A/N: This is a kinkmeme de-anon; original request was "Nation A wants Nation B, but, for whatever reason, won't try to romance them. Nation A goes to a human of Nation B, either seducing them or paying them, for sex." Contains slash, het, and one OFC.

If one asked America bluntly, he would have to admit that half the point of his more scandalous adventures had to do with the allure of the forbidden. It got him called childish and immature—or as Canada put it once most appropriately "really fucking reckless"—but that never failed to discourage him. If it weren't for his prodigious streak of luck, he probably would have caused dozens of international incidents by now, but that was also part of the thrill. Not that he hadn't been caught before; France once caught him with one of his citizens and only laughed while waving him on, killing most of his fun that night. Egypt once nearly chucked a vase at his head when he tried to pocket one of his mother's relics. (For a museum! America wouldn't have kept it for himself.)

This time, however, he doubted he'd get off so lightly if he got caught. Russia wasn't nearly so forgiving lately, not since Germany and Prussia managed to tear down that wall separating them.

Which, he thought as he sucked on the neck of the rather statuesque woman beneath him, only doubles the fun. Oh, his handlers would be furious that he'd run off—again—from the Baltschug Kempinski to a bar, but it would be worth it, especially since she was making rather delicious noises. Not that the rest of her wasn't lovely, even if he barely had one damn clue as to what she said half the time. All he really cared about that she was gorgeous and tall, fair-haired and very, very Russian. She was the kind of girl people would expect him to sleep with, Russian heritage notwithstanding, and thus she was perfect.

(And yet, completely wrong.)

She had teased him when he first slipped on to the stool next to her, recognizing his American accent instantly; he played along, the two of them taunting and teasing over drinks until she tugged him by his jacket lapels to the restroom. Tall as she was, she'd been amused when he picked her up with no effort at all (he doubted he'd be amused) and then slid together with ease. Her mouth tasted of vodka and buried mint, her thighs gripping his hips (all wrong—not enough meat there, not enough muscle, not enough strength), fingers tugging on his hair as she twined them in, and she was perfect.

(He would make do.)

They ignored the bathroom door opening, but the quiet sound of metal taping on metal from the next stall made her gasp. After the briefest pause she yelped at their stall door slamming open, causing America to whip his head around.

Outside, Russia smiled pleasantly at them; something caught in America's chest and tugged painfully at his heart. "Found you—Mister Jones," he added. "Sorry to interrupt you. But you're needed elsewhere."

Struggling not to press a hand to his chest as if to calm his racing heart, America pulled back. "Christ, don't you know how knock without breaking a door down?"

"Break? It's not broken. Just bent a little, see?"

Beside him, the girl still trembled in shock. Annoyed with everything, America moved away from her, letting her slip carefully back down to her feet; leaving one hand to rest on her arm as an afterthought, he set his other hand against his hip. "That's really not my point."

Russia beamed. "Either way, it doesn't matter." He turned to his citizen with his icy smile and spoke to her. "You should leave now." Spooked, she quickly left America's side and squeezed past Russia. Before she got half way to the door, Russia called to her again. "Miss?" he said; she stuttered to a stop before slowly glancing back. Smiling still, Russia walked over to her and gave her skirt's hem a firm tug back down into place. "There you go," he chirped at her now crimson face, releasing her to flee the restroom.

Watching her leave, America glanced once at the back of Russia's head before he snorted and moved to straighten his own clothes out. "How sweet. Do you always go around embarrassing your citizens?"

"Oh, I would bet a lot less than what you do. Besides, would it have been better to let her walk out like that?" With only the barest whisper of moving cloth as a warning, Russia slammed the end of his pipe into the stall wall in front of America's face, cleanly puncturing the metal. America only allowed his gaze to snap upward—(can't move; two for flinching)—to glance at the pipe before following up along the length to Russia's frozen smile. "Do you always go whoring yourself out to other nation's citizens?"

Fighting to keep his breath even, America kept his eyes on Russia as he finished tucking his shirt in; slowly, he reached up and grabbed the pipe before tugging it easily free, ignoring its screech of protest. "She dragged me in here and was quite happy before you showed up. By the way, how'd you get here so fast? Spying on your citizens again?"

"You don't have room to talk," Russia said just a little too fast and a little too close to the truth.

"Whatever—this is just getting boring." Glaring, America shoved past Russia, heading towards the door, tugging at his coat to make it settle better against his shoulders. "Didn't you say there was someone waiting for me?"

"Oh, yes. Your babysitters," he explained, letting the bottom of his pipe thud next to his boot. "They're quite worried. You should go back." America rolled his eyes, but before he could move, Russia's viselike grip snagged his arm. "Try not to screw the first thing you spot on the way out, okay?"

Snarling at the insult (shivering at the innuendo), America yanked his arm back. Instead of freeing his arm, all it did was make Russia stagger forward. Unnerved and trying to hide it, both glared at each other, breathing just a little too fast. After a beat too long to be natural, where all America could think about was reaching up and yanking the Russian's face down to his and twining his fingers into that hair (like with the girl, only actually perfect), Russia uncurled his fingers. Resisting the urge to rub at the spot (it didn't hurt, but it would be wonderfully warm), America stalked towards the door, leaving only his parting words. "You know, Russia, did it ever occur to you with the amount of your citizens that flock to me that maybe they just want to be with me instead?"

America let the door swing shut behind him, but left quickly enough so Russia wouldn't have time to shout a retort at him.

Later, once he found his handlers and let them shuffle him along to his hotel room where he couldn't do much more damage, one would say that it'd been a close call. America would agree.

(He had almost risked tasting perfection.)