There were very few things that Germany found difficult. In fact, he excelled at most anything he attempted. Whether the task included the intricate wonders of engineering, or the robust practice of beer-brewing, or the complex equations of modern economics, or the various vigorous activities involved in his morning exercises or, of course, military strategy, Germany performed exceptionally in all areas. He was often accosted by other countries for advice. (Most recently, Greece was often at his doorstep, asking for another loan to cure his ailing people; it was irritating, but these things had to be done and sacrifices had to be made in order to preserve the Eurozone.)

But Germany was now faced with a new task. This task, though imperative, though it had needled Germany for decades, was one that seemed gargantuan and completely impossible. It was both Herculean and Sisyphean in nature. If it were not enough that he had rendered himself vulnerable in that cursed (blessed!) moonlit Italian garden, blurting embarrassing things while under the pressure of Feliciano's sweet golden-brown gaze, he was now faced with the endless aftermath of such confessions.

Admittedly, the moment had been perfect. Among the roses and foxglove and the glossy purple hyacinth, beside the crystal fountain and beneath the resplendent plum-colored sky, Germany had found himself suspended in that senseless state of, damn it all, romance. It was all he could do then, with Italy looking at him that way, not to lose himself in the heady, intoxicating sensation. It was new. It was strange. It was damn frightening.

Now, after extensive research into these sorts of matters (he had scoured the romance section of the local library), Germany had discerned that, as Italy's lover, there were certain expectations to be met. He was determined to perform well. It was in his nature to perform well, but the prospect sapped his will and made him feel strangely. He had no idea how to begin, no idea how to set the mood, no idea how Italy would react, and how to handle it all when he did.

The situation was becoming dire. For, with each evening that the two retired together, Germany could feel the weight of expectation grow heavier and heavier upon his shoulders. Each night, he would stiffen in Italy's arms. Poor Italy! His Italy, who wanted nothing more than to be loved and kissed and held, would fall asleep with that same silly grin on his face, having received few if any of those things. Germany could not continue to fail Italy, who he loved with such desperate intensity that he couldn't put it into words, much less actions. His adoration for Italy was something he horded deep in the pit of his stomach, in a most miserly manner; it was difficult-yes, difficult-to find the will to give up that precious gem, to tear himself open and render himself vulnerable again in an act of vigorous, exhaustive, completely unsanitary love. If he were a believer in white flags, he would have waved one long ago.

Currently, Italy was undressing for bed, his slender olive fingers working deftly at his buttons. He was smiling to himself, as he always was, particularly these days. When he removed his shirt, revealing those lovely rounded shoulders and that smooth back, Germany looked sharply away, gritting his teeth. He was sitting resolutely on the edge of their bed, willing those troublesome sensations away. He had given up the silly notion that he and Italy ought to sleep in separate beds; the Italian always wormed his way into Germany's sheets anyway, so they began sleeping together in a more routinely fashion. However, such an attitude gave rise to these situations, when Germany, in varying states of arousal, found himself watching Italy undress. Feliciano's body was flawless. Tanned and slender, his lithe and lovely figure was a sight to behold. It strained Germany to look at him. It pained him not to look at him. Feliciano was crawling into bed now, in an oddly sensual way, to nuzzle Germany and kiss the shell of his ear.

"Ve, Germany! What do you'a want to eat for breakfast tomorrow? I want to make you something you're going to loooove!"

He was fairly cooing and purring with happiness, his slender arms going around Germany from behind. This, although a pleasant sensation, made Germany uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and looked pointedly away.

"You von't be making any breakfast tomorrow, Italy. You'll be training with me. How many times do I have to tell you this?"

Scolding Italy was easy; it was a much simpler task than the one looming over his head. Italy was undaunted, snuggling against Germany's bare back but saying nothing. They both knew that, come morning, Germany wouldn't have the heart to disturb the sleeping Italy. He was beautiful when he slept. He was also blessedly quiet.

After putting out the light, Germany and Italy climbed into bed together.

In the dark, it was easier for Germany to put his arms around Italy's small waist without feeling too silly. Their nightly ritual, of shyly shared kisses and cautious caresses began. Italy, well-versed in these things, took the lead. It was an odd role-reversal, but one that Germany accepted without qualm. He allowed himself to relax (just a little!) in Italy's hands, allowing Feliciano to twist his fingers in his blond hair, to stroke his back, to press little warm kisses to his lips and eyelids and cheeks. His hands, sliding down the plain of Germany's back, were gentle and trembling with restrained desires. Their heated bodies were pressed close; they were clutching one another with such ferocity that Germany feared he was hurting Italy. His fingers were pressed into Feliciano's flesh. He knew that, in the morning, as usual, there would be little red marks on Italy's body, where Germany gripped him. This caused Germany a fair amount of guilt and embarassment.

This was usually how their nights ended, somewhere between desperate kisses and whispered love confessions, the evidence of their arousal hardening throbbingly between them. Germany was usually the one to pull away, mumbling something about an early start, and Italy would comply. They would lie together, with Germany facing away, into the darkness, with Italy hugging him from behind, kissing him lovingly on the neck and shoulders and back.

But.

There was something about Italy tonight. Or maybe that something had always been there, slowly chipping away at Germany's will. Tonight, there was something maddening about Italy's flickering tongue, which tasted so much like garlic and tomato sauce and was wetly roving over Germany's bottom lip. Italy's talented hands were moving south, and Germany both wanted and feared what he knew would come next. He was tingling inside for it. He shifted and grunted, tried to distract Italy with more kisses, their tongues tangling hotly together, but Italy, the lover, was relentless. His hands moved on their certain course toward Germany's hardened vital regions. Their bodies were pulsing against each other. Was tonight the night? Germany was overwhelmed by panic. He pulled away from Italy, who whimpered.

"I-Italy...!"

"I'mma sorry. I won't do it again, Germany. I just... I just'a..." He buried his head in Germany's chest, still trembling with arousal.

"Don't apologize. Und what are you... Come on, don't cry. Italy!"

He was afraid that it would come to this someday, that he would frustrate Feliciano so thoroughly that he would be reduced to tears. Germany's iron will crumbled. He held Italy close to him, stroking his soft brown hair. "Don't cry. Vhat is there to cry for?" Italy spoke between hiccups.

"I just'a...*hic* I just'a I want to show you... *hic* how much I... how much I love you, Germany! A-And I know it'sa hard for Germans, b-but I promise, you don't *hic* you don't have to do anything! I'lla do everything, Germany! Please, Germany... I love'a you so much..."

Damn it.

He could not deny his little Italian any longer. The darkness hid most of Feliciano's face, but upon stroking his cheek, Germany found it wet with tears. His heart felt cracked open, just like that night in the garden, and he felt that, if he could reach into his chest and tear out his organs if only to spare Italy one ounce of pain, he would have. There was nothing for it. He would have to soldier on into the unknown, into the petrifying abyss, not for his own satisfaction but to ease his Italy's suffering.

"Fine. If it vill make you stop crying, I'll... do vhat do you want me t-" He was going to delve into a lecture, which also came easily to him, but Italy had wasted no time, his hands found Germany's still stiff manhood, stroking it through his clothes with a tender expertise that completely clouded Germany's reason. He groped for words but found, under Italy's swirling thumb, that they all tumbled to the tip of his tongue and teeth only to die, unuttered. He gripped Italy with that painful ferocity again, gritting his teeth with pleasure.

Something began taking over him. A raging, rabid something, but Germany pressed it down again. This was not the time to lose his logic! No...! No! Even though Italy was reaching into his clothes, to stroke his manhood more wonderfully than before. His heart was hammering in his chest, a wild caged beast. If this were not enough, Italy had begun kissing down his body, a fiery trail of passion, with a "Vee, Germany... I'll do everything. I'll do everything!" His little warm tongue was swirling sensual patterns all over Germany's body; Ludwig felt ready to convulse in pleasure. That thing kept raising its head, that dastardly feeling, that urge that he wrestled with day after day. He smothered it, squeezed his eyes shut, tried to think of everything but how maddening Italy's mouth was, but it was no use, particularly when Feliciano began licking and suckling Ludwig's manhood in a thousand different pleasurable ways. It was embarrassing, but Ludwig couldn't help but groan in ecstasy.

"Ah! Italy! Italy!"

The Italian, having obtained the object of his deepest desires, did not pause in his activities. Rather, he increased his efforts, wrapping his tongue around the tip, drinking in the fluids that had already began to leak from his lover, and then-mein gott!- taking him entirely in his mouth. Germany gripped the sheets. Their bed was shivering with the violence of their delicious activities, and the urge, growling anew, tore up through Germany's body with a vengeance. Propping himself up on his elbows and watching Feliciano's little pink mouth wrapped and working around Ludwig's swollen and throbbing cock, Ludwig found himself so painfully aroused that every last light of logic and reason was eclipsed by that insatiable and unconquerable beast- lust.

"Italy," Germany grunted, gripping Italy's shoulder with one hand. Italy, his mouth wet from service, looked up at Germany with shining, loving eyes.

"Yes, Germany? Is...everything all right? Veee~! I... I promise I wassah trying my best and-b-but you are'a so biiiig, Germany and I-"

"Yes. Come here." Ludwig wrenched Feliciano upward and threw him unceremoniously onto his back. Germany was so lost in his own pleasure that he barely recognized himself. Were those his hands touching Italy so expertly, so viciously? Was that his mouth exploring that warm Italian body, licking his little hard nipples, sucking his neck and throat so hard that he left red marks? Italy was the one moaning now, and it was the most wonderful noise that Germany had ever heard. He wanted more of it. He wanted Italy to always moan in his hands and his hands alone. Upon kissing Italy's cheeks, he found them burning hot. He tore off Italy's remaining clothes and hurled them across their dark room.

"G-Germany?"

"Hush." With an almost practiced ease, Germany took Italy's legs and threw them over his shoulders, gripping his hips for leverage. They devoured one another with kisses, panting and moaning into each others mouths. "Tell me... if I hurt you. Okay? I don't ever want to hurt you."

Italy giggled.

"But'a what if I want you to?"

"That's different."

"Veee~! Oh... Ludwig..."

Italy, trembling and quivering with anticipation, was nibbling Germany's bottom lip with playful passion when his lover slammed deep within him. The Italian arched his back, screaming in ecstasy, and Germany took great pleasure in watching the lovely faces he made. He contorted this way and that, spreading his legs to accommodate Germany's girth. His arms were around Germany's neck. He was adorable, even now, the way he gazed at Germany, as if he were the most splendid man to ever grace the earth. His body tightened around Germany's manhood. The sensation, indescribable, cast Germany into a raging sea of sentiment. It was true that Ludwig's body was enjoying the activity; the force of their lovemaking caused them both to perspire, grunting and groaning. Being inside Italy, inside his hot and sensual country, was unfathomable bliss. But this was not all. His love for the country was growing, was affecting him in new ways. He held Italy close, whispered things he never had the will to say otherwise, things that made Feliciano smile, things that made his Feliciano weep grateful tears.

"I don't want to hurt you... I don't want to hurt you but I..."

"Ve, Germany..." he was stroking Ludwig's hair, "Germany, I want more. Issah that okay? I want more..."

He was drowning in his own desires, and as Italy gripped the headboard, Germany felt his madness deepen. He pushed himself more fully into his Italy, slamming into him over and over, until Feliciano was screaming and weeping and begging for him to never stop. He reached between them, tugging on Feliciano in regular rhythm, with wild rocking diligence. Italy's body shivered and quaked.

"Tell me... tell me again," Ludwig grunted between thrusts, "tell me again how you feel."

"T-Ti amo..."

"Again. I want to hear it again."

"Ti amo! Ti amo! Ti amo! Ah! Ah! Oh, Germany! I love'a you! I'ma... I'ma going to..."

Germany too, was beginning to feel the height of his lust peaking; his cock, buried deep with his lover, was throbbing and pulsing and aching. Before he knew it, before he could stop himself, he was grunting, gripping Italy to him, biting down onto Italy's soft and supple neck, and emptying his hot fluids into his lover with such force that it leaked warmly between them. Italy too, peaking simultaneously, released his sweetened juices everywhere, including Germany's sculpted stomach and bedsheets. Feliciano looked mortified.

"I'mma so sorry! I'mma so sorry! I'lla clean up. I didn't mean t-"

"Be quiet. Never mind all that."

His reason was returning. His mind unclouded, but because Italy was in his arms, looking sleepily satisfied, Germany was validated. He was unsure how often he could do this, giving into that strange side of him that so easily manhandled his Feliciano. It was disturbing how easily he went over the edge. What was worse, as Feliciano drifted off into slumber, Ludwig found that he wanted more.

What the hell?

No. No. He had to restrain himself. Italy was not some doll, some toy that he could fuck senseless every evening. As maudlin and ridiculous as it sounded, Italy was Germany's love, his light, his little slice of Italian sunshine, and he couldn't... he just couldn't... His will, even then, in the deepening dark, disintergrated. After a while, when Italy was roused out his slumber by Germany's incessant kisses, they made love again. In fact, Germany made a mess of his Italy all through the night. He was becoming extraordinarily good at this.

To be continued! ...Maybe...