Armani Suits

I suppose, in some cases, even I have to appreciate that fashion is wonderful thing. Though, it is a thing that I have no qualms with leaving exclusively to other countries; Germany is suited better for engineering and breweries anyway. I can't say I would feel quite like myself if I spent a part of me hemming and hawing about fabrics and seam lines. No, it is a market I feel far more comfortable admiring from behind the rim of a good frothy beer.

There are three things that I accredit Feliciano with: Food, Romance, and Fashion. It seems to be the only aspect of foreign commerce that he is truly passionate about:

"Can you believe that Mr. England? Trying to cash in on MY brilliant design?"

"Big brother France is doing better than me! I can't believe this!"

"Japan's style is really strange! I think we're in entirely different leagues!"

He's always in a tizzy about some fashion show, or hounding his designers to perfection.

I could care less about which country has better designs. I just want to see what Feli's wearing.

Italy is amazing in his ambiguity. When he wants to wear girls clothes, he's adorable in a sort of "Lolita" way that is downright fuckable.

I'll never forget three years ago during Oktoberfest when Gilbert thought it would be fun to invite Feli for the first drinking contest…Oh the fingers I had to break…

Why today? Why? My favorite day of the year and Gilbert does something like this to me.

There, standing in the middle of the Festhaus, is Feliciano….

In a God damned Beer Girl outfit.

The white blouse is off the shoulder, fitted around his waist by a black corset strung up with a red ribbon. A filly green skirt, complete with an apron and white trimming, reaches his mid thigh. Pretty, lacy stockings come up over his knees adorned with little bows at the top. He's stuffed his shirt with something incredible because if I didn't know better, I'd say that he's totting a very respectable C cup. He's gotten hair extensions as two pigtails now curl down to his waist, streamed with colorful ribbons.

In his hands are two iced mugs of beer.

Is that…did I just…Verdammt, I just ejaculated in my pants.

His eyes glimmer with joy when he catches sight of me, "Ludwig! Ludwig! Look what Gilbert gave me! Isn't it cute?" He twirls, making the skirt billow and giving the men crowded around him a miniscule peak at the pink panties he's pulled on.

Repressing the part of me that would love to castrate anyone who dares to look at Italy like that is proving to be difficult.

He skips over to me, without tripping and falling in his six inch pumps, and hands me a mug, "Oh, I can't believe you never invited me before! I've never seen so many of your citizens so happy and friendly!"

I can't register what he's saying over my own inner dialogue…consisting mostly of 'I want to sleep with you, I want to sleep with you, I want to fuck you over the table while chugging this beer,' or other lewd things along those lines.

I catch a glimpse of Prussia downing a pint while staring with eyes full of mirth at Italy. He is having too much fun with this.

However, I think it's even better when he's wearing his Armani suits. Those lovely, silken suits tailored snuggly to his svelte figure, giving him a masculine look that still hints at his more feminine features, like his wide hips and curvaceous butt. How is it that one being can be so attractive portraying either sex?

I stare out the window of my study, admiring the way the trees catch the remaining rays of sunshine when I see him making his way towards the house. He's wearing one of his multiple Armani suits. I can't help but love it; he's not adorable in his suit, he's darker, sensual and beautiful.

The dogs have heard him, and bound towards him howling in excitement. He is knocked to the ground; Blackie, Aster and Berlitz pawing furiously at his jacket and plastering his face with their tongues. The front of his suit jacket is covered in muddy paw prints, and his dress shirt has come undone from his pants. He grins and ruffles their ears, attempting to stand up again.

They tug eagerly at his pant legs and push their noses into the backs of his knees and the crevices of his groin. He sheds his jacket, throwing it to the ground in favor of finding sticks for them to fetch.

I love him. I love him beyond a mere sexual level. He is not a silly, frivolous man whose only traits seem to be those of idleness and clumsiness. He understands the nature of life and love and beauty beyond that of pretty dresses or expensive suits. He values the beauty of life over anything, and forcefully makes himself a part of it.

If I could be a part of him…would I be a part of life itself?

If I were one with him…would I be one with the beauty of the world?


I want to be one with you.