Work Text:
Executive Grant of Clemency
Joseph R. Biden, Jr.
President of the United States of America
To All to Whom These Presents Shall Come, Greeting:
Be It Known, That This Day, I, Joseph R. Biden, Jr., President of the United States, Pursuant to My Powers Under Article II, Section 2, Clause 1, of the Constitution, Have Granted Unto
ROBERT HUNTER BIDEN
A Full and Unconditional Pardon
For those offenses against the United States which he has committed or may have committed or taken part in during the period from January 1, 2014 through December 1, 2024, including but not limited to all offenses charged or prosecuted (including any that have resulted in convictions) by Special Counsel David C. Weiss in Docket No. 1:23-cr-00061-MN in the United States District Court for the District of Delaware and Docket No. 2:23-CR-00599-MCS-1 in the United States District Court for the Central District of California.
IN TESTIMONY WHEREOF I have hereunto signed my name and caused the Pardon to be recorded with the Department of Justice.
Done at the City of Washington this 1st day of December in the year of our Lord Two Thousand and Twenty-four and of the Independence of the United States the Two Hundred and Forty-ninth.
—
Biden stared at the gold-painted doors before him, doing his best to hide the excitement swelling from within. It’s been almost six months since the two have met, during a sensual frotting session in the makeup room after the June 2024 presidential debate.
The doors burst open. Melania stomps out angrily, and gives Biden her signature dead-inside, no-fucks-given death stare. That’s one way to take the trash out, Biden thought, as her absence granted a full view of the work of wonder before him—Trump, basking in the glow of a narrow victory following the election, smiling evilly as he awaited his time with the man in the door.
Biden stepped forward into the room. Timid, like a run-through, bleeding bottom after an orgy. But was he going to be the bottom this time? The dynamics have shifted. On January 20th, it would no longer be him, or his next-in-line, in the Oval Office, but the orange figure before him. And judging by the way he sat, legs open, crotch vulnerable, hands gesturing for Biden to kneel before him… Trump knew that this time, he’d be on top.
—
Biden slid his hands under Trump’s shirt. “I’m gonna rip it off you,” he whispered. He tugged at the shirt, attempting to rip it off Trump’s hippo body, but only managed to loosen a button.
“Let me help you, Lil’ Joe,” Trump cooed. With his thick, meaty arms, Trump tore his expensive button-up into two. Biden gasped, marveling at Trump’s naked upper body before him. Oh, how he missed this, the way Trump’s tits, like loaded grocery backs, sagged into his abdominals. The way the fat in his stomach rolled itself into chunks when he slouched, like cannolis. Orange, squishy cannolis. To Biden, they were like abs. Abs that weren’t hard, but soft, like the buttcheeks of a hippopotamus, of Moo Deng. He burrowed his hand into the folds of the stomach rolls, and traced them down, flab to flab, all the way down to Trump’s belly button.
Trump grabbed his hand. “Nuh-uh, Lil’ Joe. You know what you have to do first,” he sneered. Biden let out a little giggle, and hoisted himself onto Trump’s lap. It excited him, the thought of being on Trump’s lap, just inches away from his prosthetic penis. Biden let out another giggle. He remembered the last time he rode on Trump’s real penis, days before his inauguration.
“Oh, yeah,” moaned Trump, as he traced his porky hands down Biden’s back. “Take off that suit, you crumply whore.”
With motions stifled by old age and arthritis, Biden stripped off his clothing, one-by-one, sitting on Trump’s lap as he watched with lust. When the undershirt came off, Trump pinched the little meat Biden had on his bones, reveling in all of his naked, elderly glory. Biden was so beautiful. So, so beautiful. There were little spots on his body with uneven pigmentation, little areas that were a shade darker than the rest of him. Bumps, ranging from small to medium, sprouted along his upper arm and his back, like cute little mushrooms that Trump could just burrow his head into and chew on forever. And on those bumps grew pieces of body hair. Crooked, silver, pieces of string he could twirl his fingers in. His nipples were not hard—no, those glory days are over. But there was a homey charm in its flaccidity. Trump could apply pressure onto them with a stubby finger, and they’d invert. Like bubble wrap. Pop. Pop. Pop.
But before Trump could explore Biden’s body any further, Biden sunk his head into Trump, his nose landing between Trump’s saggy tits. It was comforting, how moist and warm they were. He could feel Trump’s body oil slipping onto his face, and his nose oil seeping into Trump’s tits. There they were, two Presidents, bodies intertwining, exchanging oils. The room smelled thick of McDonald’s and the rancid musk of sweaty, elderly genitals.
Trump leaned into Biden’s bald head and began licking it, eager to consume, to ravish his oily scalp. “Your scap, it tastes so good,” Trump moaned. Soon, the licking devolved into biting, as Trump, in his sexual hunger, yearned to consume the dead cells on Biden’s oily scalp. Biden yelped in pain, but that only made Trump grab the flimsy strands of hair on the side of his head. “Trumpie, oh, Trumpie,” screamed Biden as he motorboated the flab between Trump’s tits, which felt like two warm, mushy blobs of slime caressing his cheeks. In one final huff, Biden stopped motorboating, and let his face set into the fold between Trump’s jugs, letting himself be enveloped by the warmth of it all, by the wetness of Trump licking and eating his scalp.
At that point, Biden’s will was far stronger than his body would allow. His body was now Trump’s, a doll to be done as its owner pleased. Trump grabbed Biden by the waist and pulled him up, such that his neck was now adjacent to Trump’s face. And Trump feasted. He chewed on Biden’s loose skin that due to old age, had detached from the meat. And Biden, tears welling as he fought through the pain, breathed into Trump’s toupé. He ruffled his hands through the dry, mangled hair, twirling it as loose chunks began to fall off. Through it all, Trump just kept chewing, as if those pieces of skin were gum, were bak choi, or soggy noodles.
But the detriment of age is relentless, and eventually, Trump succumbs to his failing muscles, leaving Biden slumped right next to him, drenched in tears, sweat, and their shared body oil. As the two men breathed into each other, all Biden could do was sob. He let out a cathartic moan, as Trump’s belly caught his tears.
Stroking Biden’s scalp, Trump whispered, “You had to do it, it’s OK, he’s your son…”
The salt of his tears acted as a cohesive, fusing Biden’s face into Trump’s body. “I had to… I’m sorry. I had to…”
He continued to cry, while Trump ran his hands across his scalp. For a moment, it was peaceful, their emotions shielded from the world, their love confined within these walls. Two men, bounded by society’s rules for marriage, savoring the little time they have left.