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Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The prestigious Belgian boarding school attended by Charles, Max, and Franz operated under an unwritten code, a tacit but unbreakable law that everyone, from freshmen to seniors, obeyed without question: Charles Leclerc was not to be bothered. The young omega, with his ethereal beauty and aura of serene fragility, was under the ironclad and relentless protection of the Verstappen twins. This was not a gentle guardianship; it was a shield of steel forged from fierce loyalty and the possessive instinct of two young Alphas at the peak of their power.

The consequences of transgressing this rule were legendary and brutal. Charles's younger brother, Arthur, had learned the lesson the hard way. A simple prank, a playful shove that made Charles cry years ago, had unleashed Max's methodical wrath. For weeks, Max orchestrated a campaign of perfect annoyances: Arthur's notes systematically disappeared, his backpack was found hanging from the highest lamppost in the courtyard, and in the locker room, he was always "accidentally" pushed under an ice-cold shower. Franz, for his part, employed a more subtle but equally effective psychological torture: he would sit opposite him in the dining hall and not look away, his gaze cold and intimidating, throughout the entire meal, or he would "trip" over him in the hallways, spilling his books with a smile that never reached his icy blue eyes. Arthur understood the message: Charles was forbidden territory.

Charles's mother, Pascale, always submerged in endless work shifts to support the family, lived with a weight of guilt over her absence. That guilt was mitigated by an absolute trust in the neighboring family. The Verstappens were a constant presence, a bastion of support. She saw Max and Franz as the older brothers her son needed, the guardians she could not be. Charles's older brother, Lorenzo, was in another country, immersed in his university studies, and his visits, though joyful, were sporadic and brief, flashes of familial normality that faded all too soon.

The peace of that protective bubble was shattered one seemingly normal afternoon in the Verstappens' living room. The twins' mother, Sophie, entered the family room looking for her husband. What she saw left her paralyzed. Charles was sitting on Max's lap, completely absorbed in a movie. Their posture was not that of two friends; Charles was reclined against Max's chest, his head resting on his shoulder, while Max's large arm held him with a familiarity that crossed the boundaries of camaraderie. There was no space between them, only a dense and palpable intimacy.

"Max! Charles!" Sophie's voice cut through the air like a knife, laden with icy reprimand. They both pulled apart sharply, like children caught misbehaving. "What do you think you are doing? That behavior is not acceptable in this house," she declared, her gaze going from her son, who looked down in shame, to Charles, who visibly paled. "Charles, sweetheart, you are an Omega. You cannot afford such familiarity, least of all with an Alpha. And even if it is Max, it is not appropriate for you to sit on his lap like that. It looks bad, do you understand? People might misinterpret it."

The words fell like stones. Neither argued. The maternal authority, and the harsh social truth her words held, hit them hard. "I'm sorry, Madame Verstappen," murmured Charles, his voice barely a thread, the flush of shame burning his cheeks. "It won't happen again," added Max, his tone unusually subdued, but with his fists clenched at his sides.

Innocence had died. From that moment on, a cold caution settled between them. Charles, especially, felt under constant scrutiny. Every visit to the Verstappen house was now tinged with the anxious awareness that Sophie could appear at any moment. Her gaze, which had once been warm, now seemed scrutinizing and full of suspicion. The treehouse, their sanctuary, lost its charm. It was no longer a refuge, but an exposed place, with a direct view from the Verstappens' kitchen window. Charles stopped going. He preferred to wait for the twins in the safety of his own home, within the four walls where his mother, distracted but loving, would not judge his affections.

Max and Franz burned inside. A mute and frustrated rage grew in them every time they saw Charles waiting for them alone on the porch, refusing to cross the invisible line that now divided the gardens. They were angry, not with Charles, but with the injustice of the situation. They knew their mother acted out of genuine concern, from a place of ignorance and rigid social conventions that could not comprehend the complex and pure dynamic that bound them. But they did not protest. Openly defying their mother was a line they did not yet dare to cross.

The built-up tension exploded at dinner. The Verstappen family was gathered around the table. Jos, the father, ate in silence, his presence always a heavy burden in the room. Sophie, after a moment of hesitation, decided to address the issue.

"Jos, honey," she began, her voice carefully neutral. "It seems these boys have gotten a bit carried away with Pascale's omega son. Do you have anything to say to them?"

The silence grew thicker. Forks stopped clinking. Max and Franz tensed immediately, their bodies alert, like felines about to pounce. Jos slowly looked up from his plate, his cold eyes scrutinizing his sons one by one. A slow, cruel smile full of contempt spread across his lips.

"Ah," he said, his voice a rough murmur. "So the neighbor's omega is a slut. Is that it? Getting carried away with the little whore?"

The word, obscene and vulgar, echoed through the room like a gunshot. Max jumped to his feet, his chair screeching against the wooden floor. His face was flushed with pure, protective fury. "You can't call him that!" he shouted, defiant. "Mother misunderstood something! It's not what you think. Don't call him a slut!"

The challenge was direct. Jos rose with terrifying calm. The atmosphere crackled with static electricity. Without a word, with a swift and brutal move no one expected, he swung his open hand against Max's cheek. The dry slap, a dull and horrible crack!, reverberated through the dining room. The mark of his father's fingers immediately bloomed on Max's face, red and shameful.

Franz stood up then, not with his brother's explosion, but with a cold, silent anger that was, if possible, even more terrifying. He stood next to Max, his ice-blue eyes fixed on his father. For an instant, the power dynamic completely reversed. Jos was a Beta. Before him stood two young, strong Alphas, now wounded in the depths of their honor and their love. The Alpha beast within them, always restrained, begged to be unleashed. Jos felt it; a spark of intimidation, of primal fear, crossed his eyes. He knew that if this escalated, it could end very, very badly.

Sophie, pale as ash, broke the tense silence. "Enough! Both of you, sit down! Jos, please!" her voice was a choked cry of panic.

Max, breathing heavily, his cheek burning and his pride in tatters, looked at his brother. Franz held his gaze and, with an almost imperceptible micro-gesture, tilted his head. It wasn't worth it. Not like this. With a contained rage that trembled in every muscle, the twins sat down again.

A heavy, uncomfortable, and poisonous silence hung over the rest of the dinner. Plates of food cooled, ignored. The sound of clinking cutlery seemed obscenely loud. Every bite was a humiliation, every furtive glance a reminder of the line that had been crossed and the cold war that had just been declared within the Verstappen family. The safe world they had built for the three of them had cracked, and through the fissures seeped the cold, brutal reality of the outside world.

Dinner had left a deep scar on the Verstappen family dynamic. For Max and Franz, the world had split into a "before" and an "after" that blow. The figure of their mother, Sophie, who had always represented a refuge of calm and understanding, had been irreparably tarnished. They could not forgive her for taking the matter to their father, for exposing the purity of their connection with Charles to Jos's brutal and vulgar judgment. Their trust in her had evaporated like smoke. She was still attentive, made their meals, asked about their studies, but the conversations had become functional, empty. There were no more confidences, no shared laughter in the kitchen. An invisible wall of cold, transparent glass had been erected between them.

The atmosphere at home became heavy, oppressive. Jos, whose business was going through a rough patch, lashed out his frustration like a whip on anyone who crossed his path. His violence, once contained in verbal outbursts, now found an outlet in arbitrary physical punishments and a sullen anger that permeated the walls of the house. Any complaint, any glance interpreted as defiance, could unleash his fury. Max and Franz learned to move like ghosts in their own home, avoiding provoking him, holding their breath when his heavy footsteps echoed through the halls.

In this domestic hell, Charles's house became their true sanctuary, their only paradise. Crossing the hedge that separated the gardens was like passing through a portal to a world of light and calm. There, Charles's scent of vanilla and orange blossom cleansed their lungs of the stale air from their home. They cherished every second they could spend with him, an island of peace in the turbulent ocean of their family life.

But they were aware of the burden Charles himself carried. A deceased father whose memory was a sweet and painful shadow. A loving but physically absent mother, Pascale, consumed by work to keep her family afloat. An older brother at university, present only in sporadic calls. And a younger brother, Arthur, whom Charles sometimes had to look after. They perceived the loneliness that sometimes clouded his green eyes, a melancholy they tried to dispel with their presence.

Therefore, they made a tacit decision: they would not add their own weight to Charles's already burdened shoulders. Their home was their problem, a battle they, as Alphas, had to fight alone. They wanted their time with Charles to be an escape, a haven of pure, carefree joy. They wanted to be for him the happiness the world denied them.

It was during one of those escape afternoons, with the sunset light filtering through the window of Charles's room and painting everything in golden tones, that Charles, lying on his back between them on the carpet, broke the comfortable silence with an observation that stopped their hearts.

"I think we need kisses," he said softly, his voice a thoughtful whisper. "I've read... it's supposed to be important if we love each other very much. It's... how you show it."

Max and Franz looked at each other over him. There was no need for words. In their blue eyes, one darker than the other, the same assent was reflected, the same absolute surrender to whatever Charles proposed. He was their beacon, the one guiding this unique dance. They would never force him, but they would follow his lead to the ends of the earth.

Charles sat up, as serious as a high priest officiating a ritual. "Sit up with me," he instructed. They sat forming an intimate triangle, their knees touching. The anticipation was palpable, an electric beat in the air.

None of the three had any experience. Their knowledge was limited to what they'd seen in movies: pressing lips together. But Charles, driven by a deep intuition, wanted to go further. He leaned first towards Max. His hand rested on Max's cheek, still marked by a faint bruise from a recent argument with his father. With infinite delicacy, he brought his face closer and placed a direct, dry, and soft kiss on his lips. It was a pure, innocent, and electrifying contact. Then, a second kiss, just as tender. And finally, he diverted his lips to place them on the corner of Max's mouth, where the skin was softer, in a gesture of devastating intimacy.

Max held his breath. The simple contact was a jolt of pure adrenaline that shot through his entire body. His hands clenched on his thighs, his knuckles white.

Then, Charles turned to Franz. He repeated the ritual: two direct kisses on the lips. But Franz, whose heart had always been more expressive, responded immediately. When Charles pulled away after the second kiss, Franz instinctively followed him, capturing his lips a third time in a slightly longer, slightly wetter kiss, a soft, tentative "sip" that made Charles emit a small gasp of surprise and pleasure.

From there, the ritual transformed into an organic and sensual dance. Charles took turns, kissing Max with serious dedication, and then Franz with growing curiosity. But soon, the twins, guided by a primal instinct awakened by pleasure, began to participate more actively.

While Charles kissed Franz with increasing languor, Max, driven by a fierce need to mark, to possess, approached from behind. He buried his nose in Charles's neck, in that spot where his pulse beat strong and his omega scent was most intense, sweeter. He didn't bite, but his lips pressed against the skin, kissing, sucking gently, leaving a pink, ghostly mark that didn't break the skin but imprinted his Alpha essence.

Charles moaned against Franz's lips, the double contact overwhelming his senses. Franz, not wanting to be outdone, while responding to Charles's kiss, began to kiss his shoulders, the collarbone exposed by the loose neck of his t-shirt. His hands roamed Charles's arms, feeling the silk-like skin under his palms.

It was a symphony of kisses. A collage of sensations. Charles alternated his lips between Max's and Franz's, savoring the difference: Max's, firmer and more demanding; Franz's, softer and more exploratory. And while his mouth was busy with one, the other twin covered every exposed inch of skin with a rain of kisses: on his neck, his shoulders, behind his ears, on his temples.

The room filled with the sound of ragged breaths, whispers of wet lips parting and meeting again, small, muffled moans. Pheromones, released by pleasure and excitement, began to saturate the air. Charles's sweet scent of vanilla and orange blossom intensified, becoming thicker, more intoxicating, an irresistible call that soaked into the twins' skin and clothes. In turn, Max's scent, of wet earth and storm, and Franz's, of pine forest under the sun, mixed and blended with Charles's, creating a unique perfume, an intoxicating cocktail that was the very essence of their triangle.

Without realizing it, consciously, Charles had performed the most intimate and significant act: he had marked them. His scent, his Omega essence, had transferred to them, claiming them as fiercely as they claimed him. And they, in turn, had bathed him in their own Alpha pheromones, marking him not with teeth, but with lips and possession, as theirs, as their center, their comfort, their reason.

When they finally separated, panting, with swollen, shiny lips, and skin flushed and warm from the path of so many kisses, Charles reclined against Max's chest, with Franz snuggled against his side, a hand resting on his stomach. A deep, saturated, and satisfied peace flooded him. He felt complete, loved, and profoundly marked. That afternoon of innocent kisses and sensual exploration had sealed their bond in a way deeper than anything they had experienced before. They were, now more than ever, one.

The end of June arrived like a long, hot sigh, laden with the cloying perfume of flowers in full bloom and the lazy buzz of insects in the dense air. The heat announced the arrival of summer with an intensity that promised long days and warm nights, and with it, an unexpected truce in the storm that had battered the Verstappen family. Jos's business, for reasons Max and Franz did not question but silently thanked, had bounced back to prosperity. The flow of money calmed the domestic waters; their father's latent violence subsided, transforming into a distant but manageable irritability. The blows and brutal punishments ceased, replaced by a silent disdain and a voluntary absence that, for the twins, was a preferable relief.

July burst in with the liberation of the school holidays. The Belgian secondary school closed its doors until September, freeing the students from schedules and exams. For the trio, this period did not mean boisterous parties or a desperate search to fit into the ephemeral social circles of the season. Those youth cults were foreign to them, noisy and empty. Instead, they found a different complicity in productivity. They decided to submit to a self-imposed regime of summer activities that would serve to accumulate points and future academic requirements. It was an excuse, of course. The real reason was simpler and deeper: they wanted to spend every possible minute together, and do it in a way that even the most critical eyes would find praiseworthy.

The family scene did not invite travel or vacations. Pascale, Charles's mother, was submerged in her new job, more demanding and distant, which consumed her completely. Her arrivals home had become less frequent, limited now to weekends, and sometimes not even that. On the other side of the hedge, the Verstappen house breathed a fragile peace. The marital crisis between Sophie and Jos had not been resolved, but had frozen into an uncomfortable truce, a silent coexistence where they avoided each other in the hallways and conversations were reduced to monosyllables.

This absence of adult supervision consolidated their unique dynamic. Charles, with a precocious maturity forged in adversity, had grown accustomed to taking care of himself and his younger brother, Arthur. Little Arthur, a boy with soft features who was beginning to show the signs of what would likely also be an Omega, became another shadow in their small entourage. Charles taught him with infinite patience: how to do basic shopping, how to heat the food Pascale left prepared, how to keep the house in minimal order.

And Max and Franz were always there. They slipped between the two houses with a naturalness that spoke of years of habit. They became the practical and emotional pillars for Charles. They helped with whatever was needed: they carried the heavy grocery bags, fixed a blown lamp, studied with Arthur to help him keep up. Their protection naturally extended to the little one, an instinctive extension of their devotion to Charles. After their father's poisonous words, something had been activated in them: a fierce protective instinct that encompassed the entire family unit Charles represented. Arthur, with his potential fragility, was now under the wing of their Alpha guard.

However, the outside world began to murmur. At the public pool, during volunteer work at the local library, or in the park, looks fell upon them with increasing frequency and intensity. Charles, in his innocence, was completely oblivious to the effect his beauty had on others. At sixteen, he was the embodiment of an ethereal omega grace. His skin, pale as porcelain, seemed to absorb the summer light and glow softly. His large, expressive green eyes were wells of a melancholic sweetness that attracted and disarmed. His slender, delicate body moved with an unconscious elegance that was hypnotizing. Every gesture, every laugh, every strand of chestnut hair that fell over his forehead, was a piece of a natural and potent seduction.

It was common to see how gazes stopped on him, how other Alphas, and even some Betas, followed him with their eyes, a mixture of desire and curiosity in their expressions. Comments began to circulate, whispered in the pool hallways or between library shelves: "Why is an Omega like that always surrounded by two Alphas?" "It's inappropriate." "There's something strange going on there." Even some Alphas spoke ill of Charles, calling him "tease" or "vixen," criticizing his "lack of decorum" for not seeking the company of other Omegas or not submitting to a single Alpha. But they were just words. No one, absolutely no one, dared to step forward, to even attempt to approach. The reason was simple and dual: Max and Franz.

The presence of the twins was an absolute deterrent. Max, with his silent intensity and his dark blue eyes that promised contained but instant violence if challenged. Franz, with his easy smile that never reached his eyes and his athletic physique that spoke of a strength ready to be deployed. They formed a perfect barrier around Charles and Arthur. Their mere presence, their relaxed but alert posture, their way of flanking Charles at all times, sent a clear and unbreakable message: He is with us. Approach at your own risk.

Thus passed the first half of July. An existence in a bubble of productive work, domestic chores, and constant, tacit companionship. Mornings were dedicated to volunteer work, afternoons to the pool or studying in the garden, and nights to watching movies in the Leclercs' living room, with Arthur asleep curled up on the sofa. Sophie Verstappen, from her side of the cold marital truce, helped when Pascale asked, responding to school calls with a kindness that failed to bridge the distance with her sons.

It was a simple life, built on the absence of others and the absolute presence of each other. A delicate and perfect balance, where Charles, for the first time since his father's death, felt not only loved, but deeply protected and necessary. And where Max and Franz found in caring for Charles and Arthur a purpose that their home could no longer give them: to be guardians, protectors, and, in the shared silence under the summer sun, something more that they themselves did not yet dare to name.

The July heat had settled into the house like a heavy, silent guest. The blinds were half-closed, filtering the sunlight into golden beams that illuminated the dust dancing in the air. The only certainty on those sweltering afternoons was Arthur's nap. The little one, overcome by the heat and the morning bustle, fell into a deep, restorative sleep that lasted a couple of sacred hours. It was during that span of time, stolen from the day and guarded by silence, that the world shrank to just them.

That afternoon, it was Max who found himself available. Franz had gone out on an errand for his mother, a rarity these days, but one that Max and Charles took advantage of with the avidity of addicts. In Charles's room, the Persian rug was their private island. No preamble was necessary. A look, a brush of hands, and Charles melted against Max, their lips meeting in a kiss that was much more than simple contact.

It was a slow, deep exploration. Charles, guided by an innate curiosity and absolute trust, "sipped" on Max's lower lip, savoring its texture, before biting it with a softness that made Max growl low, a vibration Charles felt throughout his body. Max responded with contained urgency, his hands, large and calloused from work on the treehouse, did not stay still. They roamed Charles's back, palming and caressing the thin fabric of his t-shirt until they found the hem, then sliding underneath to rest directly on the soft, warm skin of his lower back.

Charles arched against him, an instinctive movement that Max took advantage of to lower his hands, gripping with firmness but without brutality the perfect, round globes of Charles's ass through his shorts. The moan that escaped Charles was smothered by Max's mouth. One of Max's thumbs dared to gently massage the hollow between his cheeks, through the fabric, and Charles broke the kiss, gasping, his eyes glazed with pleasure. It was then that Max, emboldened, slid a hand to the front, searching under the t-shirt until he found one of Charles's nipples, already erect and sensitive. When he pinched it softly, Charles cried out, a high, surprised sound that was cut off immediately.

Just at that moment, the door opened.

Franz stood frozen in the doorway by the scene unfolding before him. The dim light bathed his brother and Charles entangled on the rug. Charles, with his t-shirt pulled up to his armpits, revealing his pale, slender torso, and Max over him, one hand still on his chest, the other buried in his shorts from behind. The image was deeply erotic, charged with an intimacy that left them both breathless and blushing. Franz, after a second of shock, entered and closed the door with a soft but definitive click. "Seems you started without me," he said, his voice a bit huskier than normal.

Charles, upon seeing him, pulled away from Max with the swiftness of a startled fawn. But in his green eyes there was no shame, but a mischievous, almost defiant glint. Without a word, he got up and, with a fluid motion, slipped into the bathroom adjoining his room, closing the door behind him.

Max and Franz looked at each other, confused. Excitement still throbbed in the air, now mixed with uncertainty. Was he angry? Upset at being caught? The seconds stretched into minutes until the bathroom door opened again.

Charles emerged, and the air caught in both twins' throats.

He had put on a dress. It was a pale sky-blue color, almost the color of his eyes, and made of a fine, fluid fabric that fell over his body like a caress. It was short, short enough for the hem to brush the middle of his thighs, highlighting the length and paleness of his legs. The neckline was subtle but enough to show his delicate collarbones. With his disheveled chestnut hair and his still-flushed face, he was a vision of androgynous and absolutely intoxicating beauty. The two Alphas stood paralyzed, dumbstruck, unable to articulate a word.

Charles, with a sweetness that contrasted with the audacity of his act, approached. "I want both of you," he said, his voice a whisper laden with a determination that brooked no argument. "At the same time."

The declaration fell in the room like a bomb. Max and Franz looked at each other again, a look loaded with disbelief, desire, and a mute question. They didn't understand logistically how; their dynamic had always been in turns.

"Charles, we... don't know how," admitted Franz, his voice rough.

"I'll guide you," Charles responded with surprising serenity. "As always."

He gave them his instructions. He would keep the dress on. They were to remove all their clothes, except their underwear. The order, given with that authoritative sweetness, made them move with instant obedience. In seconds, Max and Franz were standing before him, only in their briefs, which barely contained their evident arousal. The difference between them was palpable even then: Max, broader in the shoulders, his erection imposing and straight; Franz, slightly slimmer, but just as evident.

Charles smiled, satisfied. He approached Max, who was already lying on the carpet, and with an innate grace, climbed onto his lap, straddling him. The thin fabric of the dress swirled around his hips. Then, he looked at Franz over his shoulder. "You, from behind."

Franz didn't need to be told twice. With a wolfish smile, he secured the door latch with a sharp thud. Then he approached from behind Charles. With hands that trembled slightly, he gently lifted the hem of the sky-blue dress, revealing Charles's perfect, pale buttocks, barely covered by sky-blue cotton panties, already stained with an obscene wetness that made the fabric transparent.

Franz aligned his erection, confined by his briefs, against that promised groove, pressing firmly. In front, Charles had already begun to move, rubbing his sex, equally covered but soaked, against the prominence bulging in Max's briefs.

The first synchronized movement was an electric shock for all three. Charles moaned, leaning forward to capture Max's lips in a deep, desperate kiss. His hips began to rock in a slow, deliberate rhythm, rubbing against Max in front and against Franz behind. The friction through the wet fabric was an exquisite torture, rough and soft at the same time.

Franz, for his part, leaned over Charles, burying his face in the omega's neck, kissing and nibbling the sensitive skin while his free hands roamed Charles's body. One hand slid to the front, under the dress, to pinch and roll his erect nipples through the thin fabric of the garment. The other hand caressed his stomach, his thighs, any skin he could reach, possessing him through the dress.

The sounds filling the room were obscene: the constant, wet rubbing of the soaked fabric, the synchronized panting, the muffled moans Charles released into Max's mouth, the guttural growls of Franz in his neck. Charles's sky-blue dress moved like a wave with his thrusts, clinging to his sweaty skin.

The stimulation on all fronts was driving Charles insane. He felt possessed, adored, consumed. The wetness between his legs became torrential, soaking his panties and Max's underwear. Franz, feeling the collective madness approaching, decided it was enough. With trembling but determined hands, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of Charles's panties and pulled them down to his thighs. Charles's reaction was immediate: a cry of absolute, raw, and unfiltered pleasure, as Max, understanding the intention instantly, did the same with his own briefs.

Suddenly, there were no more barriers.

Max's erection, thick and throbbing, met directly with Charles's soaked, burning sex. Franz's pressed against the now completely exposed buttocks, sliding easily thanks to the fluid Charles produced in abundance. The sensation of skin against skin was so overwhelming, so intensely real, that all three screamed.

The rhythm became frantic, animalistic. Charles moved over Max with a ferocity he didn't know he had, while Franz pushed him from behind with short, deep thrusts that made Charles crash against Max again and again. The sounds were now completely wet, carnal, the splashing of their joined bodies a drum marking their crescendo.

Charles couldn't take it anymore. With a ragged cry that was a mix of Max's and Franz's names, he reached orgasm. A tremendous wave of clear, warm liquid gushed from him, soaking Max's stomach and member in a surprising amount. He felt, almost at the same time, the warm wetness of Max's release against his stomach, and Franz's hoarse groan, followed by another wave of heat he felt on his buttocks and lower back, as Franz collapsed over him.

Charles fell forward onto Max's chest, completely exhausted, trembling uncontrollably. The spasms of his pleasure seemed endless, his body still convulsing with the echoes of the climax. The liquid, a mixture of all three, ran down his thighs and Max's stomach.

After what felt like an eternity, Franz, panting, got up a little. With a tenderness that contrasted with the ferocity of moments before, he pulled up Charles's soaked panties, giving him a gentle spank in the process, a gesture of possession and affection. Then, he composed himself, finding his own underwear. The air smelled of sex, sweat, and Charles's intensified sweetness. All three were wrecked, panting, and completely, irrevocably, united. The sky-blue dress, ruined and wrinkled, was the silent testimony to the afternoon their triangle of desire had found a new and burning way to consummate itself.

The Belgian summer, with its humid, lazy heat, had become the perfect accomplice to their secret. After the explosive, wet revelation of their three-way encounter, a new layer of intimacy, bolder and greedier, had unfolded between Charles, Max, and Franz. Their encounters became more frequent, an urgent need throbbing under their skins, always stalked by the shadow of caution. They moved like ghosts between the two houses, synchronizing their schedules with the precision of conspirators, their senses hyper-alert to the slightest sound that might betray an adult's presence.

One morning in particular, the sun was already high, heating the cobblestones of the patio. The weekly routine had distributed them: Max and Arthur were in the inflatable pool, the child's high-pitched laughter mixing with Max's graver instructions. On the other side, in the laundry room next to the kitchen, Charles and Franz were immersed in the domestic task of washing the bed linens. The air smelled of laundry detergent and heat.

The washing machine hummed, filling the cement room with a monotonous, vibrating noise that was like a perfect wall of sound. Charles, his cheeks flushed from the effort of carrying the wet sheets to the basket, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Franz watched him, mesmerized by the way Charles's thin t-shirt clung to his back, outlining the delicacy of his shoulder blades and the curve of his waist.

"Still a few minutes until the next cycle," said Franz, his voice a bit huskier than usual.

Charles turned, and seeing the intensity in Franz's blue eyes, understood instantly. No words were needed. Franz approached, and in one fluid, strong motion, lifted him by the waist and sat him on the cement worktable, pushing a bag of detergent aside with his elbow. The surface was cold and rough under Charles's thighs, an electrifying contrast to the heat that suddenly flooded him.

Franz positioned himself between his open legs, and their lips met in a kiss that held nothing innocent. It was hungry, devouring. Charles gasped, unable to keep up, simply receiving, letting Franz explore every corner of his mouth. The kisses strayed, moving down his neck, nibbling the salty skin to the hollow of his collarbone. Franz's hands were not idle; one slid under the t-shirt, finding and pinching an already erect and sensitive nipple, making him arch and moan. The other hand went down, gripping Charles's buttock through the thin cotton of his shorts, squeezing and massaging the flesh with a possessiveness that made Charles see stars.

"Franz... wait, the others..." Charles tried to protest, but his voice was a thread of plaintive breath.

"Max is with Arthur. They won't hear anything," Franz murmured against his skin, his breath hot in his ear. "And the washer is loud."

The arousal, mixed with the risk, was a cocktail too potent. Charles, intoxicated by the kisses and caresses, by the palpable desire emanating from Franz, no longer wanted to wait. In a surprising move, he slid off the table. He turned his back to Franz, and with a deliberately sensual slowness he knew would drive the Alpha crazy, bent over slightly. His fingers, slender and agile, hooked into the waistband of his shorts and underwear, pulling them down to mid-thigh in one movement, completely exposing his pale, perfect buttocks and the wet, parted sex that throbbed between them.

Franz held his breath. Blood roared in his ears, rushing south with dizzying force. There was no need for instructions. He pulled down his own shorts and underwear to his knees, freeing his erection, which throbbed, hard and veiny, in the hot air of the laundry room.

He positioned himself behind Charles, who remained bent over, offered. The tip of his member, burning and sensitive, sought and found the center of all that wet heat. He wasn't seeking penetration; it wasn't the time or place. Instead, the tip settled right on Charles's swollen, exposed clit, pressing gently.

Charles shuddered violently, a long, trembling moan escaping his lips. "Just friction," Franz whispered, recalling their unspoken rule from that first trio. But it was friction without barriers. Since that day, underwear had been abolished in their private games.

Franz pressed Charles's thighs together with his hands, squeezing them to create a tighter, perfect channel between them. Then, in an initially slow and experimental move, he slid his length between those soft, burning folds. The sensation was overwhelming. Charles's wetness was abundant, slick and hot, lubricating every inch of his advance. Every thrust was a deep, obscene caress, the friction of his member against Charles's sensitive lips and clit, which swelled more with each pass.

Charles moaned, pushing his hips back to meet each thrust, seeking more pressure, more contact. The sound filling the laundry room, hidden under the hum of the machine, was embarrassing and exciting: the constant, wet splashing of their bodies, the ragged panting, the muffled moans Charles tried to stifle by biting his arm.

Franz sped up, losing the initial measured rhythm. His hips slammed against Charles's buttocks with a force that promised bruises, each impact producing a wet, sharp sound that drove them wild. Charles felt immense pressure, a tension coiling in his lower belly, growing more intense, more urgent. He cried out, a vocalization without words, pure need.

Franz understood. He changed the angle slightly, focusing on thrusting more forcefully and rapidly right against Charles's clit. The stimulation was brutal, direct, unmatched. Charles stopped breathing. His body tensed like a bow. The pressure in his bladder, combined with the searing heat, profuse sweating, and the excess water he'd drunk that morning, reached a critical point. At the absolute peak of his orgasm, with an intensity that took him by surprise, he lost control of his bladder.

A warm, clear stream shot from him, splashing the cement floor between his feet at the exact same moment a wave of pure, dry pleasure electrocuted him. He screamed, a ragged sound of ecstasy and surprise, as his body convulsed, expelling the last drop of urine and his climax simultaneously, creating a wet, shameful puddle at his feet. It was the wettest, most visceral, most uncontrollable orgasm he had ever experienced.

Franz didn't stop. The sight, sound, and feeling of Charles losing control in such a primal way brought him to the edge instantly. He squeezed Charles's thighs even tighter around his member and thrust with a final ferocity. In one particularly deep thrust, the tip of his member brushed Charles's hyper-sensitive clit with perfect pressure, and Franz came with a hoarse, guttural growl, his own hot release mixing with the fluids already present, dripping down Charles's trembling thighs and dripping to join the puddle on the floor.

Charles fell forward, bracing his hands on the table, panting as if he had run a marathon, his body still wracked by residual spasms. He trembled uncontrollably, shame and pleasure waging a fierce battle within him.

Franz, catching his breath, gently pulled away. He saw the mess on the floor and on Charles's thighs. Without a word, with a tenderness that contrasted with the animality of moments before, he pulled up Charles's underwear and shorts, hiding the evidence. Then, he found an old towel on a shelf and, kneeling, meticulously dried the cement floor, wiping away every trace of their encounter.

When he finished, Charles was still leaning against the table, his face hidden in his arms, his neck and ears a scarlet red. Franz approached, turned him gently, and lifted him into his arms. Charles curled against his chest, hiding his face in Franz's neck. Franz then kissed him, a deep, slow kiss full of a comforting possessiveness. "Shhh, it's okay. It was perfect," he murmured against his lips.

Then, carrying a Charles who was still weak and embarrassed, but deeply satisfied, he carried him upstairs to his room, leaving him to rest on the cool bed. Franz went back down alone, with the laundry basket, and took care of the rest of the washing, whistling softly, with the taste of Charles and summer still on his lips. The secret, now stained with a new, wet layer of intimacy, was safe once more.

The afternoon had left an indelible mark, an electric energy that still buzzed in the air of the Leclerc house. The echo of stifled moans and the wet sloshing in the laundry room seemed to have seeped into the walls, a secret symphony that only Franz and Charles could hear. When Sophie Verstappen, with that scrutinizing gaze that had not completely erased her children's distrust, received the call from Pascale asking for help for that night, she saw an opportunity to exert a little control.

"Pascale asked me to have someone stay overnight with Charles and Arthur. She won't be back until tomorrow," announced Sophie, crossing her arms. "Franz, you stay. Max, you come home."

A pang of disappointment shot through Charles, but it was Franz who reacted. With a smile that was too innocent, he interjected: "Mom, Max can go. I have that math assignment to finish. He can take care of them perfectly." Sophie frowned, but the logic was impeccable. With only one twin there, the risk of... whatever she feared... was cut in half. She nodded, resigned.

Max, initially confused by his brother's generosity, said nothing. But as they approached to say goodbye, Franz leaned in as if to give him a hug and, instead, brought his lips to Max's ear. His whisper was quick, hot, and loaded with vivid images: "This afternoon, in the laundry room... I had him bent over the table. He came so hard he pissed himself completely. The whole floor was soaked. Your turn."

The description was like a whip crack of pure electricity. Max understood instantly. It wasn't generosity; it was a pass. Franz was giving him the chance to taste that same intensity, to mark Charles with his own ferocity. A wave of gratitude and almost brutal desire flooded him. He nodded to his brother with a look laden with complicity before turning to follow their mother's instructions.

Max got ready with military efficiency, his mind already on the night ahead. He arrived at the Leclerc house with his bag, greeted Arthur with a pat on the head, and helped Charles prepare a simple dinner. The tension between them was palpable, a live wire crackling with every furtive glance, every accidental brush of hands while passing plates. Arthur, exhausted from the day at the pool, fell asleep almost immediately after eating, leaving the house plunged into an expectant silence.

Max made the final rounds with the meticulousness of a sentry. He checked every window, making sure the latches were firm. Click. Thud. He confirmed the front door had a double lock. He went up the stairs with silent steps, his heart beginning to hammer against his ribs. He peeked into Arthur's room; the boy was sleeping soundly, hugging a stuffed animal. His breathing was a soft, regular whisper.

Finally, he stopped in front of Charles's door. He took a breath and slowly turned the knob.

The door opened without much noise. The room was bathed in the faint moonlight filtering through the window. Charles was in bed, but not asleep. He was reclining against the pillows, dressed only in a loose, thin t-shirt that reached halfway down his thighs. His legs were stretched out and together, but upon seeing Max, upon meeting his blue eyes shining in the gloom, they fell open with a deliberate and obscene slowness. It was an invitation as clear as a neon sign.

Max entered and closed the door behind him. The sound of the lock turning echoed like a starting shot in the room's silence. As he approached the bed, his hands didn't waste time. He took off his shirt in one fluid motion, revealing his defined torso. The buttons of his pants gave way with a dull pop, and the zipper came down with a long, suggestive sound. Within seconds, he was standing at the edge of the bed, dressed only in his underwear, his erection already evident and throbbing against the fabric.

Charles frowned, an adorable expression of impatience. "No clothes, Max," he ordered, his voice a hoarse but firm whisper.

Max stopped and then he saw it clearly. Oh. Charles was already completely naked under the t-shirt. No shorts. No underwear. Just the pale, smooth skin of his thighs, and between them, Charles's sex, completely exposed, already shiny and wet, prepared for him. Ready to be rubbed against, just like with Franz that afternoon. A low, admiring whistle escaped Max's lips.

There were no more preliminaries. Max climbed onto the bed and positioned himself between Charles's open legs, which welcomed him immediately, wrapping around him. Their lips met in a fierce, hungry kiss, all teeth and tongue. Mmmph. Max was different from the start. Where Franz had been exploratory and playful, Max was direct, rough, possessive. He grabbed his hips and dragged the entire length of his cock through Charles's soaked cunt. The sound was wet and shameless, and Charles gasped against his mouth, his hips pushing up instinctively to increase the pressure.

The friction began in earnest. Max established a fast, steady rhythm from the outset, his thrusts long, dragging his entire length through the sensitive, drenched folds. Charles could only respond with ragged gasps Ah! Ah! Ah! and desperate kisses that Max stole between moan and moan. The tingling coursing through Charles's body was electric, addictive. Max wasn't satisfied. He buried his face in Charles's neck, sucking the skin with a force that would leave a mark the next day. Hickey. His hands released Charles's hips to stroke his nipples through the thin t-shirt, pinching them and making him scream. Ahh!

In one fluid and powerful motion, Max grabbed Charles's legs and hoisted them over his shoulders, bending the omega almost in half. The angle changed completely. Umph! Charles cried out, surprised by the sudden depth of the friction. Max, now with better access, thrust much harder. The sound of their bodies colliding became louder, wetter, more obscene. Max's guttural sounds, Grrr... Ungh..., mixed with Charles's cries of pleasure, Yes! More! Right there!, which they both desperately hoped no one else could hear.

Charles was ecstatic. Drool dripped from the corner of his lips, his eyes rolled back. Max, possessed by a fierce need, constantly changed the angle, searching. Until he found it. He used his weight to press the tip of his cock directly against Charles's swollen clit. Oh! Charles convulsed. Max didn't stop. One hand freed itself to give his buttock a slap. A sharp sound that made Charles cry out louder. Then, Max leaned down to kiss him again, bending his flexible body almost in two while continuing to thrust mercilessly.

Charles couldn't hold on any longer. "Max, I'm coming...! Aaahh!" He curled his toes tightly, his body arched like a bow, and a torrent of clear liquid gushed from him, soaking his own stomach, Max's underwear, and the sheets beneath even more. It was a violent, cathartic orgasm.

But Max didn't stop. "Not yet," he growled, his voice rough as sandpaper. With surprising strength, he flipped Charles over, who whimpered from the overstimulation. He pressed his thighs together from behind and began sliding his cock, now soaked and much more sensitive, between them. The friction was now almost painfully intense for Charles, who bit down hard on the pillowcase to stifle another scream. Grrrnnh! The fabric grew damp with his saliva and tears of overwhelming pleasure. Another, smaller jet escaped him, a final surrender from his body.

Only then did Max reach his own climax. With one last deep thrust and a hoarse grunt that sounded like thunder in the room, he came, his heat spurting and mixing with the fluids already present, dripping down Charles's thighs.

When it was over, both were exhausted, panting Hah... Hah... Hah... and drenched. A thick scent of sex, sweat, and omega and alpha pheromones filled the room. Max collapsed beside him, smiling with a deep, animal satisfaction. Charles, unable to move, could only tremble.

With a tenderness that contrasted with the ferocity of moments before, Max got up, found a towel and a damp cloth. He carefully cleaned Charles, who whimpered weakly with every touch. He put clean boxers on him and tucked him in. Then he undressed completely and got into bed beside him, wrapping his arms around him. Mmm... Charles curled into his warmth.

"Sleep," Max whispered, kissing his forehead.

And this time, the silence surrounding them was not one of expectation, but of a deep and satisfied peace, broken only by the soft sound of their synchronized breathing as sleep claimed them completely. Franz's mission had been a resounding success.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The post-shower ritual unfolded with the quiet efficiency of a well-rehearsed choreography. After Charles emerged from his cloud of steam, skin flushed and smelling of his vanilla and almond-scented shower gel, it was the twins' turn. Max showered first, with cold water to counter the residual heat in the bathroom and the internal fever produced by his anticipation of the night. Franz followed, and then, gently, they woke a grumpy, sleepy Arthur so he could also wash his face and hands, ensuring he was presentable and clean for dinner.

Dinner was a simple affair. Franz, taking command in the kitchen with a skill that contrasted with his brother's clumsiness, prepared a light but comforting meal: a creamy vegetable soup and some grilled cheese sandwiches. He knew that Charles, with his Omega metabolism and small stomach, didn't eat much, but for himself and Max, he always added something more substantial—in this case, some extra sausages and a bowl of oven-baked fries. At the table, the conversation was a murmur of silly talk and anecdotes from the day. Arthur, still half-asleep, yawned between spoonfuls, his head drooping forward until a gentle nudge from Max or a word from Charles straightened him up.

After eating came cleanup time. Max, as was customary, dodged the dishwashing duty with the perfect excuse: helping Arthur. He guided the younger boy upstairs, with a patience he reserved only for the little omega, helping him find his favorite pajamas (the blue ones with stars) and making sure he brushed his teeth. While Arthur got into bed, Max checked the bedroom window, closing it and making sure the door was locked. He wished him goodnight with a grunt meant to sound tough but which came out protective, and turned off the light.

Downstairs, Franz and Charles finished cleaning the kitchen. Charles dried the dishes with a cloth, his gaze lost somewhere in the blackness of the window, a faint, persistent blush tinting his cheeks. The atmosphere in the house had changed. The casual energy of dinner had transformed into an electric tension, charged with promise. It was only 6 pm, but the early summer dusk and the drawn blinds created a premature intimacy.

When everything was in order, Charles, without a word, went upstairs. His steps were deliberately slow. Franz and Max stayed for a moment in the living room, the silence between them thick with unspoken plans.

It was Franz who broke the silence, his voice low. "Mom thinks I should stay tonight. Since you stayed last night. So... you'll go first. And then, later, I'll sneak up and... continue."

Max blushed; the idea of taking turns, of sharing Charles in time segments, suddenly seemed cold and insufficient. He shook his head, looking toward the stairs where Charles had disappeared. "No. Both of us. I think... he expects us to come together. After what happened this morning with our father, it would be better... to leave our scent mixed on him. Both of us. Let him feel protected by both." He paused, swallowing, the shame of admitting his need making his voice rough. "Besides, Mom said she was going out tonight. That means she'll come back very late, drunk or... I don't know. But she won't notice. I left my window open. I'll sneak in through there and she won't find out until morning."

Franz looked at him, surprised by the boldness of the plan and the raw emotional honesty of Max's explanation. A slow smile spread across his lips. It wasn't a mocking smile, but one of admiration and agreement. "Okay. Together then."

They went up the stairs with a silent purpose. The hallway was dark, illuminated only by the light filtering from under Charles's bedroom door. Max turned the knob and opened the door.

The scene that was revealed took their breath away.

Charles was standing by the bed, bathed in the warm light of the bedside lamp. He was completely naked. He had spread a soft fleece blanket over the comforter, a practical precaution for what he knew would be a wet and messy night. The light caressed his skin, highlighting the delicate structure of his shoulders, the long line of his neck, the gentle curve of his spine that disappeared into perfect, round buttocks. His face was turned towards them, flushed, but with an expression of serene expectation. There was no shame in his nudity, only a quiet offering and absolute trust. He looked beautiful, ethereal and yet terribly tangible, a temptation made flesh.

Max and Franz stood paralyzed on the threshold, mesmerized, absorbing every detail. Charles's scent of vanilla and cleanliness now mingled with something deeper, sweeter, more Omega-like: his anticipatory excitement.

Franz was the first to move. He closed the door behind them and turned the lock with a click that sounded like the start of a ritual. That sound broke Max from his stupor. Without a word, they began to undress. Clothes fell to the floor in small, messy piles: t-shirts, shorts, underwear. In seconds, they were also naked, their Alpha bodies, larger, more defined, more charged with muscular tension, contrasting with Charles's delicacy.

The room filled with a heavy silence, broken only by the accelerated breathing of the three. The air was warm and began to charge with the smell of their mingling pheromones: Max's storm and earth, Franz's pine forest, and Charles's vanilla and orange blossom, intensifying until it became intoxicating.

Charles smiled at them, a small, shy gesture that unleashed the storm. Max and Franz approached the bed, not as rivals, but as partners, as accomplices in the act of worshipping their omega. The night, which had just begun, promised to be long, wet, and full of the sounds of lust that would soon fill the room: ragged gasps, muffled moans, the friction of skin against skin, and the wet sounds of their bodies moving in a dance all three knew well and yet, each time, felt like the first. Together, under the dim lamplight, they sealed their pact of protection and desire, banishing the ghosts of the day with the heat of their entwined bodies.

The room was a crucible of sensations, a sanctuary where the air itself seemed thick and golden, charged with the intoxicating perfume of their intertwined pheromones. The sweet scent of vanilla and orange blossom from Charles had intensified, becoming almost oppressively sweet, a primal call that mixed with the smell of wet earth and storm from Max and the fresh scent of pine forest from Franz. It was an olfactory symphony announcing their shared lust.

Charles moved over Max with a hypnotic grace, his slender body arching like a bridge between the two Alphas. His sex, soaked and slippery, rubbed against Max's hard, throbbing erection with a rhythm that was both desperate and deliberate. Each downward movement was a wet, perfect caress that made both gasp. Behind him, Franz, on his knees, positioned himself between Charles's spread buttocks. His own member, equally imposing, slid along the groove formed by them, rubbing against the tempting but virgin entrance and the perineum, getting soaked in the same moisture that lubricated the front friction. The synchronicity was instinctive, animalistic; the hips of all three moved in a perfect dance, a trio where each thrust from Franz forward pushed Charles against Max, and each circular movement from Charles rubbed against both.

Max was not still. His hands, large and calloused, roamed Charles's body like a territory he was claiming. One hand held his hip, guiding his rhythm, while the other attended to his nipples. He bent his head to capture an erect and sensitive nipple between his lips, sucking with a strength that made Charles cry out, before nibbling it gently with his teeth, provoking spasms of pleasure that ran through the Omega's entire body. Franz, for his part, had his mouth occupied elsewhere. He covered Charles's shoulders and back with bites that left temporary pink marks, possessive but not breaking the skin. His lips found his earlobe, and his tongue licked it in slow circles before whispering obscenities that only Charles could hear: "You sound so good... so wet for us... you're perfect."

Charles was in a state of sublime overstimulation. There wasn't an inch of his skin that wasn't being claimed, kissed, sucked, or caressed. It was total possession. His cunt, as he thought of it, was so slippery that the friction was smooth and burning at the same time, allowing both members to slide over his sensitive skin without pain, only with a scorching pleasure.

“Mmmm... Franz, don't bite there...” Charles moaned when the Alpha's teeth closed with too much force on a particularly sensitive spot on his neck, an erogenous zone hyper-aware for Omegas, full of nerve endings that yearned for the mark of a claim that never came. But the protest was weak, whiny. Max, hearing it, joined the reclamation. He left Charles's nipples and leaned over to suck on the same side of the neck, his warm saliva mixing with his brother's. The double attention on that vulnerable spot was too much. Charles arched violently, a choked scream escaping his lips, and a gush of his clear, intense, warm fluid spurted from him, soaking Max's stomach even more. It was a sudden, overwhelming orgasm, provoked by pure sensory overload. But it was only the first. A simple release of pressure before the main storm.

While his body shuddered with the echoes of the climax, his mind, clouded by pleasure, wandered for a moment. Did this make him promiscuous? For desiring this, for yearning for both Alphas' hands to grope and squeeze him everywhere, for wanting to be exactly where he was: on top of one, with the other behind, being used for their mutual pleasure while he drowned in the ecstasy of their caresses. For Charles, every inch of his body belonged to the twins. Their mouths on his neck, their lips devouring his, their tongues on his nipples... everything was an affirmation that he was theirs.

His thoughts grew bolder, spicier. The sensation of the two erections, so different but equally imposing, kept him in a state of delirious expectation. He imagined, with a clarity that made him moan, the moment they would finally consummate as adults. He saw himself receiving them both, unable to guess who would fill him first or if, in an act of absolute possession, both would do it at the same time. The idea was terrifying and electrifying, a holy grail of intimacy that brought him to the brink of delirium.

He was ecstatic. If someone saw him now, naked, soaked in sweat and fluids, being touched and kissed with obscene intimacy by two Alphas, what would they say? Would it be wrong? But he loved them both. That they kept him on the edge of sanity by touching him where he was ashamed to touch himself, that they kissed him where he was embarrassed to admit he wanted to be kissed, that they treated him as if his body could receive and give more pleasure than he had ever imagined... that was heaven.

All three were now audibly panting. Max's rhythm had become more frantic, his thrusts from below more brutal, his kisses more devouring. Franz, from behind, maintained a slower but deeply powerful rhythm, each forward thrust a promise of what could come, while he sucked the skin of Charles's neck with a force bordering on pain, seeking to mark, even if temporarily.

Charles no longer knew what was happening. His body no longer belonged to him. It was an instrument of pleasure for them and for himself. The moisture was everywhere: the sweat soaking his locks of hair, sticking them to his face and neck; the drops falling from Max's forehead and Franz's chin onto his back, mixing with his own sweat; the fluids lubricating every friction. Then, he felt an explosion of wet heat on his stomach and lower back almost simultaneously. He didn't know whose it was, Max's or Franz's, or perhaps both in perfect synchronicity. He was so lost in the vortex of sensations that it didn't even matter.

The sound in the room was an obscene collage: ragged gasps, Max's guttural moans, Franz's low, possessive growls, the constant wet slapping of their bodies, and Charles's choked screams, which were torn from the depths of his being with each new wave of pleasure. It was a night of total surrender, where inhibitions had vanished and only the raw, wet, and glorious truth of the three together remained, lost in the labyrinth of their shared desire.

Charles's first climax had been an explosion of pure sensation, an electric release that left him lying on the fleece blanket, panting and his body racked with residual tremors. His skin, coated in a fine layer of sweat, glistened under the dim lamplight as if dusted with diamonds. His green eyes were closed, dark, damp eyelashes stuck to his flushed cheeks. But the energy in the room was far from dissipating. It was heavy, hot, and smelled of sex and promises.

Max, still with an erection throbbing and painfully sensitive after his own release, didn't miss a beat. With a guttural growl coming from the depths of his Alpha being, he moved over Charles. It wasn't a rough movement, but one of recalcitrant possession. His body, larger and wider, covered Charles's, fitting perfectly between his open thighs. He began to rub again, his member, still hard and slippery from their mixed fluids, finding its place between the sensitive, overstimulated folds of Charles. The friction was different now—more direct, more insistent, charged with the urgency of a second round.

Charles let out a moan, a sound between exhaustion and renewed pleasure. His eyes remained closed, but his body arched instinctively to meet Max's. It was a total surrender. "Ah... ah... ah... there," he murmured, his voice broken and barely audible, "harder, Max... please." His hands, weak, gripped Max's muscular arms, his nails digging slightly into the sweaty skin.

Franz, for his part, had sat up. He sat back on his heels, slightly apart, like a privileged spectator in the theater of his own fantasy. His gaze, intense and devouring, scanned every inch of the scene. Watching his brother take Charles like that, with such raw and yet surrendered ferocity, gave him pleasure almost as intense as the physical contact. It was a fundamental part of their dynamic, their strange and perfect triangle.

He watched Max's large hands, hands that could be so brutal fixing a motorcycle or so gentle caressing Arthur, now roaming Charles's body with a mixture of adoration and voracity. He saw how his fingers sank into the soft flesh of the omega's thighs, how they moved up his side, outlining each rib, then down to grab his hips with a force that promised bruises. Charles surrendered to it all, responding with little moans and hip movements that sought more, always more.

Franz could see the sweat running down Max's broad back, shining in the light, and how drops of it fell onto Charles's already glistening skin. The image was visceral, obscene, and deeply intimate. Sometimes, his imagination ran wild. He imagined crossing that final line they still didn't dare cross. He saw Max, or himself, finally penetrating Charles, breaking that last barrier of virginity. What would it be like? Would Charles beg for more? Would he scream? Would he break into a thousand pieces of pleasure? The idea drove him mad.

He had never desired anyone as he desired Charles. Other Omegas seemed simple, bland, lacking that spark of fire and total surrender that Charles exhibited only for them. Charles didn't hold back. He didn't pretend. He demanded pleasure with his moans and movements, and they, as devoted servants of his lust, gave it to him. That's why he despised his father's insinuations so much. The idea that someone else, especially someone like Jos, could even imagine seeing Charles like this—sweaty, panting, surrendered, theirs—filled him with a cold, homicidal rage.

His gaze focused on the most intimate details: the tension in the muscles of Max's back, the way Charles drooled with pleasure, a thin line of saliva escaping his parted lips. The perfect arch of Charles's back, each vertebra prominent under the taut skin. The blush spreading from his cheeks to his chest, staining his skin an embarrassing and exciting pink. His nipples, erect and hard like little stones, rubbing against Max's sweaty torso with each movement. And, more obscenely, he could see how Charles's cunt, that center of all his pleasure, grew wetter with each rub, glistening with the mixed fluids of all three, offering a view that was for them alone.

Franz's arousal was unbearable. He began to stroke himself slowly, his hand closing around his own erection, which was hard and throbbing. He masturbated with long, slow strokes, synchronized with Max's thrusts, delighting in the spectacle. He was the director and the audience of his own fantasy.

Then, the climax came. He heard Max's breathing turn into a series of hoarse, staccato grunts. He saw Charles's body tense like a bow, every muscle rigid. Charles's scream was obscene, a torn, high-pitched sound of pure ecstasy, followed by a series of violent spasms that shook his body. Max sank onto him with a deep moan, his own release mixing with Charles's.

Franz held his breath, his hand stopping. The image of Charles in that moment of total abandon—sweaty, completely wet, eyes glazed, mouth open in a silent "o" of pleasure—was the most erotic thing he had ever seen. He knew Charles was ready for another round. He just needed a few seconds, a moment to stop trembling, for the oversensitivity to turn back into desire. And then, it would be his turn. Franz reveled in that thought, in the orgasmic image of Charles before him, knowing that all that spectacle of lust was to please him too, to prepare for him.

The night was long, young, and full of promises. And Charles, in his infinite and perfect surrender, was the epicenter of it all, the comfort and obsession of both. He was theirs to love, to protect, and to push to the limit over and over again, until dawn found them exhausted and entwined, satisfied and dreaming of the next time.

Charles's world had shrunk to a limbo of overlapping sensations, a sea of pleasure where he floated, aware only of the heat, the moisture, and the friction. He could feel the sweat running down his temples, mixing with the tears of ecstasy that had escaped his eyes. On his stomach, a warm, sticky mixture of his fluids and Max's cooled slowly, a tangible reminder of the climax they had just shared. The weight of Max, which had been a protective, burning slab, withdrew, leaving him feeling exposed and vulnerable, but craving more, always more.

Before the emptiness or the cold could touch him, Franz was there. Charles knew it, even with his eyes closed. He felt his presence like a change in air pressure, a new current of pheromones—pine forest now dominant—hovering over him. Franz had been patient, the meticulous spectator, and Charles knew, with a shiver of anticipation and a little fear, that this patience would translate into an exquisite torture of sensations and dirty words that would resonate in the deepest part of his being, awakening desires he didn't even dare name in the light of day.

A strong but gentle hand grabbed him by the hips and dragged him to the edge of the bed. Charles let himself be moved, his legs hanging off the sides. When he opened his eyes, Franz was standing in front of him, between his open legs. He was completely naked, his blond hair messy and stuck to his forehead with sweat, a dangerous, seductive smile playing on his lips. His erection, imposing and throbbing, stood like a massive weapon of pleasure.

By instinct, Charles grabbed the backs of his knees and folded over himself, exposing himself completely to Franz. His cunt, swollen, red, and gleaming with moisture, pulsed visibly in the lamplight, an obscene and submissive offering.

Franz watched him with eyes dark with pure desire. He took his member in one hand and, with deliberate calm, patted it gently against Charles's sensitive clit. The contact, though light, made Charles shudder violently, a gasp escaping his lips.

"I guess you're still not satisfied," Franz murmured, his voice a hoarse whisper that was like a caress in itself. "You're perfect, Charles. You're made for two Alphas as insatiable as you are." The words, laden with possession and lust, made Charles bite his lower lip until it nearly bled. He could only gasp, holding his own legs tightly, keeping himself open for Franz.

Then, Franz aligned the tip of his member, large and rounded, with Charles's lower lips. He pressed it gently, not attempting to enter, just rubbing the sensitive, already overstimulated bud. It was an agonizing caress, a promise of what could be. Franz spoke again, his tone feigning an innocence both knew was false: "I think I should just push, Charles. I bet you wouldn't stop me. It's like you want to suck me in down here. Your body is screaming for me to enter."

Max, who was watching from the side, tilted his head, fascinated by the scene and by the expression of pleasurable agony on Charles's face. Charles also felt the expectation like a physical pressure in his chest. He thought, with terrifying and exciting clarity, how easy it would be. A small movement of his hips upward, a final push from Franz, and that enormous length would be inside him, filling the void he craved. But he knew the rules. He knew that if he rushed, if he took what hadn't been explicitly given to him, Franz would punish him. He imagined it: Franz's large hand moving his member away to give his sensitive clit a strong, stinging slap, denying him orgasm, making him count each one up to ten, while he begged and cried in frustration. So he held back, trembling, his body screaming for more while his will struggled to obey.

Franz kept rubbing, the tip pressing against his entrance slowly, over and over, simulating a minimal penetration that was pure torture. "I bet you're ready for both of us," Franz whispered, leaning over him, his hot breath in his ear. "I could go first. Not just finish inside you, but knot you. Leave you full of me, marked by me. And then Max... Max would do the same. We'd have you knotted by both, you wouldn't know whose seed impregnated you first."

Charles moaned, a deep, guttural sound coming from a primal place. The image Franz painted was too much, too vivid, too desirable. Franz continued, his words a dirty spell while his member maintained its cruel and delicious friction. "Can you imagine? Both inside you, filling you. And then... can you imagine being pregnant? Whose would it be? Mine or Max's?" His hips pushed a little harder, the tip threatening to finally break the barrier.

Charles was panting, lost in the vortex of sensations and words. The bundle of nerves of his clit was being rubbed mercilessly, each movement sending waves of pleasure so intense they bordered on pain. Franz leaned even closer, his lips brushing the shell of his ear. "Do you want our babies, Charles?" he asked, his voice low but relentless, while increasing the rhythm of his rubbing, making it faster, firmer.

It was the last straw. The combination of the brutal physical stimulation, the obscene words, and the deep emotional desire throbbing beneath all their lust was too much for Charles. With a torn scream that was both surrender and ecstasy, he answered, his voice broken with emotion and pleasure: "Yes! I want them! I want your babies!"

The scream was also his orgasm. A dry, convulsive, brutal climax that made him arch off the bed, his body shaken by uncontrollable spasms. Franz didn't stop. He kept rubbing against him, prolonging the ecstasy to the brink of unbearable, possessing him completely with his gaze, his words, and his body, sealing a promise that all three knew, someday, they would fulfill. The night, and their future together, seemed infinite.

Charles's last scream still echoed in the room, mixing with the heavy panting of the three bodies. The ecstasy had left him trembling, vulnerable, his mind clouded and his skin hyper-aware. Before he could catch his breath, Franz, driven by an urgency he could no longer contain, grabbed him by the hips with firm hands and flipped him onto his stomach. The fleece blanket, already soaked with sweat and fluids, stuck to his hot skin.

Franz positioned himself between his thighs, which Charles instinctively spread, offering himself once more. Despite the fierce desire consuming him, despite the obscene words still hanging in the air like a promise, Franz knew, in some rational corner of his mind, that they could not consummate. They were all three virgins in that final sense, that definitive act of penetration. The anatomy of an Omega, the possible consequences, the fear of hurting Charles... were barriers that, for now, remained standing. His lust would be channeled in other directions, in exploring the limits of pleasure without crossing that final line.

So Franz focused on what they could do. He aligned his member, still throbbing and sensitive from his near-penetration, between Charles's tight thighs. The skin on the inside of the omega's thighs was soft and warm, and by pressing them together, he created a perfect, intimate, and restrictive channel. He began to thrust, moving forward with long, deliberate strokes. The sweat covering both bodies acted as a natural lubricant, making the friction smooth and burning at the same time, an obscene, wet sound of skin against skin filling the room.

Charles, with his face buried in a pillow, moaned with each thrust. He gripped the fabric with his fists, his body still convulsing from the echoes of his previous orgasm, now being driven toward another peak of pleasure by the constant friction and Franz's tacit domination. "Franz... ah, God..." he murmured into the pillow, his voice muffled.

Max, who had been watching, fascinated, from the side, found another erection rising with an almost painful force. The sight of his brother taking Charles like that, the omega's total submission, the fertile words Franz had sown in the air... it all ignited him again. His breathing quickened, his hands clenched on his thighs.

Franz, feeling his orgasm approaching like an unstoppable wave—an intense tingling at the base of his spine—increased his pace. His thrusts became faster, more desperate, each one accompanied by a guttural grunt. "Charles... here it comes..." he warned, and with one last deep push, he ejaculated between Charles's thighs. The hot, thick fluid splashed onto the omega's skin and the blanket beneath them, marking him symbolically. Franz collapsed onto Charles's back, panting, his body covering him completely.

Charles was lost in a cloud of sensations. He felt the warm wetness between his legs, the weight of Franz on him, his own exhausted but still vibrant body. He fell face down, completely spent, feeling the last drops of Franz's climax run down his skin.

But Max, now fully aroused again, couldn't wait. He positioned himself behind Charles, who was lying on his side, his erect member seeking friction against the omega's still-exposed buttocks. Franz, regaining some breath, warned in a hoarse voice: "Slowly, Max. He's very sensitive."

Charles, however, wrapped in that cloud of post-orgasmic arousal and submission, heard the warning but interpreted it as another invitation. With a slow but determined movement, he turned to face Max. His green eyes, glazed and full of desire, fixed on Max's erect member. Without hesitation, he leaned down and took it into his mouth.

It was an act of pure audacity and inexperience. His mouth could only accommodate the large, rounded tip. His lips, swollen from kisses and bites, closed around the glans, and his tongue clumsily explored the sensitive texture. One of his hands wrapped around the base, stroking the length with an unconfident but electrifying pressure for Max, who let out a grunt of surprise and pleasure.

The sight was too much for Franz. Seeing Charles on his knees, his mouth full of his brother, his own fluids drying on his thighs... a lascivious and brilliant idea sprang into his mind. He moved quickly, positioning himself behind Charles, who was kneeling and concentrated on his task. Franz spread Charles's buttocks and, without preamble, buried his face between them.

His tongue, long and skilled, found its target immediately: Charles's swollen, red, and absolutely drenched cunt. He began to lick it with long, firm strokes, savoring the mixture of his own fluids, Max's, and Charles's unique essence. The stimulation was so intense and unexpected that Charles moaned around Max's member, the vibration sending a jolt of pleasure straight to Max's brain.

The sounds in the room transformed. Now they were the wet, obscene sounds of Charles sucking clumsily but enthusiastically, the slurping and smacking of Franz eating out Charles's cunt with voracious devotion, and the panting and grunting of Max, who held Charles's hair, gently guiding his head in a rhythm he could barely withstand.

Charles was being stimulated from both ends, lost in a whirlwind of sensations. Franz's tongue on his cunt was expert, finding his clit and focusing on it with a precision that brought him to the edge quickly. At the same time, the sensation of having Max in his mouth, the salty, masculine taste, the total surrender of allowing him to do this... it was too much.

With a muffled, deep moan, Charles reached his last orgasm of the night. He trembled violently, his mouth pulled away from Max with a gasp, and a scream left his lips just as Max, unable to hold back any longer, reached his own climax. Charles, in an act of pure instinct, reached out and took Max's ejaculation, feeling the warm fluid in his palms while his own body shook with contractions.

Without missing a second, Franz rose. His face was shiny and wet. He grabbed Charles's face and melted into a deep, dirty, taste-filled kiss with him. Charles, dazed and ecstatic, returned the kiss, tasting on Franz's lips his own flavor mixed with Max's—a primal, possessive cocktail that sealed the night.

Max, panting, watched them kiss, exhausted but completely satisfied. All three collapsed together in the mess of the bed, a tangle of sweaty, satisfied limbs, having explored a new level of intimacy in their perfect, forbidden triangle. The room smelled of sex, sweat, and a promise that when they finally took the next step, it would be epic.