Daughter Of The Revolution: This is for irascendedlolkitten who has been an AWESOME bud to me and helped get me over writer's block and show me interesting historical facts or just flat out silly funnies. I enjoy them all and for you I have a "Rare Pairing" giftfic as promised. I hope you enjoy it, really. Just something simple for these two, possibly cheesy as well but these two hooligans happen to be full of lactose so I hope this fits them. Thanks again for having my back! Much love!

"CUT!"

America let out a sigh, rolling his eyes as he steered his stallion to a halt and turned in his saddle to see Romano hopping off of his high director's chair and stomping over toward the lead cameraman, who just so happened to the Italian's little brother.

"Stupido! How many times are you going to waste my shots? !" Romano demanded as he grabbed his little brother by the ear and pulled him back away from his station.

"Ah!" Italy squeaked, tears welling up in his eyes as his brother pulled him back roughly. "I'm so sorry!"

"Sorry?" Romano's eyes widened and his nostrils flared. He reached forward and yanked the camera out of the redhead's grasp, holding it up to him as if showing him an entirely new device. "Shots cost money, Feli, I don't mind spending the cash when the shots are good, but it is a waste when you keep giving me these damn takes!" Romano flailed his arms in the air, camera still in hand while he did so, and began his guttural growls at his brother.

Italy cringed and covered his ears to the frightening sounds from his frighteningly pissed off brother. "Ah! I said I was sorry. Forgive me, I could not help myself, I swear!"

"That's your problem," Romano spat. "You couldn't help yourself for the past NINE takes! I'm fed up! I'm through! I won't have you waste my money!"

"It's mine too, fratello," Italy boldly stated lightly, but Romano heard him. That wasn't such a wise thing to say in front of him at all, especially when he already proved himself to be a ticking time bomb.

Romano's face became red, veins popping out along his neck, jaw, and forehead. Then he blew up, shouting like a mad man as he about threw the camera in his hands at Italy.

"Hey, hey, hey! What's going on here?" America had dismounted his horse and jogged up to the arguing two. He hadn't understood a word of their argument because, well, Italian wasn't his best second language but he could sense the violent intent to hurt and America just wouldn't have brothers fighting amongst themselves. Just wasn't right.

Romano stopped mid swing as his star cowboy slid himself between the quarrelling two, spurs, chaps, and all. He couldn't just tell America why he and his brother were fighting. Hell, if the younger nation knew Italy was wasting precious, expensive, shots on close ups of that taut ass, thick arms, and broad chest then he'd risk insulting the American nation and without an American starring in his film he just couldn't call it a Western. It just wouldn't be the same.

Romano closed his eyes and took a steady breath. It had cooled his temper and let the solution to the problem float into his anger-cleared mind.

"Fine, if you want something done right—" Roman turned toward his brother and nodded behind him back toward the trailers. "You, get off set."

"What?" Italy looked heartbroken. "But, fratello, I said I was sor—" He was cut short by Romano raising his hand, signaling him to silence himself.

"No," Romano said, shaking his head. "I've heard enough of your repetitive apologies. Go take a lunch break. I'll finish the shot here myself."

Italy bowed his head and slowly made his way off the set back toward the trailers.

"What's the deal?" America asked, turning toward Romano with a look of concern. "You look like you broke the poor guy's heart."

"Lesson learned," Romano muttered after positioning the camera on his shoulder. "Now get back on your horse. I need to film this scene before noon passes."

America wanted to object but sighed and listened to the director. He was the boss after all.

Italy sat at the makeshift café just stirring his coffee. He hadn't taken a sip from it since given to him. He was too lost in his thoughts to enjoy the drink.

Stupid, Lovino, who does he think he is? He used to be just like me so why doesn't he understand that I really couldn't help myself?

Italy frowned to near tears of frustration after fearing his brother would kick him out of the entire production. He didn't want that. He wanted to be a part of the making of this movie. He wanted to be near America because the nation hardly ever visited, not with all the problems and complications he's had to deal with in managing his recent power over the entire planet.

With Russia living in the same continent America's opted to stay out of Europe as much as possible and Italy, well, he just wanted to see him. He knew Romano did as well, after all it had been his idea for these movies and when America heard they were filming motion pictures to honor his romantic Wild West and were in need of an authentic cowboy he was quick to hop on a plane and sign their contracts assuring his part in the movie and his stay for the length of the filming.

It had been a genius way for Romano to get America to visit and with his obligation to uphold the contract he wouldn't be leaving any time soon. The two Italys felt safer with the personified country of the U.S. in their home. Europe was still getting out of the shellshock caused by the Second World War, but the struggle for world power was ever ongoing. Now the two candidates happened to be that of Russia and that of America.

Italy and Romano were both quick to throw themselves at America's side but so were many other countries and so there had definitely been long periods of anxiety without the American's presence. Where, before, Italy had looked to strong Germany for protection he now clung to the next strongest nation he could find. He was quick to denounce fascism and communism and embrace America's capitalism if only he'd defend him and keep him safe and sound. And he was given it; the missiles, the funds, an entire American army. While Italy accepted them all with gratitude all he wanted was America to see him; Italy wanted to touch the strong nation to make for certain that he was really standing before him. He wanted to feel calm in his presence, was that too much to ask for?

So, when he had the opportunity to work with him on the film he was enthusiastic. Italy's trailer was right next to the American's, the Italian nation often having to stop himself from sneaking into the blonde's bed at nights for extra comfort sleeping, like how a child felt they needed a nightlight to keep them safe in the night, so too did Italy view America like this, but he refrained all of that in fear of offending said American and watching him leave him, his home, Europe—again.

Of course that was one of the many issues with Italy that Romano would point out if caught in an argument with him. The major one right now was the camera shots. Italy had been told time and time again to shape up but over and over he'd find himself transfixed with the New World nation and he just couldn't stop himself.

Italy was pulled out of his thoughts when the chair next to his screeched as it was pulled out and then sat on. The smell of dirt and sweat rolled into the air forming a signature musk that only belonged to one nation that made that smell so finely attractive. Italy rose his gaze to meet the face of the ever bright American nation.

"'Sup, Italy?" America greeted after popping a cap off of a bottle of coco-cola—Italy personally made sure to keep that drink in stock on set, it was America's favorite beverage after all.

America leaned back and pressed the cool bottle to his lips and drank in the carbonated drink and suddenly Italy was transfixed yet again. His amber eyes wide and still as they watched the younger nation's Adam's apple bob in time with the consumption of the fizzy liquid. Now he wished he had a camera to eternally capture this moment. It was stunning, absolutely beautiful and it hurt Italy knowing Romano just couldn't see what he saw . . . what he was seeing right now.

America let go of the bottle with a satisfied wet popping, "Aaah," and set the empty container down on the table next to Italy's now cold coffee.

"That hits the spot," America chimed as he took off his tanned cowboy's hat and began fanning himself with it, closing his bright eyes and letting his head lean back to rest for just a bit.

"That outfit looks so natural on you."

America opened a sky blue eye before leaning forward and resting his elbows on his thighs. "Thanks, bud. But, to be honest, my attire back in the wild days wasn't this flashy."

Italy arched a brow. He had been the one to fashion the clothing for the actors and actresses. He thought they looked good on America, but as far as authenticity? Who was he to say they were correct in design and wear? After all it had been America himself who had lived this era but a century ago.

"I mean, don't get me wrong, it's not bad, but not exactly to the 'T' either," America admitted with an honest shrug.

"Oh, sorry," Italy apologized, bowing his head.

America frowned at Italy's mood shift. "Hey, sorry I said anything. Didn't mean to be a real downer."

"No, you're right. What do I know about the west? I'm just an Italian," Italy mumbled, feeling completely useless. He couldn't film, he couldn't make the clothing right. What good was he? It's no wonder his brother continuously shouted at him. He was always making so many mistakes.

"Hey!" Italy jumped and looked up at America who was staring at him with stern and serious eyes. After he was sure Italy was looking at him he eased the tense and startled air around with one of his brilliant white smiles. "If you're worried about that, don't be. You've got a real, living, breathing cowboy in front of you. Anything you need to know just ask."

"Oh, grazie, America," Italy said, offering a small smile of his own.

"Alright, you bastards, get back to the set, break's over. And, America, if you break one more spur you're paying for it."

And that was director Romano's message to the crew via his megaphone, wherever the Italian was located.

America sighed before motioning a whip with his hands and adding a sound effect of said weapon with his pursed lips. "That's all he does, all day," America said before standing up and putting his bat back atop his golden locks. "Can't understand how you live with him."

With that America skipped back over to the set while Italy made to sit down for a little while longer. After hearing his brother shout, "Action!" and "Cut!" multiple times Italy slowly made his way back to the stage. He made sure to stay out of his brother's sight and so stayed in the far back near the sound crew.

He loved watching America ride their horses; the way he handled them was amazing and Italy felt he truly did get to see a glimpse of that legendary gun-slinging-cattle-roping western cowboy. America was such a great horse whisperer that the stallions and mares heeded his commands despite their lack of training with English words.

Italy had wished he was the one filming those scenes. He felt the shots directed by Romano and the human camera crew just didn't do America's beauty justice. Sure, the shots looked cool but Italy envisioned a slower tempo and a wider landscape. Perhaps he just wasn't in his western-filming wind. His thoughts had been distracted as of late and Italy feared they'd never clear and his brother would boot him off of the crew.

Could he become even more depressed at the thought of time with America being taken from him?

"Feli . . . Feli, listen to me when I'm talking to you."

Italy jumped once more. He hadn't even noticed that he'd stayed behind on set when the rest of the crew had made to leave for dinner, but apparently his brother had.

"Yes, big brother?" Italy turned to him but gazed to the ground in submission.

"Everyone's gone to dinner. I haven't seen you eat since breakfast." Romano frowned at the thought of his little brother neglecting his meals. "Do you need some time off to clear your head? You seem distracted as of late."

"NO!" Romano's eyes widened at Italy's loud plea and gapped when the redhead lunged forward and took hold of his shirt tightly in a desperate cling. "Please, big brother, I'll be good, I swear. Don't send me away, please, I want to help film, I want to watch America too! Please!"

"Alright, alright! I won't! Let go of my shirt, you're wrinkling it!" Romano cried, trying to pry his brother off of him. When he finally managed to shake the other off of him he fixed his disheveled clothing and straightened himself.

"Does that mean I can film again?" Italy asked, his eyes sparkling with hope.

"Hell no," Romano shot down the last of Italy's hope and he about nearly cried—again. "Will you stop it with the water works? I'm not kicking you off production."

Immediately Italy stopped tearing up, a skill his brother was greatly annoyed of and at the same time greatly envied. "Really?" Italy asked.

"Si," Romano answered.

"But, if I'm not helping film then what can I do?" Italy really couldn't think of anything else.

"Makeup," Romano stated.

"Makeup?" Italy repeated curiously.

"Si, Concetta went home early today for a family emergency, but I still have one more scene to shoot. The mineshaft scene," Romano informed.

"The mineshaft scene," Italy repeated. He knew the scene he just hadn't thought Romano would shoot it so quickly.

"Si," Romano nodded.

"The mineshaft scene."

"What are you a damn broken record? I said si!" Romano growled out in annoyance.

"But, I thought today was a wrap," Italy reasoned, still leery on what his brother was saying and if it were true.

"Yeah, well we already finished the other shots and the night's clear. I talked with the lighting crew and demolition team and they said they're ready willing to continue on tonight. Now, all I need is for someone to go powder the stars," Romano informed and the more he said the wider the younger's smile stretched.

"Grazie, grazie!" Italy exclaimed, throwing his arms around his brother who had graciously given him a second chance; allowing him to be a part of this project.

"Yeah, yeah, let go already!" Italy did as Romano said and pulled away. Once again Romano had to fix his disheveled clothing. "You've got an hour to prep them. I'll be at the sight filming a few things first. Don't take forever, Feli."

"Si! You can count on me!" Italy said, clicking his heels together and giving his brother a salute before darting off.

America looked at himself in front of the tall mirror, turning every angle to make sure he was wearing everything correctly and had every prop needed for the upcoming scene on hand.

"Oh, bandana," America remembered, darting toward the stuffed clothing chest and snatching the red article off of the trunk. He had just hooked it around his neck and made to tie it when he heard a knock on his trailer door. "Oh, come in, Concetta. I'm descent this time around." America chuckled remembering how the makeup artist had come in unannounced and caught him with his pants off. She had definitely turned at least fifty shades of red. But, then again, that was the normal reaction anyone had when beholding Florida.

"It's me this time, America." In came Italy with Concetta's makeup kit in hand. "Concetta had to leave early so I'm filling in."

"Good, keep yourself busy," America said with a smile. He was glad Italy found something else to help out with.

Sitting down, America closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat for easier makeup application. He read the script; he knew he was going to look like he's been charred. That kind of makeup he knew would take a while so it was best to get as comfortable sitting down as possible.

Italy set to work and began brushing America's face down with black powder but he began feeling uncomfortable and uncertain about the appearance as he continued and sure enough he found himself washing away the applied layer and restarting. He did this four times until America opened an eye and peered up to see a concerned looking Italian nation.

"Something wrong?" America inquired.

"I'm . . . not sure," Italy admitted as he wiped America's face once more.

"You know what you're doing?" America was certain Italy did, but it was only a natural question. A natural question that quite offended the Italian by the look of his sudden frown. Right, of course he'd be upset, after all, this was Italy who lived through the eras like the Renascence and the Georgian, and this guy was one hell of a painter. America's seen his stuff, he knows. "Hey, didn't mean to offend ya, but you look so distracted."

"Sorry," Italy apologized before taking up the larger powder brush and spreading the black makeup on America's forehead and then his cheeks. "No," Italy sighed out in dissatisfaction. "No. No." Once again he wiped America's face clean. "I can't. It's like ruining art. I can't."

America looked up at Italy quizzically before sitting upright in his chair and watching the Italian turn from him and bite at his knuckles in frustration.

"What's going on, Italy?" America asked, hoping to turn the other toward him again. He didn't like talking to backs. "Come on, say something. I'm here, I'll listen. You really think I'm like art?"

"A masterpiece," Italy mumbled against his knuckles. He chanced a glance back at the beauty and noticed a light pink dusting the cowboy's cheeks. He even cleared his throat and muttered back a, "Thanks."

"So, you like cowboys that much, huh?" America rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes glancing away from surprising show of bashfulness, Italy's never seen it on America for as long as he's know him, and he's known him for about a century now.

"It's not just that," Italy admitted lowly. And it wasn't. While Italy believed America was his most attractive in the age of the cowboys he felt there was still such a beauty in him that, if caught in a painting, viewers would stare at it for days, perhaps even years. Perhaps it was his youth, his pioneer spirit, Italy didn't know, but he was beautiful and all Italy wanted to do was to capture it in some way so that when the nation left back to his own home to deal with the troubles of the world he could have a little piece of him there, to cherish, and to admire.

Finally turning toward the American, Italy's eyes sparkled and his smile broadened as he said with conviction, "You're refreshing just to be around. You lift my spirit with your laugh. Your eyes, I don't know how, but they hold such wisdom but such child-likeness that I find myself in jealousy over your eternal youthfulness. There just isn't enough of you and yet at the same time there is more than enough. I want to be like you, America, you inspire me so much and I can't pull myself away. When you leave I become sad, not only because I long for your protection against invisible enemies all around, but because I long to be rejuvenated by your words. Whatever you'd say, whatever you'd want I would do if only I could keep you here with me with the other priceless masterpieces around because you deserve nothing less than to be placed on a pedestal and shown off to the world for the wonder you are."

America's jaw had loosened and his lips parted slightly in shock at what Italy was saying. The pink dusting on his cheeks remained and Italy felt he looked even more beautiful with it, that, whatever shade he wore he'd wear it the best. This feeling inside the Italian nation just couldn't be expressed with words and from the need to let out his feelings he became frustrated where his body moved on its own.

Italy walked closer to America and he reached out, pressing his palms against his face. Their eyes locked. Amber and bright topazes.

"I never got the chance to travel with Columbus, but, God, do I wish I had," Italy said as he skimmed his fingers up to lightly touch those golden strands of hair. The hue much different than Germany's blond locks, much more vibrant. "I want to paint you, Alfred. I want to film you for hours upon hours until I feel it's enough even though I know it never will be."

Italy was pulled from his transfixion by the surprisingly gentle touch of America's wider hand. His eyes blinked and he looked at the hand upon his own before he turned back to look at America curiously. The younger smiled at him, so softly, so handsomely.

"It's never too late to explore, Feliciano," America said softly before taking the smaller nation's other hand in his own and guiding both to touch the tips of his glasses. "Texas," America named the state on which Italy was caressing. Then, after he felt Italy had taken in the form thereof he moved upward toward his cowlick and stated, "Nantucket." Italy watched the nation shiver at the touch and in the same time saw his eyes darken slightly.

America's smile brightened with encouragement to continue. He let go of Italy's hands and leaned back in his chair, offering himself to him. Slowly, but surely Italy reached out and slipped his fingers down from America's jaw toward his neck, dipping under the bandana before he watched America reach up and untie the cloth. Then he was beholding as America began unbuttoning his shirt. While Italy felt nervousness come upon him he heeded the call of the wild and the excitement therein. He was ready to explore, he had been for centuries.

Fingers skimmed over bare collarbone before traveling back up to press against the curves and dips of the younger's face. By feeling the smooth skin and firm bone underneath his fingertips Italy was brought back to his renaissance age when the likes of sculptures always found themselves at work underneath his palms. He could sculpt America blindfolded. He was certain of it.

When his fingers rubbed underneath topaz blue eyes Italy heard the American nation speak again, "Arkansas and Hawaii."

Italy had been so lost in his thoughts when running his exploring hands over the surface of the nation that nothing clicked together in his mind on what the blond was saying. America seemed to understand. He smiled politely, patiently. Taking Italy's hand in his own again he took off his glasses and placed them on the dresser and guided Italy's touch back around his eyes.

"Arkansas," America said, motioning for Italy to feel around his left eye before moving his fingertips toward his right eye. "Hawaii."

Oh! Italy understood now. America was guiding him on this tour, naming the states which made him as Italy touched and looked upon their occupying territory. It was amazing, it really was, and Italy was determined with anxiousness to explore every one of the fifty.

Caressing down America's nose he heard him say, "Delaware." Then his fingers rubbed that perfectly sculpted square jaw. "New York."

That sigh that left those lips thrilled Italy and the faster his heart beat the quicker he ached to see the rest of the country seated before him. His hands rubbed back down America's neck toward his collarbone and frowned at the sight of the shirt concealing the rest of him from his hungry eyes. Again, America had been very observing of Italy's moods and caught his upset with the covering. When America leaned his head back again and closed his eyes he silently gave permission for Italy to do as he pleased and Italy had every intention on exploiting that offer.

Italy pressed his palms against America's sternum and remained still for a moment to feel the steady rhythm of the beating of his strong heart. The feel of it amazed Italy. He could sense the strength in it as it thumped against his sensitive palms as well as its ideals.

"Kansas."

Italy's mesmerized eyes blinked out of their daze for a moment to turn toward America's face only to see those blue eyes staring at him again. That smile of America's lips melted Italy's very being to soft sighs of admiration. A flick of those sky blue eyes downward encouraged Italy to continue his descent and now he pressed his hands out, pushing the shirt wide open and taking in the vision of the entirety of America's chest.

Reaching out Italy fondled the large pectorals, rubbing up over the nipples before falling down over the curves of the protruding muscles. America seemed to enjoy it the most when Italy's touch fell just below the muscles, caressing the curved underside. He had closed his eyes and sighed. The smile on his lips revealed satisfaction and Italy found his own self pleased in knowing that it was his touch enticing such reactions out of the powerful nation.

"West Virginia and Pennsylvania," America said, informing the Italian on which state he was beholding and feeling.

Italy nodded in understanding and remembered everything. His touch traveled down America's ribs to touch the abdominal muscles and run over the bumpy parts. The nation was fit much to everyone else's denial. The proof was right in front of Italy, right under his touch.

There was a snicker from America before he said, "Louisiana Purchase." Then he proceeded in naming each state and pressing Italy's fingers down on where they were located on his body. Italy listened with interest and before long he had grabbed America's wrist and examined his hands as America flexed his fingers, wiggling each one as he revealed their state name.

Reaching up to push down America's shirt from off his shoulders Italy touched his thick arms, his palms caressing over the swollen biceps. Italy let out a soft gasp at seeing America lean over and offer a kiss to the muscle, right next to the Italian nation's exploring fingers. "Kentucky," he said with a smile before pulling away and leaning over toward his other arm to place a kiss on his right bicep. "Ohio."

Italy smiled when he felt the American flex underneath him. He enjoyed the feel of the muscles rippling underneath his touch. Very much so.

When Italy's hands returned back down to the torso and began their descent down to the abdomen he frowned once more at his halt by the trousers snug nicely on America's well rounded yet narrow hips.

"Go ahead," Italy heard America's soft voice say that held a twinge of seductiveness in its tone.

Italy was surprised with himself. Yes he was a skilled lover, but when concerning other nations? No, he was quite shy and isolated to those kinds of relations. France had tried to coax him out of his shell and share the experiences with him but Italy refused to get so much as that close to a nation like that. Yet here he was, unbuckling America's belt with ease as if he'd done this countless of times. He slid the belt out of the pant loops and unbuttoned and unzipped the pair before his nervousness had the chance to catch up to him. Even so it never had.

Italy felt anxious. His heart pounded against his chest in excitement at seeing America, at being allowed the chance to see all of him. Just once Italy paused to reach down into the trousers. That was the only uncertainty he felt that night before the nervousness gave way to euphoria.

Italy pressed his fingers inside and gasped when America bucked up to meet his touch quicker. Then, their eyes locked again, amber and sapphire—the topazes giving way to a much darker, richer gem.

"Say hello to Florida," America said with a sighing smile.

Italy nodded his head to show the nation he had heard him. But his gaze had fallen into America's and now instead of a clear bright sunny sky he beheld it was a vast expanse of night sky with scores of glittering stars in it, and Italy could see all fifty.

In the beginning he sought out to explore and memorize to mentally draw a map of the beautiful country but now, as those starry night sky eyes drew him into them he sought to become one.

Italy leaned forward, not even realizing his eyes had closed, and tenderly pressed his lips to America's. God, they were so soft, softer than he had ever thought a rough nation like America to have. The feel and taste therein was much more desirable than a donne and now Italy feared he'd never be able to flirt with the beauties again because of the sheer perfection and filling he received from America.

America had not moved against Italy in response to the kiss but he hadn't pulled away either. The soft kiss had only lasted about six seconds before Italy slowly inched himself back and open his eyes. He was now leaning over America, his hands on the armrests of the chair America was seated in and his knee barely touching the edge of the seat bottom. So close, he was still so close to America's face that he could feel the younger's hot breath against his lips.

Italy's body temperature heightened when he watched America's tongue dart out and swipe across his rosy-peach lips, slowly, sensually.

"Virginia," America said, his tone lower with more husk. He pursed his lips as if to display the state before Italy in bait before his hot pink tongue crept out of his mouth and wagged in front of the catholic. "Maryland," he said with a wiggle of his tongue and a wink from his eye.

Well, Italy's lips wanted to get to know both states very well. First he leaned forward again and took "Maryland" in his mouth, suckling on the warm muscle before pressing forward and connecting once more his lips with the "Old Dominion." He hadn't even concerned himself with America's feelings on this situation because he'd been so lost in the feel of the closeness and vitalizing taste of the youth. But, America responded and Italy moaned when he felt the blonde's tongue caress his lips before wrapping around his own tongue and rubbing it with vigor.

Italy's lids fluttered at the feel. His body pressed closer now to where he straddled America, the warmth of his body touching Italy's and licking at his growing arousal. The Italian moaned completely unashamed by the lewd muffled sound. With America's strong and skilled hands now caressing his hips it wouldn't be long before he rolled his hips and ground into America's abdomen.

The moment America's hands descended and took a firm grip of his backside, Italy bucked and from that rock he overcame the American and the balance on which they leaned against. Both of them toppled over backwards in the chair. A grunt exhaled into Italy's mouth but their lips refused to part. In fact, now that they were on the ground America took the opportunity to flip them around where now he was the one hovering over the Italian nation and pressing his weight onto him.

Italy gasped at the feel of America's heavy and sturdy form above him. One would think he'd suffocate from the pressure but Italy loved it. Being covered completely by America created a sense of ease from knowing he couldn't be any safer in this world full of casualties and atrocities than underneath this superpower's entire being.

Italy's hands reached up and pressed down against America's bare back. Taking some skin into his grasp he squeezed, and America gasped. Pulling back America sucked in a deep breath of air. His eyes still closed in pleasure.

"Alaska," America sighed out at the feel of Italy's touch upon his back.

Of course; America's largest state just so happened to represent the widest expanse of his body. It made sense.

Italy's hands then pressed deep and caressed down his spine all the way toward his hips.

"The Rockies," America whispered against Italy's skin as he sucked against the underside of the redhead's jaw.

Italy smiled at the mental image of the mountains. He had yet to visit them. Always near the Swiss Alps Italy knew they differed from America's long line of mountains. Leaning over Italy placed a kiss against America's neck, firm but just a press of the lips as his wandering hands dared cup both America's ass cheeks and give a squeeze to the rounds.

America rolled his hips against Italy as he leaned up, his eyes closed tightly and a sighing smile of pleasure on his lips. "Ah, the Dakotas," America said as his eyes opened and peered down at Italy with dark colors conceived in the irises. But a smile was still ever present, ever encouraging and enticing. "You're heading west there, partner. Wild lands, badlands. You sure you want to venture further? There's no tellin' what's out there."

Italy trembled with anticipation. He blinked once before those amber eyes of his twinkled with interest and a smile coaxed its way onto his lips; a smile of eagerness and daringness.

"I want to see it all," Italy found himself saying as his hands came back up and rubbed America's thick neck gently. "Take me to the place where the sun sets."

America offered one last soft smile before he reached over to where his hand had fallen in their tumble to the floor. Placing it back atop his head he flicked his fingers against the fore brim, tilting it upward ever so slightly in a gesture of acceptance.

Italy moaned at the gesture. The hat, the chaps, the boots, the spurs; they all suited America and Italy wished that his people return back to that fashion. If not then at least Italy could relive the vision in his motion pictures, and now. Especially now.

Italy hooked his fingers around the hat's loose drawstring and pulled America back down atop him. Their lips connected and their tongues were quick to find their ways into the other's mouth.

Italy was a great kisser. He was Italian, that was the only reason he needed for such a bold claim. But America? America was good, almost as good Italy, and the older reasoned this to be from all his relations with the multitude of other countries in the New World nation's pool of "friends." So Italy didn't become dissatisfied whatsoever when he let America take the lead. In fact he welcomed it.

Soft lips attached themselves to Italy's neck and he did nothing to hinder them in sucking and turning his ivory skin red and purple. The ascot on his neck was loosened and the feel of it sliding off his neck made Italy open his eyes. The sight of the cowboy above him heated his entire being. He was certain he was as red as a tomato but by that smirk pulling at the corner of America's lips the nation seemed to enjoy the sight.

He said nothing though and simply leaned down and kissed Italy's collarbone as it was revealed to him in his process of unbuttoning the Italian's light blue dress shirt. When a kiss was placed center sternum Italy arched his back at the feel, his heart racing, pounding against his ribs as if to burst out and to feel America's lips on its fleshy tissue. He'd never felt so close to another nation before, never. He was close to his brother, yes, but that was because they shared territory and the same capital, and well, they were brothers. But he felt akin to America in a way that continually baffled him but he swore that if he connected here and now with the younger he would solve this internal mystery and he wanted this, he wanted it so much.

Italy pushed himself up on his elbows and opened his mouth to meet America's. Their lips were gentle when clashing; strange. Italy's always envisioned America as a rougher lover, no romanticism left in him, because, after all, he'd been raised by England. Canada at least had some cultural ties to France who was as near romantic to the Italians. But America?

Italy could die right now and stand before God with an honest mind and whole-heartedly admit that the American nation was one of the most romantic nations he's seen and been close to.

Then again, this could be a clouded mind's cut-off judgment and his fantasy's idea of a cowboy-lover. Whatever the reasoning mattered not. Italy felt America's tenderness when he pulled his shirt from him and kissed his shoulders and then his ribs. When he unbuckled his belt and slid the leather article from the loops on his pants Italy felt no cringe of fear like he usually would. After all, this was his first time being this intimate with another nation.

Yes, even after years of conquest from other territory-hungry nations Italy had been kept pure as well as Romano, well, in the sense of sexuality. He felt that it had been because of The Church and the other countries, with their own Catholicism, wishing to do no harm to the original Church nestled safely in-between them. That had been his reasoning for thousands of years, but now, after the world's been placed in an almost calm both he and Romano were free to travel, free to be with whoever they wished to be with if they so wished it. It was a freedom he felt akin to America's freedom he so often gloated about and continually pressed on other nations.

Romano's people had liked that freedom even before the wars, with many of his people immigrating to the New World. Now, after a long time in getting to officially know the New World nation, Italy's found himself to like that same freedom. It still held that unbridled spirit he so often heard about from the likes of France and then even Spain had told him similar things that he had heard from Columbus and Amerigo, both of whom where Italy's people but he had been unfortunate to hear these things from them after they left his home to live in Spain's.

The sense of exploration still enticed and excited Italy. He could still feel Columbus and Amerigo's spirits inside him and now he wished to see with their eyes what they had seen of North America. He wanted to see that newness, that majestic heights and Wild West.

So he wrapped his arms around America's neck and pulled him close. Their bare chests touched and Italy moaned at the feel of the younger's toned physic. He was the perfect model and Italy wanted nothing more than to eternally map him out and sculpt him into immortality. He adored the feel of him against him. Even though they were not as soft and subtle as the rounds of women breasts borne for a man, Italy loved America's body and wanted nothing more than to feel him completely against him.

Wrapping his ankles around America's waist Italy squeezed his bare thighs against bare hips and pulled him closer. Their groins touched and with mouths still connected their moans mixed and reverberated into the other's body. Italy shivered in delight before he rolled his hips. He rolled twice more before he felt America shift on top of him and wrap his arms around his torso securely, and lean back with the Italian still in his arms.

Italy pulled away with a gasp and stared at the nation with wide eyes. He was upright now with America's blue, blue eyes looking up into his. His lips pulled taut against his teeth and leaning forward he placed a soft kiss to Italy's lips before pulling back and whispering, "Thought you might like to know how it feels to ride with a cowboy."

Italy couldn't say a word, not when America's hard-worked calloused hands made their way down toward his ass, squeezing both cheeks apart and then together. Italy rolled his hips again and moaned. The feel of America's arousal underneath him tempted his body and his will was falling to that temptation.

Finally, the pressure subsided if only a little as America bucked up into him. Italy sucked in a sharp breath and closed his eyes tightly, wrapping his arms tightly around America's neck and pressing his cheek to his. They did this for a little while until America's hand lightly touched Italy's arousal.

"A-America!" Italy gasped, his eyes opening wide and his teeth sinking into his bottom lip.

America applied slight pressure and pulled downward. He repeated this action until Italy was rolling into him, his own hips connected and dancing with his. They ground into the other until Italy was panting and gasping, a thin layer of sweat peeling out of his body and onto his skin.

"Ah, Ame-America!" Italy gasped out, choking out a moan that the other nation completely understood the meaning behind.

America's hand then retreated from Italy's red and pulsing member. It touched Italy's cheek next and caressed with its palm before turning around and dragging the knuckles against the redhead's cheekbone gently. Italy's eyes fluttered open and his gaze met America's. The nation was smiling at him gently like he always did and Italy fell in love. That smile always did so to him because he's only seen that same kind of soft smile on one other nation, a nation he once knew so long ago.

America leaned forward and kissed Italy. The Italian accepted him whole-heartedly, returning the kiss with vigor. His rough hands traveled behind Italy and rubbed the expanse of his back, pushing Italy closer toward him, so close to let no space in between them. Then he entered said Italian.

Italy was surprised by the lack of preparation and pain, but even more so at the heightened sense of thrill and completeness. He could not help but pull himself away from America for a moment to look at him. The American nation had his eyes closed in ecstasy, his brow down in concentration on just solely feeling. After a moment those lids rolled upward and brighter than ever eyes were looking at him, all of the answers to his questions within them satisfying Italy with a sigh of contentment.

"Alfred," Italy sighed as he leaned forward and kissed the blond deeply, closing his own eyes to focus on feeling him. And he did, he felt everything. He felt those hands rubbing his back, those arms encircling in protection, those lips of his kissing his lips and sucking his skin. Their joined bodies jolted with electricity at the point of connection and Italy moaned.

America bucked up into Italy and pressed himself deeper, his hands quickly falling to the Italian's hips and pulling him down. Those hands guided him back up and then back down. When Italy managed to control this rhythm America moved his hands and cupped Italy's face, pulling him to him and kissing him with all the experience he had, even so, Italy won all of their kiss battles but America minded not.

Eventually Italy flicked back America's hat, it falling off of his head and hanging against his back with the drawstring still secured around his throat. Italy wanted to feel that golden hair between his fingers and he wouldn't let even that famous hat get in his way. His fingers were indeed satisfied with the feel of America's hair in their touch. Brushing over that cowlick caused America to moan against his neck and buck a little harsher into him which caused Italy to moan himself.

Italy continued to do this though the reaction hadn't been the same. He wanted to hear that moan again and to feel America's body rock against his harder and so he ran his fingers through his golden bangs and up into his scalp. America moaned and did the same thing previous. Italy then repeated that motion and a moment later he realized it had been that protruding strand of hair of his, just like—

"Ah!" Italy gasped as America took a hold of his own hair, pulling his head back where his teeth clamped down on his neck, biting and then sucking long. His fingers tangled themselves into his locks before pulling; in his grasp he had also pulled that infamous Italian curl.

Italy's eyes shot open and his hand flew to America's. The two shared a look before he watched the American nation smirk and then those fingers in his locks tightened and pulled once again, harsher this time. Italy gasped, his eyes clenching shut as he bucked his hips against America's earning a moan from both.

Fingers pulling at locks and moans escaping in breaths, the both of them rolled their hips into each other. Italy squeezed his thighs against America's hips and wrapped his free arm around the younger's back to pull closer. No matter how tightly America held him or how securely he clung to the New World nation Italy felt he never was close enough and he could see by the look in America's eyes he felt the same.

"F-Feli," America gasped out, his hand releasing red locks of hair to cup the Italian's face again, pulling him close and leaning his forehead against his. Italy found this gesture endearing and closed his eyes with a smile. In this moment of passion Italy found America was his most attractive. One of the most expressive and beautiful lovers he's ever been with.

"T-Touch me . . . Alfred," Italy whispered, keeping his eyes closed in expectance of the feel of the American's noticeable touch. He sighed out in pleasure as his wish was fulfilled and that calloused but gentle hand touched his arousal with certainty.

Italy opened his eyes when the tip of America's thumb rubbed over his slit. He shivered at the pleasure rocking his body back and forth, up and down. Leaning forward just as America thrust up into him Italy opened his mouth and began suckling on America's neck. He'd yet the chance of the taste of the American's body.

With light nips he found the vibrations shaking his swollen lips coming from America's throat that of guttural moans of pleasure. It amazed the Italian just how much he was discovering of the younger nation through this coming together of theirs. America liked it when his neck was blown on, Italy could tell by that stuttered moan and shivers and goose bumps. America liked it when Italy tugged on his hair. America liked when Italy leaned down, grinding his hips faster on his manhood, and began licking his bare chest. He was fine with kisses and sucks, but he loved a wet tongue trailing down his collarbone down over his pectorals and of course over his budding nipples.

Italy nibbled down on the pink patches of skin and pulled the bud into his mouth, suckling slowly before letting go. When he looked back up at America he saw that his eyes were open, blue eyes dark, and his lips parted to let out silent moans. Despite Italy never having taken on this role he would certainly show America what a real and experienced lover felt like.

Pushing firmly Italy leaned America onto his back; the younger nation's hands instinctively flew to his hips and clung tight. Italy offered a smile of ease before he pressed his hands against America's shoulders and rolled his hips into his. Now Italy had more control. He could lean down and kiss and suck all he wanted while at the same time controlling the tempo of their thrusting and grinding rhythm.

America was sooner throwing his head back and moaning out loudly at Italy's ministrations. "God, Feli! AH!"

Italy smiled in pride. This side of America, this pleasure-filled, lust-ridden ache of his displayed nicely on his facial features and in the movements of his body. His youth shone the most in this moment, his vibrancy, and his wild spirit. Italy felt he was seeing everything of the nation, nothing hidden, no secrets slipping between the cracks.

Still, nothing in this exploration of the young country was as beautiful as the moment when America climaxed. His back arched, neck bending, and a breathless sigh leaving his lips as his dark eyes flashed a bright glowing blue before the lids fluttered shut over the irises and hid the amazing sight from Italy's ever observing eyes. Italy had joined him in his finish but he forced his eyes to remain open, to watch and take in everything America did as he shuttered and trembled in post-orgasmic bliss.

His hands on his hips squeezed tightly in the initial release before relaxing those curling fingers and instead rubbing up and down Italy's side. It was a pleasant reaction and Italy sighed out in thanks for the gentler touch. The Italian had assumed him to ride out his orgasm but he did no such thing. Instead he stilled and simply arched into Italy, especially that of his touch upon his chest.

He seemed to glow, the brilliance fading once the high settled down and retreated back underneath auras and façades. Italy felt a sadness overcome him at the loss of the beauty and realized that it hadn't just faded into nonexistence, but simply taken back and locked away by none other than Alfred himself.

Leaning over Italy reached up and touched America's face. His fingertips skimmed over the skin that held such tanned youth, that was once as bright as the sun mere moments before, and then he leaned down, his lips a breath away from America's. He could feel the heavy pants against his own mouth and he inhaled every one before blinking slowly and whispering—

"Stay . . . like that."

Italy knew America understood what he meant. They both enjoyed playing "dumb" for the others if only to laugh at their gullibleness later on. So, he didn't even have to mention his topic of discussion. He knew America knew what he meant.

"Just like this. For me," Italy whispered before pressing his lips to America's letting the touch last a little while longer before he pulled away and smiled down at America.

When the blond smiled back at him it warmed Italy's heart. It wasn't any of his fake smiles that he's seen countless times, but it was genuine, one full of youth and beauty and love.

The two helped each other fix their appearance. It was tender how they handled the other, almost like they had been old lovers and knew exactly how the other worked and liked everything. Maybe this came from national unions that Italy had heard about from France and Austria. He didn't know, but he didn't feel like dwelling on the curious familiarity he now felt around America because it was a pleasant feeling and one he'd always remember.

One last kiss and the two headed outside. America, being the cowboy gentleman he was, allowed for Italy to exit the trailer first. He smiled back at him with a, "Grazie," before opening the door. Of course to his surprise he managed to hit his director brother right upside the nose.

"Cazzo!" Romano shouted out his curse as his hands flew to his nose to try and quell the blood.

"Fratello! I am so sorry!" Italy exclaimed as he rushed toward the older and tried to see if he were alright.

"Don't touch me!" Romano demanded, pulling away and taking a step back cautiously, eyeing his accident-prone brother warily. Then his eyes flicked toward America, his star, and narrowed. It was funny how Romano sounded as his words clogged in his nostrils, but that didn't mean he'd enjoy you laughing at him as he scolded his brother. "Feliciano! What did I tell you about the makeup? !"

"Makeup?" Italy repeated the word like he had no idea what his brother was talking about, but when he turned to the direction of his brother's pointing finger he realized that he had yet to apply the needed makeup to America for the mineshaft scene. "Oh . . . merda," Italy mumbled out in defeat, his shoulders slumping. He couldn't do it. He just couldn't intentionally ruin America's appearance. As an artist he refused such a heinous crime.

"Here, hold this!" Romano commanded as he shoved a bulky camera in Italy's arms before pushing past the two and entering America's trailer where he found the makeup kit and opened it to grab the black powder. Both could hear his heavy stomps and his mumbles as he returned. "If you want something done right . . ." Romano had stopped before America, the younger nation expecting him to slap on the powder quickly for the shoot but nothing came of it. Curiously America and Italy watched Romano's halt, his hand shaking with the brush and his teeth gritting as if he was fighting some internal struggle. Wait, could Romano share Italy's feelings as we— "Dammit, I'm going to call Concetta and tell her to get her ass back down here since you can't do your job!" Romano shot Italy an accusing glare, automatically blaming the northern for his problems.

Romano sat the kit down and rubbed his nose, the blood already drying. He then marched past the two and began walking back toward the set. Italy noticed that he still held Romano's camera in his hands and so held it up. "Eh, Lovino, what about your camera?"

"I gave it to you, now didn't I? Hurry up! I'll shoot whatever scenes I can before Concetta arrives," Romano shouted back.

Italy smiled and when he turned to America the cowboy smiled just as brightly.

"Make sure you get my best angle, partner," America whispered into the Italian's ear before leaning back and giving him a playful wink.

Italy flushed and held the camera close. He nodded his head and followed America off to the set to finish shooting for the day.