Credit: Thank you so much Flair-of-fire & allbluewitness for the beta reading and Piisa for the Italian translations

Disclaimer: Surely you know that Hetalia is never mine to possess, readers

Warning: PWP; I have no excuse

Author's Note: I hope you enjoy your belated birthday present, cleartempest

According to episode 22 of the canon anime, Italy had not realized that HRE had been in love with him until they shared their first kiss; in my fantasy, Italy had been aware of HRE's feelings for him since the beginning, but never revealed it.

The Course of Promiscuity Showed Little Care for Public Transport

Perhaps nagging Germany on a train, especially while he was in a bad mood, wasn't the brightest idea. However, each time Italy felt the rush of the other nation's heat invading his body, he decided that even the worst of ideas had its merit. Then again, with a chiseled chest pressing against his back and a pair of strong thighs pounding into him every few seconds, could he be justified to have made a sound judgment on the matter?

"Aah…"

Another moan escaped Italy's mouth. It was not the first and certainly not going to be the last. Not when sinful pleasure thoroughly ravished his body. Not when Germany's towering figure remained immediately behind him, and his hips thrusting in an almost uncontrollable rhythm. Not when his ally's body slid across his own, making every inch of his skin aware of his partner's vigor and masculinity. Not when the taut-muscled nation's full length was buried deep inside him, hammering inside his innermost recesses.

Owing to the courtesy of the train's steam engine and occasional whistles, there was no need for Germany to hush down Italy's shameless vocalization. Such was the perk of having intercourse in a loud place. As a bonus, the risk that anyone searching for an empty seat might barge into their compartment at any moment created extra excitement. The part of his German lover inside him was tensing significantly—harder and thicker than usual.

"Oh! Oh! Oh! OH!"

Twenty years had elapsed since World War II, but the impact of its devastation had not completely dissipated. Hence, it was quite nice to experience the Old World-style interior and reminisce about the old times bygone, Italy noted. Each train compartment offered a symphony of parquetry, timber veneers, and brass work. The true mastery of craftsmanship ensured an atmosphere of grandeur throughout the train. What Italy was mostly grateful for, however, was the application of solid mahogany paneling in lieu of transparent glass.

Of course, had it not been for Italy's whimsical nature, it would have been remotely possible for such a seemly German to plan any sexual intimacy whilst boarding on a train, let alone in a journey to the European Conference. Neither latex protection nor petroleum lubricant aided his penetration. Bar his unzipped trousers, Germany was still fully clothed.

Italy himself had his trousers lowered to his knees, but was otherwise equally attired. With his hands and face pressed against the window, he could see a cluster of wind turbines on a lush meadow, though, in truth, he'd rather see what kind of expression his partner was showing. Germany was right here, behind him, yet felt so distant all the same. Unlike their usual routine in bed, no entwining fingers, no whisper of love, no affectionate kisses adorned their carnal activity. Just frustration blended with raw need, body slapping against body.

Every shove felt like a lance battering his insides; it was laced with renewed virility, hammering the brown-haired nation inexorably. The rear mounds of the Mediterranean buttocks flattened before each thrust and bounced back before his lover's every withdrawal. Amidst his short and ragged breath, Italy could not think of a time he had been fucked so hard. His ass was being rammed without mercy. It was as though Germany had wanted to jostle his entire hips in after his erect member.

Italy turned his head, glimpsing at his amorous partner. Germany's face obscured the wood paneling around them. Those blue eyes of his were smoldering with passion—a wordless statement of how much the taller nation desired him. Gone had the staid Germany; all that was left was his covetous nature, long silenced by his self-disciplined personality. No one else could turn Germany into such a state and Italy smiled at his privilege.

The tenacious groans of the locomotive gliding down the railway tracks sliced through the air, but in Italy's ears, the grinding of Germany's hips against his own was the only sound existing.

Tints of pink dusting over his cheeks, Italy gasped for air. The puff of his breath fogging the train window came into view. With every push, the pain ripping through his body was real. Germany was real. He was not going to vanish in the wind like Holy Roman Empire.

The pressure of Germany's manhood, though overwhelming, was never brutal. This was why Italy opened himself to facilitate the delightful violation. Time and time again, his heated ring of flesh swallowed the outrageous thickness of Germany's shaft. His partner's twin spheres bounced into his own with each thrust. Sex was a strange thing, an existence in which agony and ecstasy fused as a singular entity … or, at least, this was what his wildly beating heart confirmed.

"Ah!"

Italy's eyes bulged as the gasp slipped from his lips. His trembling thighs threatened to drop his body on the floor. Inside his shoes, his toes curled. Crimson shade suffused his countenance as his beloved Germany had just impinged on that spot.

The scenery had changed into a magnificent church with lofty spires. Far behind it, stretched mile after mile of aquamarine lake of which water glittered in the sunlight. Nonetheless, Italy had very little care for these; in fact, his half-lidded eyes were soon closed, eyebrows knitted, and his lips quivered as he emanated another mewl. So what if the rest of the world were in chaos or at peace? Right now, the fact that West Germany and North Italy were inseparable was all that mattered.

Italy arched his back to accommodate Germany's girth deeper into his clamping tightness. He flung his head back, and, since it rested on Germany's shoulder, the unseen heavens unraveled themselves from the ceiling. His lover had brought him to the summit of rapture no other earthly creature could ever bring him to.

At the contraction of Italy's muscles around his member, Germany halted his thrusting, allowing his lover to savor the orgasm. Continuously, steadily, the caresses of Germany's laborious panting against Italy's nape ushered him to a world where only bliss existed.

Slowly, Italy released the window pane he had been gripping. His stare ventured to the splutters of white on the window glass before him. The outburst of his essence depleted him of the little energy he had left to remain standing. The torrent of orgasm numbed him and it was a matter of seconds before his buckling knees failed him.

Germany went down with him, for the taller nation's loin was firmly embedded in his lover's rear and his steadfast arms was girdling Italy's slim waist. There was no indication that the athlete-built physical structure would give in soon; it was brimming with passion and immune to exhaustion.

Italy whimpered. Beads of perspiration flicked from his messy brown hair due to the vigorous swaying from the nation behind him. One, two, or maybe thirty more thrusts obtruded upon his orifice, their pace increasing at each journey. He had lost count of them long since the limitless depth of enthrallment drowned him in his beloved's embrace. The tingles of orgasm weakened him, but no after-climax stimulation brought him displeasure as long as it was performed by his devoted lover. Tears of exaltation welled up in the brunet's eyes, but these were not the only substance he was about to spill. Even with all the exhaustion and the discomfort of his knees and elbows pressing against the hard parquet, Italy felt the coil inside his stomach tighten and the intensity heighten, building up for his second climax.

In the throes of his impending release, Italy felt Germany tighten his grip on his erect length, pulling harder, more insistently and the brunet could do nothing but surrender at the relentless onslaught despite his best efforts. The brown-haired nation bent further and sank to the parquetted floor.

"Germany, I'm—ahh!"

Italy writhed as a primal surge of elation thundered through his spine. This time, the golden-haired nation came with him. Germany pressed closer still until their two bodies were aligned, filling him to the brim with liquid lust. An exhale of breath on Italy's back bespoke his relief. With his shaft still pulsing inside the most secret part of his lover's body, Germany's hand slid past Italy's length to stroke the sac underneath.

The rise and fall of the brunet's shoulders gave out his laborious breathing. Realization seized Germany at once. After the beastly pursuit had been satiated and the stains of lasciviousness had washed out, only the morbid truth lingered: he had hurt his lover, best friend, and ally. How could he shake this fragile body with such monstrosity?

Germany pulled out as gently as he could, earning a low murmur of disapproval from Italy. Gradually, his dwindling flesh made its appearance from his lover's rotund buttocks. In the absence of his manhood, viscous, pearlescent liquid trickled from his partner's rear crevice. He bit his lip at the final squelching sound that announced his withdrawal.

"Are you all right, Italy?"

The shorter nation nodded, happily at first, but then, when he rolled over to face Germany, he did not fail to recognize a pang of guilt in his partner's cerulean eyes. His decades of friendship with Germany told him that "sorry" was not the word that would easily emerge from the mouth of such a proud nation. Therefore, those blue orbs were the window of Germany's heart and there was no greater delight for Italy than to know how much unspoken concern his lover harbored for him.

Italy loved al dente pasta. Italy loved d'Este's beauty. Italy loved Ferragamo's design. Italy loved Alfa Romeo's speed. Italy loved the water of Venice. Italy loved the works of Botticelli's brush on canvas and Bernini's chisel on marble. One could say Italy was dedicated to refined culture. Even so, Italy loved none of these more than he loved Germany.

Sloppily, Italy reached for Germany's cheek, sliding across its girth and down along his jawline. With a small laugh, he replied, "Well, you did make a mess out of me, but it wasn't that bad. It was quite the opposite, actually. We should do this more often."

Germany was still quiet and, although Italy's words and gesture did put his mind at ease, the knitting of his brows made it apparent that he was considering the throbbing pain that would stay on his beloved's lower part.

As though reading his lover's mind, Italy ruffled Germany's golden strands. "Cheer up, if I can't walk straight within the next few hours, you'll just have to carry me bride-style across the station, right? Eheheh … that's your worst-case scenario, but my best one."

Germany gazed at his partner without speaking. Under different circumstances, he would undoubtedly refuse to be put in such an embarrassing prospect, but right now, his sense of responsibility overshadowed all else. Still, years of propinquity granted Italy certain awareness of the shred of desire that had not fully subsided in those cerulean eyes.

"I will carry you if I must, but definitely not in bride-style." The taller nation delivered his answer in the stoniest tone he could gather, albeit his cheeks were a little too red for dignity.

'Timido come i vecchi tempi, quando ti conoscevo con un altro nome.' ['Shy like the old times, when I knew you under a different name.']

Italy nearly chuckled at the mere thought, but then he decided to feign a pout. "Veee … and here I thought I could use that as an excuse."

Seeing that the flustered blond remained loyal to his resolution, the carefree nation remarked, "Oh well, since you're going to carry me anyway, why don't we make the most of it?"

Upon hearing the exhortation, Germany found himself unable to trust his own ears. He decided to avert his gaze from his lover's tantalizingly iniquitous figure and wipe the drippings on the wall, window, and floor. Still, the hesitation that enshrouded his every motion surfaced from his shaky fingers.

Italy did not move from the spot, determined to free Germany from the sense of guilt his lover did not deserve. Legs fully spread and arms wide open, the brunet delivered his invitation with an encouraging smile, "Come to me, Germany."

'Ora accetta il mio amore, come facesti quando accettato il tuo primo bacio prima che quell'intervallo degli anni della guerra ti inghiottisse, oh Sacro Romano Impero.' ['Accept my love now, just like I accepted your first kiss before the lapse of years full of wars engulfed you, Holy Roman Empire.']

Germany dropped his handkerchief at once, neglecting the stains he had intended to clean. His Adam's apple bobbed at the sight of the mixture of sweat and semen streaking from his seductive partner's groins. Then, mesmerized, he started to kneel before Italy with an attentive inquiry upon his lips, "Are you sure you are not going to regret this?"

"I'm going to regret it if you won't take me again. Now." He looked at the blond straight in the eyes. "I am yours."

'Sempre il tuo dal '900, mio Ludwig.' ['Always yours since the 900's, my Ludwig.']

The German gulped. The sight of Italy's twitching, nigh puerile member was enough to revive him from flaccidity. He bent and scooped the Italian gingerly by the rump, hoisting the blithe nation up to sit on the upholstered seat behind the brunet. The taller of them ran his hands along his little lover's smooth skin to slide the pants down Italy's legs and eventually discarded them completely. Standing between the shorter nation's thighs, the blond anchored those legs over his shoulders, but did not proceed to the penetration before planting a deep kiss on Italy's eagerly awaiting mouth.

At the brush of their lips, Italy breathed in Germany's scent, his breath, and his very being. Only this entity, only this nation, only Germany, only Ludwig, could make him crumble down from the mere touch of a tongue. How his blond lover managed to turn their spur of lust into a union of love Italy never figured out. All he knew was that he loved Germany with every breath he drew and every sinew that resided within his body.

Germany's crucifix pendant—the very same pendant as the one Holy Roman Empire used to wear in his childhood—was now brushing against Italy's chest. Although Italy did not regard war to be a good thing, his biggest regret remained why he had refused to join Holy Roman Empire. Fear had kept him from joining the wars even centuries afterwards, but it then changed when a pair of blue eyes found him in the heap of tomatoes in the midst of World War I. Italy's cowardice did not evolve into gallantry, but he always braced himself to return at Germany's side in spite of his incessant whining and countless escape attempts.

'Se intraprenderai il percorso della distruzione, io ti seguirò; mai più saremo separati.' ['If you take the path of destruction, so will I; never again shall we be torn apart.']

Crushing his larger frame onto his lover's slighter build, the nation formerly known as "Holy Roman Empire" pushed inside. Thanks to their earlier congress, the Italian's inner walls were now slippery enough to swallow the German's bulge in its entirety in one smooth glide. The foam padding of the seat sank deeper underneath their joint weight.

At the sensation of the incoming hot flesh, Italy shut his eyes and emitted a gasp. High-pitched. Wanton. For a few seconds, his grasp on Germany's shirt tightened.

Upon hearing his partner's grunt in response—deep and craving—Italy reopened his eyes. His fingers relaxed. Germany needed him. Ludwig needed him.

"See, your eyebrows are furrowing again." He touched Germany at the bridge of his nose.

The nation looming over him gave him no word in return. He took one of Italy's hands and brought it to his mouth, kissing each knuckle without taking his gaze off his lover's face. All the same, to Italy, when Germany treated him in this way, a single gaze was worthy of a thousand utterances of 'Liebe ist kein Wort, aber was Ich fühle für Dich.' ['Love is not a word, but what I feel for you.']

Emitting a contented sigh, Italy gathered his ankles at the base of Germany's spine, his thighs embracing his lover's flanks. With this wordless plea, he encouraged the taller nation to plunge into him deeper. To move inside him. To claim him wholly and completely. To melt together as one.

Long, long ago, Holy Roman Empire had inflamed him with love. Now, Germany would kindle that flame ablaze until the day of the Armageddon.

'Il mio amore infinito.' ['My endless love.']

FINE