3. Making History
Thanks to Gui Zhou for helping me sort out my ideas for this one!
Sweden had never thought the taste of victory could be so sweet. Here he sits, watching Denmark curse him from between gritted teeth as he signs away half his empire. Norway stands behind him, shuddering as each signature is laid, every furious scribble of Denmark's name a piece of him ripped away. His eyes, when they are open, are icy slivers of hatred. Sweden is unfazed. He has all he truly needs standing beside him, close, warm and his.
Finland licks his lips as Denmark lays his name on each line with a trembling hand. He leans into Sweden, running a sultry hand along the empire's broad shoulders, a promise of things to come that night: the conqueror's reward. Sweden leans into the touch, glances up, although he doesn't want to miss a moment Denmark's humiliation. Finland's gaze is half-lidded, heated, enticing, deep enough to drown in. Sweden's lips can't help but twitch as arousal raises its fiery head in the pit of his stomach and sniffs the air.
He can also feel Denmark's gaze upon him, daggers, and he turns back as Finland continues to stroke him, fingers delicate but hungry. His beautiful Finnish partner is almost in his lap now, perched on the arm of his heavy oak chair like an exquisite rare bird, a wanton, shameless juxtaposition to Norway's straight-backed air of defeat. It's obvious that Finland is taking great pleasure in Denmark's mortification, almost as much as Sweden himself. Finland has a cruel streak Sweden would never have suspected from one so precious and perfect, concealed deep behind a smile.
Finally, the last signature is laid, and Denmark's shoulders lose their tension. He deflates, falls forward, runs a hand across his face. Sweden enjoys the scene with hidden relish, made greater only by the knowledge that the humiliation is a thousand times worse for it is inflicted here, in Denmark's own Roskilde. Norway, in a rare display of affection, places a comforting hand on Denmark's shoulder, upon which Denmark places his own with a weak smile. It is a smile that says to not worry, and that Sweden wishes to wipe off. Violently. Finland snorts derisively, and the two across the table both glare. Sweden remains as impassive as ever as Denmark rises, trying to be tall and mighty and failing miserably simply by virtue of diminished territory.
"Happy, now?" he snarls, his boyish face twisted with contempt. Sweden gives a non-committal shrug.
"Until you need taking down another notch," he says, and even he cannot keep the smug note from his voice. Denmark makes to lunge across the table, but Norway halts him, reins him in before he can do any worse.
Finland slowly takes his hand from his sword hilt, his eyes no longer heated and hungry, but cold and calculating. They never leave the two opposite him. Sweden has not moved an inch, more than secure in his power.
With one last disgusted look, Norway leaves, Denmark in tow. The once-mighty King of the North now brings to mind a beaten dog, and Sweden could not lie and say it wasn't satisfying. Their nobles trail out behind them, a sorry band of bereaved losers, and Finland finally slides into Sweden's lap, circling his arms around the empire's neck. He is smiling like a cat that has stolen fresh cream.
"Look at you, my great, powerful empire," he purrs, licking his way along Sweden's lips, taking the bottom one between his teeth. One hand slides down Sweden's chest, kneading through wool and leather, as he hums both with need and contentment.
"Dominium maris baltici," Finland whispers before Sweden takes his mouth in a scorching kiss, all passion and the heat of power, their bodies flushed with arousal and conquest. This day will go down in history.