(no subject)
Happy birthday elwon! You only asked for this about four months ago, SEE HOW PROMPT I AM?
Title: For the Love of Beer
Rating: 18? Yeah, let's go with that.
Pairing/Characters: England/Prussia
Warning: Words, words and more words.
Summary: In the desert in a vaguely WWII setting there is a severe lack of beer. This makes everyone grumpy. And then sex.
Prussia collapsed on the hot sand in an unhappy heap. England allowed it because he was the kind of chap to treat prisoners of war civilly and not because his own knees were moments from giving out. He settled himself beside Prussia, far away enough that they weren't touching (though Prussia still felt like a radiator) yet close enough as to stay in the shadow of what was possibly once a plane but had now become the only piece of shade within visible distance.
The sand they were sitting on was only just this side of unbearable, though the metal they were cowering behind was absolutely untouchable. Prussia, as mentioned, was a veritable furnace and England felt as though it would be possible to cook eggs on his own skin. His legs were about the colour of a pomegranate, though a slightly less ripe one than the pomegranate of Prussia’s legs. Turns out that shorts in a desert aren’t such a good idea.
“I am so thirsty.” England wordlessly handed over a water canteen. Prussia eyed it with disgust and batted it away. “I need a real drink. Not that… pisswater.”
“It’s just water, actually,” England interjected half-heartedly.
“I need a beer,” Prussia carried on, heedless, “A nice, cool beer.”
“I’ll let you have one before you’re bundled off with all the other PoWs, how about that?” It was the kind of thing that should've been said with a smirk, but England found his facial muscles weren't really on board with the idea.
“That’s another thing,” There was always 'another thing' when talking to Prussia; when there wasn't something in the immediate vicinity that needed killing, his mind was like an indecisive butterfly. “Why am I the prisoner?”
“Because I captured you,” England said in the bored tone of a teacher who was thoroughly fed up with his job. Prussia attempted a laugh, but the heat sapped the enthusiasm out of it before it had even left his mouth.
“You and what army?”
“Don’t see much of your army out here, either, Kraut,” England replied instantly. The stifling heat cut their conversation short before it devolved into an insult contest and the butterfly of Prussia's mind sought new ground.
“Hand me that water, I actually am really thirsty.” England sighed and shot the hand that was waving demandingly in front of his nose a look of annoyance that went completely unnoticed. He took a gulp of water himself before he handed the canteen over. Prussia drank enthusiastically, but he wasn't messy about it and didn't waste a drop. They had plenty of water to last them back to civilisation, but it always pained England to see things wasted.
“I'm really fucking hot,” said Prussia the moment his mouth was free.
“We are in a desert,” remarked England as he watched Prussia undo a few more buttons on his shirt with an uninterested eye.
“And I'm just trying to make conversation.” Prussia flicked England one of his own tired glares. “I thought you liked talking about the weather and shit.”
“At home, where the weather changes every five minutes, yes, I like to talk about the weather.” Sarcasm was just about the only thing the heat hadn't managed to sweat out of England. “In a desert, I don't find it nearly such a scintillating topic, surprisingly enough.” Prussia sneered and closed his eyes, putting his hands behind his head and lying down as though he were settling in for the long haul.
“You are so much more fun to talk to after you've had a beer. Or five,” he muttered out the corner of his mouth.
“You're much more fun to be around after I've had a beer or five,” England retaliated, once again without much feeling behind the words. Prussia ignored him and shifted around, making a dent for himself in the sand. England sat silently for a moment, contemplating whether or not the walk back to civilisation would be worth Prussia's whining if they set off again soon. He decided that it probably wouldn't be.
England leant back, momentarily forgetting the egg-frying intensity of the heated metal behind him, and sprang forward again with a yell. He slapped a hand to the back of his head where it had touched, but thankfully no great damage had been done. Prussia snorted half-heartedly in amusement and England sent an obligatory glare his way, but then he sighed and settled himself down in the slightly less scorching sand.
They both lay quietly for a while, staring at the insides of their eyelids because the sky was too bright.
“I really need a beer,” said Prussia after a while.
England considered keeping up his pretence, but upon more thought recognised it as the exercise in futility that it was. “Yeah, me too,” he sighed.
~~~
The sun was setting. The shadow they were sitting under now stretched far beyond their feet and the sand was a burning orange that looked much hotter than it was, at long last. England stretched, his clothes uncomfortable and stiff. Sand seemed to have got into every nook and cranny even though he'd barely moved an inch. His mouth quirked slightly at the thought of the beaches back home. All he needed was a picnic and the sea; the sand and sunburn were well taken care of.
His company, however, left much to be desired. Even though sleeping was widely agreed to be one of Prussia's most manageable states, he was still shifting about and making noises that may as well have been scientifically designed to get on England's nerves. England sat up and took a long pull from the canteen that still rested in the sand beside him, but once that was done he found he had nothing left to distract him from Prussia. He frowned down at Prussia's face. Prussia was frowning and his mouth was wobbling open and shut in a way that made him look like an angry haddock. England was overcome by an irresistible urge to punch Prussia in the shoulder. So he did. They needed to get up and start walking again anyway.
Prussia flailed amusingly in reaction to being violently woken - so much for those warrior's instincts he insisted had - and then groaned in much the same way he had been when sleeping, only louder.
“Oh God,” Prussia wiped a hand over his face, “Please tell me you did not just wake me up.” Prussia peered out from under his hand at England's deeply unimpressed face and groaned again. “Why would you wake me up? That was the best dream I've had since the start of this shitting war, I can't believe you just woke me up!” Prussia's voice was brushing hysterical levels towards the end of his small tirade, provoking a raised eyebrow from the English corner.
“It can't have been that good of a dream.” Which, as it turned out, was precisely the wrong thing to say. Before he knew what was happening, England found himself on his back being straddled by one unaccountably pissed off Prussia.
“It can't...?” Prussia coughed, grabbed the canteen out of England's hand and poured the remaining contents down his throat. His mouth now less parched than the desert surrounding them, he continued. “I can assure you, England, that yes, the dream really was that good.” He shifted a little and pushed down so that England could feel a very particular part of Prussian anatomy pressing into his stomach. It wasn't a gun; England had frisked Prussia quite thoroughly. England's eyes widened momentarily before they slid shut in resigned horror.
“Oh fuck,” he groaned.
“Yeah.” Prussia shifted a little more. “'Oh fuck' is right. I was this close,” Prussia held up a hand, indicating how close 'this' was. Then he decided that didn't get the point across quite well enough and gave England a very physical demonstration of how close he'd been. “This close,” England grimaced at Prussia's hot breath rushing over his face, “To one of the most luscious, rich, thirst-quenching beers I have ever seen.”
There was a pause. England kept his face carefully blank as Prussia silently seethed above him, waiting for a response. England kept it going for as long as he thought he could get away with without being pummeled into the ground, before he finally broke the stalemate with: “Beer?”
“Yes,” said Prussia through clenched teeth, “Beer.”
England pursed his lips and nodded slowly in consideration.. “That's...” he started, but his brain utterly failed him. For all the vast and varied vocabulary that the English language offered him, he couldn't come up with a single word to describe Prussia's predicament. Luckily, Prussia wasn't actually at all interested in England's opinion.
“One beautiful, shining glass. Full to the brim. No, no, wait,” Prussia had the smallest of smile on is face; it was clear his mind had disappeared off elsewhere. “The head was overflowing, running down the side of the glass.” Prussia sat upright and England breathed freer, even though Prussia was still sitting on him and his arousal was very much still evident. “The teasing little beads of condensation...” Prussia's hand trailed lightly over England's face, caressing it as though it were the sainted glass of beer itself.
Prussia drifted off back into his dreamworld, his hand continuing to move erratically over England's face. It was, quite frankly, supremely irritating. They had a civilisation to be walking back to and this was getting them absolutely nowhere. England caught Prussia's hand under his own, holding it to his face. Prussia snapped back to reality and looked at England. It was clear he wasn't particularly thrilled to have been reminded of England's presence.
“Are you quite done?” asked England. Prussia scowled, his fingers dug into England's cheek and his legs tightened against England's sides. He leant and reached over England's head so suddenly that England flinched, expecting some kind of physical retribution, but it turned out that Prussia was just going for another one of the water canteens. There were five or so left; ever the good boy scout (because he'd invented the movement, obviously) England was always prepared.
“I was really looking forward to that beer,” said Prussia conversationally as he untwisted the cap.
“It was an imaginary beer,” reminded England.
“But I have such a good imagination.” And with that said, Prussia took the cap off and splashed water over England's face. England spluttered, red-faced (though that was mostly the sun's doing) and spat water back.
“What was that for?” In lieu of an answer, Prussia licked his cheek. “What are you doing?”
Prussia sat back. “You ever licked beer off a really good-looking woman?” Prussia tilted his head curiously and waited out the stunned silence before England replied in the negative. “Yeah, thought as much,” he said dismissively, “Bet you've never even seen a woman naked.”
“Says the one who had a wet dream about beer!” The level of heat in their conversation seemed to be directly, inversely related to the heat that was quickly disappearing from their surroundings. In order to subdue England, Prussia threw another splash of water in his face and resumed licking it off again. Unfortunately for England, this meant he was close enough to hear the muttered, “Completely fucking insane.” Prussia grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head down into the sand, which wasn't nearly as painful as Prussia had meant it to be, but it got the point across.
“If you could just indulge me, this would be over a hell of a lot quicker.” England was almost going cross-eyed trying to keep focussed on Prussia's face. “And who knows? Perhaps you'll even enjoy yourself.” Then Prussia quietly added, “Though I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't, you grouchy old fucker,” which England thought was quite superfluous and somewhat counterintuitive. Still, he said nothing and Prussia saw that as an invitation to get back into his fantasy.
England rolled his eyes and let Prussia go about his business, seeing as he was not going let this one go. However, England was not made of stone, being at war meant there was very little time for anything else and Prussia's small noises of satisfaction as he flicked his tongue over England's skin were very provocative. It said a lot for Prussia's imagination as he was essentially licking off the day's sweat and grime and making it sound good.
England grabbed Prussia's head with both hands and held him off for the briefest of moments. Before Prussia could even start to complain or unleash his fury, England brought their mouths together, hard and fast. At least this way he wouldn't have to look at Prussia's self-satisfied smirk. England snatched the water from Prussia's grasp and poured it over Prussia's head, breaking their mouths apart to take up his own licking.
He could out-imagine Prussia any day of the week and he was going to prove it.
It didn't take long for Prussia to work his hand into England's shorts. England concentrated on getting their shirts open and things were altogether moving very swiftly as they both tried to get more of that alcoholic taste off each other's skin. That is, until Prussia made it into England's underwear and began rubbing the bare and very sensitive skin. England nigh on screamed and bucked, but not quite in the way Prussia was going for.
“Stop! Stop! Fucking hell, stop!” Prussia stopped and raised his hands, looking bemused.
“What did I do?”
“There's sand in my pants.” Prussia sat back on England's thighs as England hissed and inspected the damage.
“I thought you liked it rough,” said Prussia, not entirely understanding the problem.
“Oh no, I don't mind rough at all,” said England, carefully manoeuvring his clothes out of the way, “But there's 'rough', and then there's sandpaper.” He gently rinsed the area. “Jesus fucking Christ, Prussia, I think you actually chafed it.”
“Aww,” Prussia took on a condescending tone, “Does kleine England want me to kiss it better?”
England stopped what he was doing and looked up at Prussia. “That's not a half-bad idea, actually.”
“What? No, I didn't actually mean--”
“When we get back, I'll let you have two beers before they cart you off.”
Prussia considered it.
“Fine,” he finally decided and then he quickly descended.
Prussia was far gentler than England had ever thought he was capable of and any previous hurt was soon soothed and forgotten. Prussia's tongue stroked and teased in ways it had never occurred to England that Prussia would use, as theirs had always been the quick and dirty kind of sex. England started thrusting shallowly and the moans that made their way out of his mouth were the kind that he'd deny ever having made. Prussia groaned in a way that vibrated pleasantly throughout England, but then his sweet, wet suction was gone.
“This fucking sand gets everywhere!” Prussia complained, removing his hand from his own shorts and shaking it. Prussia stared at his hand as though it had told him he wasn't ever allowed to declare war ever again, looking somewhat like a puppy that had lost his favourite toy. England quickly devised a plan to get them both to the desired end in the quickest way possible.
“Get up here,” he ordered. Prussia shuffled up England's body and England stopped him when they were about level. England made a show of washing the sand off one of his hands and then used the last of the water to do the same for Prussia that he'd done for himself earlier on. Lastly, he encircled both their cocks with his hand and pumped, raising his eyes to Prussia in question. Prussia grinned back widely.
“Yeah,” he said a little breathlessly, “Yeah, that works.”
After so many starts and stops, they were both more than a little desperate to end. They thrust against one another, panting into each other's mouths. Everything about the way they moved was working towards that one and only goal. Hips jerking and hands clenching in the hated sand. Their muscles wound tighter and tighter until at long last England broke their rhythm and came with a hoarse yell. Prussia could feel him tense and relax, tense and relax, and was willingly pulled over the edge.
Prussia collapsed on top of England, pushing all the air out of his body in a loud whoosh, forcing him to shove Prussia off onto the sand, which would now probably be stuck to him for days to come. Prussia leaned up on one elbow and grinned mischievously.
“You know what?” he asked, “Now I really, really want a beer.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
The End.
Yes, by the end of this they do both look like they've wet themselves quite badly. But I think this is quite low on the list of things they care about.
ENJOY THE REST OF YOUR DAY, JEN!
Title: For the Love of Beer
Rating: 18? Yeah, let's go with that.
Pairing/Characters: England/Prussia
Warning: Words, words and more words.
Summary: In the desert in a vaguely WWII setting there is a severe lack of beer. This makes everyone grumpy. And then sex.
Prussia collapsed on the hot sand in an unhappy heap. England allowed it because he was the kind of chap to treat prisoners of war civilly and not because his own knees were moments from giving out. He settled himself beside Prussia, far away enough that they weren't touching (though Prussia still felt like a radiator) yet close enough as to stay in the shadow of what was possibly once a plane but had now become the only piece of shade within visible distance.
The sand they were sitting on was only just this side of unbearable, though the metal they were cowering behind was absolutely untouchable. Prussia, as mentioned, was a veritable furnace and England felt as though it would be possible to cook eggs on his own skin. His legs were about the colour of a pomegranate, though a slightly less ripe one than the pomegranate of Prussia’s legs. Turns out that shorts in a desert aren’t such a good idea.
“I am so thirsty.” England wordlessly handed over a water canteen. Prussia eyed it with disgust and batted it away. “I need a real drink. Not that… pisswater.”
“It’s just water, actually,” England interjected half-heartedly.
“I need a beer,” Prussia carried on, heedless, “A nice, cool beer.”
“I’ll let you have one before you’re bundled off with all the other PoWs, how about that?” It was the kind of thing that should've been said with a smirk, but England found his facial muscles weren't really on board with the idea.
“That’s another thing,” There was always 'another thing' when talking to Prussia; when there wasn't something in the immediate vicinity that needed killing, his mind was like an indecisive butterfly. “Why am I the prisoner?”
“Because I captured you,” England said in the bored tone of a teacher who was thoroughly fed up with his job. Prussia attempted a laugh, but the heat sapped the enthusiasm out of it before it had even left his mouth.
“You and what army?”
“Don’t see much of your army out here, either, Kraut,” England replied instantly. The stifling heat cut their conversation short before it devolved into an insult contest and the butterfly of Prussia's mind sought new ground.
“Hand me that water, I actually am really thirsty.” England sighed and shot the hand that was waving demandingly in front of his nose a look of annoyance that went completely unnoticed. He took a gulp of water himself before he handed the canteen over. Prussia drank enthusiastically, but he wasn't messy about it and didn't waste a drop. They had plenty of water to last them back to civilisation, but it always pained England to see things wasted.
“I'm really fucking hot,” said Prussia the moment his mouth was free.
“We are in a desert,” remarked England as he watched Prussia undo a few more buttons on his shirt with an uninterested eye.
“And I'm just trying to make conversation.” Prussia flicked England one of his own tired glares. “I thought you liked talking about the weather and shit.”
“At home, where the weather changes every five minutes, yes, I like to talk about the weather.” Sarcasm was just about the only thing the heat hadn't managed to sweat out of England. “In a desert, I don't find it nearly such a scintillating topic, surprisingly enough.” Prussia sneered and closed his eyes, putting his hands behind his head and lying down as though he were settling in for the long haul.
“You are so much more fun to talk to after you've had a beer. Or five,” he muttered out the corner of his mouth.
“You're much more fun to be around after I've had a beer or five,” England retaliated, once again without much feeling behind the words. Prussia ignored him and shifted around, making a dent for himself in the sand. England sat silently for a moment, contemplating whether or not the walk back to civilisation would be worth Prussia's whining if they set off again soon. He decided that it probably wouldn't be.
England leant back, momentarily forgetting the egg-frying intensity of the heated metal behind him, and sprang forward again with a yell. He slapped a hand to the back of his head where it had touched, but thankfully no great damage had been done. Prussia snorted half-heartedly in amusement and England sent an obligatory glare his way, but then he sighed and settled himself down in the slightly less scorching sand.
They both lay quietly for a while, staring at the insides of their eyelids because the sky was too bright.
“I really need a beer,” said Prussia after a while.
England considered keeping up his pretence, but upon more thought recognised it as the exercise in futility that it was. “Yeah, me too,” he sighed.
~~~
The sun was setting. The shadow they were sitting under now stretched far beyond their feet and the sand was a burning orange that looked much hotter than it was, at long last. England stretched, his clothes uncomfortable and stiff. Sand seemed to have got into every nook and cranny even though he'd barely moved an inch. His mouth quirked slightly at the thought of the beaches back home. All he needed was a picnic and the sea; the sand and sunburn were well taken care of.
His company, however, left much to be desired. Even though sleeping was widely agreed to be one of Prussia's most manageable states, he was still shifting about and making noises that may as well have been scientifically designed to get on England's nerves. England sat up and took a long pull from the canteen that still rested in the sand beside him, but once that was done he found he had nothing left to distract him from Prussia. He frowned down at Prussia's face. Prussia was frowning and his mouth was wobbling open and shut in a way that made him look like an angry haddock. England was overcome by an irresistible urge to punch Prussia in the shoulder. So he did. They needed to get up and start walking again anyway.
Prussia flailed amusingly in reaction to being violently woken - so much for those warrior's instincts he insisted had - and then groaned in much the same way he had been when sleeping, only louder.
“Oh God,” Prussia wiped a hand over his face, “Please tell me you did not just wake me up.” Prussia peered out from under his hand at England's deeply unimpressed face and groaned again. “Why would you wake me up? That was the best dream I've had since the start of this shitting war, I can't believe you just woke me up!” Prussia's voice was brushing hysterical levels towards the end of his small tirade, provoking a raised eyebrow from the English corner.
“It can't have been that good of a dream.” Which, as it turned out, was precisely the wrong thing to say. Before he knew what was happening, England found himself on his back being straddled by one unaccountably pissed off Prussia.
“It can't...?” Prussia coughed, grabbed the canteen out of England's hand and poured the remaining contents down his throat. His mouth now less parched than the desert surrounding them, he continued. “I can assure you, England, that yes, the dream really was that good.” He shifted a little and pushed down so that England could feel a very particular part of Prussian anatomy pressing into his stomach. It wasn't a gun; England had frisked Prussia quite thoroughly. England's eyes widened momentarily before they slid shut in resigned horror.
“Oh fuck,” he groaned.
“Yeah.” Prussia shifted a little more. “'Oh fuck' is right. I was this close,” Prussia held up a hand, indicating how close 'this' was. Then he decided that didn't get the point across quite well enough and gave England a very physical demonstration of how close he'd been. “This close,” England grimaced at Prussia's hot breath rushing over his face, “To one of the most luscious, rich, thirst-quenching beers I have ever seen.”
There was a pause. England kept his face carefully blank as Prussia silently seethed above him, waiting for a response. England kept it going for as long as he thought he could get away with without being pummeled into the ground, before he finally broke the stalemate with: “Beer?”
“Yes,” said Prussia through clenched teeth, “Beer.”
England pursed his lips and nodded slowly in consideration.. “That's...” he started, but his brain utterly failed him. For all the vast and varied vocabulary that the English language offered him, he couldn't come up with a single word to describe Prussia's predicament. Luckily, Prussia wasn't actually at all interested in England's opinion.
“One beautiful, shining glass. Full to the brim. No, no, wait,” Prussia had the smallest of smile on is face; it was clear his mind had disappeared off elsewhere. “The head was overflowing, running down the side of the glass.” Prussia sat upright and England breathed freer, even though Prussia was still sitting on him and his arousal was very much still evident. “The teasing little beads of condensation...” Prussia's hand trailed lightly over England's face, caressing it as though it were the sainted glass of beer itself.
Prussia drifted off back into his dreamworld, his hand continuing to move erratically over England's face. It was, quite frankly, supremely irritating. They had a civilisation to be walking back to and this was getting them absolutely nowhere. England caught Prussia's hand under his own, holding it to his face. Prussia snapped back to reality and looked at England. It was clear he wasn't particularly thrilled to have been reminded of England's presence.
“Are you quite done?” asked England. Prussia scowled, his fingers dug into England's cheek and his legs tightened against England's sides. He leant and reached over England's head so suddenly that England flinched, expecting some kind of physical retribution, but it turned out that Prussia was just going for another one of the water canteens. There were five or so left; ever the good boy scout (because he'd invented the movement, obviously) England was always prepared.
“I was really looking forward to that beer,” said Prussia conversationally as he untwisted the cap.
“It was an imaginary beer,” reminded England.
“But I have such a good imagination.” And with that said, Prussia took the cap off and splashed water over England's face. England spluttered, red-faced (though that was mostly the sun's doing) and spat water back.
“What was that for?” In lieu of an answer, Prussia licked his cheek. “What are you doing?”
Prussia sat back. “You ever licked beer off a really good-looking woman?” Prussia tilted his head curiously and waited out the stunned silence before England replied in the negative. “Yeah, thought as much,” he said dismissively, “Bet you've never even seen a woman naked.”
“Says the one who had a wet dream about beer!” The level of heat in their conversation seemed to be directly, inversely related to the heat that was quickly disappearing from their surroundings. In order to subdue England, Prussia threw another splash of water in his face and resumed licking it off again. Unfortunately for England, this meant he was close enough to hear the muttered, “Completely fucking insane.” Prussia grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head down into the sand, which wasn't nearly as painful as Prussia had meant it to be, but it got the point across.
“If you could just indulge me, this would be over a hell of a lot quicker.” England was almost going cross-eyed trying to keep focussed on Prussia's face. “And who knows? Perhaps you'll even enjoy yourself.” Then Prussia quietly added, “Though I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't, you grouchy old fucker,” which England thought was quite superfluous and somewhat counterintuitive. Still, he said nothing and Prussia saw that as an invitation to get back into his fantasy.
England rolled his eyes and let Prussia go about his business, seeing as he was not going let this one go. However, England was not made of stone, being at war meant there was very little time for anything else and Prussia's small noises of satisfaction as he flicked his tongue over England's skin were very provocative. It said a lot for Prussia's imagination as he was essentially licking off the day's sweat and grime and making it sound good.
England grabbed Prussia's head with both hands and held him off for the briefest of moments. Before Prussia could even start to complain or unleash his fury, England brought their mouths together, hard and fast. At least this way he wouldn't have to look at Prussia's self-satisfied smirk. England snatched the water from Prussia's grasp and poured it over Prussia's head, breaking their mouths apart to take up his own licking.
He could out-imagine Prussia any day of the week and he was going to prove it.
It didn't take long for Prussia to work his hand into England's shorts. England concentrated on getting their shirts open and things were altogether moving very swiftly as they both tried to get more of that alcoholic taste off each other's skin. That is, until Prussia made it into England's underwear and began rubbing the bare and very sensitive skin. England nigh on screamed and bucked, but not quite in the way Prussia was going for.
“Stop! Stop! Fucking hell, stop!” Prussia stopped and raised his hands, looking bemused.
“What did I do?”
“There's sand in my pants.” Prussia sat back on England's thighs as England hissed and inspected the damage.
“I thought you liked it rough,” said Prussia, not entirely understanding the problem.
“Oh no, I don't mind rough at all,” said England, carefully manoeuvring his clothes out of the way, “But there's 'rough', and then there's sandpaper.” He gently rinsed the area. “Jesus fucking Christ, Prussia, I think you actually chafed it.”
“Aww,” Prussia took on a condescending tone, “Does kleine England want me to kiss it better?”
England stopped what he was doing and looked up at Prussia. “That's not a half-bad idea, actually.”
“What? No, I didn't actually mean--”
“When we get back, I'll let you have two beers before they cart you off.”
Prussia considered it.
“Fine,” he finally decided and then he quickly descended.
Prussia was far gentler than England had ever thought he was capable of and any previous hurt was soon soothed and forgotten. Prussia's tongue stroked and teased in ways it had never occurred to England that Prussia would use, as theirs had always been the quick and dirty kind of sex. England started thrusting shallowly and the moans that made their way out of his mouth were the kind that he'd deny ever having made. Prussia groaned in a way that vibrated pleasantly throughout England, but then his sweet, wet suction was gone.
“This fucking sand gets everywhere!” Prussia complained, removing his hand from his own shorts and shaking it. Prussia stared at his hand as though it had told him he wasn't ever allowed to declare war ever again, looking somewhat like a puppy that had lost his favourite toy. England quickly devised a plan to get them both to the desired end in the quickest way possible.
“Get up here,” he ordered. Prussia shuffled up England's body and England stopped him when they were about level. England made a show of washing the sand off one of his hands and then used the last of the water to do the same for Prussia that he'd done for himself earlier on. Lastly, he encircled both their cocks with his hand and pumped, raising his eyes to Prussia in question. Prussia grinned back widely.
“Yeah,” he said a little breathlessly, “Yeah, that works.”
After so many starts and stops, they were both more than a little desperate to end. They thrust against one another, panting into each other's mouths. Everything about the way they moved was working towards that one and only goal. Hips jerking and hands clenching in the hated sand. Their muscles wound tighter and tighter until at long last England broke their rhythm and came with a hoarse yell. Prussia could feel him tense and relax, tense and relax, and was willingly pulled over the edge.
Prussia collapsed on top of England, pushing all the air out of his body in a loud whoosh, forcing him to shove Prussia off onto the sand, which would now probably be stuck to him for days to come. Prussia leaned up on one elbow and grinned mischievously.
“You know what?” he asked, “Now I really, really want a beer.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
The End.
Yes, by the end of this they do both look like they've wet themselves quite badly. But I think this is quite low on the list of things they care about.
ENJOY THE REST OF YOUR DAY, JEN!