Hetalia kink meme (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hetalia_kink) wrote2011-02-26 01:33 pm
hetalia_kink) wrote2011-02-26 01:33 pm
Past Part Fills Part 2 -- CLOSED
This Past-Part Fills post is now closed to new fills.
Fresh past-part fills post HERE
Keep yourself up to date -- check out the news HERE
Part 3 - FrUK, mpreg and shagging :D (2nd fill)
(Anonymous) 2010-01-27 03:23 am (UTC)(link)Long Due [1/?]
(Anonymous) 2010-01-27 03:48 am (UTC)(link)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.”
Long Due [2/?]
(Anonymous) 2010-01-27 03:52 am (UTC)(link)“You’re going to fuck it out of me.”
“Quoi?! But...! I...!” Francis straightened his collar as it was released from the pregnant English Nation’s grip.
“But nothing,” Arthur said firmly, crossing his arms over his swollen stomach. “This is your fault, you get to do the job. Or am I merely that repulsive to you that not even the so-called ‘greatest lover of Europe’ can stomach the thought?” That was accompanied with a sidelong glance. Francis balked.
“N-non, cher, that isn’t it at all,” he said, then fidgeted nervously. He had never dealt with so obvious-seeming an outcome of his...escapades, before. “It’s just...what if the baby can...see it?” Arthur scoffed. Then started to laugh. Then he realized that Francis was serious, and he laughed harder.
“That’s absurd,” he said, as he wiped a tear of mirth from his eye with the heel of his hand. “The baby is engaged, but that doesn’t mean that if you shag me you’ll put its eye out with your spunk.” He shifted his hands to his hips (which, Francis noticed, were set further apart than they normally were, and he wondered just how painful that particular adjustment had been – but was in no hurry to find out firsthand, of course). “Now are you going to do this, or will I have to find help elsewhere?” Francis thought about it for a moment, and perhaps a moment too long, if the souring look on Arthur’s face was any indication.
Then he stepped forward, took him into his arms, and tried to kiss him again. Again, Arthur turned his face aside, and swore under his breath.
“None of that affectionate bollocks,” he said, because he would never admit that he had been hard for the French Nation, wanting this for weeks. Undaunted, Francis’ lips found Arthur’s throat instead, trailing down to his collarbone.
“Oui, mon cher,” he purred obediently against the flesh there, and Arthur tensed and shifted, hands fisting once, twice at his sides. Francis smirked, and his hand slid up the buttons of Arthur’s ever-so-sensible shirt (a few sizes larger than he usually wore, obviously). The feel of Francis’ long fingers brushing over the swell of his stomach brought Arthur to his senses and he grabbed Francis’ hand.
“Standing up, this may end up killing one or the other of us,” he remarked in response to the clear look of ”quoi?” he received for his troubles. He led Francis up the stairs and to the bedroom, toeing off his shoes and turning to take a seat on the bed.
If getting naked was an Olympic sport, Francis really ought to have been Greek. By the time that Arthur had turned around and sat down on the bed, the hairy bastard was already sky-clad and advancing deviously. A scarlet flush of indignant mortification lit up Arthur’s cheeks.
“Goddamnit, let me get my own damn clothes off!” he snapped.
“Porquoi? So that you can hide under the covers and conceal your beautiful body from me?” Francis sounded almost hurt, even as he chuckled and leaned close. “Non, mon cher, I do not think so.” Arthur scowled, reached up to cuff him upside the head, but Francis caught one hand and then the other, gently easing Arthur back against the coverlet. The swell of Arthur’s overdue stomach rose between them and Arthur glared vehemently over it at Francis. Undaunted, blue eyes met green as Francis moved to straddle Arthur, and he leaned down carefully to place a gentle kiss to each of Arthur’s furrowed brows. Something about the display of restrained sensuality made Arthur’s tensed arms go slack and his mouth fall open in a silent “oh”. When Francis moved the hand holding down Arthur’s two, they stayed where he left them. Satisfied, Francis slid down, toying with the undone first button of Arthur’s shirt.
“Feeling risqué?” he asked lightly. Arthur flushed brighter, if that was possible.
“It...it’s hot,” he replied, and huffed and looked away.
Long Due [3/4?]
(Anonymous) 2010-01-27 03:55 am (UTC)(link)“No,” Arthur said suddenly, and his hands caught Francis’ wrists, and their eyes met again. Francis, after a moment, obeyed, turning his wrists to take Arthur’s in hand, bringing first the left, then right, to his lips for a gentle kiss. He kissed the clothed swell of flesh reverently, because bizarre though it may be this was his, his, even if Arthur didn’t want to admit it.
“Oh come off it. Don’t you dare get sentimental with me,” Arthur said. “Need I remind you why you’re here? I don’t honestly care anymore who does it, and if you’re not going to get to it...”
“Patience, mon cher, I’ll be only too happy to oblige you. But it’s rude to hurry ecstasy, non?” At the word ecstasy, Francis wriggled his way to nudge Arthur’s legs apart, hand releasing one of the British Nation’s wrists to move down to the abused waistband of his training pants (he’d abandoned slacks months ago). Francis eyed the bulge he could already see straining the yielding material beneath Arthur’s belly, and Arthur shivered and tried to pretend that the crimson flush across his cheeks was of embarrassment and anger.
“Damnit, stop looking at me like that! I’m not a bloody piece of meat--! Oh,” Arthur moaned, his protest cut short by the hand that slid under his pants and around his cock. Francis’ other hand released Arthur’s other wrist – after he brought it up to his mouth and kissed each fingertip, worshipping each inch of Arthur with his eyes or his hands. After all, the other Nation’s body was a temple, and made all the lovelier by the acolyte within yearning to break free.
Of course, Arthur’s opinion differed: he saw himself as grotesquely swollen and more than that quite fat, about as far from beautiful as he had ever been, but right now he didn’t give a flying fuck about that. Francis’ hand around his cock effectively distracted him – he’d waited too long, needed just this so badly for so long...!
“Fuck me,” Arthur panted. Francis’ hand slowed, and Arthur shuddered and swore colorfully as that irresistible incubus of a French Nation toyed idly with the head of his prick.
“Quoi?” Francis asked, smearing his thumb through the pearl of precome that beaded at the head of his lover’s painful-looking arousal.
“Fff...ah-! God and the Grail-!” Arthur gasped inarticulately as Francis pressed the pad of his thumb wickedly against his slit. The Brit’s head fell back and his hands fisted uselessly in the comforter as his chest heaved to catch his breath under the burden of his child, who stirred and wriggled not altogether uncomfortably inside of his stomach. “Fuck, Francis, please, just...don’t even waste time with preparation!” The words ran straight to Francis’ neglected cock, but he wanted one more thing before he gave Arthur what he was so prettily begging for.
Long Due [4/4]
(Anonymous) 2010-01-27 04:00 am (UTC)(link)“Mon amour,” Francis, undaunted, purred, the palm of his hand rubbing over the head of Arthur’s cock. Arthur moaned wantonly, hips arching toward the pleasure. Francis wickedly drew his hand away.
“Fine!” Arthur snapped exasperatedly. “Just get the fuck on with it!” Francis pressed a line of kisses from Arthur’s navel, which stood proudly inverted against his taut shirt, to that part of his chest which was bared, to his throat, before drawing back and trying to meet his eyes. He positioned himself at Arthur’s entrance, leaning down to claim his lips gently as he slid in past the initial resistance. Arthur moaned at the burn, stretching more than his fingers had been able to. Francis’ tongue slid into his mouth, and he welcomed it, hand rising to grip the back of Francis’ head.
“So you did want me...” Francis purred, as he pulled out and rocked back in. “How naughty, Angleterre, preparing yourself while you were waiting for me.” Arthur just keened in response, until he was silenced with another kiss. One knee rose of its own accord, toes curling into the plush comforter as he rocked back against Francis’ thrusts. The knowledge that Arthur had anticipated this, had been waiting for it enough to prepare himself... Well, the mental image of a flushed and lovely Arthur stretching himself wide would serve Francis’ fantasies well. He moaned, burying himself to the hilt in Arthur, who gasped and tightened around him, and they groaned together.
The next kiss was sloppy and desparate, as their movements grew more rhythmic and more urgent all at once. Arthur was used to the almost sick feeling of his building orgasm, tightening across his stomach, weighing down on him and crushing the breath from his chest (in a not altogether unpleasant way). He was disappointed that it was so soon, but it had been so long since he had been filled with anything but his own fingers, that it was hardly any surprise. When Francis’ hand wrapped again around Arthur’s cock, torn between the twin pleasures, Arthur pitched his head back and sobbed out a moan, panting Francis’ name as his orgasm rippled through him and he came, pulse pounding like a drum corps in his ears. His stomach continued to clench and roil as the afterwaves washed over him.
Francis came undone not to the sensation of Arthur clenching down on him, but rather the divine bliss that effused his countenance as his hand clutched at sanity and found itself tangled in Francis’ hair, and his head pitched back and he wailed out his release. Francis’ own undoing was more subtle, raising a hand and biting his knuckles as he shuddered out his release, eyes not leaving Arthur’s face.
In the afterglow, suddenly Arthur’s eyes snapped open and he started to panic.
“Get off!” he yelled. “Goddamnit, frog, what the hell did you do! Ow! Oh, God!” His anger diffused into cold panic. Francis responded to the change by scrambling hurriedly off of his overdue lover, and as soon as he pulled out a rush of fluid gushed onto the bed. They both stared at it together, and then pain clamped down over Arthur again, and he clutched his swollen stomach and howled in pain. Francis jumped off the bed and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” Arthur snapped, but there was a tinge of fear in his voice.
“Mon Dieu...” Francis murmured under his breath. “You never said anything about staying for the birth. I’ve done what you asked me, that means I can leave, non?” Arthur was about to get up and grab him and (snap him in two for even thinking about leaving) make him stay, when he realized that perhaps Francis had done his duty a bit too well. It hurt to even think about moving his legs, let alone actually try to do so. This realization came with another contraction, and was released in a broken sob.
Francis faltered.
Then he fled.
-
I actually planned to continue this through the birth, but seeing as how that wasn't part of the prompt, I wanted to see if anyone even wanted me to. Hahaha.
Re: Long Due [4/4]
(Anonymous) 2010-01-27 04:35 am (UTC)(link)Continue, please? :-3
Re: Long Due [4/4]
(Anonymous) 2010-01-27 04:46 am (UTC)(link)Hopefully Francis will come back with towels.
Re: Long Due [4/4]
(Anonymous) 2010-01-27 06:48 am (UTC)(link)Re: Long Due [4/4]
(Anonymous) 2010-01-27 08:30 am (UTC)(link)I'm all for continuing! Please? :3
Re: Long Due [4/4]
(Anonymous) 2010-01-27 08:10 pm (UTC)(link)Please continue, writer!anon?
Long Due [5/?]
(Anonymous) 2010-01-30 05:16 pm (UTC)(link)So the babe grew up, and Germania took their land (mostly Cymry’s) and took their brother and even after Germania was gone, they attacked young little England seeking reparation for Germania’s crimes. The rest was history. And now Arthur, the youngest of them, had come a long way since he was just a baby of a Nation and his brothers hated him because he was founded on land that had been stolen from them.
He had earned their grudging respect by uniting them under his crown, and in exchange he had given them the autonomy to still be unique countries: all together, they were the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland (Northern Ireland was actually just land: Eire, poor bloke, was always just torn apart by all of the in-fighting). They were more brothers, now, than enemies. And, like all brothers, they had their moments.
One of those “moments” happened to be their youngest brother screaming his head off about France (nothing unusual) in tones varying from profound aggression (again, nothing off) to something that sounded like utterly abject suffering (now there was something strange). It eventually got bad enough that Wyn decided he’d better go see what France had done this time.
Apparently, he mused, when he saw his eldest brother Rory studying the open windows and doors of their brother’s house, their little England was pitching up enough of a caterwaul to reach Scotland as well.
“Oi!” Wyn greeted. Rory turned. “What’re you doing here?”
“Oh fuck! Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck! Shit!” Their brother’s swearing trailed off in an almost defeated-sounding groan. Wyn wordlessly pointed to Arthur’s window in a silent question. Rory nodded.
“The wee Sassenach’s gone daffie,” he growled. “And leaving his door standing wide?” He was afraid to admit that he might be a bit worried for his brother. Wyn stepped inside the house, listening to see if there was anyone there. Rory followed. They went up the stairs to their brother’s bedroom.
“Art?” Wyn called. Nothing could have prepared them for the sight of their brother, though. Arthur was sprawled out on his bed, comforter soaked through with something that smelled like saltwater and blood, chest heaving and making the enormous swell of his very obviously pregnant stomach rise and fall. The air smelled faintly of sex, too. And roses, a little, like a few-hours-old spritz of perfume in the air. The brothers stopped dead in their tracks. Arthur noticed them, and a flash of mortification, relief, and irritation crossed his wearied expression. They stared. He stared. No one said a word.
“Ach, that’ll about do it fer me,” Rory remarked, after a long stretch of silence, turning to walk right back out.
Long Due [6/?]
(Anonymous) 2010-01-30 05:17 pm (UTC)(link)“Ruairdh...” Wyn and Rory both looked toward their brother’s room at the sound of Rory’s name, and then back at each other. Wyn motioned, with a “well?” look (it was a bit smarmy). The misery in the way that the Gaelic name fell from Arthur’s lips spoke volumes. “God, I need...” Rory sighed a long-suffering sigh, and Wyn followed him back into Arthur’s room.
Rory got up on the bed next to Arthur, kneeling next to his head, and took the hands that reached out for him in one of his big, warm, callused hands. Arthur tensed up and gripped at the hand, the anchor, and his knees came up and his face screwed up and a screech of pain snuck out of his lips between gritted teeth.
“Donnae jes’ stand there,” Rory suddenly snapped to Wyn. “Goan, bring towels, hot water, some string, an’ a pair of scissors.” Wyn nodded, and was off. Rory watched Arthur carefully, his lips pursed into a thin line behind his red beard. “Breathe, Artair.”
“Do you have any idea how much this bloody hurts?” Arthur hissed through gritted teeth.
“Then squeeze harder, y’priss, just keep breathing. If ye pass out, ye do no one any good.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be nice and gentle with someone in labour?” Arthur was far from the pitiful, almost childlike voice practically begging for his brother in a language that he had tried to destroy not long ago, and sounded properly disenchanted with the idea of the Scottish Nation’s assistance.
“Not when they’re being an eeejit.” Arthur’s hands finally let up, and Rory ignored the little half-moons that Arthur’s prissily-manicured fingernails had left in his hand. Arthur slumped back tiredly, eyes closing. “Aight, this in’t no spot to be pushing a bairn out yer ring from,” Rory said. “Up and over, laddie.”
Arthur’s eyes snapped open. “What?” he asked. “The fuck do I have to move?” His brother just raised one of those familiarly thick eyebrows. Arthur’s own furrowed, and his lips pursed. “Fine,” he said. “Fuck,” for good measure. “Help me up.” Rory smirked and offered his hand again, and Arthur took it, holding on for dear life as Rory helped him sit up and then turn over so that he was kneeling. Then Arthur’s hands found the headboard. Around that time, Wyn came back with a bowl full of water, two or three bath towels, string, and scissors. To find his brother with his arse up in the air. He laughed. Arthur’s face turned bright red.
“S-shut up! I’ll thrash you as soon as this is over!” Wyn’s giggles ended with a snort.
“Arri, arri,” he said, and set the required items on the bed.
“You don’t believe me! I’ll make you--!” he was cut off by another contraction, and he buckled, drawing in on himself with a shuddering sob. “F-fuck! Goddamnit...”
“Wyn, have a shooftie, will ye?” Rory asked, moving a hand to gently rub down Arthur’s spine.
“What? Why do I have to look?” the Welsh Nation whined. Rory rolled his eyes.
“Cause yer closer! Jes’ do it! Yer the damn one who wannae t’help anyway!” Wyn grumbled something under his breath. Rory muttered something too. Arthur bristled.
“If you both don’t shut the bloody fucking hell up and just help GET THIS SPROG OUT OF ME, I swear no one will find your bodies!” he snapped. Rory chuckled and ruffled his brother’s hair.
Long Due [7/?]
(Anonymous) 2010-01-30 05:19 pm (UTC)(link)“I told ye jess’a have a looksee!” Rory snapped.
“I did! And uh...” Wyn was sitting on his heels, and when Rory looked, he pointed at Arthur’s arse.
“Whut na?” Rory asked in frustration, and shifted on the bed so that he could look. “...Oh.”
“What?” Arthur asked, sounding almost fearful.
“The bairn’s comin’,” Rory said, and shooed Wyn off of the bed to go around so that he could comfort their brother. Wyn always had been closer to Arthur anyway.
“No shit. What was that ‘oh’ for?”
“He means, like, now,” Wyn explained, sitting on the bed next to Arthur and idly petting his hair.
“...Ah,” Arthur said, and drew a shaky breath. He’d never admit to leaning into his brother’s comforting touch. A shudder ran down his spine. “I don’t...I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Brawd,” Wyn said softly, and cupped Arthur’s chin to tip his head up. “Arthur, it’s happening no matter what.”
“I know, but...” Arthur gasped as another contraction bore down on him, and tears sprang to his eyes.
“Donnae fight it, Artair!” Rory called.
“I’m not trying to...!”
“Then push, y’eeejit!”
“Rory, I don’t know if that’s helpi—” Wyn was interrupted by Arthur’s little growl of concentration turning into a full-fledged wail. “Arty?” Arthur shook his head, babbling, face screwed up in pain and exhaustion, his focus gone.
“I don’t want this, I’m not ready, I can’t can’t can’t can’t...!! Fuck this hurts! I—I can’t...it’s too much. Please, anything, just make it stop...!” Arthur’s brothers looked at each other, and then Wyn grabbed Arthur’s wrists and peeled his hands from the headboard, claiming his attention as he shifted so that his shoulders were in place of the headboard. Arthur was still putting his best crushing grip, now concentrated on Wyn’s collarbone, but if the Welsh Nation was fazed he didn’t show it.
“Arthur,” he soothed, running his hand over his brother’s sweat-soaked blond hair. He brought his lips gently to a spot just over Arthur’s brow, and brushed his bangs from his face. The fingers on his collarbone let up slowly, and Arthur relaxed against Wyn’s chest. “Come on, you’re so close. Then, hey, you’ll have a kid! You like kids.”
“But it’s Fr...”
“So what if it’s Francis’? You’re doing the work.” Wyn sighed and scratched his head. “Besides,” he said, “which would you rather? Have the kid out so that you can spoil it rotten, or be fat?” Tired green eyes glared up at him. He giggled. “See,” he said. “So give it your damndest.” Arthur was still for a moment, and finally he nodded slowly. Wyn smiled and scratched tenderly at Arthur’s head. Suddenly Arthur went rigid in his arms, and pushed himself up, fingers digging into Wyn’s collarbone as if he was trying to break the skin. Wyn watched, fascinated, as Arthur’s head dropped to his chest, and his red-flushed face darkened to absolutely scarlet, and his teeth grit together fiercely and even his ears were burning red. Wyn followed the line of Arthur’s open shirt, to the swell of his stomach, and he could just see Rory’s hands behind.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Arthur growled fiercely all of a sudden.
“I’m helpin’ deliver yer bairn,” Rory snapped back.
“It fucking hurts!” Arthur protested.
“Tough!” Rory replied.
“Rory!” Wyn chided. A litany of ‘fucks’ ‘shits’ and some choice blasphemies fell from Arthur’s lips as he went entirely stiff, and sank back toward Rory’s hands.
“Ah!” Arthur cried, and his eyes snapped wide open, and he looked like he was panicking, chest heaving for breath. “Oh, my god, oh my god, Rory, what the fuck is going on? Fuck, mercy, Jesus...”
“Jess’a minnit,” Rory said, focusing on something. There was a burble.
“Rory, dammit –!” A wail. Wyn’s eyebrows shot up, and he tried to peek to see what was going on.
Long Due [8/9]
(Anonymous) 2010-01-30 05:21 pm (UTC)(link)“Oh, my god,” he breathed, and didn’t know a tear ran down his cheek until Wyn wiped it away.
“Hey,” Wyn said. “Save the waterworks until after the game. You’re almost there, Art, just drive it in once more.” Arthur nodded numbly, and when the pain of a contraction burbled over him again he did just that, bearing down with it, wincing in discomfort when Rory helped guide first one shoulder out, and then the other. Then he felt the baby essentially fall out into his brother’s hands, and he collapsed. He laughed with relief, a thin, strained, exhausted laugh, but exultant nonetheless. It drew out Wyn’s embarrassingly high giggle, and even Rory rumbled a little as he wiped the blood and other fluids from the tiny face that wrinkled up at the touch. He wiped off the whole little body meticulously, head to toe.
“She’s a bonny lass,” he noted. She was also enormous for a newborn. He was rather impressed with Arthur (though he’d be damned if he’d say it aloud).
“A girl?” Wyn asked, because Arthur was clinging to his shirt with drooping fists and still laughing.
“Aye,” Rory replied, looking down at her. Arthur finally rolled over, still leaning against Wyn, to look at her. He reached out to take her, his laughter subsiding into a broad, tired smile. Rory obligingly gave the baby to him, and Arthur counted her perfect little fingers and tiny little toes, and she stopped squalling to stare at him, brows furrowed in curiosity.
“...Beautiful,” Arthur breathed finally, and brought her up so that he could kiss her forehead. She blinked and burbled a gassy little newborn smile. Wyn rested his chin on his brother’s head.
“What’s ‘er name?” he asked. Arthur looked thoughtful.
“Cordelia,” he said, finally. “Cordelia Kirkland.” That got a coo and a sleepy little yawn from the baby in his arms. That little yawn passed on to her parent. Wyn rolled his eyes.
“Of course you’d name her after sommin’ Shakespeare,” he said. “It’s cute, though.” Arthur just smiled tiredly.
Later, after it was all over, Wyn and Rory stood in the doorway to the nursery, watching their brother with his daughter. Arthur was in his bathrobe now, and the baby was cleaned up and all cone-headed and smoosh-faced newborn cute, but she really was cute.
“What do you know,” Wyn said to Rory after a moment, as if it had just hit him. “We’re uncles.” Rory seemed to ponder this for a moment.
“Aye,” he said, with a smile behind his beard so soft that it was almost hidden by the thick red curls. “We are. Did ye clear off the bed?” Wyn nodded. “An’ the afterbirth?”
“Ew,” Wyn said. “Put it in five or six big baggies and threw it in a cooler in the garage. Art can eat it, for all I care.” Both of them shuddered. Which was pretty bad, because, well. Haggis.
“Well,” Rory said finally. “Let’s clear out.” He and Wyn shook hands more like business partners than brothers, and they snuck quietly out of their brother’s house, making sure that the door was shut on their way out.
Arthur watched them go from underneath his bangs, and smiled softly. “Thank you,” he murmured, when he was sure they couldn’t hear. “Those were your uncles,” he cooed to Cordelia. “Well, two of them, anyway. They’re bloody nuisances a fair lot of the time, but...they can be alright. Sometimes.” Cordelia slept on.
Long Due [9/9]
(Anonymous) 2010-01-30 05:22 pm (UTC)(link)“What the fuck do you want?” he asked. Francis looked hurt, and ducked his head. He took a step into the room.
“I...” he took out what he was hiding behind his back. It was a stuffed rabbit, with a little x-shaped mouth, big button eyes, and floppy ears. A big green bow was tied around its neck. “Did not know if it was a boy or a girl.”
“You would have, if you had stayed,” Arthur said, and couldn’t help but sound betrayed.
“Mon cher, I was scared!” Francis argued.
“I fucking was too,” Arthur snarled. “But unlike you, I couldn’t run! Goddamn, Francis, my fucking brothers were more help than you!” Silence reigned. Francis’ hands holding the rabbit faltered, and he let them fall to his sides in defeat. But he took a step closer.
“S’il vous plait...please, let me see...”
“Her,” Arthur supplied bitterly.
“Her. Please...Arthur, she’s mine too.” Arthur really, really hated to admit that he always had been a sucker for earnest blue eyes. His face flushed scarlet, and he loosened the concealing hold he had on Cordelia, carefully shifting so that Francis could see her. The French Nation fell, gently, to his knees in front of the rocking chair. He smiled softly as he gently brushed his fingers over the downy-soft blond curls.
“She’s a Kirkland,” Arthur said coldly. Francis winced, but nodded.
“That is fair,” he said.
“Her name is Cordelia.” Francis looked up at Arthur, searched his green eyes for something, anything, that could give away a meaning, an implication, a sign that he could fix his mistake. That gaze was averted. Francis smiled and nodded, and pressed a gentle kiss to the side of Arthur’s kneecap, lips lingering there worshipfully for a moment.
“Je t’aime,” he breathed, as if he could tattoo it against the flesh right there.
“What was that?” Arthur asked sharply.
“I said that she is beautiful,” Francis replied, lifting his head and looking up at Arthur again. “A...jewel of the sea, non? Is that what Cordelia means?” Arthur nodded. “It is a pity,” Francis murmured, looking at the baby again and watching her sleep, “that her mother holds grudges. I would love to be able to watch her grow up.” Arthur flushed and scowled, and muttered something unintelligible. Francis looked at Arthur.
“Perhaps if her father hadn’t abandoned me when I went into labour and left me to languish in agony until my goddamn brothers happened to drop by,” Arthur spat. “Ripping out each and every one of your toenails after breaking them with a hammer wouldn’t come near the pain of childbirth. Let alone being betrayed, on top of that.”
“I deserve your abuse,” Francis said meekly, still kneeling at the foot of Arthur’s rocking chair. “I deserve your hatred. I deserve whatever punishment you see fit. But...Cordelia does not deserve to grow up without a papa.” Once again, silence hung pensively over them, as if even the silence was afraid of what would happen. “I will give anything to be part of her life.” Francis was surprised by Arthur’s hand in his hair, tipping his head up, making their eyes meet.
“You deserve to be shot for what you did,” Arthur told him frankly, fingers gripping Francis’ locks in a way that he figured wasn’t entirely purposeful. “What little faith I had in you is gone. I don’t know that I’ll ever trust you again. Congratulations, you fucked up what took centuries to build in a few minutes’ time.” Francis winced. Arthur drew a deep breath. “But...you’re right. Cordelia deserves to have both of her parents.”
“Arthur, mon amour, whatever it takes,” Francis said. And meant it, Arthur knew.
“I don’t know what you can do, truthfully,” Arthur said. “But...I know of a way you can start.”
“Oui?” Francis’ face lit up hopefully. Arthur, with a flair for the dramatic, let the silence stretch out until Francis was just about to speak again.
“You can go bury the placenta.”
Re: Long Due [9/9]
(Anonymous) 2010-01-30 07:02 pm (UTC)(link)France is an asshole. England should make him do all the diaper changes. Um...loved the brothers--interaction with England and speech patterns and all--and I'm not one usually interested by England's expanded family. Can't Welsh!pick or Scot!pick or anything, but them coming in and helping England was a great addition to the story. And the birth details kind of made me cringe, which is a good thing! Don't know if I like seeing men tortured or just appreciate extra effort.
I'm so glad you updated! ♥
Long Due [NOTES]
(Anonymous) 2010-01-30 05:30 pm (UTC)(link)Ruairdh is Rory in Gaelic, basically. Historically, Arthur hasn't been terribly fond of his brothers' languages.
He's bitter because he had to make his own language, and it turned out to be the most difficult language on the planet.Also, sorry that the family times at the end couldn't be fluffier. I tried. At least Francis came back? I might write a fluffier omake. Writing this was too fun.
Well, hope you enjoyed! :D
-mpreg-filler!non
(No particularly relevant recaptchas, but I did get "of morgues". o-o)
Re: Long Due [NOTES]
(Anonymous) 2010-01-30 06:30 pm (UTC)(link)Oh MPreg, I love thee.
Nice to see an Mpreg fill that doesn't skirt around the issue of the actual birth.
Giant bonus love for that placenta bit at the end. Serves France right.
Re: Long Due [NOTES]
(Anonymous) 2010-01-30 06:38 pm (UTC)(link)Very cute, glad France came back.
Re: Long Due [NOTES]
(Anonymous) 2010-01-30 06:52 pm (UTC)(link)And I facepalmed IRL when I read the last line XD REVENGE!
yes please write that omake
(Anonymous) 2010-02-01 03:40 pm (UTC)(link)