Another de-anon for the meme. This thing is like crack, I swear.
Prompt was "Any one/20's!America, bonus for period dress/dressed like a flapper." I did edit it some again, for typos, and because some of the ending lines were really cheesy and I hated them. :
Me being the history hoor I am, I was on this like white on rice~
I don't know why I paired him with England. I actually don't like England/America very much. *likes them as father+son*
Also, because I went overboard on the slang, here's a quick rundown for those that don't know.
(to)cast kittens: to get angry about something, to pitch a fit. Bascially, what America tells England is the same as saying something like "don't have a cow."
High-hat: Snob, prude, etc.
Vamp: Some one (pretty much exclusively a term for a female, but, America is crossdressing) extremely seductive, or sexy.
Ethel: Slang for an effeminate male.
Necking, petting: Pretty obvious, but, making out.
Quiff: A slut, or any girl that dressed revealingly/liked to flirt, etc. England's dress during this era was still pretty conservative, compared to America's. So, from his point of view, America was dressed a bit scantily.
Also, Bees Knees was actually a popular cocktail in the 20's, particularly because it was one of the few that didn't taste like utter crap (for, example, what America was drinking. Because, yes, that's a real kind of cocktail too. It's some kind of flip). Mixing stuff into the bootleg was necessary, though, not only to hide the fact they were drinking alcohol, but also because the homemade gin ('white lightening' or 'bathtub gin') tasted horrible.
England coughed as America blew smoke from a cigarette into his face (and he could only be happy that it was tobacco, and not opium, as that was becoming increasing popular with the young nation).
"I don't get," America inhaled, and let loose another cloud of smoke in England's direction, "why you feel the need to cast kittens. Seriously, what's the problem?"
He couldn't help but scoff, and set his (illegal, thanks to America's damn Prohibition) drink down on the low table in front of them.
"Where to begin!" England was drunk, he could tell, because America's antics were getting him twice as irritated than usual, and he was having a hard time controlling both his temper and noise level.
Not that he didn't have a reason to be irritated, though, seeing as America was lounging sloppily on the loveseat next to him, taking up most of the couch (and leaving England only the smallest space), and, he was sure just to spite him, wearing a dress. A rather short, revealing dress, at that.
"You can elaborate," America grinned, and nudged him a little with a high-heel clad foot.
England scowled at him, and shoved America's leg off the seat.
"For starters," England began, picking his alcohol back up. "As soon as I get here, you drag me to this..." Even if he wasn't drunk enough to star slurring his words, England's mind was becoming a bit foggy, and he had to grasp for the right words. "This...seedy, illegal speakeasy--"
"Hey, the people voted for this, that wasn't really my decision, and even then this place isn't that bad---"
"Did you see what that couple in the corner were doing when we got here?!" England slammed his glass down on the table, startlingly a few of the more sleepy tenants. America snorted, but didn't protest, so England went on.
"Secondly, this 'drink' tastes like a piece of bloody shit." England made a sharp gesture with his hands. "What the hell is even in this?"
"Lightweight," America teased, but continued before England could go off on another rant. "You got one of the normal cocktails. You've got a Bees Knees--it's just gin, honey, and lemon juice. But this," He hefted his own drink, a stupidly prideful look on his face, "is a wonderful combination of white lightening, nutmeg, allspice and eggs."
"That is disgusting!" England made a face as America simply laughed out right at him, and took another drag on his cigarette.
"Really, America, have you no taste?"
"Taste is relative, I think. "
"Apparently." Raising a thick eyebrow, England took another glance at America's state of dress and added, "Though that should've been apparent to me by your clothes."
"Hey, hey, hey!" America straightened a little on the couch. "It's 1923, man. Women can vote, drink whatever they want, smoke if they want, wear the clothes they want--"
"Yes, but you are most definitely not a woman."
"Says you! This new generation is a riot--what's wrong with me wanting to join in the girls' fun?"
England placed his head in his hands, and groaned. Just how had his boy turned out so strange? All right, he admitted, he wasn't the most manly of countries, but he certainly wasn't as, well, to put it nicely (for once), effeminate as that France, and he had made well sure that damn frog had as little contact with America as possible when he was a child--of course, he wasn't saying the outfit looked bad on America, it really didn't, actually, it complimented his thin, muscular legs rather nicely and--oh, fuck, he did not just think that--
Vaguely, England felt that America had moved closer to him, a bare arm wrapping around his shoulders and the smell of cheap tobacco and homemade booze surrounding him.
"C'mon, England. Don't be such a high-hat; you think I'm a real vamp in this, right?"
England pretended he didn't inhale sharply when America pressed a kiss to the back of his neck.
A hand snaked down to his knee, and he could feel the grin against his skin. "You creep; big fan of that Ethel-style, huh?"
The kisses continued, America lavishing them to the back of his neck, whispering. "I make you goofy, right? You're stuck on me, admit it."
The hand on England's knee started to drift further up, to his inner thigh. "America--"
"You wish we were necking right now, don't you?" America shifted his position a bit, and breathed into England's ear. "Wish we were petting? Maybe in the cinema? Or in that struggle buggy I bought?"
"America," England repeated, this time a bit more firmly. "We are not--"
"Or," America interrupted him, and his tongue darted out to lick the shell of England's ear (bloody hell). "Maybe you want to have our own little petting party right here?"
And that was the last straw---and England grabbed the back of America's head, smashing their lips together. America responded immediately and eagerly, opening his mouth, moaning a little, and oh, that tongue, and damn the fact this was a public place, and America was dressed like a quiff, and he tasted like shit because of the horrible gin (seriously, what sane person put eggs in their drink?), England was sure he'd never felt this hot and bothered.
After a minute, they broke for air, and England pulled back to look at America's flushed face, his blue eyes large and bright.
"Haha, you pervert," the younger nation teased, with an expression that made England want to rip those glasses ('cheaters' America liked to call them now) from his face, and kiss him again, hard.
America leaned into England, rubbing a hand over the British man's chest. "So, I gotta ask; cash or check?"
"I mean, do you want to have some fun now, or do you want to head back to my place?" America grinned, and kissed England's chin.
"Huh." England toyed absently with one of the gaudy pieces of jewelry hanging around America's neck.
"Although my pad has more room in case...you...wanted to try some things." The smile on the blond country's face was absolutely cattish, and England allowed himself a little grin in response.
"Hm? Like what?" He asked, eyebrows arched.
"Nothin' special. You'll find out when we get there."
And, oh, how he couldn't wait.