Reader x joe biden oneshots

Congratulations...

Warnings: Angst, ooc, Joe Biden x Trump, formatting is ass (as always), way too much use of the word "letter"

Word count:1008

A/N: Listend to Paris Paloma - labour on loop while writing>< (and almost frogor to eat cuz i was so locked in)

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The morning fog wrapped around the estate like a heavy blanket, thick. Blurring the edges of the world. The wind seemed quieter as it moved through the trees, and the birds were nowhere to be heard, leaving behind an empty silence. Inside the mansion, Joe was sitting at his office desk, the only thing disturbing the silence in the room was his breath softly shaking. He was nervous. He didn't think the day would come when he would have to do this again. He sat there in front of his computer looking at the rough sketch of the letter he had been writing for hours, endlessly retrying as nothing seemed to be good enough. How could anything ever be good enough for him? He stared at the draft and sighed. Maybe, just maybe, this is mediocre enough. He took out a paper, his pen hovered above the page, trembling. He started writing. trying to curve the letters in a way that would be fitting for the content in the letter. 'No, this isn't perfect, this needs to be perfect,' he muttered under his breath and crumpled up the letter and threw it behind his back, getting out another paper and retrying. He can't mess this up, if he did, what would he think of him? These thoughts were plaguing his mind whilst he was failing to prove his worth to himself, or rather to him. After the thirty-fourth letter being thrown into the pile of crunched-up paper, gathering seemingly with no end behind him, he puts his head in his hands and starts quietly sobbing as if scared someone might hear. Why is he so stressed about this anyways, it's just a letter. No, it's not just a letter, it's a letter to him, and out of all the things this could be about, it's just a letter congratulating him, not a letter about how much he misses competing with him, not a letter about how much he's been craving his presence, how much he's been yearning just for those beautiful blue eyes to look at him for one last time. He would never admit it out loud, but he has been watching his campaigns, and every time those blue eyes looked into the camera, he hoped in some twisted reality he was looking at him, and he felt those butterflies he hadn't been feeling ever since that day. Joe took a deep breath, gathering himself together as he took out the thirty-fifth paper and began writing. This time the words wrote themselves with beautiful formatting. He didn't even look at the draft he struggled so long to make, he just wrote whatever was in his mind. He wrote about the butterflies. He wrote about how hurt and jealous he felt about the letters he had been exchanging with Kim Jong-un. By the end of the letter, Joe began to cry again, his tears soaking the paper. Ending the letter with his signature, he finally got out of his chair and rushed out of his office, slamming the door behind himself, running up to his bedroom. Opening his door, he jumped into the bed and buried his face into the pillows, letting it all out and crying for hours on end. After a while, the room fell silent. Joe sat up in his bed, his eyes red from all the crying, staring at the door. As if hesitating, he stood up and started walking back towards his office. After reaching its door, he slowly opened it, stepping into the room. Walking past the paper pile, he was only focused on the letter. He took it in his hands, trying to smooth out the paper, wrinkled from his tears that fell on it earlier. He then seals it with wax and begins to walk up to his window, opening it and whistling softly. A white messenger bird softly lands on the ledge. Joe ties the letter to the bird's leg and gently strokes its feather before sending it off. The bird shuffles a little before taking flight. Joe watches as the bird disappears into the distance, and when he isn't able to make out the white-feathered pigeon anymore, he closes his window and walks away from it. The bird flew tirelessly without a break, not stopping for anything. By the time it got to its destination, the sun started to dip below the horizon, an orange hue coloring the garden of the Trump residence, where the man himself stood watching a very light gray, almost diseased and rotting white-colored rose. The bird landed on the edge of a fountain, its sharp claws clicking against the stone. Trump looked over, and after some thinking, he recognized the bird, he rushed over, took the letter off of the bird's leg, and gently opened it. Hesitating a little, his features softened with nostalgia as he began reading it. The paper worn from travel started off with congratulating them on their success as if the past few months hadn't unraveled everything between them. As Trump got closer to the end, he noticed the tear stains and the drastic change in the tone of the letter as it took a much more emotional approach to things. They reread the last few sentences over and over again, their chest tightening as Joe had revealed all the cards that he had been holding so closely to his chest for as long as they had known each other. Trump didn't know how to feel. Joe had finally confessed to him after all these years, but the spark he once had for him was suddenly gone as if the possibility of his feelings not being returned was his drive and not his true love for Joe. For a moment he felt awful as he had been basically playing with Joe's feelings without his own knowledge, but his face soon turned cold as he threw the letter into the fountain, letting it dissolve in the water as he turned around to go inside his mansion to his wife.

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why is my wattpad still french..?