SOY: first chapter for this fic. It's still a long way to go, but I hope you will keep on reading, hmm? Enjoy!
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Rating: Rated M.
Chapter Warnings: NC17 of a strange sort of way. Please read before judging. Angst?
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.
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Growing to…
Chapter 01 – Denied Confession
"Ok, that's all, for today" straightening his back after a long day of work, Ludwig turned to his two companions. "You're free until tomorrow".
Observing the two allies, Germany tried to refrain from sighing in exasperation; even though Japan had worked on par with his requirements, Italy had failed once again to meet Germany's expectations, lagging behind and being utterly useless. Now, the Italian was on the ground, gasping and with cheeks strangely flushed (which was happening far too often lately), whilst Japan was standing on the side, tired and peering at the panting Italy with unease.
"It was nice of you to join us for training today, Kiku" ignoring his Italian ally, Germany turned towards Japan, nodding in appreciation.
At least Japan didn't complain about not having had pasta for lunch or being forced to give up on his siesta… even if he was far too indecisive when it came to answer directly to questions.
"Aha" Japan replied, shifting uneasily and keeping his gaze on Italy. "Uh… Feliciano–kun…? Are you… are you ok?"
"Of course he's ok" Germany growled, rolling his eyes. Feliciano was an ace at being easily tired and complaining.
Japan, to his defence, did look like he wanted to add something important about that, but then flushed more and looked to the ground. In the meanwhile, Italy had finally managed to stand back up, albeit wobbly, and gave a flushed salute to his allies.
"I'll… uh, I'll be going now, then" he muttered, smiling a bit. "See you tomorrow, Ludwig, Kiku~!"
Germany this time did sigh. Italy truly was a lost cause. The more he messed up, the more he wanted to kick the teachings into the Nation; it couldn't be possible that he could be so bad at everything, so pathetic, and weak, and yet there he was, after a day spent complaining…
Trying to find new ways to get Italy to listen was growing tedious, and the only method that worked was pulling his curl over and over, something that Germany had abused doing for the last few days, too.
Pulling that strange curl of hair caused an instant reaction –the Italian man would flush crimson and shut up, trembling and listening quietly to the blond Nation's yells and cursing; it would last for a moment, and Germany could only wonder about how sensitive that strand of hair was.
Still, he'd been using that thing far too many times lately, and without knowing of another way, he could only resort to curl–pulling whenever Feliciano didn't listen.
Unfortunately for him, Italy was forgetful, too –apparently he learned nothing from their training and punishment sessions; he was impossible to deal with, and even though Germany had come to care for him, almost to the point of acting more like a worried mother than a commander, or a friend, it still was truly bothersome.
If not as an ally, Germany wished he could help Italy grow strong as a friend –his first friend, at that, no matter how useless– enough to show others that he could take a few battles, as well…
'That's almost an unattainable dream, or an impossible wish' shaking his head, Germany's shoulders slumped in defeat.
Currently, for mere seven hours of training, Germany had ended up resorting to the curl method exactly ten times, reducing him to a mass of fidgety, trembling Italian.
He wished he could understand him –but he couldn't. Really.
Even then, Germany found himself following Italy in his retreat, after giving Japan a quick nod and barely noticing when the Asian nation also went back home; he couldn't hide the rush of worry for the Italian nation despite always yelling at him, and he did promise him to keep Italy safe, after all…
'I'm not wasting time –he did look pretty overworked today, even by his standards' he thought, almost an excuse but not entirely one either.
It was nothing more than wanting to keep his ally safe, of course –they were in the middle of the war against the Alliance, they couldn't allow themselves to waver –he trusted Japan to get back home safely, but certainly Italy would find a way to screw up even taking a walk (since the Italian Nation had stopped going all the way back home, insisting in spending time at Germany's house instead).
Keeping himself hidden from Italy, Germany followed him through the woods, ignoring how part of his brain was rationalizing his care and friendship for Italy, and kept reassuring himself that no, he was hiding just because he didn't need Italy to come clinging at his arm and spout nonsense ("I knew you loved me~ Ludwig is so nice~").
… that would be embarrassing. And not true. Ludwig surely didn't like Feliciano that way, no matter how attractive the idea of an Italian housewife had been, back then– 'let's stop here' he ordered to his brain, halting the unwanted thoughts.
Steering his mind against more strange mental images, Germany focused his attention back on what he was doing and it was then that he realised that Italy was not going towards the nearest town –nor was he going back to Italian territories, either.
Unwanted coldness seeped through his body as Germany paid more attentions to the morphology around him.
They were moving in French territories, and despite having fought against France a few times already, and coming out as a winner, Germany shuddered, not liking to be outside of safe territory. Muscles tensing up, he fought the urge to frown and reach out for the Italian.
He really didn't like it.
Why was Italy taking a stroll through France woods?
Was he –Germany couldn't believe he was thinking that about an ally (especially about Italy, who was as devoted and loyal to Germany as one of his dogs), but… he couldn't stop it –was Italy betraying him? Their pact?
Was there another option? Italy was by all means close to France, they had history together; they had lived close to each other, and of course Italy used to call France–
"Brother Fra~ncis!"
Attention instantly focused on Italy, Germany watched as the Italian suddenly started running and tackled France to the ground, clearly happy and beaming.
Germany froze; an enemy had appeared –France, of all people– and he hadn't noticed, far too busy scolding Italy in his mind…
And of course, instead of running away, Italy had just tackled him, with such a familiarity that it left Germany with twitchy fingers, unsure on what to do.
Glancing around, it took the German nation a bit to recognise where they were –it was one of Francis' vacation houses, apparently, in the outskirts of his territories but enough distant from Paris that the Frenchman could rest and relax, hidden from his people.
Even to him, the property looked positively gorgeous.
The villa was big, painted white, and it had a huge garden with flowers and even a small pool –to think that France had enough free time to waste away like this made Germany feel proud of himself –he was strict, but they were in war time…
"Feliciano…?" judging by appearance alone, France must have been gardening (no shirt and no shoes), and looked in surprise at the person on top of him. Clearly he wasn't expecting a visit, or that someone knew he was there, maybe.
Of course, this they were enemies, it could have been also that.
"Petite Italie!" France's surprise vanished into a small contented smile, and he patted Italy's head, trying to shift away from the other Nation.
Italy didn't allow him, and instead tried to make himself more comfortable on the other's lap, leaning over to drop two kisses, one on each of the older man's cheeks.
"Petite Italie, you know you shouldn't be there" France chastised, but he wasn't really making an effort to push the brown haired Nation away, and his hands sneaked upwards to grab at the Italian's hips, holding him still as the brunette was… wiggling.
Cheeks red in shame, Ludwig felt a vague pity towards the Frenchman; he'd been on the end of such a wiggling himself, and he hadn't really… appreciated it.
Definitely not. Of course he wouldn't –this was Italy, his ally… a male. Nobody should ever react with such wiggling, if it came from–
'You're overreacting again,' he rationalised to himself, trying to focus on what was in front of him instead.
"But… Francis…"
Since when could Feliciano speak with such a sultry, low tone? Ludwig shifted forwards, hiding behind a tree, and glared at the two, feeling his insides twitch; he was not sure about what was happening, but the option of a betrayal was almost possible now.
Francis stood up slowly, still having to hold up Feliciano's body as well as his own, and Feliciano wrapped his legs around the taller man's hips, arms wound around his shoulder; the French Nation held the other closer by his hips, but his hands moved gradually lower…
Barely able to stifle a gasp of shock, Ludwig fully hid behind the tree to avoid being seen, cheeks still red; his heart was thumping wildly in his chest, and he felt flames of something curl inside his stomach. When he gathered enough strength to watch again, the scene had not changed yet.
Francis was actually groping Feliciano's ass. Which was normal for the perverted nation, but it was Italy's reaction that Ludwig didn't like.
The Italian simply giggled.
"Francis…" he continued, still with that low, sensual tone that was so not suited for him, and yet at the same time, so fitting. "So what? You know that I don't care if we're enemies in the war. It's our people fighting… we've kept our relationship the same friendly one since I was in Austria's house… besides, you know I entered the war only to be at Ludwig's side".
Although his words sent a wave of relief through his body, Germany was still highly tense by Italy's position, and how strangely he was acting if compared to his usual attitude; why was he in France's arms?
The French Nation moved backwards a bit, not taking his eyes off Italy whilst blindly backing towards one of his chairs, sitting down on it; Italy leaned forwards, their chests pressed together, and nuzzled at the other man's frizzled beard affectionately.
Under Germany's eyes, France's hands shifted upwards again, slithering under the other's shirt, eliciting a shiver from Italy that made Germany's blood freeze in his veins.
What was–
Hands rubbing on that amount of creamy skin, France smirked. "You keep… coming to me, mon petit," he murmured, voice an octave lower.
Germany shifted and tried to get closer, daring to stop only when he was standing on the borders of the garden, close enough to listen and watch; he felt… betrayed, somehow, even if he didn't know why, and also confused.
"Why don't you simply go to that… brat of your brother for some relief?"
Hands slid to the front of Feliciano's jacket, unbuttoning it.
Tilting his head to the side, Italy rolled his eyes. "He's… he's at brother Antonio's house, now. You know what he feels about Ludwig," he paused and let out a breathy moan when France's fingers brushed against his nipples. "Ahn… b–besides, he doesn't want to give Antonio ideas…"
Rooted to his spot, Germany felt sweat roll down his brow.
This couldn't be happening –this whole thing… it was…
Italy was accepting France's advances, even going so far as to shift closer, and those sounds coming from him… his voice, the moans…
They were causing strange reactions in Germany's own body, and he hissed, stiffening. This was not the moment for… this wasn't… there wasn't a moment to be bothered by something like that! At all–
What was the meaning of this…?
Francis chuckled, leaning forwards and trailing small kisses down Italy's neck; groaning, he tilted his head backwards to let France a better access, his hands gripping the other's shoulders. "Then, why not dear Gilbert…?" was the question in-between kisses.
Yet, it was clear that he was merely asking questions to have a bit of fun at Italy's expenses, as by his flushed cheeks, shivering frame and groans, the Italian was putty to France's expert touches.
"Hnn…" Feliciano moaned in appreciation as Francis nibbled his ear. "He's Ludwig's brother, Francis… ah, yes, there… a–and, I trust you".
This time France laughed quite loudly, but the sound was rich and sensual, not a silly laugh, and leaned forwards, open lips, to lick at Italy's curl.
Germany could see Italy's reaction to that clearly –his whole body arched up, fingers clenching on France's shoulders, lips parting to let out a needy, desperate moan.
"F–Francis, don't… nnnn… don't tease me… p–please… ah…"
Flushed hard, pressing down against France…
"It's bad enough that… ah… Ludwig pulls at it every day…"
Germany's flush returned full force. Was Italy… actually… sexually aroused by having that curl… pulled?
If it was true, then… then…
Cheeks already flushed burned in shame.
"Why don't you just tell him what it does to you, then? I am sure this would give you a chance with him, being more direct. Even God knows how thick–headed Ludwig is…" each word of France was punctuated by a small pull at Feliciano's curl with teeth and tongue and lips, that made the Italian fall on the other's chest, flushed and panting and rendered unable to speak.
"M–more…" he pleaded. "Stop b–babbling… nnng…"
"You didn't answer, Petit Feli" Francis chuckled. "Wouldn't it be… easier" long torturous lick "to finally tell Ludwig?" another lick "wouldn't it be better to finally tell him?" a soft bite to his neck "to be able to do this with the person you care for…?"
Feliciano's flushed face looked up, the distance between his and Francis' face barely an inch, and scowled, cheeks the reddest Germany had ever seen.
"D–don't forget… we're not going all the way" he murmured instead of replying.
France growled at this, "you're always saving yourself for your… amour… your love… and yet you don't want to tell Germany that you l–"
"I won't tell Ludwig!" Feliciano hissed, a bit angrily. "It's not… it wouldn't… I am not worth of him. I'm weak and clumsy and useless and I hate fighting and… It's better this way. And what the hell is up with you being unusually babbly, aren't you happy you get some–"
His words were drowned out by Francis' lips that descended on his.
Germany couldn't look away; first Italy's serious face, the strength of his words, believing in what he was saying, and then– they were kissing, getting down to business…
And he knew he should have left –running away, leaving them behind, not looking anymore…
He couldn't.
Relief –he was relieved, because Feliciano wasn't betraying the Axis by selling information; he hadn't betrayed Ludwig, and on the opposite, he'd stated that he…
And yet, why was he feeling such a strong, unknown twist deep in his stomach?
He didn't like seeing Italy in the arms of France. Accepting his advances, sharing something this intimate with the other man… needy and pliant in his arms…
And then, Italy's words. They had shocked him to the core. Italy was… Italy actually…
Germany couldn't understand. After the failure that Valentine Day had been, Italy had explained him that his feelings were those of a close friend, nothing more –that he was once again reading far too deeply into things…
He'd been mortified. He'd avoided speaking about it afterwards, ashamed of himself, of his actions, of having jumped straight into things without thinking them through…
Because his feelings were wrong, they shouldn't exist –they were not true, he'd just deluded himself into thinking too much about things… housewife Italy wasn't something he really wanted, deep down.
Denying ever having had similar thoughts, knowing he never had such thoughts…
And now…
"Ahnn…"
Looking back up, shaking away the confusing thoughts, Ludwig was presented with a sight he would have preferred to go without.
Feliciano was now completely naked, and he was actually turned in his direction, still on France's lap, legs spread wide, back pressed against Francis' front, face twisted in pleasure, cheeks flushed, back arching as skilful fingers stroked his length, as lips pulled at his traitorous curl, as Francis groped and brushed and licked at all the skin he could reach–
"L–Ludwig~"
Feliciano closed his eyes and came, shuddering, body glistening with sweat, flushed and wanton and spread, all of it open to Germany's probing gaze, who was watching a familiar body in an unfamiliar situation, and was shaken by the sight.
Italy had called out his name.
'Mein Gott' Germany's eyes were glued on Feliciano's now spent frame.
Something inside him –and something down south– stirred accordingly to the sight, and he shifted on the spot, unable to take reign of his chaotic thoughts.
He couldn't understand.
Everything was spinning, conclusions, thoughts, worry, shock–
In the meanwhile Francis, who had turned Italy around again and was kissing him, brushed his fingers on the spent member, apparently wanting to coax it back to life.
Italy was all too eager to continue as he groaned and started to touch and brush his own fingers all over Francis' naked chest.
"You know I don't mind you calling out his name, but you came far too easily, Petite Italie" France grumbled, licking some of the white, sticky substance from his fingers. "You've been coming here twice a week now, he's really testing your endurance, is he… but don't worry… you can pretend I'm him… we can continue as much as you wish…"
His only reply was Feliciano's lips downing on his again.
Germany ran.
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SOY: edited chapter is longer chapter. Did you like it?
Mein Gott (German) – My god.
Mon petit (French) – my little (endearing).
Amour (French) – Love
Petite Italie (French) – Little Italy