The golden glow of the Kremlin’s chandelier bathed the room in a warm, decadent light. Donald Trump, his hair a perfect, immovable monument to American excess, lounged on a velvet chaise, his tie loosened just enough to suggest he was ready for business—or pleasure. Across from him, Vladimir Putin sat rigid, his icy blue eyes locked on Trump, a faint smirk curling his lips. The air was thick with tension, power, and something unspoken yet undeniable.

"So, Vlad," Trump began, his voice brassy and confident, "I hear you’re the best at… negotiations. Tremendous, really. Nobody does it better than you. But I’m pretty great myself. The greatest, actually."

Putin’s smirk widened, his bare chest gleaming faintly under the open silk shirt he wore—a calculated move, Trump figured, to show off that judo-honed physique. "Donald," Putin replied, his accent sharp and deliberate, "you talk too much. In Russia, we let actions speak."

Trump chuckled, leaning forward, his hands gesturing wildly. "Actions, huh? Well, I’ve got the best actions. People say it all the time—nobody moves like Trump. Believe me." He winked, a little too enthusiastically.

Putin stood, crossing the room with the grace of a predator. He stopped inches from Trump, towering over him just enough to make the former president squirm in his seat. "Then show me," Putin said, his voice low and commanding. "Less talk. More… demonstration."

Trump’s bravado faltered for a split second, but he recovered with a grin. "You’re gonna love this, Vlad. It’s gonna be huge. Yuge, even." He slid off the chaise, dropping to his knees with surprising agility for a man of his stature. His hands fumbled briefly with Putin’s belt—black leather, understated yet expensive, just like the man himself—before he managed to undo it.

Putin didn’t flinch, his gaze steady, almost amused. "Impress me," he murmured, as Trump, with all the enthusiasm of a reality TV host hyping a season finale, got to work.

Trump’s approach was bold, unsubtle—everything he did was larger than life. His lips moved with the confidence of a man who’d closed a thousand deals, his hands gripping Putin’s hips like he was staking a claim. Putin’s breath hitched, just slightly, but enough to let Trump know he was winning. "See?" Trump mumbled between efforts, barely pausing. "Told you I’m the best. Nobody does it like me."

Putin’s hand found Trump’s hair—not pulling, not yet, just resting there, guiding with the lightest touch. "Acceptable," he said coolly, though his tightening grip betrayed more than his words. "But I expect… excellence."

Trump doubled down, determined to prove he could outshine even Putin’s famously unflappable demeanor. The room filled with soft sounds—Trump’s eager determination, Putin’s measured breaths—and the power dynamic shifted back and forth like a chess match neither wanted to lose. Putin’s composure cracked just once, a low groan escaping as Trump hit his stride, and Trump grinned against him, triumphant.

Minutes stretched into a haze of heat and ego. When it was over, Trump rocked back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his face flushed with victory. "Told you, Vlad. The best. Everyone says so."

Putin adjusted himself with meticulous calm, re-fastening his belt as if nothing had happened. "Satisfactory," he said, though the glint in his eye suggested more. "Perhaps you are not all talk, Donald."

Trump stood, puffing out his chest. "Not just talk. Action. Tremendous action. We should do this again—make it a regular thing. Like a summit. A very private summit."

Putin’s lips twitched, almost a smile. "We will see," he said, turning away. "Next time, I show you how Russia negotiates."

Trump watched him go, already plotting his next move. "It’s gonna be beautiful," he muttered to himself. "The best deal ever."