deegeeak

It had been years since either of them had last seen Francis's home. During the war, he'd lived where Gilbert had said to, and before that, Francis had always been found close to his government, and before that, living with his royal family. It had always been an apartment or suite or whatever the people in power deemed appropriate for their country to live in, and always kept to the fashion of the time. After the war, during the reconstruction of most of France, Francis had purchased a small cottage like house in a small, breathtaking suburb of Paris, unbeknownst to his government. The small garden overflowed with freshly blooming flowers and a sitting room that should have gone out of style a century ago but somehow still manages to look classy. Despite the ball of nerves attempting to knot itself up in Matthew's stomach, he can’t help but notice the way it feels so right for Francis compared to the other places he'd lived, as they drive up and they enter the house. Luggage went upstairs into a cozy guest room, and if he didn't mistake his own eyes, that was Alfred's work laying across the bed in a carefully crafted quilt, and in the polished wooden bed frame, and then it is down to business as they start finalizing what is shaping up to be one of the most elaborate battle plans he has even been a part of.

Before they start, however, Francis uncorks a bottle of fine red wine for them to drink. As they sit, sipping wine in the sunlit sitting room, they finally come to the point they have all been carefully avoiding. It is Francis with his newly developed determination to at least try to make this relationship work, who lobs the opening salvo. “You realize, I hope, what my involvement will mean to Scorcha and the others? We have to be careful not to let them think there is more going on than what actually is.”

Gilbert, more confident but still hesitant around Francis, doesn’t say anything, just winces, but Matthew refuses to let the comment slide. “I doubt they could construe anything other than the truth Francis. This isn’t just about sex. We are in a relationship, and I want them to realize that.” His eyes are hard, and it sends a visible shiver down Francis’ spine to see it, to know that that feeling is for him, and that he is free to return it. “Tell us about Madeline.”

“She's old school,” the older man finally said. Next to him, sprawled across a well loved chair, Gilbert frowned at that. “She is very, what is the term, conservative in her dealings with non-dominants. Sorcha is I believe, attempting to bring the National House of France back to it's glory days. Such an excellent goal, in my opinion.”

Gilbert tossed a piece of paper towards Francis, “So she's basically a bitch.” Francis threw the crumpled piece of paper back at him.

“But my dear, she wears bitch as well as she does the finest fashions.”

Matthew rolled his eyes at both of them before asking, “Is anyone else even mildly concerned she's going to try to pull something?” He was concerned, and rightly so. His mentor had even gone so far as to warn him that the House Head had been visibly angry when she'd found out and to watch what he did. Marcus Le Bronte was a man not inclined to worry or gossip – if he felt the need to pass a warning on to one of his 'children' then it was worth taking seriously. Across the room Francis raised one blond eyebrow and exchanged a look with Gilbert. “What?”

Gilbert shrugged. “Back in the day, we'd make the bitch eat her leather's.”

Mouthing the words to himself, Matthew glanced over at Francis for an explanation. “He means, if Sorcha is going to use tradition to suit herself, then the response would be to follow it so exactly as to make her lose face if she were to try something.”

“So what, haul him in on a leash,” he frowned. “I don't like what that says.”

Another look was passed, this one, something he wasn't sure about. “No.” Gilbert put down his wine and leaned forwards. “No, it's more of, she pushes you on something, like making me do something, and then you out-do it.”

He looked earnest, Matthew decided to himself, and Francis was nodding in agreement. “What you're saying, is you want me to push you both down, tie you up and make you two unable to walk for a week, basically make everyone insane that they can't even get near you and use her rules to do it.”

Francis smiled a shark's smile as Gilbert laughed. “Oui.”

In the morning, The Bitch is there to greet them when they strolled in, and Gilbert cannot quite keep his head down as she and Matthew exchange stiff pleasantries as per tradition. Sorcha Madilene is a a lovely woman to look at, he'll admit to anyone, it's her personality that could use some work. She's effortlessly always in style, wearing the stylized collection of keys on her hip like she was born to. Her brown hair gleams under the morning sunlight and not a strand dares disobey her. However, Sorcha stands in the way of entering the closed campus of the Paris branch, and Gilbert knows that even if Matthew hadn't gone with the plan of making her eat her cherished traditions, she would make them follow the formalized greetings. Her dark gray eyes are unfriendly and hard, making what would have been a pleasant face unnecessarily cold and unfeeling.

“I present Gilbert Beilshimidt as my collared submissive, and request entry to gain my mentor's approval,” Matthew says blandly, eyes focused on her set posture. She is acting as the gate-keeper, he knows, as she lifts one plucked eyebrow and stares at them like someone might study a bug that has inadvertently dared to come into sight, but doesn't know to leave her sight.

Just as he's about to shift his weight and snarl at her, he knows this game, has played it and doesn't like that she dares do this to them, Sorcha Madilene finally speaks. “If he is as true as you claim, then you would have no need of gaining anyone's approval but your own.”

Gilbert can feel the suppressed twitch in Matthew's body. “I request it still, as I would honor my Gilbert.”

She shrugs, deliberately casually flinging her hair back as if she could care less, “Then so be it,” and moves aside, letting them inside the halls. Defiantly, for he is still Prussia no matter what people may say, he meets her eyes. He meets her eyes and in the end she's the one who looks away first to as she directs Matthew to the small room off the exhibition stages where they'll wait until it's their time. It's a close thing though, his knees tremble and it takes everything he can to not kneel. He kneels for one person, and it's by his own choice, and that person is Matthew Williams. She looks away and he breathes in relief.

It’s never easy for him to submit at first. It’s always a fight at first for him, even in private, and that’s why it starts the way it does, formalized and carefully designed to bring him to a state where he doesn't feel the need to push as hard as he might have given the circumstances.

Matthew is sitting in the chair placed ever so carefully on the stage. It’s a raised floor, with walls all around but one side, but it’s a stage no matter what they call it. It may smell of woodsmoke and maples, but it’s not the safety, the privacy, of home. Gilbert can feel the tension in every line of his body as he stands before his Dom, ready for fight or flight despite his promise to be good, to be Matthew’s good boy here tonight. Francis is kneeling next to the chair, uncollared but obviously subservient to Matthew. Matthew, who’s holding a glass of something in one hand and quietly petting Francis's hair with the other. Gilbert still feels a little burn at not being the one getting stroked, or being allowed to curl next to Matthew, but he's learning to handle it. It helps when both of them glance at him and he sees the start of the fire in not just Matthew's eyes, but also Francis's.

They’re watching him, ignoring the careful words being spoken, the way that the Bitch has to acknowledge this as being an honest and truthful exhibit. The two most important people in his life are ignoring everyone to watch him.

Just him.

Their audience and The Bitch (who must be beside herself in fury) become secondary, unimportant, under the weight of those looks.

They're just watching him and they want him.

Battered, scarred, not always sane, but they want him all the same.

A still warmth starts to kindle inside him in place of the chilly want to push and shove.

“Strip.” The order is issued softly, but is still heard over the whispers and movements of the audience. Matthew gently pats Francis’s shoulder and he watches the French nation rise up gracefully and move towards the bench containing all the tools Matthew brought. “Slowly.”

Gilbert’s fingers are almost numb with anxiety, but somehow he forces himself to undo each button. He drops the shirt where he’s at, then works at getting his jeans off. He’s already bare foot, and then he’s naked. He stands there at parade rest (say what you like, Gilbert will do his militaristic best in everything he does and is damn proud of it), eyes trained on Matthew. Matthew will hold him safe, will not let anything happen that he doesn’t want or ask for.

“Good.”

The stillness inside him grows with the compliment and he grows warm with the pleasure of being praised.

“Put these on.” These are the cuffs he loves so much at their home, in private. Buttery soft deer hide and solid steel, he’s been in these more times than he can count. It’s comforting to have them on, to feel the familiar weight. He stops paying any sort of attention to the audience and starts watching Matthew. Cuffs means play, and not the harsher play, but the gentler (for them) sort that leaves him preening in response to the praises and comfort Matthew gives him. “Good, good. Be good for me, my own.”

He's being asked to bring himself down, to submit of his own will to Matthew, and really that's quite alright by him right now. He can see the pleasure in Matthew's eyes, and see the love in Francis's, and it all relaxes him.

Gilbert kisses the whip in Matthew’s hand. It’s not the type of kiss anyone thought he could give, but here he is, desperately trying to pour out his thanks in the one way Matthew wants him to right now. He presses his lips to it gently. In a moment, this is going to be hitting his skin, sending him flying and he needs to let Matthew know how thankful he is for trying to make this as good for him as he's going to.

“Breathe in and count for me.”

He can hear Francis suck in a breath as Matthew steps back and lets the whip crack once in the air. Briefly he remembers how Francis loved the sound of leather cracking in the air - and then it’s on him. Sharp and bright it goes up his back and sets him to shivering in his cuffs. Warmth, the sort of insidious warmth that only comes from pain, starts to ooze out from where the whip snapped over his back. He feels it hit again, before he hears it. More warmth, more and more of it.

He wants more. His sphere of consciousness contracts down to the three of them on the stage. Matthew wielding the whip like it was part of his body, an extension of his arm. Francis kneeling by the table where Matthew’s kit is laid out. He’s aware Matthew is aroused by him; he twists silently in the air to show off for him a bit more. Francis is fighting back his own arousal, eyes wide and breath coming faster and faster with every blow. Distantly he’s aware as the last blow hits that he’s gasping out the numbers out loud, wanting for more of it, arching into it, loving the feel of warmth slicing across him.

This isn't even remotely hard play by their standards, or even standards of any of the Pleasure Houses –the lashes are next to nothing. But, Matthew’s hand runs down his back, checking the areas he hit. Not so much as even a cut on his skin, just pinked skin and Gilbert whines shrilly at the feel of the leather gloves wanting the feel of skin on skin. Matthew kisses his shoulder and moves back, neatly avoiding Gilbert’s jerked movement backwards. Gilbert had meant for skin contact – skin contact meant more and he wanted as much as possible.

The whip is held up to his lips one more time and this time, he leans into it. If anyone thought he’d given it his all before, then they were sorely mistaken. He licks it, mouths at it, imagines that the smooth leather was his Matthew and he's giving thanks for everything. He imagines it's Francis finally in his mouth and leans into it.

“I don’t mean to give it a blow job.” Matthew’s voice is amused as he pulls the whip away. A small round rubber ball is pressed into his mouth, but not fastened. Matthew wants him to stay gagged of his own volition then. He starts to shake in anticipation of what that means. Matthew likes to hear the responses to what he's doing, so he rarely uses a gag. When he does, it's for a purpose. When they planned this out, working out the kinks of the plan, Matthew asked for his opinion if he thought he could tolerate being gagged. He didn't want to share more of Gilbert then he had to, and he's allowed to be possessive of the noises Gilbert will be making.

He’s not disappointed at all that Matthew feels possessive of him and Francis.

Matthew releases his wrist cuffs from the hook and guides him down to his knees, carefully. Once there, he’s guided to a position, back ramrod straight.

“Not a sound,” he’s warned as he hears Francis come closer. Hot, bright, the pain of it almost explodes from his chest. Clamps. It has to be clamps he thinks hysterically, forcing the noise he wants to make to stay tamped down in his throat. The pain lessens and the warm pleasure starts to burn in his stomach. Gilbert is dimly aware he's biting down on the gag to keep it in his mouth. Don't drop it, is all he can think. Matthew gave this to him to hold and by god, he will. There's a tug and that must be a chain, connecting the clamps and then up to his collar.

“Open your eyes,” Matthew whispers to him, one hand stroking his stomach. “Let me see your eyes.” Gilbert snaps his eyes open, startled that he'd even closed them in the first place. It's not like him to close his eyes when they're having a scene. He smiles around the ball at Matthew's eyes and Francis's concern from where he's kneeling next to the thick chair. A shiver passes through him as Matthew keeps him facing Francis.

Relief pools in his gut. Francis is staring back at him, eyes dilated and a deep blue. He can see the outline of arousal in his soft trousers, and read it in the quick panting breaths. “He wants you too,” Matthew murmurers. “Remember how he drank you down like a fine wine?”

Oh he does. He remembers how it went, Matthew muttering orders to Francis as Gilbert twisted in bed, directing Francis lower, lower until warm, wet, heat opened around him and took him in. He remembers begging, pleading for more, as that well-loved mouth tortured him with how damn good it felt to be there. He remembers looking down and seeing Matthew watching them, urging them on and praising every moan and groan with a stroke, a pet, a pinch. He also remembers how Matthew stretched it out, made them both wait for what seemed like hours before finally letting them come. Gilbert groans out-loud and moves back into Matthew's body. “You're going to return the favor, Gil.”

Oh thank the lord, he thinks. Francis is fumbling, usually deft and quick fingers slow and unsteady as he tries to get his pants unfastened as fast as possible in response to Matthew's soft order. And then he's crawling towards Francis, feeling the sway and tug of the chains on his chest. He quirks an eye briefly at Francis – who nods – and then drops the ball into Matthew's waiting hand. “Go on.”

So he does. He licks first, wanting to wet Francis as much as possible. The french nation's hands are clenching on his thighs, fighting not to grab his hair and hold on. Gilbert can distantly hear Matthew talking to Francis, telling him things. Telling him how deep Gilbert's going to take him, how wet he is, how later after he's cum and cum and thinks he can't, how Matthew's going to lower him onto Gilbert and make him ride until he's boneless, but first, he's going to cum in Gilbert's mouth, and then he's going to watch Matthew take Gilbert apart at the seams and if he's lucky then he might get a second orgasm, but he'll have to be good and convince Matthew he's deserved it.

He starts taking Francis deeper, timing it with the strokes he knows Matthew's giving Francis's insides, and for a moment, loses his sense of time. It's all heat and skin and it's so good. He can feel the groans coming bone deep from Francis, who's twisting, trying to take it all in, as much as possible. Back and forth they go, Gilbert's feeling almost high, as he's lapping and sucking, and above him Francis is keening, hips twisting into his mouth, Matthew's hand, but never once ever holding on to Gilbert's hair.

“Please!”

“You only get one, do you want to use your one now?” Matthew asks Francis. Francis just nods and keeps pleading.

Gilbert groans at the sound of Francis pleading, and the keening gets higher, a counter part to Matthew's constant words. They could go on like this for hours, teasing and taunting, but then Francis starts to shake, his thigh muscles jerking, so he swallows hard, and senses Matthew push just as hard and then the lovely nation trapped between them twitching madly, in time with the pulse in his chest. He can hear the barely verbal noises bubbling up out of Francis. Oh it's glorious to him.

“Let us see.” It's said in response to a gasped question he didn't even hear being asked, but suddenly Francis is trying to curl up, a groan reverberating in his chest. Because it's only polite, and Gilbert is being good, he swallows, and licks his lips. When he looked back up towards the pair who saved him, Francis collapsed back onto Matthew, pupils blown out and gasping for air.

“Good boy, good.” Gilbert ignores the ache, and desire, to meet Matthew's eyes. The love and happiness reflecting back at him makes his breath catch for a moment. Then the moment is gone, and Matthew is moving. Francis gets settled in the chair, Matthew carefully wrapping the edges of the blanket around him. They both gets cold sometimes after a scene, Gilbert knows, and it's a comfort to see Matthew, always so comfortable around cold weather, tend to their need for warmer temperatures.

Francis settled – he'll watch the rest of it, indulging in his recently developed love of voyeurism, which is okay by Gilbert. It's something new, that he never took the time to learn about Francis before, that he could love watching others love. Looking back he regrets not bothering despite knowing the kind of nation he'd been, he'd've never have been able to deal with it in a healthy manner. But now there's something about showing off for Francis – showing off lets him deal with his aggression in a healthy manner. It lets him not be violent later, and gives him a way of showing how much he loves what happens in their bedroom without needing a fight. When they had gone through this scene, walking through what Matthew wanted to do, what Francis thought would work, and what Gilbert was comfortable with not doing, it had been agreed that fighting, the little bit of violence and edge of slick, sharpness, wouldn't be a part of it.

(Matthew had blushed, and Gilbert had laughed at how disappointed Francis had been at that.)

“You're thinking too much.” Matthew stands up straight and looks at Gilbert, staring down at him, where he still knelt on the carpeted floor. “That's not what you're supposed to be doing. I suppose we ought to deal with that, eh.”

Gilbert almost speaks up at that, before the memory of being told, “Not a sound,” flashes through his brain. Instead he chocks the noise back in his throat, keeping it muted. He will be good.

“I could have you suck me off,” Matthew continues in a conversational tone of voice, walking in a large spiral around him. “But, I figure you'd enjoy that a bit too much, eh. You've always been one to be...oral...with your biting and mouthing.”

He would, and doesn't try to hide the twitch at the thought of being able to take Matthew as deep as he had just done for Francis. It almost kills him at how Matthew hadn't even done up his pants, that he's still hard after fucking Francis into a puddle of nation and now he's going to unleash all that carefully hidden temper on him, and how he's going to take it and beg for more.

“I think I know what we should do.” Matthew's voice drops a pitch and Gilbert finds that at that moment if allowed to, he'd come just from hearing the soft, dark voice full of promises, ordering him around. “Hands and knees.”

His hands hit the floor and he stays there. A cool hand feathers it's way down his back and then back up. There's a brief pause, when Matthew's hand grips his neck for a moment, before he rakes his hand down across the welts from earlier. The heat dripped into his mind, and he trembled, desperately holding to his determination to be good.

“Gilbert.” He lifts his head up, shivering. He wants more of that bright red pain, he wants to roll in it, glory in it. Matthew's hand pauses over his ass, and then, “We'll be going over to Francis in a bit, that's a good boy.” Without permission to stand, Gilbert realizes, he doesn't have permission to stand. He generally hates crawling – too often in the old far off days, a victor on the battlefield might make his enemy crawl to him before taking him, and Ivan often enforced his rule by having him crawl – but Matthew's version of crawling is as he's learned far more fun.

Hands direct his legs to spread and he arches slightly, wanting to show off a bit. A warm chuckle meets his ears and then something is sliding into him. Warm metal slowly pushes into him, slowly spreading him wider and wider and then just as he thinks he can't take any more of the toy, it stops. “Easy, easy,” Matthew croons to him, mouth licking over his skin. “You have no idea what you look like when you're like this do you,” the Canadian asks over Gilbert's panting. “You look, fuck, amazing. I could fuck you just like this, on your hands and knees with your mouth open like that, just begging for something to fill it.”

Gilbert flexes up at that and shivers hard at the thought – being taken, stuffed in all ways. “You do like that thought don't you,” Matthew murmurer. “I bet you do, that'll indulge your slut side.” Gilbert whines in answer, and then writhes at the quick wrench at the metal chain hanging down from his chest. There's a quiet chuckle, and then a slap at his ass. “Go on now, move.”

Permission granted, finally, he lifts his head up to stare at Francis. The French nation is staring at them, pupils dilated and face flushed. His hands are clenching and unclenching at his side, almost in time with how he's licking his lips. Francis isn't quite aroused yet, half-hard, but then it hasn't been long enough for him to be able to bounce back with another arousal. The thought of licking at that half-hard cock, feeling it getting harder and harder in his mouth gets him moving.

And then he stops, eyes wide and body writhing at the feel inside his ass. The metal toy had Ben Wa balls in it, sliding around with every movement he made. Matthew cheerfully smacked his ass, causing him to buck, and then jerk at the feeling of movement rolling around. “Time's a-wasting.”

Somehow Gilbert crawls the few feet to Francis. Alls he can do is feel, the gentle clinking of the balls, causing the toy to press his insides in so very interesting ways, but somehow he gets there, shaking and sweating. Francis is quietly panting above him, and Matthew crooning to them both. Very gently Matthew lifts and places his head in Francis's lap

“Breathe for me.” He does, slowing his sobbing breath, and relaxing. A hand draws the toy partly out of him before slamming it forward again, causing him to choke down a shout and jerk forwards into Francis's stomach. Over and over, he can feel the balls inside bounce and jerk with Matthew's movements and it's almost too much. Distantly he can hear someone keening, high and sharp. It sounds so desperate, Gilbert thinks, and then he realizes, it's him, he's keening, trying to keep from speaking how much he just wants to come.

“Have you been good?” Matthew's voice hisses in his ear, “Do you deserve this?” Almost before the words have even hit his ears, he's nodding frantically. Nothing happens for what feels like forever. The movements in his ass stops and he almost screams in frustration.

“Come for me, my own good Gilbert.” The words are like a gift, and it's like something hit him like a bolt of lightning as Matthew pops off the nipple clamps he's been wearing the whole time. He careens off the cliff, hips jerking as the bright hot pain slices upwards through his chest, through his heart, and landing in his brain, setting off fireworks. Somewhere he's aware Matthew's jerking off behind him, groaning through his orgasm, his cum hitting Gilbert's ass. The feel of it sends aftershocks through him, and then quite suddenly it's just too much. There's noise, and light, and it's all too much for him to handle at just that moment. He sinks gratefully into the dark beckoning him down, leaving the sudden rush of noise and light behind.

Later Gilbert will find out that there's almost a fight between Matthew and Sorcha Madilene. She almost does the unforgivable and tries to separate Matthew from Francis, claiming that Francis is not yet collared and in seclusion, and as such, has no reason to be cared for by Matthew. Later he'll discover that Matthew forced her to back down, in a power play that most of the French house is still talking about, making her back down not only on Gilbert, but also in how she kept Francis isolated from other nations. He'll find out that Francis, in an unprecedented move, turned his back to her, declaring he would not accept any orders from her again. They'll all find out later that behind closed doors, Sorcha Madilene gets removed from power in favor of the same Dom who helped train Matthew.

But alls he know as he wakes up, buffered on both sides by warm bodies, is that Matthew is worriedly talking to him, trying to guide him back, and Francis is humming softly, as someone's hands gently wipe him down with a warm, damp cloth. When he opens his eyes it's the sight of two blond heads watching him with love in their eyes and worry for him on their faces.

It's all he's ever wanted and never thought he deserved. When he buries his head in someone's chest, breath hitching, because he's not broken, he's not a mad thing, he's alive and whole and it's all overwhelming, it's the two people he loves most on the face of the planet that comes and comforts him.

Francis sings softly to the two people who have come to mean the world to him. He watches as Matthew gently wipe down Gilbert – Prussia no more, but Gilbert to him – and softly keeps singing the old lullaby. It's old, old enough he doesn't remember the words, or who taught it to him, just the comfort it brings is something he wants to give to Matthew, and to Gilbert, who's still shaking and lost in his own head.

He didn't need to stand for anything because he had something to stand for – he had the love and comfort of two men who adored him, wanted him and loved him, not because of what he is, but for who he is. Francis watches carefully as Gilbert reaches out to him, curling into his chest, seeking out him, breath hitching. It's something that he'd almost given up on, the feeling of being not just needed, but wanted by friends who had become so much more.

Matthew wipes down the sweat and trembling muscles of Gilbert's back as Francis hums a soft song. It's familiar, but not so much that he can place it. This wasn't something he'd ever thought he'd get, one, let alone two, of his most loved people, curled in the dark with him, their warm bodies beneath him, open to him. The dark doesn't bother him much when he's got these two people to share in it. This right, this is healthy, this is everything that he was ever told life could be.

No one says anything as the dawn breaks and lights up their room with all the colors of the coming day