A/N: I reeeally should be updating A Little Piece Of Something. I'm just going to post some old FrUK-smut to compensate. I don't really know why it's not up here already though, it was written a long time ago. Oh well. Enjoy. :)

Tap tap tap.

Repeatedly hitting the tip of his pencil against the table, France tries his best to focus on the noise it makes and the small grey dots the lead leave on the table, and not on England – who sits right in front of him across the room, as bored with Germany's monotone presentation as everyone else. Except England doesn't have a pen to scribble notes on his paper to pass the time, like Japan. Neither does he have a cellphone to play games on, like America. Instead, he stares into thin air and plays around with that small metal rod that goes through his tongue.

Tap tap tap.

It's not working, the tapping, and France's eyes find England again – watches silently as the Brit's tongue comes out, twists around so that he can press and bite down softly of the shiny metal. That is going to ruin his teeth one day, is what France should be thinking. That is so goddamned freaking sexy, and I want that tongue all over me, is what France is actually thinking.

Almost all of England's piercings (except for a few ear studs he got back in his pirate days), he got during the 70's and 80's when the punk blossomed in the United Kingdom, and England himself also was pulled along with the wave of anarchy and anger. Before any one knew, England's body was pierced in numerous locations, some more visible than others. France was usually the first to find out every time he got a new one, mainly because the Brit would come drunk to his house every now and again, demanding to be roughly fucked through the mattress.

Tap tap tap. Taptaptaptap.

Canada, who sits next to France, nudges him with his elbow and brings a finger to his lips, shushing him – because apparently he wants to listen to fifty-seven reasons why coal power is the way to go for a healthy future, and apparently France's pen is a distraction. France just rolls his eyes, and turns them to England, who is still rolling the piercing between his teeth.

France has indeed seen England's piercings many times before, every last one of them – but that fact has never stopped his libido from racing when exposed to them.

The meeting is going slow, like really fucking slow – and England keeps twisting his tongue like that. Just why is no one else taking note to this except for France?

Then again, most people in here haven't had a chance to feel that tongue on their skin, haven't seen the rest of the metal on the Brit's body – and have no idea about how England behaves in bed when the punk in him decides to come out and play. To them, the piercing is nothing special.

Fourty-five long minutes later, Germany finally decides they've heard enough and ends the meeting for the day, letting everyone get back to their hotel rooms to prepare for the continuation tomorrow. France doesn't want to go back to his room though. He wants to go to someone else's room, because he is horny as hell, and he thinks that the one who got him into this state should take responsibility for their actions – maybe by pressing a pierced tongue to his cock?

In any case, he follows after England. They stay at the same hotel, so it's not really weird. The entire way he walks a few steps behind the Brit, who has engaged in a conversation with a certain blonde American. France tries to listen to their conversation, but all he can make out is America's loud voice talking about heroes and shit, and England's reserved voice making agreeing sounds every now and again. As they arrive at the hotel, England notices France at last – they are walking into the same elevator after all.

"Good evening, frogface," he just says plainly, as if frogface actually was his name, and France can see the titanium orb bouncing behind his teeth. "Enjoyed the meeting, did you?"

"No, not really."

"Really? You looked pretty interested to me," the Brit continues, and France recognizes that spark in his eyes. He knows. The bastard fucking knows.

"Well, an hour and a half of that old kraut talking about electric power. Not exactly my area of interest, so too speak," France looks at England hard, eyes conveying the same desire that he knows is pumping in England's veins.

"Mine neither," America suddenly pipes in, completely missing the tension that's building between the two older nations. "I mean, why can't we just keep doing what we're doing now? It works."

Neither England nor France pays any attention to him, they just glance at each other as the elevator reaches their floor and they get out. America stops in front of the first door in the corridor, "Well, this is my room. Good night England, good night France!"

"Likewise," they mumble in unison before turning around, heading down the hall.

"Your room is not in this direction, frog," England says when they reach the Brit's door.

"No," France replies as England unlocks the door. "But yours is." He moves swiftly and pushes England through the door, closing it behind them.

"What on earth do you think you are doing, you bloody fool?"

"Don't pretend you don't want it," France whispers as he leans in to kiss England – and for once, the other man drops his guard and he kisses back, wrapping his arms around France's neck to bring him closer. As England's tongue comes out to play, the warm metal of his piercing pressing against France's gums, the Frenchman pushes England down on the bed. "You know what that does to me."

England sticks his tongue out mockingly and France joins him on the bed. "How many of them do you still have left?" he asks after he has kissed England again with bruising intensity. It was a long time since last time and lately England have been rather obsessed with this entire "gentleman"-thing, so he might as well have taken out his piercings, the last remnants from the rebellious 70's.

"Why don't you find out for yourself, frog?" England snaps back and runs his tongue along France's neck, ending up at his ear, which he gives a light suck. France groans and begins to unbutton England's shirt, only to find the thin rods piercing his nipples still there, and still so incredibly sexy.

"These I remember. You kept them?" he says and runs lithe fingers over England's nipples.

"No, you're imaahh- nghh-," England makes an attempt at a sarcastic reply but it turns into a lewd moan as France runs his tongue over the left one, tugging lightly as his teeth closes over the shiny metal. England's hands fly to France's hair, roughly running through silky curls of gold, tugging a bit at the ends – but France knows that it doesn't mean stop but rather that feels good don't stop oh my god keep going.

He likes to thinks that, at least.

As England sighs and caresses his hair a bit more gently, France moves up to kiss his lips again, and as England sits up into the kiss, he slides the Brit's jacket and shirt off his shoulders, dropping it onto the floor next to the bed.

The metal-adorned tongue finds its way into France's mouth again and the Frenchman sighs into the kiss, his hands coming up to play with England's nipples, tugging at the rods and pinching the flesh around them. England moans, loudly and wantonly, into France's mouth. Lips go slack and his head tilts back, baring his throat to France as he falls back on the sheets again. The Frenchman is not late to attack his neck with hot, wet kisses and the Brit's hands run over his back, nails digging into delicate skin.

England's body is on edge – France can feel it by the shivering sparks shooting electricity through him, making him twitch and shake in his arms as he clings the Frenchman's back. France smirks against England's neck as he continues down, licks down his chest and ends up at a pierced nipple again, licking around the areola.

"Nghh- frog," England groans out, "Get- ah- on with it."

"So impatient, Angleterre," France purrs out, pressing his lips to England's chest, kissing softly before blowing on the Brit's nipple. Throwing a glance up, at England's face, he sees the frustrated look on his face as his tongue darts out to wet his lips, the metal rod running over soft skin.

"Ahh- yesss," England releases a hissing moan as France finally dives in and takes his right nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, the metal piercing pulling the the skin, shooting shockwaves of pleasure through England's body. The Brit grinds his hips up into France's and the Frenchman can feel that he is hard, fully hard, against him.

"Feel good, cheri?" he murmurs against England's sternum on his way over to his left nipple instead, giving it the same sucking, the same tugging on the metal rod and the same pinching it between his teeth.

England gives the same wanton moan as well.

"I'll take that as a yes then, " Francis smirks and gives England's left nipple one last lick before he sits up, spreading the Brit's legs as he begins to unbutton his black dress pants pants. "You got any left here as well?"

"Only one way to find out," England gives an equally wicked smirk back and thrusts into France's hand as the Frenchman cups his erection, palming it through his underwear. France pulls pants and underwear down in one swift motion and England helps him with it as he kicks off his shoes and shifts out of his clothes.

And yes, England has indeed kept the small barbell that pierces through his frenulum. France has always wondered why it England chose it over a Prince Albert or an Ampallang, but really, who is he to complain? Instead, he just smiles and leans down, licking the underside of England's penis from the balls up to the piercing which he tugs lightly on.

"Mm," France hums, "I'm glad you kept this one. I like it."

"Of course you do, it's on my cock," Arthur says before his breath hitches and comes out as a whining moan – France has taken the head of his cock into his mouth and sucks harshly. His tongue darts out every now and again and laps at the frenulum and the rod that goes through it and England's head falls back, mouth wide open and gasping.

What at last brings England over the edge are a lot of things.

It's the sounds – France's slurping around the his cock and his own keening moans.

It's the sight – of France, beautiful France, with his head bobbing, hair falling over England's hip as France throws it over his shoulder.

It's the sensations – France's hot mouth on his cock, tongue coming out to play with the frenum piercing and his hands crawling up England's body to pinch and pull at his nipples.

And, though England would rather not admit it, it's the feelings – because this is France, fair France, who is worshipping his body, loving him and the rugged remains of his rebellious times.

France thinks it's too sexy for words, and as England comes for him, shoots his semen down his throat, he wonders if there's more to come, perhaps what he's been imagining all day, that delicious tongue working on his cock, the soft warmth of it contrasting against the hard barbell that's pierced through it.

And what do you know? As England's breathing calms down, he sits up again, giving France a seductive smile. "You're wearing far to much clothing," he comments and unbuttons France's shirt, hands still a bit shaky from his orgasm, before pushing it over his shoulders. He glances at France through blonde lashes and says seductively, voice husky and hoarse; "Lay down."

There's definitely no denying England now and France throws himself back on the bed, getting comfortable with his back on the covers and England in front of him.

England is not as romantic as France, and he doesn't care if France is naked or not. He simply makes quick work of the buttons of his pants and pulls then down far enough for him to access the Frenchman's cock and balls. France groans as his restricted and neglected erection hits fresh air and England smirks as he breaths over it, not touching in with neither hands nor mouth.

"Angleteeeerre~" France whines and bucks his hips, searching for the warmth of England's mouth. The Brit just smirks and sticks his tongue out, the tip touching the head of France's cock. The Frenchman groans out in frustration and thrust his hips upwards. England just takes a grip on his hips and forces him to stay down as he continues with his slow, sweet torture of lapping at the tip of his cock, licking up the pre-come that has began leaking from the Frenchman's erection.

Having had enough, France moves his hands to England's head, at first caressing the Brit's messy hair – but as England opens his mouth to give another painfully teasing lick, France shoves him down further, not far enough to choke the Brit, but definitely far enough for his tongue, and that lovely piercing, to press deliciously against his cock. France sighs in relief and England moves up from his dick again, eyes dark and angry.

"Bloody bastard," he mutters and France just smiles at him, one hand still in England's hair and the other behind his own neck.

"Your own fault. Too teasing."

"Sod off, will you?" England mumbles and leans down again, this time taking France's cock into his mouth on his own accord, pressing his tongue along the shaft as he goes down and up again. France sighs again and his breathing picks up as he caresses the head that's bobbing between his legs. It's lovely, because not only does England give excellent head – but combined with that piercing in his tongue, it is divine and wonderful and France thinks that maybe this is what heaven is like after all.

He would die happy if he knew that this is what awaits him.

England pressing the titanium rod hard against the head of his cock catches France off-guard and he gasps, moans and tightens his fist in England's hair. And the Brit just keeps going, simulating him with his tongue until it's finally enough and France comes into his mouth. His senses are overloading and he shakes and twitches against the sheets, toes curling and uncurling.

As England comes up next to him on the bed, he smiles at him and it's not until after the Brit kisses him and spits his entire release into his mouth, that France realizes that England's smile was a tad bit too happy and not smug enough, for the Frenchman to be able to trust him not to do something like that.

Spitting his own semen out on the sheets, he comments; "Classy. Such a gentleman."

"Oh, stuff it, frog," England says and presses a real kiss to the Frenchman's lips. "You like it."

"Mm," France hums against England's mouth and presses back. "Not in your wildest dreams."

England ignores the remark, because he knows where France's heart lies as he creeps closer and they twine together in the afterglow.

Reviews are lovely. :D