wingborne | catholic school as vicious as roman rule;

Endless stretches of white sand, a suffocating wind, blinding sun that glints off the rolling waves, searing into his eyes. Hot, leaving him swallowing in the dry heat, with his hair half-plastered on his forehead. The white-and-red umbrella cheerfully provides little shade, and the ugly violet beach towel stretches like a giant bruise on the empty beach. He lies on the towel, book perched beside him, open to the page that looks pallid and dried out against the whipping ocean air. He breathes through his nose, not his mouth, and reads the same sentence again. He reads the same sentence again. He reads the same sentence again. He reads

"Come on, we're at the beach. What are you doing?"

An America-shaped shadow falls upon him, and America-reflecting droplets splash against the thin pages of the webbed book. He cranes his head upwards in irritation, sun burning in the corner of his eyes. America leans over him, hair damp from his swim, goggles snapped awkwardly around his forehead. America with his obnoxious shorts, barely covering anything that mattered, riding up on his thick thighs.

"I'm reading a book," he finally says, turning the page. "What does it look like I'm doing, you idiot?"

"Come on, we're at the beach. Swim with me! I bet if we dive deep enough, we can see all the cool fishes. Didya see the pictures of them? There's like... red ones and stuff." America digs through the picnic basket, to find the red fishes and stuff, and England finally sits up reluctantly in the thick heat that swallows his breath whole.

"I'll go with you later," he says irritably, and snaps at America's wrist. "I was at the good part of the book." He doesn't even remember the title of the book, and the cover only floats vaguely to the top of his mind. It was red, red hot, dark scarlet lightly dusted with the gritty sand. The sand got onto everything, even into the basket that he had organised so carefully. The sand got into his mouth, so it became dry when he looked at America's beaming face. The sand got into his stomach, making him feel queasy as his insides grated against the small rocks.

"Do you even know how to swim?" America kneels on the ugly towel, and comes too close to him. England is irritable. He doesn't know why. He doesn't want America so close to him, with his damp skin, his cheeks flushed from the brisk swim, his muscles flexing underneath the sun.

"Of course I do," he says loudly.

"Bet you can't."

"I'm not making stupid bets with you. Stop being beastly and go back to swimming. You might see your... red fish." He rolls over onto his side, pretending to read his book, and avoid the way America's hips protrude from his tiny shorts. Those obnoxiously tiny shorts.

"Come on, England." By now, America is wheedling, leaning over him with his heavy breath and sticky skin half pressed onto England's back. He smelled like salt and brine, and England read the same sentence again. He read

America kissed him gently on the ear, his wet hair brushing against the back of England’s neck. The seagulls screeched faintly in the distance, cries that bounce off the slick cliff walls. His fingers tremble over the page, but he stills himself, feeling America’s wet arm wrap around his hips.

“I’m going to get heat stroke,” he murmurs at his book, even as America moves his hand slowly down his stomach. He closes his eyes, even as the sun burns on the back of his eyelids, as America plays with the string of his swimsuit. His stomach feels warm, and his breathing comes shallowly.

“No, you won’t,” America whispers softly, and kisses him down his neck. He presses his body on him heavily, goggles bumping into England’s forehead. His hand moves down the rustling red-and-white shorts that England had carefully brought. His hand is wet. His hand slides up the swim shorts, pressing on the inside of England’s thigh. He’s gentle, as much as he can, but his strength leaves the pressure enough to hurt, and England finally rolls over onto the towel, back flat, eyes glued on the cherry-and-white umbrella that spins deliriously in his eyes.

America kisses him down his neck, lingering on his sticky collar bones. England wants to tell him off and say it’s disgusting, that he’s sweaty, but America is already licking at the dip of his shoulders, trailing his tongue down his ghastly pale skin. England reaches to touch him, the back of his head, his broad shoulders, anything. He feels dizzy and intoxicated, each breath rolling from his mouth. He swallows, and weaves his fingers through America’s heavy hair, each strand weighted with water.

“I don’t want sand to get inside me,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded against the sun. America stroked the soft insides of his thigh, and then slid his hand down. England felt a squirm of uncomfortable disappointment, then relief again when America hooked his fingers underneath the waistband. America’s fingers felt coarse against his hips.

“Okay?” America mumbled, half-flushed in embarrassment. England could have laughed. For all his smooth moves, America’s face was red, redder when he shifted under the umbrella’s shadow, and his tiny shorts didn’t hide his erection well. There was a bulge in the innocent blue shorts, and England wanted to stroke it, suck it, breathe through the thin fabric onto his skin.

But his head felt dizzy, so he only nodded briefly. The sun stifled the breath in his throat, even as America slid down his shorts to his ankles, then didn’t bother any further once he saw what he wanted. England reached down again to touch his hair, though he had to sit up partially on his elbows that rubbed against the frayed edges of the ugly towel. America seemed particularly careful about the sand, even as he fumbled to pull down his shorts to his thighs.

“No sand,” he said again, and America only bent over to kiss him on the side of his chin. England shifted uncomfortably as he spread his legs, America lifting his hips slightly. He licked his lips, his wet lips, and England watched him in a heat-stricken laziness. When America’s eyes, sky-blue eyes, flickered at him, England barely gave him a nod.

Another breath, another heartbeat moment, and America slowly entered him, hesitating, breathing in the hot air. England reached up, not far enough to touch America, but enough that America willingly leaned forward, kissing him on his forehead, his nose, his mouth, kissing him as if he was running out of breath, tongue and teeth clicking. England pushed his knees against America’s ribs, running his fingers down America’s chest for a moment, to feel his chest move up and down, running his fingers across the top of his abs, then clutching at his back when he finally began to move.

America kissed him, and rolled his hips deeper into him. England stifled the sounds in his throat, pressing his face into America’s hot shoulder, panting as he adjusted, feeling America’s thick cock inside him, rubbing his sensitive nerves, and he grinded against him desperately. America pulled back, his face ridiculously red, and bent to kiss him briefly on the lips again, and then rocked against him, trying to find a rhythm. He went too fast, but his damp skin still felt good against England’s cock.

The ocean was roaring in his ears and he buried his face into America’s shoulder, breathing heavier as he felt his legs shake against America’s sides, gripping the broad length of America’s back, feeling his spiny nudges, thrusting himself onto America’s cock and biting back his groans, not daring to look into America’s face. He felt himself careening towards the edge, and he was greedy, wanting all of America, squeezing too tightly on America’s back, dizzy with heat and heart aching faintly, and he came with a quiet jerk.

He relaxes against the ugly towel, pressing the palms of his hands against his face. He’s hot and sweaty, and disgusting, and he feels disgusting. But his legs are weak and the air is strong, and America pulls out of him, satisfied. He rolls over onto his side, and smiles into England’s face.

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Smiling.” England twists around to kiss him, running his fingers on the side of America’s face. “You’ve been randy since we came to this beach.”

“Yeah?” America flushes, sitting up. “You haven’t been complaining.”

“Your shorts are too small—”

“Yours are too big!”

England presses his palms again on the back of his eyelids, half-laughing to himself. Finally, he manages to start, “Have you been trying to look up my—”

“I’m going to swim.” America barely climbs back into his shorts as he runs off, still pulling them up from his knees as he runs across the hot sand. England watches his arse for a long moment, then reluctantly sits up to half-heartedly pull up his shorts. He climbs up, leaning against the heavy-set umbrella, and peers at the hot sky.

Pulling on his oversized straw hat and thin jacket, he finally emerges from his reading spot to skim his feet by the ocean, watching America splash water over his hot face. The sand is hot on his feet, and his travel is slow, the heat like a wall that pushes him back. The seagulls cry, the sun burns, and England thinks it’s a hot day.

catholic school as vicious as roman rule;

no subject