lust so strongly Carlos can taste it against his teeth. Carlos growls lowly, a reminder to behave, but Max's scent is going straight to his knot, and—

One taste is fine, surely.

He licks up the side of Max's cock, still folding his leg down into his chest, and one of Max's hands flies into his hair, tugging harshly as he moans. Carlos could listen to the sound forever, letting drool pool in his mouth before he fits his mouth around the head of it, taking him deep into his throat.

Max makes a strangled moan, and then his other leg is hooked behind Carlos' neck, keeping him pulled close, small whimpers slipping past his lips at the light scrape of Carlos' teeth. Satisfaction grows in his chest, the smell of packbreedclaim thick in the den, and Max is panting, biting down onto the side of his hand as his hips jerk against where Carlos is holding him down.

"Carlos, Carlos 'm gonna—"

Carlos sucks, and Max comes with a jolt, spilling into his mouth and arching into his hands. The den smells like sex and pack, and Carlos gives a quick goodbye lick to Max's now soft cock, pleased with the cracking whine he gets in response. He keeps Max's leg bent up, because he clearly likes it, and he's moving his hand down towards his cock when he feels a hand wrap lightly around it.

Max's pupils are still blown, but he's looking at Carlos' cock with a fascinated wonder, jerking him off slowly before he wraps his hand around Carlos' knot and squeezes.

Carlos' teeth find a home in Max's chest, hips rabbiting into Max's hand. It feels good, the hint of pressure, his teammate giving him a sloppy handjob, fingers slick with precum, and he knows he's going to come like this, humping into Max's hand pathetically. He hadn't set out to have sex with Max, he hadn't, but the knowledge that he's going to come on him, to press it into his skin and scent—

His knot swells underneath Max's fingers as he bites and licks across his chest, trying to get his scent so deep into him it never leaves, and he knows he's grinding against Max's still soft cock, smearing precum and saliva together. Max squeezes tighter around his knot, and he comes with a grunt, spilling across his fingers and hips, teeth biting down on his collarbone as Max's hand tentatively milks the rest of his orgasm out of him.

His hand is gone from his knot too soon, but Carlos is deeply pleased with how all he can smell is sexclaimpack in the den. Max's skin is littered with small claiming bites, and he smells satisfied, although he makes a slightly disgusted noise as Carlos spreads the cum across his skin.

Any werewolf with even a hint of a functioning nose will be able to smell his claim on Max, that he's protected by Carlos' family and his pack, and it's an irrational thought that somehow it will convince Jos to stay away, but it settles Carlos' wolf as he snuggles against Max's chest.

Max makes a pained noise.

"Carlos, this is so gross, can I shower—"

Carlos' answering growl is loud enough that Max cuts himself off.

"What the fuck even are you?"

His new packmate is a talker. Carlos probably should've seen that coming. He noses into Max's neck, licking across one of his earlier bites.

"Werewolf."