Chapter Text
It started, as all mediocre sequels to love stories do, with a dog.
Well, it looked like a dog, and barked like one, and chased his own tail, so Max was sort of convinced it was a dog, but the little golden ball of fur was just so… small, that it was hard to believe this thing was meant to be related to him.
They were coming home from a date night — something they indulged in every now and again, whenever Charles wasn’t too tired or when he wasn’t too focused on the full moon rising — when Max had noticed the little thing following them. At first, he didn’t pay much attention to it, after all stray animals usually follow them for a bit, enticed by Max’s scent, before they realize what he is and turn tail.
But not this little guy.
This little guy kept trotting after them, yipping and yapping and trying to bite Max's ankles until they reached their apartment. And then Charles took one look at him and he was gone. Done for in an instant he was.
Because, as Max knows rather well, Charles loves taking in strays. Max, Ollie, Ollie's gang of baby wolves — and his human mate. And this little fucking guy, golden fur covered in mud and snout still too close to Max's ankles, is the perfect definition of a stray.
They take him in that very same night.
His name, Charles decides as the now clean menace cuddles with them in their bed, will be Leo.
Leo gets along with the cats, and Leo gets along with the children that keep popping by every other day, and Leo gets along with Charles. But Max? Max he seems to hate. Always barking at him, always trying to bite his fingers. He pisses in Max's shoes and stares at him when Max discovers the damage.
It's like he's doing it on purpose, which he may as well be! It's clearly not because Max is a wolf, since Leo seems to adore Ollie and his gang. No, it's just Max that he detests. Loathes him, more like. Probably wants to see Max dead and buried so that he'd be the dog-king of the house.
He tells Charles his theory after he finds yet another pair of pants chewed up and pissed on.
Charles gasps, brings Leo up to his face and squishes their cheeks together. Charles, to give him credit where it's due, looks like a kicked puppy. Leo looks smug, but as soon as Charles turns to see him, he's whining and crying.
"How dare you, Max? You've made the bébé cry!"
"He hates me, Charles," Max tries to appease him, hands up in the air. It's useless. His mate continues to glare at him, as if he did the worst offence in the whole wide world, worthy only of a capital punishment. "He is evil!"
"Must I remind you," Charles starts, fixing him with a look that tells Max he will regret whatever words leave his mate's mouth. "Must I remind you who else used to mark his territory when he first came into this house?"
"He's not marking any territory, Charles! He just wants to piss on my things to because he hates me!"
The human just pulls Leo until they're so close they may as well morph into one being. Again, the dog seems far too pleased by this, going as far as to lick Charles' face. "My baby would never do that, Maxie. He is a very good boy who loves us! You are being mean to him because you are jealous he is stealing my attention, non?"
Max frowns at that. Is he really? Is that why he is so against Leo? Surely, Charles must be wrong. His wolf has been begging for offspring, and though Leo is not biologically theirs, he is furry like Max, and a menace like Charles, and Ollie — their actual almost offspring — does call the pup his brother. His wolf should be pleased, not jealous. After all, the thought of Charles heavy with Max's pup never makes him feel in such ways. It pulls at his heart, and makes him knot Charles instantly, and—
"You will sleep on the couch until you learn to accept the baby!"
Unable to say anything else, Max takes his punishment in stride. And Leo, that tiny blonde fucker, snickers with joy.
The next morning, after he went to sleep alone and without Charles to hold onto during the night, Max wakes up with a suffocating weight on his chest. It is different to Charles' familiar weight, where his head rests on top of Max's heart, arm thrown over the wolf's stomach. This weight is definitely smaller, and focused only in one spot.
When Max cracks his eyes open, it's Leo he finds passed out on top of him, tiny body shaking with whatever dream the pup is having.
Sighing, the werewolf brings him closer to bury his nose in Leo's fur. He smells like Charles. Maybe, just maybe, Charles was right: Leo doesn't hate him and he was just being dramatic, all out of jealousy.
But then, Max feels his shirt get wet, piss leaking into the fabric.
It was nice while it lasted, the delusion that Leo was not after his head.