Title: Yabluchnyk
Series: Hetalia
Character/Pairing: America/Ukraine
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1093
Author's note: kink meme: rare pairs. Characterization practice. Ayup.


He brushed his fingers through her short hair, tugging at her headband which she hadn't taken off, not even when they'd gone to bed together.

She ran her fingers through her blond, fine hair self-consciously. "It's not as long like my sister's because I have to keep it short or it will get caught in the scythes...the machines...terrible things have happened to girls who got their hair caught in things, so I cut it. Besides, this size is perfect for the kerchiefs I wear when I am working to keep the wind out of my ears. It is less troublesome that way." She smiled, a little forced, and looked worried.

"You do not like?" She asked. Her lower lip was quivering a little bit. It didn't take much to make her cry, and he hated seeing girls cry. Boys too, but there was always that innate slap on the back, be a man! response he got from most of the men he's ever lived with.

"It fits you," He said instead. She smiled again, and not the shaky, verging-on-tears type. He tweaked her cheek and winked. "Don't get so worried about stuff. Short hair is cute."

Teddy Roosevelt and Andrew Jackson had been really fond of that. Back-slapping encouragements, that is. Random acts of extreme manliness and all. He'd liked both of them, with their wild, maverick ways, they'd had a blast riding together. He felt a weird twinge of regret that she never got to meet his founding fathers, or Roosevelt and Jackson for that matter. He wished she'd met a lot of his humans. Like Ben Franklin, who would've loved her. Probably even congratulated him big time, cause that Ben Franklin, now he was a pimp. He'd charmed France to their side, probably into his bed as well. Though that was a mental image he didn't like to focus on. He loved the old guy (may he rest in peace) but that didn't mean he wanted to picture him naked. Yech.

Her hands weren't soft, but cracked and hard from years of hard labor. She was self-conscious about this fact, constantly wearing gloves. Not the gloves of a lady, but farm gloves that worn out edges and the dulled spots of many washings. The stains of dirt and grass stains never came out completely.

Somehow, removing her gloves had almost more intimate than removing her blouse. She'd taken her bra off herself, because it was easier. She was self-conscious that her hands weren't soft and pretty, and held them against her breasts, keeping the roughest parts to her. He'd carefully taken her hands and kissed each one, the roughness like sandpaper to his lips. She'd been a bit shy sitting there, but not virginal, he wouldn't guess that. She'd probably had more lovers than him simply via time. He forgot that she was older than him sometimes. But then he forgot a lot of things. Like what day it was. That happened way more often than it should have, given he was computer savvy and had like, a gazillion gadgets with the time on them. iPhone, laptop, the whole shebang.

But he didn't feel jealous about all her past lovers. Heroes weren't jealous. Ok, they were, all the time all over Marvel, to say nothing of DC – Batman would have its own entry – but at least they shouldn't be. Code of honor and all. Or maybe that was boy scouts...he kept getting them mixed up. That's what he told himself. Better to be a last lover than a first, right? First and last would be awesome, but he was capable of being pragmatic. Sometimes. Really. Probably, if he tried. Ok, maybe not. (Well, at least he knew the word.)

He liked the soft feel of her in his bed, and laying his head on her pillowy breasts, though honestly he was counting down the time before he could stop snuggling and get some food. He loved cuddling –– not that he'd admit it to anyone, because greatest superpower in the world loves to snuggle? He'd never live that down. It was just sex always took so much out of him. Or anything, really. He had a voracious appetite that was always in need of feeding. What could he say? He was still growing. Last year he'd grown a whole inch. He'd had to show Matt to prove that he wasn't bullshitting him. When he was a teen, his shins had ached from how fast he'd grown, and he'd had to reset the hems on his clothes constantly. It'd never really worn off, those hunger pangs from growing pangs.

"Perhaps you are hungry, yes?" She asked, a little hesitantly. She was still hesitant about things, after all those years, it seemed hard-wired into her. All that did was made him want to wrap around her tight and protect her forever. Hero style.

"I always like to eat after, yes..." She blushed, trailed off.

"I'm starved! Whatcha going to make?"

"Well, I will bake good Yabluchnyk, and make Patychky for us to snack on."

"Sounds good! Uh...what are they?"

"Yabluchnyk...that is a delicious fruit pie. Patychky is...meat cooked on a stick."

"Meat on a stick? I love those–! It reminds me of carnivals! And– wait, you've probably never been to one–"

He jumped out of bed, not caring a bit that he was buck naked. "This needs to be changed right now! Seriously, we should go straight there–"

"Eh? B-but You should at least put on some pants, Alfred!"

"We will got to a carnival after I put on some pants!" He said, lifting his arm for emphasis. He sniffed the back of his arm and frowned.

"And maybe after I shower. And eat, we gotta eat first, but then you've got to see them! There's these rides which are so cool and when we get there it'll be late so there'll be crowds, but the lights are amazing! You'll be blown away, really–"

Her face was tinted rosy, but in a happy way, and she looked so damn cute. He bent back down and buried his face in her breasts and nuzzled while she laughed and laughed.

"Distracted already? Ah... But will we have time for the carnival after the Yabluchnyk and Patychky, I wonder? Or should I wait until we get home...?"

"Babe, we've got all the time in the world," he said.