This is what happens when I am left to my own devices. This is what happens when cravings for rare pairings hit me. This is what happens where there is other stuff that needs to be done but that I don't want to do. This is what happens when I randomly remember history from high school. -sigh- Enjoy~

Warning: slashy, OOCness, butchering of historical events for personal purposes,

Pairing: hints of Austria/Hungary, Ottoman Empire!Turkey/Austria

Disclaimer: If I owned Hetalia, Austria would be everyone's slut. EVERYONE'S SLUT. -is shot-

"You know, you can try to take her back all you want." The Turk said casually, leaning lazily against the plush mound of cushions. Dressed in flowing robes, vibrant folds of silken fabric pooling around him, Sadiq tilted his head. Only his dark eyes peered out from behind that blank mask, studying Roderich as though he was some fascinating enigma. "You won't succeed."

Roderich—stiff and wearing the tailored, thick uniform so different from his stylish but comfortable suits—felt incredibly out of place in the lavish, opulent setting of the enormous palace. Somewhere, in the depths of this labyrinth of excess and wonder, Elizabeta was locked away because Roderich couldn't keep her, protect her.

Lifting his chin ever so, the Austrian gazed evenly at his enemy over the rim of his spectacles, violet eyes frosty, "So you believe."

Sadiq tips his head back and gives a short bark of laughter. It is followed by a sharp string of guffaws that echo in the vast room and Roderich, fairly insulted and somewhat frightened, can only watch, jaw clenched, as the darker man's shoulders tremble in poorly restrained mirth. Finally the chuckles taper off and the Ottoman Empire exhales, deeply, looking back at him, dark eyes gleaming. "You're interesting." He sounds impressed and surprised, as though he expected the younger man to be dull (which, to be honest, was an understandable assumption) and Roderich definitely feels insulted now.

Sadiq leans forward, then, and, even though there is quite a fair bit of distance between them and the room is enormous, Roderich feels like he's being cornered because the older man's gaze never leaves his face.

And, somewhere in the back of his mind, he hears Antonio. The normally cheerful man's lilting voice is somber and worried and urgent. He warns him to be careful, not to let his guard down because the Turk is one of them, a heretic and a danger and a beast and a monster.

Sadiq, who still looks so broad and powerful despite the draping of the delicate fabric, moves with self-assured grace—confident of his power, confident of his potential—like a hunter stalking his prey. He is the best of Gilbert (he thrives on the bloody battlefield, sword singing in hand and eyes gleaming from the thrill of war, already planning the final strike to bring his opponent to his knees). He is the best of Elisabeta (raw power and inextinguishable pride and terrifying determination).

Roderich is reminded of a tall (so tall he seemed to threaten the sky) man with fair hair and hard eyes with calloused hands that were never heavy against baby-soft hair and a melodious voice. Of a man who cut down the most infamous and unforgettable Empire, leaving only memories and whispers and an eagle-headed pin that Roderich wore near his heart.

The Austrian might be sitting across from him, but Sadiq stands somewhere near the top of the world, greedily reaching for more, reaching for him, for the rest of Europe. Poised to strike. Poised to take. Poised to conquer.

"I'd love to make you mine." Sadiq murmurs huskily, reaching out to brush his knuckles against the soft curve of the paler man's cheek. In almost no time it seemed the older man has crossed the great space (or was there only the illusion of distance?) between them. Hovering over the slighter man, but not quite pinning him against the soft pillows.

Roderich does not flinch (making a mental note to reward himself with some torte later) and just meets the other's gaze evenly. But it's difficult to ignore the fine shudder of desire that speeds the beating of his heart. And in, perhaps a dangerous move, he reaches out and grips the mask lightly with his fingers and tugs it away.

He realizes it's a privilege Sadiq granted. The other man could've easily snapped his wrists before Roderich could even grasp the mask.

Annoyance churns in his stomach, bubbling because he knows that Sadiq doesn't really view him as a threat.

The white mask is cold and heavy in his hands, smooth under his fingertips.

Sadiq looks amused. His face is sharp, angular, and dark stubble grows along the sharp lines of his jaw. His lips curve upwards in a patronizing smile, one dark eyebrow arched as though he's waiting for Roderich to do something.

And, yes, Roderich might be a little attracted to this arrogant, charismatic man who exudes strength and sensuality and suffocating heat.

"I have a feeling you'd probably enjoy it too." He smirks, practically looming over the European.

Roderich, who perhaps wasn't thinking the most pure of thoughts, blushes slightly at being caught off guard and then flushes darker when he realizes that he blushed until his cheeks are scarlet. "Beg pardon?"

"You'd enjoy being mine." Sadiq's wicked grin is the last thing Roderich sees before the Empire swoops down and steals a kiss, holding Roderich's chin in place with firm, calloused fingers as his lips move firmly against his own.

But it is when Sadiq presses forward, arm curving around the Austrian and pulling him closer, that Roderich, breaking through the haze of shock and managing to ignore the insistent curl of pleasure, uses his free arm to strike the Turk—hard—with the forgotten mask.

The Austrian-proud, rising master he is-refuses to fall so easily.

And, Sadiq actually jerks back, hissing a curse, as he rubs the area and pouts at Roderich (who simply adjusts his glasses and then his jacket and cuffs).

Roderich, rapidly regaining rationality, then glares acidly at the Turk. "I believe we're done here." He says, nodding curtly and rising to his feet elegantly. "I'll see you in battle." His voice is haughty and his words are icy.

The Ottoman Empire doesn't rise, merely looks down at his mask with a strange smile. He says nothing until Roderich is about to open the grand door.

Without turning around, he calls out, "You didn't deny it!"

Roderich stiffens, a tempest of anger and embarrassment rising within in him, but then pulls open the door and slams it shut behind him.

He can hear Sadiq's rich laughter through the door.

And Roderich, young as he may be, knows that Sadiq must never touch the sky. He can never have the world.

He already has Elizabeta. But Roderich swears to steal her back.

No one can ever be that powerful.

He will never have Roderich.

Roderich swears this.

(But Roderich's lips still tingle, haunted by the phantom pressure of those smirking mouth. And the alluring words still send a warm tremor dancing down his spine.)

Yes, so, it hit me today that Austria had a bit of trouble with the Ottomans. Wasn't Vienna, like, attacked/sieged? ...And then this was born... This is sometime after the Ottomans take Hungary. Somewhere during the time of Suleiman the Magnificent... yeah...

I just really wanted some Turkey/Austria. Like, really badly. And I hope I am not alone when I say this pairing is intriguing and kinda hot. I hope everyone enjoyed and please let me know what you think!