Donald John Trump sighs and sits back in his seat. The jet hasn't landed yet, but he's already anxious about his meeting.

"I'm getting too old for this," He whispers, taking another sip of his whiskey as his eyes trail after the bubbly blonde flight attendant walking away from him.

He notes that on the flight back, he'll initiate her into the mile-high club.

"Mr. President," The pilot announces over the speakers, "We'll be making our descent now."

Donald groans and shuffles around to put his seatbelt back on. Glancing out the window, he spots the sunny skyline of Florida, where his second home awaits.

He would have the jet land at his private bay—but he's running for president, for fucks sake, so no, when he lands at MIA, he ensures it's a spectacle.

The jet lands on the runway, and Donald's right-hand woman, Susie Wiles, has arranged it so that a red carpet will have been laid out on the tarmac. Donald can see it now, the line of journalists and reporters held back by security, as well as a local MAGA chapter.

A perky-breasted brunette flight attendant smiles at him, waving for him to follow her.

"Are you ready, Mr. President?" She asks, and as he nods, she opens the jet door.

Donald steps out of the luxury vehicle, a well-spent expense of his campaign fund, and brandishes a hand toward his many adoring supporters. They scream his name, foaming at their mouths as their eyes roll into their heads and their knees tremble.

His smile grows wider and wider. For a moment, it seems his sneering grin will never cease; as his cheeks pull back further, reporters notice he has more teeth in his mouth than should be humanly possible. The reporters blink, pausing their scribbles mid-notation. Donald's smile is normal, as it has always been.

"Thank you, thank you!" He says, his lips puckering together as he waves to his fans. He reads the blurred script on the back of his hand. "Your support means... anything!"

A parade of slick, black SUVs arrive, and Donald climbs inside the one with little American flags billowing to find Susie and Chris already waiting for him.

"Do you see them?" Donald stares momentarily longer as the fans follow him, some tripping over themselves to run after his vehicle. He finally turns to the others, a triumphant grin on his face. "They can't get enough."

Sitting beside Donald, Susie bites her lip and glances at Chris, who watches from the front seat, before settling her gaze back on Donald.

"Sir, I--"

"Ah, ah, ah," Donald wags his finger in her face. She recoils while he chuckles, his tone dark and sinister.

"My apologies, Mr. President, sir."

Donald nods for her to continue. She purses her lips before adding, "Well, you see... Are you sure now is a good time to see Mr. DeSantis? He only just dropped out and--"

Donald clicks his teeth, sending a cold dread through Susie. 

"Don't worry about that. Good 'ol Ronnie boy would be so lucky to see me," Donald's voice is low, with a bite to it. Susie and Chris are well aware of Donald's... history with Ronald DeSantis. They wouldn't dare try to tell him what to do, but they are his campaign managers. He hired them for a reason. Even if he doesn't seem to know what that reason is.

Susie smiles politely, terrified to say anything else. She nods to Chris as if to say, 'Now it's your turn,' but Chris turns back in his seat, making a point to stay out of the conversation.

Susie should know better. She's worked with Trump since the 2016 campaign. And in a way, she's used to his antics. The silver-haired woman has been in politics for the better half of her sixty-six years of age.

Chris LaCivita, however, knows better than to go against the grain that is Donald Trump. In fact, while Susie is the one cautioning Donald on this and that, Donald's other co-manager, Chris, used to be avidly against the man.

But that's nothing new for Chris. He'll always back the winning horse, and Donald grew to like the wild, ill-mannered man. Chris strikes low, something that Donald admires in himself.

Miami International Airport is by no means close to Donald's plethora of personal residences in South Florida. But it's a reasonable distance from the Trump Towers, the three dreary grey buildings that stand out in a long line of luxury condos and hotels on A1A.

That's precisely where he's arranged to meet the current Florida State Governor, Ron DeSantis.

Arriving in the Trump Palace Unit, the penthouse of the third tower, Donald enters to find a man looking out over the horizon.

He has died black hair, a poor spray-on tan, and boots with heels too tall to be genuinely considered 'masculine.'

Ron turns to spot Donald closing the door behind him, trapping the two alone.

"I know why you asked me to come..." Ron begins the conversation with a shake of his head before staring wistfully at the Atlantic Ocean. "It won't work."

A sly smile slips into Donald's face. His features seem to de-wrinkle, appearing fuller and more vibrant. 

"Ronnie..." The older man purrs, slinking up behind Ron.

"Don't call me that," Ron whispers, struggling not to turn around and look at the persuasive hunk of a man. Ron knows what everyone else sees when they look into Donald's grey-blue eyes, but that's never been what Ron sees.

Donald wraps his thick hands around Ron's midsection, holding the shorter man in a warm embrace.

Ron wants to pull away, but his body doesn't move. His feet are frozen, and the anguish building up in him finally bursts out. In a huff, he spins in Donald's arms. His fingers fly to Donald's face, stroking the smooth skin. Despite his knowing better, he can't help but chuckle to himself. Donald could never grow a single hair on his chin, and some things don't change.

Noting Donald's lips turn upward, Ron's smile falters. His hands fall away.

"We shouldn't be doing this," Ron mutters.

Donald pulls on Ron's hips, making Ron's eyes flutter slightly as a hard presence presses against his crotch.

"I..." He catches his breath, but Donald's lips are noticeably closer. When did he get that close? When could Ron feel his hot breath against him?

Ron can't think straight. The man he loved--loves? He shakes his head, and in one quick movement, he pushes Donald away.

"No! You don't get to do that to me. You don't... get to just stroll in here..." Ron's voice cracks. His anger is wet and drips from his eyes. "And have me back. I'm not going to let you do that to me again."

"Ronnie," Donald coos, continuing to use his favorite pet name for the man. "That was all politics. You know, a part of the game. Nothing personal..."

"Nothing personal!" Ron roars, his body holding a tremendous amount of rage for its deceptively small size. "What's not personal about disparaging me on live TV?! About insulting me, humiliating me, calling me that fucking name??"

Ron's cheeks become splotchy red, and the uneven tan becomes more apparent every second.

"Meatball Ron?" Donald questions, genuinely curious.

Ron nearly shoots smoke from his ears as he grunts.

"That was meant to be endearing!" Donald shakes his head and waves his hand in the air as if to dismiss what Ron said. "Anyway, that's not the point, if you know why I'm here--"

"Not the point?" Ron's face is crestfallen. "Then tell me... what is the point? What's the point of us?"

Donald pauses, his happy facade cracking as he glares at Ron. 

"The point of us?" He growls. "I got you the governorship, didn't I? I made you what you are, Ron."

"You made me a monster," Ron spits back.

Faster than Ron can register, Donald grabs his neck and slams him against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Ron winces and chokes against the tight grip before glancing wearily at the sea behind him. Below, Floridians and tourists alike line up on the shore, cheering and playing on the sunny day.

He hears the glass cracking against his head before he feels the pain.

Donald slides him up as Ron grasps his muscular arm.

“P-Please,” Ron sputters, “I… I always loved you.”

Donald’s steely gaze softens, lowering Ron back to his heeled boots.

“That’s why we’re so great together,” Donald’s voice is low and whispery, a melody tuned perfectly for Ron’s ears.

His hand slides from Ron’s reddened throat to his hips, which he grips on both sides before pulling Ron toward him once more. This time, their pelvises grind against each other, making Ron’s eyes flutter while Donald’s darken.

He tilts his head to the shorter man, holding his lips but a breath away.

Ron can barely keep his eyes open to meet Donald’s gaze. His lips part on instinct as he takes a sharp breath and…

“I want your support, Ron. Only you can do this for me. For old time’s sake.” Donald whispers, his breath hot on Ron’s lips.

Ron can’t hold himself back any longer. He knows what he’s wanted since Donald invited him here. So he takes it. He closes the distance between them, locking his lips on Donald’s. His fingers wrap through Donald’s shimmering silvery-blond hair, so frail that it slips through his fingers like strands of silk.

“I need you,” Ron moans into his mouth.

Donald returns the kiss, commanding control of it with the way his tongue slivers into Ron and swirls around his mouth. The two only part when they’re out of breath but hungry for more; Donald whirls Ron toward the California King in the nearby bedroom. From this room, one could squint and make out the nude bodies on Haulover Beach. Likewise, if one of the beach-goers had a pair of binoculars pointed at the penthouse of the third Trump tower, they might see the nude form of one Ron DeSantis, Governor, pressed against the window with his bare ass exposed to Donald Trump.

“Damn…” Donald groans as he spits on his cock and strokes it, pressing the tip to Ron’s puckered ass. “You’re tighter than you used to be.”

“Not seeing you for a year will do that to someone…” Ron whispers, recalling how long it’s been since he’s felt this good. Since Donald has made him feel this good.

“We could have been unstoppable…” He continues, imagining his dream scenario in which he’s Donald’s Vice President.

Donald finally pushes inside, making Ron cry as his fingerprints mark the glass.

“One day, we will be. But right now, Florida needs you. There’s always next election for you.” Donald grunts; his words come out distracted as he focuses on pushing his girth into Ron.

“Fuck… Yes!” Ron shouts, his pitch increasing as Donald’s thrusts do.

"Let me see your face, Ron. Show me how much you like my cock," Donald commands the other man. 

Ron hesitantly looks over his shoulder, his mouth agape and his eyes pinched together. "Don... Donald, please... I need you."

"I know, Ronnie... I know." Donald slaps his ass before spreading his cheeks further and pushing deeper inside. He bites his lip as he stares out into the horizon, focusing on the ocean's edge against the backdrop of the Florida sky. Ron's moans and whines grow louder. His face is so red that Donald has to bite back a chuckle, remembering where the inspiration for 'Meatball Ron' came from.

"Shit, Don... I'm gonna..." Ron clenches his fists against the glass as his throbbing cock slaps against his stomach with every smack of Donald's pelvis against his ass.

"Cum for me, Ronnie," Donald demands, and within seconds, it's as though a third hand has wrapped around Ron's cock and clenches down, stroking him to completion. He sputters and groans as his sperm shoots out against the floor, staining the carpet.

As if on cue, Donald orgasms as well, ensuring that he deposits every last drop in Ron. 

“How did it go, Mr. President?” Susie asks the following day when Donald slips out of the penthouse suite, leaving a sleeping Ron behind.

He smirks to himself, pushing past her as he strides down the hall. 

“He’ll do what I want. Business as usual.” 

“And uh… You didn’t have to… threaten him, did you? No… Well, no mess to clean up?” Susie postulates, her thumb hovering over the call button on her phone, having already put in Chris’s number. He specializes in cleaning up the more… inappropriate messes Donald leaves behind.

Donald chuckles. “Only a pane of glass will need to be replaced… And the carpet might need a good wash.”

Susie sighs in relief and switches to her texts, prepared to let the complex manager know. She’s not Donald’s secretary by any means, but this is another factor of the job she’s gotten used to.

“You didn’t know this, did you?” Donald glances at her before waving his hands in front of him as they reach the elevator. “But I’m a natural at this stuff. Politics? It’s just business. And I’m one of the best businessmen around. You know how many businesses I have, right?”

Susie gives him a tight-lipped smile as she presses the button, and they enter the elevator. 

“Yes, Mr. President. About that… We should discuss how some of your trials might affect the campaign with your lawyers. I’m already showing a slight decline in the polls as these—“

“Susie, Susie, Susie,” Donald sighs as they descend. “You don’t have to worry about those polls. The polls love me; they just read the numbers wrong!”

Susie bites her lip and nods, regretting having brought the subject up.

“Okay, you know what? We’ll go with what you want. Well? What’s next?”

Donald grins a smile that makes Susie’s eyes ache as his sharpened teeth blind her with a surprising glare.

“We’re going to a rally.”

Just then, the elevator stops on the first floor, and its doors open to Chris, who raises an eyebrow and steps forward, straightening Donald’s tie without a word.

“Good man, Chris,” Donald nods, and all three exit the elevator, making for the black SUV waiting just outside the lobby.

“A rally?” Susie checks her calendar. “You don’t have a rally for… another week.”

Chris looks just as interested in Donald’s answer, but as they climb into the vehicle, he merely shakes his head and laughs. 

“Not mine. Good ‘ol Sticky Nikki. She’s having a rally in South Carolina, right? That’s where I’m going.”

“Don—Er, Mr. President…” Chris finally says, “Look, I’m all for causing a stir, but… is that really a good idea? You might not have many fans there.”

“Look,” Donald’s tone becomes sharper, more severe. “You need to trust me. I got the votes from DeSantis, didn’t I?”

“Right,” Susie stresses, “But this is Nikki Haley… She’s not just going to give up. If you haven’t noticed, she has much more resolve than DeSantis.”

Donald scoffs, “Resolve? I’ll show you how much resolve she has. We’re going to South Carolina, and that’s the last I want to hear about it.”

Susie clamps her mouth shut while Chris quickly contends himself with fidgeting with his phone. The driver takes them back to MIA, where Donald will board his jet and land in South Carolina just in time for Nikki’s rally that night.