America watched the two figures leave, not moving until they had disappeared over the barren horizon. He then turned to go inside, the door shutting behind him joined by the sound of the locks activating one-by-one.

The man ran his left hand down his back, his right gripping his hair. He let out a drawled out moan in response to the other assaulting his mouth with his tongue, invading every crevice and leaving a wonderful taste.

The blond pulled off his gloves with a snap, and threw them in the washing bin. He pushed his glasses up his nose, heading towards the kitchen.

"I want your damned trousers off," he panted as soon as his lips were released, trying to move away from the hand that was now making patterns on his inner thigh. "It's not fair if you're fully clothed, at least take off- ahnnn!"

"Hey England!" he shouted, "I'm gonna make dinner, so don't complain!" America opened the icebox, peering inside to see what they had left.

The man cut him off with a hand on his member, running his thumb over the head. He tried to protest again, but was silenced a second time as the hand ran up and down the shaft.

Hmm; not much… America did what he could with what he had, though, and carried two plates of sustenance into the bedroom. He set one on the nightstand and the other on his lap, his fork stabbing a section of neutra and taking a bit out of it.

He moaned as the other bit and licked his way down his body, stopping just short of where he needed it most. He moaned now in frustration, then tried to move to get what he wanted for himself.

The candle suddenly went out, so America switched it back on so he wouldn't lose the rhythm of England's breathing, which had always calmed him. He hoped the he would wake up soon, before his neutral got cold, so he could tell him all about what had happened to China.

His mouth was centimeters away from the other's before he was forced back down by two powerful hands on his hips. He struggled to wrest his way out of his grasp, but the stronger man did not lessen his hold.

The American gazed fondly at England's sleeping face, peaceful for once in slumber. America remembered the terrible times when it had always been either frowning or blank; he really didn't prefer anything over the Briton's radiant smile.

"What on earth are you getting at?" he snapped, now squirming with the bonds on his wrists too. The other stared apathetically down at his body, dark blue eyes betraying nothing but lust.

America lifted his feet onto England's bed. He would get scolded for it, but he would take them off when England woke up.

"Al-Alfred," he breathed, eyes widening and pulse quickening, now visibly scared. "I don't know what the meaning of this is but ahhhHH!"

Although he ate slowly, America soon finished his neutral. Looking forlornly at the unfinished face and the still-asleep England before him, he stood up and, after washing his plate, shouted, "Hey, I'm stepping out for a bit so don't yell if I'm not here when you wake up!"; with that, the blond stepped out the door, starting out only after assuring that the locks had locked.

The scream was for the nails raked down his stomach, leaving trails of blood behind that dripped down to stain the mattress. "You do not call me 'Alfred'," the larger man snarled, "You call me 'America'- you lost the right to call my name after you tried to drag me down with you."

America meandered down a well-traveled path, not really thinking about anything in particular but not really noticing his surroundings until he arrived at the place he always managed to end up. He sighed.

In shock, he wasn't able to say anything even as the man continued to inform him that he was merely extracting payment for all the help. He managed to wake up, however, when the man suddenly took him, without any preparation, causing him to cry out in pain.

He was once again at the White Cliffs of Dover, which were once treasured by England, but were now destroyed, black with soot instead of white. He swallowed a lump in his throat (they had been beautiful in the moonlight), and walked back to the house.

It was agony to him, both physically and mentally. He could only repeat "not my America, not my America" desperately as the man above him used his body.

America once again sat at England's bedside, gazing mournfully at the body, and realized again that England probably wasn't going to wake up. And when he did, he would hate him and never want to be around him.

He lay there, weeping, as the man calmly pulled his clothes on and left the room without a backward glance to the bruised and broken body behind him. The sheets were wet with cum and blood.

Because it was all his fault: he had destroyed the Cliffs, he had made England this way, and he hated himself for it. America could take care of England, cry himself to sleep at night, and repent.

Repent, and repent.

I wrote a continuation. DUN DUN DUN, BAD AMERICA. But… poor America. At least he's sorry about it.

Next chapter might be about… huh. I don't know. Canada? Scotland and Wales? Norway? France? The EU? The Baltics? I've no idea at this point if I'll even do another chapter…

Oh, neutra=tofu but not? Fake food. Also, notice the icebox… I've reposted the first chapter because it contained some possible spoilers in the AN, ja.

Best regards,

Zinc