Bosom Buddies

Warning: Sexual innuendos, situations, and crack. Also, OCs.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, but I do own my personification and perception of Iran (Mexico, however, belongs to a friend). Also, I don't agree with some of the sentiments expressed in the text.

When Mexico had woken up that morning, he hadn't expected Iran would leave her hotel, track down his house, and otherwise show up. Yet she did and smiled brightly as he stumbled to his door and let her in.

"O Maria, Maria… What are you doing here, Iran? Aren't you supposed to be in your… mosque?" Mexico growled. He wasn't a morning person, almost completely in love with his mattress over anything – or one – else.

The Persian smiled like a razor. "Well, I wanted to ask a favor of you, Mexico. Please, may I come in?"

He huffed. "Nah, let's sit out. If that's alright, señora." He muttered, gesturing at the large porch swing. She nodded, her head scarf falling over her bangs. She readjusted it as they sat on the swing.

It was a good few minutes of staring out into the parched horizon before Mexico chose to break the silence. "So what brings you to the continent? Did you and Estado Unidos make up…?" He saw the glare and was secretly pleased. The Persian woman had been, to be entirely blunt, America's guard dog when they dated. She was very protective and Mexico would have been lying if her glare alone couldn't make any man's testicles take refuge in his ribs. "…I guess not?"

"No, the bastard hasn't managed to apologize," she snapped coldly. "But I do need your help with him."

"My help?"

"You can get me into his house, can't you?" she asked simply. "After all, I hear you've gotten in at least a hundred times, if not more."

Mexico was floored. He started to sputter "What? Are you crazy? O Dios, ¿Por qué has hecho esto?" he sobbed. It was one thing for him to do it, but to break her in? That was World War Three waiting to happen!

Iran looked at him, resting against the cushions of the wicker porch swing comfortably. She let him carry on patiently before she spoke. "I'll pay you."

Mexico looked at her. Her audacity knew no bounds, did it? She could cause an international incident, at the least! And she wanted to pay him to do something so likely to backfire?

"How much?"

Well Judas did sell out Jesus for thirty pieces of silver.

Iran smirked. "One hundred dollars is my lowest."

"A hundred, huh?" he frowned, thinking it over. Then he looked her over. "A hundred dollars and ten minutes with your tetas."

Iran furrowed her eyebrows. "My what?"

"Your knockers. Breasts, tits, the girls. Yanno, those." He pointed at her chest.

"W-What? What planet are you on?" she shrieked, crossing her arms over a bust line that would make Ukraine hyperventilate from the schadenfreude. A fetching blush spread across her cheeks. "Why would you ask for such a thing?"

Mexico scratched his cheek. "Well I kinda noticed a pattern… Every nation involved with those girls ended up pretty fucking powerful. I want to see if they'd work for me, you know?" he grinned sheepishly at her. "I ain't coming on to you, you know. My priest'll have an aneurysm if I did anything with a Muslim. Call me superstitious."

"And he wouldn't object... wouldn't object to this?" Iran sputtered, thinking it over. Despite many of the offers she had gotten, she hadn't had anyone intimately involved with her for thirty years. She was a very monogamous and picky woman. Her fellow nations were attractive enough, but the disparity between her and many of them financially was a major obstacle for her.

Mexico shrugged. "Those are my terms, chica. Take it or leave it."

Iran's mouth hurriedly tried to form words, her lips flapping like an air-drowned fish. However, in a treacherous and deprived corner of her mind, she had found his hypothesis rather interesting, if only for the sake of her ego. "…Fine," she sighed, her cheeks dusted with a more subdued blush, "But I don't want anyone to see us."

Mexico nodded, himself slightly blushing. "S-Sure."

The two had made themselves comfortable on his sofa, Iran conducting herself like a queen and Mexico fumbling nervously, glancing at her chest and then ripping his eyes away.

"So. How shall we do this?" Iran asked, glancing around his living room with distaste. Mexico hardly cleaned up after himself, so newspapers and magazines covered the floor along with feathers from the chickens. Conchita slept in her little bed in the corner.

Mexico looked at her. "Well… We should keep our clothes on. Holding off the wrath of God, you know."

"Very well then. Go ahead." She rested against the couch hesitantly. She was surprised to find it very comfortable, rather than icky and gross like old couches tended to be.

"O-Okay." Mexico gulped and slowly lowered himself against her chest.

He was happy to find that they were pleasantly soft, like pillows. He could smell jasmine and turmeric and fading sandalwood. Most of all, he could hear her heart beat, fluttering away like a little bird. Nations had different heart beats according to the number of people. America's was barely there, while Nicaragua's was closer to being human than anything else.

The time dragged on, his face against her breasts and Iran sitting woodenly under him. She seemed just as nervous as he did, despite his knowledge that she was far from being a "chaste little Muslim girl". She was a dangerous little thing, a powder keg ready to explode harder than the Balkans. No one, much less a woman, could have survived her lifetime without makes a few concessions on their sanity. He studied his history.

Iran's chest heaved as she sighed, looking over at the clock on Mexico's wall. "Feeling any stronger yet?"

Mexico shifted. "Not really. Why?"

"It's been five minutes."

"Oh."

"Alright, you're in." Mexico muttered, pushing America's backdoor open. It had taken a while, America had just gotten a new lock, but he managed to open it up with little perceivable struggle.

Iran pulled out a wad of tens from her purse and handed it to him with a grateful smile. "Thank you Mexico."

"So should I wait for you?" he asked hesitantly as he pocketed the wad.

"If that's what you want. Don't feel too obligated." She stated flippantly, stepping into the familiar kitchen.

Mexico nodded. "I won't."

He still waited for her.

A/N: This story has no real historical backing, but plenty of political backing and stereotype play. Mexico and Iran have a rather friendly relationship, politically. Iran is also helping Mexico to work on his energy efficiency.

Iran being linked to powerful nations is really more of a "Iran is strategic" thing than a "Iran's boobs are magical" thing.

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