Jackson sat on his friend's lap, comforting himself on his chest. He felt safe here, with Van Buren holding his arms around him. Jackson reached up for the man's face. He felt the safe and luscious texture of his sideburns; though usually a mess, they were oddly tamed today. Jackson wished he would tame him like he tamed his corybantic facial hair.
When Van Buren felt his touch, he reached his hand down and touched Jackson's hair, as well. It was soft, like his own. He decided he would talk to Jackson about growing a beard later. But at the time, there was more important things to do. Like fuck.
He turned his body down to look at Jackson, so strong and independent, wrapped in his arms like a child. He wished they could have children. Jackson looked up, seeing the twinkle that shone in Van Buren's eyes. Suddenly he felt the erection. His sensitive sideburns had brought it out.
Jackson looked up, having felt it as well. He looked pleased. . . but then a look of horror came over him.
"What the frick frack diddly wack was that? This was a platonic cuddling session, you dipshit! I just wanted to talk politics!" cried Jackson, yet slightly flattered at the quality of his hardness. Like, damn son. But he sure as hell wasn't telling Van Buren that!
"I thought you wanted the dick," said Van Buren defensively. "All the signs were there. I mean, your boner was the biggest sign. Does this usually happen, Andy? Do random boners appear a lot? If so, you should really get that checked out."
"Okay, so, um, maybe it wasn't completely platonic. BUT LEAVE MY PENIS ALONE!"
"I'm sorry! I didn't know! Can't we do it? I thought you were single!" Van Buren yelled.
"I AM single!" Jackson shouted, a little taken back. "But you know how I felt after my BELOVED WIFE DIED."
"That's besides the point. Let's fuck!"
"Fine!"
"Err, okay, I didn't really expect you to agree so quickly. But all right. Swag."
Van Buren kneeled, unbuttoning Jackson's pants.
"I don't wear underwear. #Sorrynotsorry. You know how Andrew Jackson can be," said Jackson, waving his hand dismissively.
"No, it's better that way. Easy access."
"Well, get ready for a hard fuck. Gonna be the Trail of Tears up in here."
"Do me harder than you killed the bank," sighed Van Buren.
As this was all happening, outside the window of their once thought to be private meeting place, John C. Calhoun stood, watching, a rage filling up inside him as hard and furious as Van Buren and Jackson's fucking. An intense loathing overcame him; what if HE wanted to be in that? They never ask HIM to do things like that. . . He needed some serious states' rights up in this bitch.
And that was the beginning of Calhoun and Jackson's hatred toward one another.
FIN
