So, uh, this is mpreg-filler!Anon, who said she was on this like white on rice...months ago. Apologies! D: I also apologise in advance for any butchery of Francis, as I don't write him often, an any butchery of French, as well, as it is not my language. I love the FrUK love/hate relationship,though, and I love this prompt. :D
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The call from Arthur had been almost frightening, more a terse six-word statement before the phone clicked and went dead. Those six words specifically being “Come over yesterday, you frog bastard.” Aside from the command to come over (instead of the usual “stay on your side of the Channel and we won’t have any trouble”), there was nothing odd about the message itself. Arthur had called Francis a frog bastard more times than he could count, over their vast history together.
But the English Nation had said it with such cold reserve, that it was almost like a siren song to Francis. For all that they antagonized one another, that he had picked on the younger Nation before civilization had reached that isolated island (and even after, which was neither here nor there, really), their history was complicated. And while there had been many times when England and his army had joined a war for the express purpose of meeting France on the battlefield, they had couched in the same trenches as well, had – in more recent history – fought as allies. And even if the extent of their civil discourse was no more than a lack of outrageous name-calling, they had become inextricably linked over the years of their history. And if anything was wrong with Arthur, well, let it never be said that Francis was too far behind.
Though whether he would actually try to help or just laugh at the other Nation’s plight...well, that was an answer yet to be discovered.
When he arrived at Arthur’s house, the front door was open. Which was odd. He let himself in, knocking on the doorframe with two knuckles.
“Angleterre,” he called. “Mon ami, are you home?”
“In the parlor,” came the drawled reply. Francis’ expression brightened. So then his little Englishman wasn’t dead after all! He pranced into the parlor, and promptly pulled up short when he saw Arthur. His eyebrows launched themselves to his hairline, and his eyes widened.
“Mon Dieu,” he breathed. “You’re... You... mon Dieu!” Green eyes slit open and stared dispassionately at Francis from where Arthur’s head was tipped back over the armrest of the sofa.
“Disgusting, isn’t it,” he stated flatly. It wasn’t a question. Francis recovered quickly, as Arthur used the back of the sofa to haul himself up over the distended girth of his rounded stomach. The outline of a foot pressed against the taut flesh from within dispelled any doubt as to the nature of Arthur’s unique predicament.
“Non,” he said, moving over and helping his very heavily pregnant lover to stand. “You are pregnant, mon cher.” He tried to press a kiss to his lips, but Arthur scowled and turned his head so that the kiss landed on his cheek instead.
“Listen here,” he said. “As you can see, I’m uncomfortably pregnant. As you can probably infer, it’s yours. As of today, I am officially at forty-two weeks, which puts me an unbearable two weeks past my due date, and despite the fact that I am fully effaced and the baby thoroughly engaged, I haven’t gone into labor yet.”
“And what am I supposed to do about it?” Francis asked, genuinely confused. This was something that was supposed to happen naturally, wasn’t it?
Apparently, he mused as Arthur grabbed him by the collar of the shirt and yanked him down so that he was glaring daggers down into Francis’ eyes, Arthur wasn’t satisfied with letting things happen naturally.
“I’m desperate,” he said, and his voice betrayed him by cracking just slightly. “There’s only one thing I haven’t tried to get it out, and that’s where you come in.”
Long Due [1/?]
love/hate relationship,though, and I love this prompt. :D-
The call from Arthur had been almost frightening, more a terse six-word statement before the phone clicked and went dead. Those six words specifically being “Come over yesterday, you frog bastard.” Aside from the command to come over (instead of the usual “stay on your side of the Channel and we won’t have any trouble”), there was nothing odd about the message itself. Arthur had called Francis a frog bastard more times than he could count, over their vast history together.
But the English Nation had said it with such cold reserve, that it was almost like a siren song to Francis. For all that they antagonized one another, that he had picked on the younger Nation before civilization had reached that isolated island (and even after, which was neither here nor there, really), their history was complicated. And while there had been many times when England and his army had joined a war for the express purpose of meeting France on the battlefield, they had couched in the same trenches as well, had – in more recent history – fought as allies. And even if the extent of their civil discourse was no more than a lack of outrageous name-calling, they had become inextricably linked over the years of their history. And if anything was wrong with Arthur, well, let it never be said that Francis was too far behind.
Though whether he would actually try to help or just laugh at the other Nation’s plight...well, that was an answer yet to be discovered.
When he arrived at Arthur’s house, the front door was open. Which was odd. He let himself in, knocking on the doorframe with two knuckles.
“Angleterre,” he called. “Mon ami, are you home?”
“In the parlor,” came the drawled reply. Francis’ expression brightened. So then his little Englishman wasn’t dead after all! He pranced into the parlor, and promptly pulled up short when he saw Arthur. His eyebrows launched themselves to his hairline, and his eyes widened.
“Mon Dieu,” he breathed. “You’re... You... mon Dieu!” Green eyes slit open and stared dispassionately at Francis from where Arthur’s head was tipped back over the armrest of the sofa.
“Disgusting, isn’t it,” he stated flatly. It wasn’t a question. Francis recovered quickly, as Arthur used the back of the sofa to haul himself up over the distended girth of his rounded stomach. The outline of a foot pressed against the taut flesh from within dispelled any doubt as to the nature of Arthur’s unique predicament.
“Non,” he said, moving over and helping his very heavily pregnant lover to stand. “You are pregnant, mon cher.” He tried to press a kiss to his lips, but Arthur scowled and turned his head so that the kiss landed on his cheek instead.
“Listen here,” he said. “As you can see, I’m uncomfortably pregnant. As you can probably infer, it’s yours. As of today, I am officially at forty-two weeks, which puts me an unbearable two weeks past my due date, and despite the fact that I am fully effaced and the baby thoroughly engaged, I haven’t gone into labor yet.”
“And what am I supposed to do about it?” Francis asked, genuinely confused. This was something that was supposed to happen naturally, wasn’t it?
Apparently, he mused as Arthur grabbed him by the collar of the shirt and yanked him down so that he was glaring daggers down into Francis’ eyes, Arthur wasn’t satisfied with letting things happen naturally.
“I’m desperate,” he said, and his voice betrayed him by cracking just slightly. “There’s only one thing I haven’t tried to get it out, and that’s where you come in.”