USUK/UKUS One Shots

Norikov's Self-Consistency Principle (Smut/Fluff/Angst/Idk)

Warnings: Minor Violence, Sexual Content, Forced Kissing

Word Count: 17,894

Estimated Read Time: 1 Hour 25 Minutes (Is it the middle of the night? GO TO BED)

If you had asked America a week ago if magic was real, he'd have given an emphatic "no" and complained that England, for all his military and political genius, was crazy for ever believing otherwise. For centuries, it had baffled America how he clung so tightly to the idea that magic somehow existed in their universe as some almost living force that was impossible to explain. Everything, in America's view, could be explained. What couldn't was not magic but simply science that had yet to be completed.

However, there really was no other explanation for how he'd ended up here. One minute, he'd been on a walk in desperate need of some air. The world conference was coming up soon, and he had a million things he needed to do to prepare. His vice president breathing down his neck about it hadn't been helping, nor was trying to sort out trade issues with the United Kingdom. He couldn't blame England for them— it was just humans ignoring advice from their immortal advisors as usual, the morons—but he was certainly exhausted by them. They'd decided to pass the weekend at one of England's countryside houses to get a little further from the American Ambassador and the Chancellor of the Exchequer so they could both get their ducks in a row for the meeting. County Antrim had a nice retreat, even if he knew England was bound to get an angry call from his brother at some point when he figured out he was there simply because he was, well, there... not that America could blame him.

After they'd spent two hours deliberating until they were both irritated with the situation (and, unfairly, with each other), they'd decided to take a break. Perhaps part of it was America's own fault for not making sure England had a full cup of tea before they began talking. It usually made him less irritable.

Regardless, he'd mentioned needing some air and he'd gone out, ignoring the winter chill and how his shoes weren't meant for a walk in the snow. After a while in the woods, he'd been preparing to turn back around, but as he stepped over a row of rocks he'd later realize were arranged very oddly, he'd felt the world tilt and his head spin. When everything had stopped swirling, he'd been in a different time, a different place, and different clothes.

Today was day three in the year 1600, and America had no idea what to do with himself. As far as history had gone, he had been born, as nations generally appeared a hundred or so years before their civilization to give them time to mature into adults. That meant he did exist, technically, but he was somewhere in the wilderness of the so-called 'New World,' hidden from any approaching settlers by indigenous tribes alongside his brother. But he was 'undiscovered,' and most certainly did not belong in Britain, where he had awoken having been tossed back across the Irish Sea in a ditch near London. Touché, Ireland.

He'd never meant to get into trouble, but he'd been getting headaches randomly since being punted through time and space, and sometimes they made his vision flash with images of woodlands and longhouses. Perhaps flashes of what his other self was seeing? Was there another him? How did time travel work? He didn't know. No one did. This was unprecedented.

Goal number one had been to try to return to where he had been magicked, which was how he'd ended up at the docks. As for how he ended up unconscious and in a crate with sawdust and something glass that was jabbing into his spine? America couldn't tell you. He just knew his neck had a hell of a crick in it and that he was not supposed to be there. Somehow, he'd ended up loaded onto a ship and had become an accidental stowaway, and now he was about to pay for it.

He'd been discovered when he tried to get out of the crate to figure out what the fuck was going on, and now, he was being dragged out of the hull of a sailing ship to, likely, the deck. The men that had hold of him were not uniformed, so it wasn't a Navy ship. They had cargo, so perhaps a merchant vessel? Heavily armed for a merchant vessel, though, America could tell you that. He didn't have a ton of time to figure it out before he was tossed onto his knees on the deck. The rough wood scraped them through the fabric of his trousers, but he put his hands out to stop himself from faceplanting.