Chapter Text
In the resplendent heart of the Ottoman Empire, under golden domes and amidst whispers of silk, Sultan Max Verstappen ruled.
His youth was as remarkable as his ferocity on the battlefield and his sagacity in politics. He ascended to the throne early, but his reign was already marked by an era of unprecedented prosperity. However, all that power and vigor demanded a counterpoint of harmony and beauty, found in the private serenity of his harem. Among all his treasures, four omegas were the most precious jewels, each one a masterpiece of creation.
His Highness, Sultan Max Verstappen
Young, with striking blue eyes that could be both the clear sky and the stormy sea. His firm jaw and athletic bearing spoke of a born warrior, but the fine silk of his kaftans and the shine of the jewels on his fingers proclaimed his supreme rank. His rule was just but implacable; his word, absolute law. In the intimacy of his chambers, he was a man of intense and possessive passions, finding in the company of his omega consorts the perfect refuge for his indomitable spirit.
His Harem of Royal Consorts:
Charles, the Consort of Celestial Melody. With an angelic face, a mane of chestnut curls falling like a silken cascade over his shoulders. His large green eyes, innocent and expressive, reflected a deep sensitivity. His beauty was ethereal, almost fragile, like fine porcelain. Within the harem, he was often found reclining on velvet cushions, his fingers stroking the strings of an oud, filling the air with melancholic melodies that calmed even the most restless mood of the Sultan. He was serene and artistic beauty.
George, the Consort of Architectural Grace. His beauty was of pure and precise lines, impeccable and elegant. Tall with perfectly sculpted features, he possessed a natural dignity that commanded respect. His hair always perfectly styled, his posture, upright and noble. He was known for his astute mind and his love for poetry and strategy. While others dedicated themselves to manual arts, George often debated with the court scholars or designed gardens with complex geometric patterns for the palace. He was intellectual and composed beauty.
Carlos, the Consort of Fire and Mystery. With an intense and penetrating gaze, a mischievous smile that hid a thousand secrets. His beauty was earthly, passionate, and magnetic. He possessed a natural confidence that filtered into every one of his fluid and sure movements. He was the boldest consort, often the first to joke with the Sultan or to playfully challenge the harem rules. His presence warmed the room, filling it with a lively energy and irresistible charisma. He was passionate and ardent beauty.
Oscar, the Consort of Golden Light. The youngest of the group, whose radiant and youthful beauty illuminated every corner. He had a natural sweetness and an innocent curiosity that won the Sultan over instantly. His light eyes shone with wonder at the palace marvels, and his laughter was as contagious as the chiming of a fountain. Though young, he possessed a quiet wisdom and an unshakable loyalty towards Max and his brother consorts. He was pure, jovial, and hopeful beauty.
Together, they formed the perfect balance for the young Sultan. In the palace's private gardens, among the scent of jasmine and the sound of water, Max found in them not only pleasure but also peace, loyalty, and a beauty that nourished his soul. Each one, with their distinctive splendor, was a fundamental pillar in the private universe of the empire's most powerful man.
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Under the golden sun of Istanbul, the gardens of the Topkapi Palace became a secret kingdom. There, among the cypress trees rising like silent guardians and the intoxicating perfume of the rose bushes, young Max, still the Crown Prince, found his true happiness.
It wasn't in fencing lessons or overwhelming state tutorials where his heart soared. It was there, running barefoot on the fresh grass, chasing and being chased by his four playmates. Charles, with his rebellious curls in the wind, always proposed games of imagination. George, even more serious as a child, tried to impose rules that always ended up being broken amidst laughter. Carlos, bold and mischievous, led them to hide from the eunuchs in the most hidden spots. And little Oscar, the newest in the group, followed Max with infinite admiration, his laughter the most contagious of all.
They were his friends. His omegas. But for Max, that word didn't carry the weight of duty or the coldness of utility. They were Charles, George, Carlos, and Oscar. Period.
However, the shadow of power was long. On more than one occasion, the imposing figure of his father, the Sultan, appeared on a balcony or at the end of a path. His face, normally an impassive marble, clouded with a frown of deep displeasure.
"Maximilian." His voice, deep like distant thunder, cut through the joy like a knife. "Stop wasting your time with those children. Don't you have studies to attend to? A sword to practice?"
Max immediately shrank. Happiness vanished, replaced by a knot of disappointment and fear in his stomach. He lowered his gaze, feeling the weight of the future on his still-small shoulders.
"Those omegas are not your companions," his father continued coldly. "They are instruments of the empire. Their only value, in the future, will be to ensure your lineage. Do not turn a simple act of procreation into friendship. That is weakness."
The word "weakness" resonated in the air, poisoning everything. Max, with a tight heart, nodded silently and walked away, dragging his feet, without looking back. The fun was over.
But always, without fail, just before he turned the corner of the path, it happened. The four omegas, ignoring the fierce presence of the Sultan, approached. They said nothing. Their words were not necessary.
Charles stood on tiptoe and left a soft kiss on his forehead, like a blessing.
George, with childish solemnity, gave him a chaste kiss on his right cheek.
Carlos, quick and furtive, stole one on the left, with a mischievous smile.
And Oscar, the little one, kissed his chin with absolute devotion.
That small, silent ceremony was their secret comfort. Those kisses, pure and innocent, knew nothing of dynastic duties or weaknesses. They were farewell kisses, of "see you tomorrow," of "we will be here."
Max then walked away, carrying on his skin the warmth of those lips and in his heart a certainty that completely contradicted his father: those moments did not make him weak. On the contrary. The love he felt for his friends, the loyalty they swore to him without words, was a secret force that no one else could understand. He hid a smile, knowing that the next day, he would find a way to escape again. To his kingdom. To his happiness. To them.
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The air in the palace study room was heavy, laden with the dust of ancient scrolls and the echo of centuries-old doctrines. Max, barely twelve years old but with a mind that already questioned the world, listened with growing disgust to the lessons of his tutor, the old vizier Murat.
"... and thus, Your Highness, your future harem will not be a place of mere pleasure, but a tool of State," declaimed Murat, adjusting his glasses. "The omegas, selected for their beauty and lineage, or captured as spoils of war, will be brought before you. It is your duty and your right. Their obligation is to obey you, serve you, and provide you with heirs. In time, respect will turn into submission, and submission, into a form of love. It is the natural order of things."
Max looked out the window, where the sunlight played with the leaves of the cypress trees. His fingers absently stroked the edge of a poetry book that George had lent him in secret.
"Love born from a chain, Vizier Murat?" asked Max, without taking his eyes off the garden. His voice was young, but it had a firmness that was surprising. "Isn't that like saying a flower grows more beautiful if it is repeatedly stepped on?"
The vizier sniffed, uncomfortable. "Highness, those are poetic terms. An omega's love for their Sultan is an honor, not a burden. It is the pinnacle of their existence."
But Max didn't believe it. He couldn't. Every time he heard those words, his mind traveled to his father's chambers. He remembered the faces of the omegas who came and went: beautiful, yes, but with empty eyes, like extinguished stars. Moving with the silent grace of ghosts, always with a hint of fear in the split second before meeting the Sultan's gaze. They were jewels in a display case, yes, but jewels that had lost their original shine.
And then, his thoughts went further back, to the figure of his own mother, an omega with a sad look who died young. He was the product of that "State tool," of that "duty." Was his parents' love just a protocol lie? The idea turned his stomach.
"I will not want a harem by force," he murmured to himself, a promise carved in his child's heart. "They can live here. They will be protected, honored, loved as friends... but no one will be forced to share my bed."
For him, love was not something that could be born from an order or confinement. Love was Charles laughing carefree among the rose bushes, it was the seriousness with which George explained the symmetry of a flower, it was the mischievous spark in Carlos's eyes and Oscar's sincere devotion.
Closing his eyes, he transported himself to a secret corner of the gardens, one only he and George knew. George, with a piece of charcoal and paper, had shown him a design for a "garden of tranquility": a place with fountains of crystal-clear water, benches hidden under flowering vines, and fruit trees to take shelter from the sun. "A place where only the wind and birds are heard, Max," George had told him, his eyes shining with a rare enthusiasm. "Without gazes, without expectations."
Max imagined that garden not just for himself, but for everyone. He visualized the palace omegas walking freely there, laughing, reading, sleeping in the shade without the weight of fear on their shoulders. Free. Not free from him, but free with him.
He opened his eyes and looked at the vizier, who was still talking about alliances and dynastic duties. Max was no longer listening. He had made a silent but unshakable decision. His reign would be different. His harem would not be a gilded cage, but a sanctuary. And his love, if it ever came, would be a gift offered freely, never an obligation taken by force.
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The Sultan's court was a nest of elegantly dressed vipers. Whispers like sharp knives followed Max through the marble hallways. "He's soft," "He lets himself be advised by his favorites," "That omega with the curls has bewitched his mind"**. The word "weak" was the most repeated, a stigma they tried to nail onto his young back.
Max heard it all. Every murmur, every disdainful glance disguised behind a bow. But his face, increasingly carved by determination, remained impassive. It wasn't weakness; it was a force of a different nature, one they were too short-sighted to understand.
The problem of the grain supplies from the northern region was thorny. The Sultan's emissaries had returned empty-handed, speaking of sullen and distrustful landowners, refusing to negotiate prices. The court, with its elderly generals and conceited viziers, only proposed force solutions: send troops to "convince them," a measure that would have ruined the harvest and sown resentment for years.
Max listened to their arguments, sitting on the throne that was still too big for him. His silence was interpreted as indecision.
But his mind was not blank. It was wandering through the gardens of his childhood, remembering an afternoon when Charles, with that serene curiosity that characterized him, explained how his own family, before serving in the palace, negotiated silk with Phoenician merchants. "It's not about who shouts the loudest, Max," he had said, plucking petals from a flower. "It's about finding the music the other wants to hear. Sometimes you have to talk about the rain before asking about the harvest."
That night, Max did not summon his generals. He secretly called Charles to his private chambers.
"I need your help," he said, without preamble. "Not mine, not the court's. Yours."
Charles, surprised but serene, listened. Max explained the problem: the stubbornness of the landowners, the arrogance of the court, the need for a solution that wasn't war.
"They only see the demand. They don't see the fear behind it," mused Charles, his green eyes lost in the flame of a lamp. "They fear the palace will take everything from them. We must offer them more than gold. We must offer them honor."
Together, among maps and cups of cold tea, they devised the strategy. Charles, with his deep knowledge of psyche and oratory, outlined the key points of a speech. It wasn't an ultimatum; it was an invitation. It spoke of shared prosperity, of loyalty that would be rewarded with privileges and public recognition, of becoming pillars of the new reign, not its victims. He taught Max the words that soften, the gestures that generate trust, the cadence that calms tempers.
The next day, Max presented himself before the court and announced that he would resolve the matter himself. The mocking glances were barely concealed.
He rode north with a small escort, not of soldiers, but of emissaries. He met with the landowners not in an audience hall, but in the field, under an old olive tree. And there, setting aside pomp, he spoke. He used the words that Charles had woven with such delicacy. He spoke of respect, of the future, of honor. He made them see that his strength was not a threat, but a guarantee of stability for them.
The deal was closed. Not only was the grain obtained at a fair price, but the landowners swore loyalty to the young Sultan who had treated them as equals.
Back at the palace, the silence was absolute. The same viziers who had labeled him weak couldn't articulate a word. The feat was undeniable. The problem that they, with all their years of experience, had not been able to solve, had been defused by a fifteen-year-old boy with kind words.
None of them, in their pride, ever imagined the truth: that the Sultan's strength did not reside in his sword, but in the silent wisdom of the omega they despised. Max did not look at the court triumphantly. Only a slight and cold satisfaction crossed his face. His path would be different, and this was the first test. He had won without spilling a drop of blood. And he had done it thanks to a love they would never understand.
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The peace of the private gardens was cracking. Max, now seventeen, felt the change in the air, as palpable as the scent of jasmine that grew heavier and sweeter at night. He was no longer just the Crown Prince who played; he was the guardian of a treasure that everyone coveted.
His father, the Sultan, had begun to look at his companions differently. Where before he only saw annoying children, now he saw omegas blooming into their fullness. His eyes, cold and calculating, rested greedily on Charles's ethereal grace, on George's impeccable beauty, on Carlos's magnetic fire, and on Oscar's radiant light. The court, a chorus of vultures, whispered in his ear: "It is time for the Prince to take his harem, or for you, Great Sultan, to claim it as spoils of war. They are too valuable to remain... friends."
Max saw it. He saw how Charles's smile became more tense when his father was near, how George clutched books to his chest like a shield, how Carlos's boldness was tinged with caution, and how Oscar's light flickered with a fear he didn't deserve.
One night, after hearing his father openly discuss with the Grand Vizier about "initiating" the omegas into their duties, Max's heart froze. No. He would not allow his father's cruelty to kill the light in their eyes. He would not turn them into empty shadows, like his mother.
The decision was swift, silent, and absolute.
Under the cloak of the new moon, when the palace slept in a false calm, Max executed his plan. With the help of a few loyal guards, whose loyalty was bought with promises of a better future and not with fear, he took the four omegas from their chambers. There was no time for explanations, only an urgent gesture of his hand and a look that said it all: Trust me.
He led them through secret passages, outside the palace walls, and to unmarked carriages waiting for them. Their destination: a small fortified castle in the hills, a forgotten crown property that Max had secretly prepared as a refuge. There, they would be safe.
Upon discovering their escape, the Sultan's fury was titanic. He roared, accused traitors, and promised a brutal hunt. But Max did not hide. He stood firm in the grand throne room, before the expectant court and his father, mad with rage and insult.
"Where are they?" shouted the Sultan, his voice echoing in the dome. "Do you dare steal my property?"
Max did not lower his gaze. His voice, young but laden with an authority he had never shown before, cut like a scimitar. "They are not property. They never were. And I did not steal them from you. I freed them from you."
The silence was sepulchral. Then, Max launched his challenge, an audacious move that only desperation and absolute conviction could inspire.
"Father, your reign is one of greed and cruelty. You have seen loyalty where there was terror and love where there was only obligation. I am no longer a child you can intimidate. I challenge you here and now. A duel for the throne. The winner takes all. The loser... retires forever."
The court held its breath. The challenge of an heir to his father was sacrilege, but it was also ancient law. The Sultan, blinded by wounded pride and underestimation of his son, laughed disdainfully. "You? A weakling who cries for his friends? I accept. I will crush you and then go get what is mine."
The duel was not with swords, but with cunning. Max, fueled by the right reason and the silent counsel of his omegas (hadn't George's strategy influenced his moves? Hadn't Charles's persuasion shaped his words?), played like someone fighting not for power, but to protect. His father, ruled by arrogance and rage, made mistake after error.
And he lost.
When Max's final move left the Sultan completely stripped of authority, the silence was more eloquent than any shout. The old Lion had been defeated by the cub he despised.
Max stood tall, looking down at his prostrate father. "I will not kill you. Death would be a rest you do not deserve. You will live with the memory of your defeat. You will live knowing that everything you built with fear, I will protect with loyalty."
He banished him to a remote palace, comfortable but isolated, a gilded cage for a hawk whose wings had been clipped.
That same night, Max Verstappen ascended the throne. There was no grand ceremony, but an expectant quiet. Everyone in the empire knew: the new Sultan would be different. His strength came not from terror, but from a fierce and protective love. And his first decree was not about taxes or wars, but about a castle in the hills and the promise of a reign where compassion would not be synonymous with weakness.
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A year had passed like a long, tense sigh for the Empire. Sultan Max, at eighteen, ruled with a firm but just hand, surprising friend and foe alike. But one question hung in the air, in every hallway whisper and every court glance: When would he take a harem?
Max's response was absolute silence. There were no selections, no presentation parties, no new omegas in his chambers. The Sultan slept alone, devoted himself to his duties with an almost monastic devotion, traveled to oversee his lands, and always, always, returned to the palace with the same impeccable composure. For the court, it was a bewildering mystery. For his four companions, it was a slow agony.
In the private wing of the palace that Max had assigned them—luxurious, comfortable, but which to them felt like a precious cell of unfulfilled expectations—Charles, George, Carlos, and Oscar gathered. The sadness, contained for months, finally overflowed.
"He doesn't want us," murmured Charles, playing absently with a thread of his silk tunic. "Or at least, not in the way we hoped. Perhaps... perhaps we were just his childhood friends and that's all we'll ever be." His green eyes, usually dreamy, were clouded with disappointment.
George, always the most logical, nodded bitterly. "It's logical. He is the Sultan now. He must think of alliances, of dynasties. We... we are a memory of a past he might prefer to forget. A closed chapter." He pressed his lips together, his perfect composure cracking with pain.
"Nonsense!" interrupted Carlos, his passion ignited by frustration. "Max isn't like that. He wouldn't have protected us from his father if he didn't care. He wouldn't come to spend the afternoon with us, to read or listen to music, if he didn't find solace here."
"But then, why doesn't he say anything?" asked Oscar, his young voice trembling. "Why hasn't he asked us? It's been a year since we escaped together. A year... and not a word about... about being his."
It was then that the seed of an absurd and desperate plan sprouted. Carlos, with his characteristic audacity, planted it:
"What if the problem isn't that he feels nothing, but that he's too... proper? Too respectful. Too Max."
He looked at them all, a spark of determination in his eyes.
"He would never force us. Never. But perhaps, just perhaps, he's waiting for a signal so obvious he can't misinterpret it. A signal that we want him, not out of obligation, but by choice."
"Are you suggesting... we seduce him?" asked George, horrified and fascinated at the same time. The idea was scandalous, contrary to all protocol.
"Exactly!" exclaimed Carlos. "But not with the vulgar tricks of the court. No. We have to be... ourselves. But a version that makes it clear to him, without a doubt, that we are not just his friends. That we bloomed for him and that we will wither if he ignores us."
The idea took shape, fueled by sadness and hope. They looked at each other, these four omegas of unique beauty, who had once feared being taken by force and were now conspiring to willingly give themselves to the most powerful man in the empire, the only one who had refused to claim them.
Charles thought of music, of a melody that wasn't innocent, but laden with promises.
George thought of poetry, of verses that spoke of desire and devotion, not of flowers and gardens.
Carlos thought of proximity, of sustained gazes and "accidental" touches that would break through the barrier of propriety.
Oscar thought of honesty, of simply telling him, with all the courage he could muster, how he loved him.
The plan was ridiculous, vulnerable, and tremendously risky. They could be exposed to ridicule, they could embarrass him, or worse, they could confirm their worst fears: that Max really only saw them as friends.
But the pain of a year of silence was greater than the fear. They set out to lay a seduction trap not for a lustful sultan, but for the principled man they loved, convinced that his propriety was the wall they had to tear down. And they would do it with the only weapons they had: their distinctive beauty and the deep love that bound them to him. The court expected a harem of conquest. They planned a voluntary surrender.
The conspiracy was underway. After their secret conference, the four omegas decided that a coordinated, individual attack would be the best strategy. Carlos, impulsive and fiery, appointed himself as the first in the line of fire. His secret weapon: a book with worn covers and spicy content that he had "borrowed" from the chambers of a French ambassador. According to the text, "The Alphas: A Guide to Unraveling Their Wild Nature," true Alphas loved foul language and double entendres. Carlos, confident, thought he had the key.
One afternoon, as Max strolled through the gardens after a long day of audiences, Carlos approached him with a mischievous smile.
"Max, this palace air is stifling. How about a horseback ride? We haven't galloped like we used to in days."
Max, who found in those rides a freedom the throne denied him, immediately agreed. "Good idea, Carlos. I need to clear my head."
They rode to the hills, away from prying eyes. Carlos was indeed an exceptional rider, agile and bold, and Max enjoyed the healthy competition, the complicity of the wind and the rhythm of the hooves. They reached a solitary clearing, bathed in the golden light of sunset. It was the moment.
Carlos dismounted and approached Max, who was still on his steed, with a smile meant to be seductive.
"You know, Max," he began, lowering his voice as the book suggested, "lately I've been practicing. I've learned to ride... other things."
Max, genuinely intrigued and his mind on horses, frowned curiously. "Oh? Did you get a new stallion? Is it faster than mine?" His tone was of pure equestrian interest.
Carlos held back a grunt of frustration. The book hadn't anticipated such absolute literalness. He decided to move to direct action. With a quick and surprising movement, he lunged at Max, who was still dismounting, and they both fell onto the soft grass.
"Carlos! What...?" Max's protest was cut off when Carlos settled on top of him, wrapping his legs around him. He began to move, rubbing his body against Max's with an intention that couldn't be clearer.
"This is what I mean, my Sultan," whispered Carlos near his ear, trying to sound provocative. "Wouldn't you like to... gallop with me?"
But Max's reaction was not what Carlos expected. There was no growl of alpha possession, no fiery response. Instead, Max's face flooded with a scarlet blush so intense it seemed to spread to the tips of his ears. His blue eyes widened like saucers, with a mixture of shock, absolute confusion, and paralyzing embarrassment. The contrast between Carlos's sensual audacity and the almost virginal purity of Max's reaction was so abrupt that the young Sultan's nervous system, overwhelmed by an emotion he wasn't prepared for, simply... shut down.
His eyelids closed and his body relaxed completely, fainted under Carlos's weight.
Carlos remained motionless, on top of him, looking at Max's now peaceful and unconscious face. Frustration, worry, and exasperated affection fought within him. He sighed deeply, moving away.
"Max, you idiot..." he murmured, with a tone of deep defeat and affection. "Your 'propriety' is going to be the death of me."
His alpha seduction plan had been a resounding and catastrophic failure. Not only had he not achieved his goal, but he had left his intended unconscious in the middle of the field. With a sigh of resignation, Carlos settled next to Max to wait for him to wake up, wondering how on earth he was going to explain this to the others.
Carlos's failure had cast a shadow of doubt and shame in the private wing, but Charles, with his unshakable faith in elegance and art, was convinced his approach would be the right one. Where Carlos had used fire, he would use melody.
"Max," Charles said a few days later, finding him reviewing maps in the library, "I've been practicing a new composition for the lyre. It's... special. I'd like to play it for you first, in private. To get your opinion."
Max, who always found peace in Charles's music, accepted with a genuine smile. "I'd love that, Charles. I need a moment of calm."
The rendezvous was in the music room, an intimate chamber with velvet cushions and tapestried walls. Charles, dressed in a green silk tunic that highlighted his eyes, took the lyre with ethereal grace. He began to play, and the notes flowed like crystal water, enveloping Max in a quiet happiness.
When the last note faded, Max clapped softly. "It's beautiful, Charles. Truly."
"Thank you," murmured Charles, looking down with calculated shyness. Then, his moment came. "You know? It's good for a Sultan to know more than the sword. To know how to handle other things with his fingers... Would you like to try?"
The proposal was innocent on the surface. Max, always curious and eager to learn, nodded enthusiastically. "Of course! But I don't want to break it."
"You won't. Come," said Charles, gesturing. "Stand behind me. I'll guide you."
Max positioned himself behind him, wrapping his arms around Charles to reach the lyre. Charles settled, pressing his back against Max's chest with a barely audible sigh meant to be one of concentration.
"Now, place your fingers here..." Charles took Max's hands, guiding them with deliberate softness towards the strings. His voice was a whisper close to Max's ear. "Yes, right there... Press gently..."
Initially, Max was focused, trying to follow the instructions. But then, Charles began the crucial movement. While guiding Max's fingers, he started to sway his hips with a sensual slowness, pushing himself back against the Sultan's body with each pretended note.
The contrast was brutal. The innocence of the music lesson collided head-on with the palpable, physical intention of the movement. Max could feel Charles's warmth, the curve of his body, the suggestive rhythm that had nothing to do with the melody.
A sudden shudder ran down Max's back. His concentration shattered like glass. The familiar sensation of burning blush rose up his neck and face at an alarming speed. His mind, unable to process the thin line between the platonic and the sensual, overheated.
"Ch-Charles... I..." he stammered, but the words choked.
With a clumsy and sudden movement, Max pulled away sharply, as if he had touched a hot coal. He took a step back, staggering, his face a spectacle of pure panic and virginal shame. He looked at Charles, whose expression was a mix of expectation and anxiety, and then at the floor, as if searching for an answer in the carpet patterns.
"I think... I think I got dizzy," he managed to stammer, before his eyes rolled back and his body, once again, yielded to the overwhelming shock. He fell heavily onto the cushions, completely unconscious.
Charles was left holding the lyre, the notes dying in the air. He looked at Max's fainted body, then at his own hands, and a sound between a groan and a sigh of exasperation escaped his lips.
"Oh, for heaven's sake..." he murmured to himself, carefully setting the instrument aside. "Really? Again, just like with Carlos?"
His plan of subtle and artistic seduction had ended exactly the same catastrophic way as Carlos's. He knelt beside Max, stroking his hair with a gesture of affection and deep frustration. It was clear that their Sultan's "propriety" was an impregnable fortress... and they kept crashing against its walls.
The pressure on George was unbearable. Carlos's failure, followed by Charles's disaster, had created an atmosphere of silent desperation in the private wing. Oscar watched them with wide eyes, still too innocent to understand the depth of the fiasco, but smart enough to know something was terribly wrong.
George, the logical one, the strategist, felt personally challenged. If Carlos with his fire and Charles with his subtlety had failed, the problem wasn't the method, it was the execution. A perfect plan was needed, one that appealed to Max's methodical mind before his easily overwhelmed senses. And if Oscar, the youngest and most inexperienced, succeeded where they had not... the humiliation would be historic.
So George devised his master strategy: seduction through instructions.
"Max," he met him in the corridor, a wooden tablet in his hands, "I've been developing a new choreography for a ceremonial dance. It's... complex. I need someone to read the instructions aloud while I execute it, to ensure the sequence. Could you help me? Your voice is clear and your diction, perfect."
It was the perfect trap. It appealed to Max's sense of duty, his love for order, and above all, his trust in George's intelligence. Max, always willing to help, immediately agreed. "Of course, George. I find it fascinating."
The rendezvous was in a large, private hall, with mirrors on the walls and polished marble floors. George had prepared meticulously. He wore a tunic of sky-blue gauze, much lighter and more translucent than he would normally wear, which moved with every one of his breaths. He felt terribly exposed and nervous, but determination was stronger.
Max arrived, took the "instruction manual" (a parchment George had written with impeccable handwriting), and stood in the center of the room, confident.
"I'm always impressed by your meticulousness, George," Max commented with a smile, unrolling the parchment.
George nodded, holding his breath. "Let's begin, please."
Max began to read aloud, in his clear, formal Sultan tone:
"Step one: three slow turns on the axis, with arms extended."
George obeyed, moving with studied grace, the gauze floating around him.
"Step two: two steps forward, paused, gaze to the horizon."
George advanced, feeling the cloth cling to his body with the movement.
Max kept reading, completely absorbed in his narrator task. "Step three: a lateral step to the left, then to the right, ending facing... facing..." Max's voice faltered for the first time. The next line said: ...ending facing the person watching you, whom you wish to honor.
George stopped, right in front of Max. His heart was pounding. This was the moment.
Max, recovering, read the next instruction, his voice a bit tighter:
"Step four: raise your arms and gently encircle the person's neck."
George, with a blush burning his cheeks, raised his arms and encircled Max's neck with a trembling delicacy. His fingers closed on the nape of his Sultan's neck.
Max was petrified. He looked at the parchment, then at George, whose impeccable beauty was now inches from his face, his warm breath on his skin. He swallowed hard. Only one line remained.
"Step... final step," Max read, his voice now little more than a hoarse whisper. "You... you lean in and place a chaste kiss on the person's lips, as... as a sign of devotion and surrender."
George didn't wait. He couldn't. With eyes closed, he leaned in and pressed his lips against Max's with absolute softness, a kiss that was as chaste as it was passionately sincere.
It was the final nail in the coffin of Max's composure.
The contact, the intimacy, the overwhelming reality of what was happening—the most logical and contained person in the palace following an instruction to kiss him—was too much. A wave of incendiary heat engulfed him. A choked sound escaped his throat.
His eyes opened wide, he saw George's face pressed against his, and then... darkness.
The parchment fell to the floor with a soft rustle. Max's legs gave way and he collapsed backward, fainted for the third time, leaving George with lips still warm from the kiss and arms now embracing emptiness.
George stood there, looking at his Sultan's unconscious body, then at the parchment on the floor. A deep, tremendous, exasperated sigh escaped his chest.
"This is ridiculous," he declared aloud to the empty room, his perfect logic shattered by the overwhelming and pure innocence of the man they loved. "Absolutely ridiculous."
The weight of collective failure was a heavy blanket on the shoulders of the three older omegas. Carlos, George, and Charles watched, with a mixture of worry and hopelessness, as Oscar, the youngest and quietest, prepared for his attempt. For them, it was the last card. If Oscar failed, it would mean that Max truly did not desire them.
But Oscar did not see his turn as a competition. He saw it as a necessity. His plan was not based on spicy books, musical subtleties, or logical choreographies. It was based on a simple truth: Max was kind to him. He always had been. Where the others saw a Sultan, Oscar saw the young man who had patiently taught him to speak more confidently, who listened to his stammering without hurry, and who never, ever, pressured him.
His idea was simple: be themselves. A picnic by the river that snaked near the palace, a quiet place full of memories of a simpler childhood.
Max accepted the invitation with palpable relief. After the intense and strange interactions with the other three, Oscar's silent calm was a balm. They ate sweet fruits and fresh bread under the shade of a weeping willow, in a comfortable silence that only the two of them knew how to share.
"The water looks cool," murmured Oscar, pointing to the river. It was one of the longest sentences he'd said in days. "Would you... would you like to bathe? Just to cool off."
Max hesitated. It was unbecoming of a Sultan. But he saw the genuine hope in Oscar's light eyes, a look that asked for nothing more than company. "Yes, but... we'll watch each other. We won't take everything off," he agreed, setting a limit that seemed reasonable to him.
Oscar nodded, a small smile appearing on his lips. He began to undress first, with a naturalness that disarmed Max. When it was Max's turn, his fingers trembled as he unfastened the belt of his tunic. Oscar, noticing his nervousness, approached.
"Let me help you," he offered, his voice a soft whisper. His fingers brushed Max's hands, and he began to slowly undo the clasps. The touch was innocent, but the proximity, the shared intimacy, made Max's heart pound in his chest.
Once in the water, the initial tension eased. They laughed, splashed each other, and for a moment, they were just Max and Oscar again. But then, Oscar decided to be brave. He swam closer to Max, who was leaning against a smooth rock, letting the current caress him.
"Max?" Oscar called, his voice barely audible over the murmur of the water.
Max turned to him, a relaxed smile on his face. "Yes, Oscar?"
And then, Oscar did it. He leaned in and pressed his lips against Max's in a soft, quick, and slightly clumsy kiss. It was the kiss of a boy giving his heart for the first time, full of devotion and a hint of fear.
The effect was instantaneous and devastating.
Max's eyes widened in shock. The blush, that familiar and treacherous enemy, flooded his face with a speed that was almost comical. His mind, which had managed to hold on during the bath, completely short-circuited with the innocent but direct contact of Oscar's lips.
"O-Oscar... I..." he stammered, his voice failing.
His body stiffened, his eyes rolled back, and for the fourth and final time, Max Verstappen, the powerful Sultan of the Ottoman Empire, fainted and sank into the river's clear water.
Oscar, terrified, screamed and grabbed him before the current could carry him away. He dragged him to the shore, crying and calling his name, convinced he had killed the man he loved.
The three older omegas, who had been secretly watching from the bushes, rushed out in a panic. Together, they pulled the unconscious Max onto the grass, patting his cheeks and calling his name desperately.
The four seduction plans had ended in the same catastrophic way: with their Sultan unconscious and their hearts shattered by failure and worry. They looked at each other over Max's inert body, and in that shared gaze, they knew they had to face the truth. Their strategy had been a complete and utter failure.
The silence in the private chambers was thick, heavy with the scent of incense and the bitter taste of failure. Max lay on a divan, still unconscious but breathing steadily, while his four omegas watched over him with expressions ranging from concern to utter frustration.
Carlos broke the silence first, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. "This is madness. We've tried everything. Fire, subtlety, logic, innocence... and the result is always the same." He pointed a dramatic finger at the sleeping Sultan. "He faints. He literally faints at the slightest hint of... of that!"
George, arms crossed, nodded with a grimace. "My hypothesis was wrong. It's not that he's too proper. It's something else. Something deeper."
"Maybe... maybe he really doesn't want us," murmured Charles, his voice laced with a sadness that seemed to physically weigh him down. "Maybe our presence is just a comfort to him, a memory of a time without... complications."
Oscar, who was sitting on the edge of the divan gently stroking Max's hand, shook his head. "No," he said, his voice firmer than usual. "He cares. I know he does. But it's like... like he's afraid."
"Afraid? Of what?" asked Carlos, skeptical. "He's the Sultan. He's faced armies and challenged his own father. What could he possibly be afraid of?"
"Of us," whispered George, his eyes widening as the realization dawned on him. "Not of us as people, but of... what we represent. Of crossing that line. Of becoming his father."
The words hung in the air, stark and revealing. They all remembered the old Sultan's cold words, his view of omegas as instruments, the emptiness in his mother's eyes that Max had confided in them about one distant night.
"He spent his entire childhood and youth fighting not to be that," Charles continued, understanding painting his features. "He protected us from that fate. And now... now he might see any advance as a step towards becoming the very thing he hates."
"So our attempts at seduction..." Carlos began, a look of dawning horror on his face.
"...weren't an invitation to love," George finished for him. "They were a reminder of the role he never wanted to play. The role of a taker. A conqueror. We were asking him to be the Alpha of the stories, and that's exactly what he's terrified of being."
The truth was a cold bucket of water. They had been so focused on their own desire, on their own fear of rejection, that they had completely misread Max's actions. His "propriety" wasn't a lack of interest; it was a fortress of principles. His fainting spells weren't rejection; they were the physical manifestation of a profound internal conflict between his desire and his deepest fears.
"We've been idiots," Carlos declared, sinking into a chair. "Absolute, colossal idiots."
"So what do we do now?" asked Oscar, his voice small. "If we can't seduce him... how do we let him know it's okay? That we want this? That he wouldn't be forcing us?"
The question hung in the air. The old strategies were ashes. They needed a new approach. One that came not from a place of seduction, but from one of absolute vulnerability and honesty.
It was Charles who spoke, his voice soft but filled with a new determination. "We stop playing games. We stop trying to be what we think an Alpha wants. We just... talk to him. We tell him the truth. All of it. Our fears, our feelings, our choice."
"Just like that?" asked George, one eyebrow raised. The idea went against all his strategic training.
"Just like that," Charles affirmed. "No tricks. No books. No choreographies. Just us. And him. And the truth."
They looked at each other, a silent pact forming between them. It was terrifying. It left them completely exposed. But it was the only way left. They would confront their Sultan not as seducers, but as the men who loved him. And they would pray that their truth would be enough to break down the walls fear had built around his heart.
Max awoke with a throbbing headache and the vague, embarrassing memory of cool water and Oscar's terrified face. He groaned, sitting up on the divan. The four of them were there, watching him with unreadable expressions. Shame washed over him, hot and intense.
"I... I'm sorry," he stammered, avoiding their eyes. "I don't know what's wrong with me lately. The stress of the throne, perhaps... I..." He was rambling, desperate to find an excuse for his humiliating fainting spells.
"Max," Charles interrupted him softly, but firmly. "Stop."
Max fell silent, finally looking at them. He saw no mockery in their faces, no frustration. Instead, he saw a deep seriousness, a resolve that made his heart clench with a new kind of fear.
"We need to talk," George said, his voice calm and measured. "And you need to listen. Without fainting." The last part was said with a hint of their old complicity, which only made the situation more surreal.
Max nodded slowly, bracing himself for a reprimand, for them to tell him they were tired of his strange behavior and wanted to leave the palace.
Carlos was the one who took a step forward. "Max, we've been idiots. We thought... we thought you didn't want us. That you saw us as friends, as little brothers, and nothing more. And we were scared. So we tried... well, you know what we tried." A faint blush colored his cheeks. "And it was a disaster. Because we were wrong."
"Wrong about what?" Max asked, confused.
"About you," Oscar said, his voice gaining strength. "We thought you needed to be... seduced. Conquered. Like an Alpha in a story. But that's not you. And that's not what we want."
Max's brow furrowed. "I don't understand."
"Your father," Charles said, and the name alone made Max stiffen. "We know what he said. We know what he believed omegas were for. We know you fought your whole life not to be like him."
George picked up the thread. "And we think... we think that when we tried to seduce you, you didn't see us offering ourselves. You saw us demanding that you become the very thing you despise. A taker. A user. You saw your father's shadow in our actions, and it terrified you."
The accuracy of the statement hit Max like a physical blow. He looked down at his hands, his throat tight. They had seen right through him, to the deepest, most hidden fear he carried.
"I would never..." he whispered, his voice choked with emotion. "I could never see you as he did. As objects. As property. You are... you are everything to me. But the idea of... of claiming you, of possessing you... it feels like betraying everything I promised myself I would be. It feels like becoming him."
The confession, raw and honest, hung in the air. The dam had broken.
"You idiot," Carlos said, but his voice was thick with affection, not anger. He knelt before Max. "We don't want to be 'claimed' or 'possessed.' We want to be chosen. And we want to choose you back."
"We're not your father's spoils of war, Max," Charles added, sitting beside him. "We're the boys you played with in the garden. The ones you protected. The ones you risked your throne for. We love you. Not the Sultan. You."
"And love isn't taking," George stated, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. "It's sharing. It's building. It's a choice, made every day. We choose you, Max. Voluntarily. Freely. The question is... will you choose us? Not as a duty, but as a desire?"
Oscar simply took Max's hand and placed it over his own heart, which was beating rapidly. "We're already yours," he whispered. "We have been since we were children. You just have to let yourself have us."
Max looked at them, one by one: at Carlos's passionate intensity, at Charles's ethereal grace, at George's logical devotion, at Oscar's pure light. He saw the love in their eyes, not as a demand, but as an offering. The fear that had gripped him for so long began to melt under the warmth of that truth. They weren't asking him to be a predator. They were asking him to be their partner. Their equal. Their lover.
A tear traced a path down his cheek, followed by another. It was not a faint of overwhelm, but a release of a weight he had carried for a lifetime.
"All this time..." he murmured, his voice shaking. "I was so afraid of losing you by wanting you too much... that I almost lost you by not wanting you at all."
He reached out, his hands finding theirs, weaving their fingers together. A circle of five, finally united not by childhood friendship or political necessity, but by a truth that had finally been spoken.
"I choose you," Max said, his voice firm now, filled with a certainty that erased all doubt. "All of you. Not because I have to. Because I want to. More than anything in this world."
The relief that washed over them was palpable. Smiles broke through the seriousness, tears were shed, and for a long moment, they simply held each other, basking in the newfound understanding.
The seduction was over. The conversation had begun. And for the first time, their future together felt not like a duty or a dream, but like a promise about to be fulfilled.
The tension that had held the private wing of the palace in its grip for over a year finally dissolved, replaced by a new, profound understanding. The air itself seemed lighter, easier to breathe. The five of them—Max and his four omegas—remained seated together on the large divans, their hands still intertwined, as if afraid that breaking the physical connection might break the newfound peace.
Max was the first to break the comfortable silence, a slight, embarrassed smile touching his lips. "So... all those times... the fainting..." He shook his head, a faint blush returning to his cheeks. "I suppose I owe you an apology for that. It was... not very Sultan-like."
Carlos burst out laughing, a genuine, relieved sound. "Not very Sultan-like? Max, you looked like a virgin maiden confronted with her first suitor! It was almost impressive."
"Carlos!" Charles scolded, but he was laughing too, a soft, musical sound.
"It's true!" Carlos insisted, grinning. "We went from trying to seduce the most powerful man in the empire to having to make sure he didn't hurt himself fainting. Our plans were a catastrophe."
"My plan was logically sound," George argued, though there was no real heat in it. "It was the execution that encountered an... unforeseen variable." He glanced at Max, who looked suitably chastised.
"Your 'variable' has a name, and it's a crippling fear of turning into his tyrannical father," Charles said gently, squeezing Max's hand.
"A fear you all just miraculously cured," Max said, his voice filled with wonder. He looked at them, his gaze soft. "You have no idea what it means to me. To be seen. To be understood... even in my foolishness."
"It's not foolishness," Oscar said quietly. "It's who you are. And we love who you are."
The simple statement settled over them like a blessing.
"So," Max began, a new, tentative curiosity in his eyes. This was uncharted territory for all of them. "Now that we've... talked. And chosen. What happens next?"
The question hung in the air. The 'what next' was a vast, unknown landscape. They had spent so long focused on the obstacle of getting to this point that they hadn't dared plan what came after.
It was George, ever the strategist, who spoke first, though his usual composure was softened by a rare vulnerability. "Well, traditionally, the next step would be... consummation." He cleared his throat. "But given the... reactivity of certain parties," he shot a look at Max, who blushed again, "perhaps we should proceed with caution."
"Caution?" Carlos echoed, a playful glint returning to his eyes. "After a year of waiting? I think we've been cautious enough."
"Carlos has a point," Charles said diplomatically. "But so does George. We don't want to... overwhelm anyone." His gaze drifted meaningfully toward Max.
Max took a deep breath. This was a challenge he needed to face head-on. He was their Alpha, their Sultan, and the man they loved. It was time to lead.
"No," he said, his voice gaining strength. "No more caution. Not from fear." He looked at each of them, his blue eyes clear and determined. "I want this. I want you. All of you. But... I need you to be patient with me. I may not... I may not know exactly what I'm doing."
The admission was endearing, and it broke the last of the tension.
"We can be patient," Charles assured him.
"And we can guide you," George added, a hint of a smile on his lips. "If you'll allow it."
"I think I'd like that," Max admitted, a genuine smile finally spreading across his face.
"Good," Carlos said, standing up and offering a hand to Max. "Then let's stop talking about it and start... figuring it out. Together."
Max took his hand, and then offered his other to Oscar, who took it with a radiant smile. Charles and George stood, completing the circle.
Together, they left the sitting room, not as a Sultan and his consorts, not as childhood friends, but as five hearts finally beating in sync, walking towards a future they would build together, one trusting step at a time. The seduction was over. The love story was just beginning.