Title: Why Do My Clouds Look Like Genitalia?
Summary: A series of drabbles that detail the Hetalia casts' parenting abilities at… well, not their proudest moments. Crack. Updated daily.
(PS I had a real French person crash at my house for a few days, so I have experience in this area. I think.)
(PSS That French person was nothing like Francis. Or this story.)
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Francis flipped the newspaper and stretched out his legs. He took another sip of coffee and set it back next to the sink. He scratched his bare butt and flipped the page again. Why was the damn thing in Japanese?
Oh, right. Of course. How could he forget? He knocked up that Vietnamese hooker and had to settle down in a shitty apartment in Chinatown somewhere.
And now he was constipated on the toilet, yet again. The witch didn't believe in prune juice, or anything that made the excretion of solid wastes easier. That included porn in the house. Nope, because having those things would be absurd. Unless Francis wanted to try her foreign shaman herbs and secret Chinese (communist) heritage recipes. The whore was always up for letting him try some of that. (Whether this suggestion was in lieu of prune juice or porn, he wasn't sure.)
"Constipation, constipation, gotta get 'at poo-poo out of 'ere," he sang softly, taking another sip of coffee. "Out of my butt you must go, so I can refill it with a long, 'ard, penis."
He improvised lyrics.
His "wife" was out hookering again. Getting more money, getting more AIDS. Didn't matter to him. Francis Bonnefoy was too busy sowing his seed in the anal cavities of other hookers in the city. And he made sure none of them were Korean like his wife, because God knows they all speak the same language and they all come from the same place and they all know each other. If he got with one of them, she would know.
He thought for a moment. Was it okay for half-Asians? What about a quarter? Were they still accepted into the secret Asian society? Was his son in the secret Asian society?
Right, so, his wife was out escorting people to their own bedrooms for baby making times and profit. He had the day off from work, but he still couldn't quit feeling like he had forgotten something. Something important… He should clip his toenails. They could use it.
Aaaaaand—there we go! Successful bowel movement down! He felt accomplished. No extra assistance necessary this time!
Francis finished up in the area. He finished his coffee, was humming a tune, smiling and brushing his hair, when something caught his eye in the trash can. Was that… porn? A good, old-fashioned playboy? How long had it been there? Where did it come from? There must be a God out there somewhere, and he must love Francis dearly!
He started beating off immediately.
And it was glorious. Really, he did this all the time, but one's imagination, as colorful as it may be (And Francis's is very colorful), can only get you so far. That aside, there was something about hiding in the bathroom, being sneaky, and not letting the woman of the house know what you were up to that brought back a feeling that the joy ride that much better.
It brought back memories of the golden days. Fucking around in his youth, where everyone wanted a piece of him. All those wonderful, happy days before he knocked up that Mongolian prostitute and had that fucking little Japanese boy—!
His son. School. That's what he had forgot.
Francis heard the door open. "Anybody home?" his son asked in his quiet, gentle voice. Francis heard footsteps come down the hallway, but he prayed that he would pass over the bathroom. As he did, he went faster, harder. He could feel the anxiety and suspense creeping inside him like the monster orgasm it was going to be, and he bit his lip.
Francis came everywhere, and groaned loudly. Yes, it was amazing. He breathed heavily and leaned his head back and looked up into the air conditioner. Life's little pleasures.
"Hello, is someone ho—"
Francis blinked, hand still moving slowly. He stopped and smiled. "Welcome 'ome, mon fils. 'Ow was school?"
His son was mortified. He was simply too shocked to move. His father had forgotten to pick him up from school in favor of beating it off… to the playboy he had left in the bathroom this morning before school? He wanted to leave, but he couldn't bear to break eye contact, lest his eyes wander to…
"It was fine, dad."
"Fantastique! Zat is always somezing a fazer likes to 'ear from 'is boy," Francis said, carrying on conversation as if he were not naked, not on the toilet, and evidence of a few minutes spent with a playboy was not right there. And by right there, he meant everywhere.
His boy shrugged. His black, evenly cut hair fell back into the perfect line it always resigned to. After a few breaths, his eyes reverted back to their blank, casual stare. "Grades are top notch, finished an art project, not doing too poorly in home ec—"
"Mon fils, do you masturbate?"
Scratch the previous update on his facial status. The Asian boy was mortified once more.
Francis made awkward hand gestures, trying to explain. "You are fourteen now, correct?"
"Correct…" he barely was able to stutter out.
"Oui, so, you ought to be masturbating. I know your mozer tries to hide zis sort of stuff from ze 'ouse," Francis tapped the playboy, as if it were not obvious what he was talking about. "But zat should not stop you! In just a few years, you'll be out on ze streets like your mozer and I were at zat age, and you need to be prepared."
His son closed his eyes as tightly as possible. "Dad, I really don't need the mental images. In fact, I don't need this talk, I'm just going to turn around and go back—"
Francis stood up and grabbed the door before his son could shut it himself. "Non, you definitely need this talk. Masturbating is an essential part of life, mon fils. When ze men and women of zis world fail you, your 'and will always be able to save ze day. Why risk STDS and children when you have zis!" he exclaimed, holding up his hand. Which, one might care to note, had not been washed since his recent… endeavor.
The half-Asian quickly shut his eyes. "Please, please, this is not necessary."
"'Zere are many techniques you can use. What I like to do, well, eet is best explained through example, non?"
The younger one was not going to stand for that. He was sure it could be classified as some sort of sexual abuse or harassment, and he certainly did not want that on his shoulders, either. "Dad."
Francis was sitting back down on the toilet and picking up the playboy.
"Dad!"
"What is eet, mon fils?"
"I masturbate plenty. Now, please, may I leave?"
Francis stared at him. He wanted to cry. Oh, how his boy was growing up so quickly! It seemed like only yesterday he was building his first space ship out of legos. Francis sighed and smiled, feeling old. "'Zat is fine, mon fils, you may leave."
Francis sighed and throw the playboy back where he found it, the trash.
And then something occurred to him.
His wife was no lesbian. And he certainly had not bought that magazine. That meant… that the playboy belonged to…
Oh, mon Dieu… had his son used that already?