It had started so simple. Just a quick kiss in the bathroom at the conference, that's all England wanted. So he grabbed those lovely locks of French hair, turned the frog around and planted one on his lips.

He really did have lovely lips, so soft and cushioned, perfect for kissing. England tasted them, gently at first, then harder, his own mouth opening just a little for France's tongue to slide in.

That was Mistake Number One. France wasn't a good kisser, or a great kisser. He was a fucking amazing kisser, knowing just how to slide his tongue across teeth, how to rub it just so, how to use it to draw England's back into his mouth and suck on it, as though begging for something bigger. The smaller blond moaned as his back hit the wall, going from possessor to possession in seconds flat.

Without his telling them to, his hips began to roll forward, and France broke away with a knowing smile.

"Eager, aren't we, cher?"

"Shut up and kiss me." growled England, secretly admiring the way the other man's lips had begun to pout and redden from their little session. Oh god, how he wanted to push him to the floor and bruise those lips, feel that tight burn. He just didn't get a chance.

His mouth was being invaded, somehow crushed and gentled at the same time. Beautiful, that was how France tasted, although England would be damned before admitting it, but he tasted a little sweet and a little dark at the same time, like chocolates or one of America's fancy coffees. Before he knew it, they were rocking growing erections against one another, but the friction wasn't enough. They had moved, too, and England felt the sink's edge dig into his back. He braced himself and hopped up, allowing his lover to take the lead, pressing him against the glass with each thrust. They were having sex with their clothes on, and neither could restrain moans. The friction was just so amazingly hot, burning them as they fucked. Across a bathroom sink with a meeting going on not two doors down. It shouldn't have made England's dick twitch in his trousers like that, but damn it did.

"Merde, Angleterre, when we get home, I'm going to fuck you in the foyer, ride you on the stairs, bend you across the balcony, and suck you on the bed." groaned France, arching and rubbing like a cat in heat, slamming his erection forward, mocking what he wanted.

"Wh-what happened to romance?" retorted England, trying to push the need out of his voice long enough to form a good comeback. France just grinned one of his wicked highwayman grins and kissed England, pumping harder.

"I'm going to feed you chocolates, love, and push inside, wouldn't you like that. You know I'm big and I would stretch you all the way. I want to see you dripping with sweat and come, mouth all dirty with chocolate. We can have romantic later, wouldn't you prefer hard and fast and now?" he punctuated the last three adjectives with more rolls of his hips, pressing England's zipper into his cock. He felt like such a dirty slut, getting ravished by a Frenchman against a mirror, about to come and come hard.

He could picture what France was saying, his hole clenching at the thought of being impaled like that, would it be long and slow, or slick and fast? The wood of the stairs on his back, being pressed into the carpet, he wanted it all as pleasure began to build within him. Faster, hotter, fuck, harder, slamming together, so close.

They cried out as that sensation spread, filling visions with white and mouths with muffled screams of ecstasy. England jerked upright, moaning and convulsing as he spilled his seed down his pants, France following behind, biting into his neck, leaving a little red mark.

They lay across the sink for a moment, panting, trying to swirl softly from their heaven, then England swore to himself.

How the hell are we supposed to go to the meeting now? Bloody frog.