#james buchanan

You think you like it when he holds you. It’s a foreign sensation, but perhaps not sour.

You never felt steady. Loosely grounded; stuck but swaying, rocking. It’s all too simple to move you this way or that—to be tugged in one direction then yanked in another. And you’d accepted that—weren’t content in it, but beared with it, through it. Things were just easier that way—if one braced for the worst, one could not be discontent when it inevitably happens. One should not be, at least.

But he called you his little weeping willow, so you’re inclined to believe you don’t do a good job of hiding what’s inside—the unruly winds; whipping, whooshing. Blowing you away.

Steve could ground you, though, keep you down—keep you. He was strong (so strong. So firm with you—not mean, just correct), Mr. Rogers, Captain America. He could do anything.

And you would be anything for him. Anything at all—

“What are you doing, sugar?” His voice is rough—gravel and shattered cobble stone, ruins in the rubble.

—just, sometimes it takes a reminder or two; a heavy hand or a strong (strangling) hold to make his rules get through.

But, in your defense, you thought you had more time.

Guess this mission ended early.

You feel him on you before he physically is. His presence surrounds you; his being envelopes you. Your spine stiffens against the couch cushions, and you try to carefully pull the head of your computer shut. His hand slips over yours before you can. Pushes up, overpowers your resistance—easily.

“What’s this?”

Your hands give way beneath his grip. He takes the laptop, lifts it, up and over your head. You tuck the corner of your bottom lip between your two front teeth, gnaw and gnaw. Your thumb nail, next; gnaw gnaw gnaw. It’s down to the bed by the time he’s circled the couch, in front of the coffee table and facing you. You switch to your other nails.

He pulls your fingers from your mouth. Presses the calloused palm of your hand with his over-top to the red apple of your cheek. Your head lulls into your joint touch; you relax—just slightly.

“Baby—” your eyes flutter: a fond flicker in those baby blues at the sight, then his fingers are sliding up your cheekbone and curling at the root of your hair, nails to scalp. Your hand drops, limp, to your side. “—Willow.”

Something wilted fiddles at your throat. You fight to keep it down. You lose—and resent the way his chest puffs at your involuntary reaction. Tell yourself he’s presumptuous, and muffle the part that tells you he’s just correct.

“It’s— s’nothing, Stevie.” Your words are mumbled. He places your computer on the coffee table, shuts the top. Drops down to a knee before you—and even down there he’s still so tall, so big and— and more. Your infatuation borders on fiducial; devotion like holiness.

That’s why, if it’s more than once, it’s only twice.

He hums, “Nothing, s’it?” You nod. He must find it rhetorical (as it is). Fixes his grip on your hair, your eyes locked to his baby blues. He continues, “‘Cause it sure looks like an assignment from a former coworker.”

And, well— there’s no way to work around that. No way to deny or defend—it couldn’t possibly be your assignment. Stevie liked you—your softness, your solubility; how you fit to him, like you’re two halves of the same mangled, fragmented and forgotten mold. He didn’t have to take when you gave so freely. Your love, your faith; your home, your job: you gave it all, and you’d give more, without a word, without a single command (but maybe you like it better when there is one. Maybe you need it).

Even in his firmness, he lets you sit with it. The mortification and humiliation. That nasty, guilty feeling that makes it hard to swallow. Digs inside and hollows you out. The bile broiling at the base of your stomach. The pain of it making circles in you, the pain of a lie—your lie.

Caught.

It’s a rotten feeling, but one that you need to experience. He makes you need it—crave it, like some adrenaline junkie.

The tightness in your throat comes first. Like rough rope chaffing at the skin on your neck, cinching, closing. Then the weight in your chest, your heart; on your soul—something about the way he’s watching you, analyzing; something in the air he’s crafted that makes you face the consequences. Your shaking hands, next, a stuttered breath; sharp and clouded eyes, and a bowing head.

“M’sorry.”

He lets you sit with that, too. A beat. Two, then three.

Four.

“I know.” His grip on your scalp loosens. Trails up, soft, to pet over the tender spot. “I know you’re sorry, honey.”

You hiccup. “I’m sorry. Sorry, s—so sorry, Stevie.” The sensations overwhelm you, cave around you—something dark and destructive, massive and manic, eating you whole. “I just— when you ma— when you asked me to quit my job it all happened so fast. I know you said they’re not worth it—not then, not now—none of ‘em, and I— I get that! I do—I swear I get that. It’s only… well Meryl was never that rude to me! And— and she even taught me how to use the company’s software for spreadsheets and powerpoints and stuff, so I thought—” you gulp one big breath down, huff it out—his chest right there with yours, in and out. “—I thought it’d be nice of me to— to return the favor somehow. And I know! I know you said—”

“That’s enough, willow.”

Your lips press together, crumpled. A tear slips from your eye, down your cheek—one of many. His thumb jumps up to catch it—the hand by his side, not the one smoothing your hair back, always delicate with you.

“I know you’re sorry,” he repeats himself. He licks the tears off his thumb. “I know. But I told you, didn’t I? Stevie told you that those people—the ones you used to work with, the ones you called your friends?—They didn’t want you, sugar. They were using you.”

Your eyes snap shut. Squeeze.

“I’d never use you.” It hangs, heavy and raw. He purses his lips, grunts. “I’d never hurt you, you know that, willow.”

It’s not a question.

You know—because he said you know.

“I”m sorry.”

“I know.

“I know you’re sorry, honey. But you know what I have to do, right?” His head tilts to the side, and he looks so genuine. So sad about it, like it’ll hurt him as much as it’s going to hurt you

(God, do you want it to. You want it to hurt you both, bad. So bad that it’s good).

You choke up something ugly.

“Mhm.”

“Yeah?” Soft; how he says it, a balm. You nod small, sniff. “Yeah,” sighs it. “Yeah, you know what I have to do.”

“Please…”

“Shh, shh, be quiet.” That hand in your head goes tight again. “Be quiet, baby.” The thumb that caught your tear drags across the plush of your red bitten lips, up to your cupid’s bow, over and along your wet cheeks, until his monstrous palm is covering half your face. “It’s gonna be okay; you’re okay.” You gasp, suction against skin, and his fingertips make craters in your cheek.

“Daddy’s gonna make sure you’re okay, willow.”

You sob. Loud and fractured and rotten. You sink off the couch, to the ground. You melt into him.

And he holds you. Firm. Correct. Strong and strangling.

He covers you entirely. His shoulders completely curve around yours, arms wrapped around the expanse of your spine.

You shiver. You cry. You wilt.

“Daddy.”

Sweet hushing, “Shh, I know, sugar. Daddy knows.”

You stay like that for a while. On the floor, entangled with one another. Broken pieces sliding together seamlessly—that fragmented, forgotten mold remembered.

And then, “Look at me.” You lift your head from between his pecs. One arm falls from your back, and a thumb and forefinger pinch at the point of your chin. “Gimme a kiss...”

You wouldn’t have denied him, couldn’t—can’t—but he’s dipping down, clouding over before you have anything to say about it.

His surly smile makes your tummy do funny things, and that grainy, “C’mere, sugar.”

Your lips meet; slotted like puzzle pieces, pillows pressed together. He moves slow, supple and sultry, and you follow. His nose knocks against yours with each gentle tilt of your heads and smear of your lips. His tongue, slick and warm and wet, tentatively unfurls, languid as he seeks to peek inside. The salt from your tears still lingers in the cracks of your lips, and you think maybe he can taste it. Maybe, because his sweet tongue twitches, his hot breath huffs heavy, and something suddenly feels hard against your backside.

He grunts— growls, is a better term. And then his mouth isn’t on yours anymore.

“Up.” He does the lifting, though—one arm hooked beneath the full of each thigh, each thigh wrapped around his thick waist. You bury your face in his broad shoulder, try to tuck yourself away, hide from what comes next.

There’s no use.

He replaces the space you once took up on the couch, settles you in his lap. His hands trail up your back, scratching beneath the flimsy cotton shirt you’re wearing, and splay across. His fingertips tease the clip of your bra, faint. Fine. You shutter.

“Bend f’me, sugar,” he mumbles, right at your ear, breath hot against it. You obey. Swing your leg parallel to the other and stretch yourself across his lap, chest to thighs. Arch.

Steve inhales something heavy, “Good girl.”

His hand finds the curve of your ass. He follows the slope, careful—brutal. You sink your teeth into your lip again, fingers crawling up to follow. He lets you this time.

You hear his swallow, strained. “We’re gonna…” His hand squeezes—testing the ripeness of his fruit. “We’re gonna do twenty-five.” You squirm in his lap, and he gives you one. You know it doesn’t count—you didn’t count. And you won’t. Yet.

“Tell me,” he says. “Tell me how many, willow.”

Your voice is still teary, but that’s okay—he likes it better that way; some sweet sound, or whatever. “We’re— we’re doing twenty-five, Stevie.”

Another. You yelp.

“Who?”

“Daddy! We’re doing twenty-five, daddy.”

“That’s it; that’s fuckin’ right, baby.”

His fingers curl in the band of your little sleep shorts. He pulls them down consciously, tenderly. You half expect him to rip them off of you, but you wouldn’t bother feeling sad about it—he bought it for you, and he’d buy it for you again; he loves to buy things for you. But only down, short, right below the round of your ass. His other hand curls over the front of your thighs, grabbing the shorts tight in the clench of his fist.

He leaves your white cotton panties on—the ones he first got on his knees for you for.

“Count.”

“Yes, daddy.”

You feel the warmth of his smile against the back of your neck. “And use your manners like a big girl. Say thank you, honey.”

You shiver. No pelt this time.

“Yes, daddy.”

“‘Atta girl.”

The shift in the air is palpable, poignant and tangible. The first spank he delivers clears up any doubt of that.

It burns. You can feel right where he hit, his print on you. “One! Thank you, daddy.”

He clicks his tongue low in approval. Delivers two more one right after the other. “Two! Three! Thank you, daddy.”

Your body reacts with each impact. You never lose count, but you certainly gain hesitation. His force after such delays is reminiscent of that. Your face is only half as red as your ass by fifteen, and you— you think you’re crying again. But it’s, different. How this hurts; it’s different, it’s better. It scorches the mortification and humiliation. That nasty, guilty feeling that makes it hard to swallow; that digs inside and hollows you out.

Leaves a sweeter kinda burn behind.

“Twenty, thank you, daddy.” You’ve lost the surprise in your voice. You may still jolt on the outside, but something on the inside has resigned. Remitted and released.

“You’re welcome, sugar,” Steve says, so nice to you. So sweet in his seizing. “What a fuckin—” he lands another hard one.

“Twenty-one, thank you, daddy.”

He chuckles, “—good little girl.” He fiddles with the fabric of your underpants, stretching them up, tight—up, tight—over your ass. You stay fixed, idle. You’re happy to let him play—paint you pretty then tug you to Tophet. You’re happy to let him do anything to you. He smooths his hand all over; the soreness, the stinging, the marks. He’s got two or three rings on his fingers that cool you in sharp contrast to how they dig into you with every reverberating smack he offers.

Thinking about it makes you feel them more on the next one.

“Twenty-two, thank you— thank you, thank you—”

“Shh, sugar. Heard you the first time, didn’t I?”

“Yeah— Yes. Yes, daddy, sorry, so sorry, so—”

“Hey. Hey, hey; willow, baby, it’s okay, you’re okay.” One of his hands lifts to your face, pressed into the cushion, to tuck your hair in the crook of his fingers and brush it out of your face. It’s such a small gesture, yet the wind the seems to wash over you inclines otherwise. You suck in a deep breath. “Can hear your heart racin’, sweetie,” he whispers. “Like a little bunny rabbit.”

The hand still settled on your ass moves in, lower. You feel a finger prodding, thick, at your hole. That hole. Your back curves in, something other twitches up your throat. He presses your arch back, gentle.

He hums, “Just three more, willow.”

They’re quick. They go by that way: quick—but he goes slow. Savors it. Soaks it in, soaks you in.

Steve pushes his hands beneath your arms and lifts you upright when it’s over. Hitches your leg up and back over his lap, so you’re straddling him again. He doesn’t wait to lick the tear streaks from your pretty, sad face. You’re ready for it, though—you want it.

“Did so good for me,” he says against you. “Took what I gave so sweet, sugar, such a sweet girl.”

You nuzzle into him; his words, his lips, his tongue. “Your girl,” you mumble.

He smiles. “That’s right, willow. My girl.” His hand curls around the back of your neck—reels you in. “My best girl.”

When your lips touch, you don’t just shiver, you convulse. One hand ‘round your neck, the other on your back, keeping you tucked tight to him. His tongue is headier this time, eager for it. The taste, of your sadness and submission.

It’s messy; spit and smacking and drool down the sides of your lips. He flicks his tongue against yours, then takes your bottom lip between his teeth. Bites and pulls while his hands drop from you—he goes heavier at the noise you make because of it—and to his belt. Make quick work of the buckle and yanking it from the loops.

His fingers find your shorts next, and, now, he rips them off of you. You shift closer as soon as the useless, offensive things are gone. He tucks his pointer finger in the gusset and tugs your panties to the side.

He’s hard—been hard since he caught you in a lie. Since he knew you were in trouble (it doesn’t happen often—you really are his best girl—so he treasures the little moments).

He wraps his arm in the bend on your back and lifts you. Presses you just so, just at the tip.

“Move.”

You get your small hands on his board shoulders, the thick of his sturdy neck, and stark to sink.

The stinging had just started to subside. He makes sure you still feel it.

“Grind, sugar. Grind your pussy on daddy’s cock.” He kisses your cheeks—that spot behind your ear, the place on your jaw, the ones on your neck—where they bloom with rouge.

His fingers squeeze where he so suddenly hit. You start to grind.

Easy. Lazy, almost. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Like that—that’s a good girl.”

You feel your lips—soft and wet—part against his head. He bumps your clit once, you jump—twice. You angle your hips so you stay along his shaft, and he brings his arm down to string around your hips and keep you just as you are. It’s more fluid when you go where he guides, follow the circles he steers you into. Wide, full circles. Unhurried, enough to feel the full of him against you—his thickness, and length; the veins, and soft tufts of hair around the base. You gasp and moan with each swivel of your hips, and Steve makes sure they go on his lips, in his mouth, soak into the silk of his tongue.

He brings a hand to the base of him, balls tucked between his spread thighs, full and heavy. He eases you away from it. Your hips continue to circle in protest. He pulls his cock to his stomach, then slaps it, avid, against you.

“Oh!”

You feel his lips on your temple, “Yeah?”

“Yeah!” He does it again, rougher, harder. “Jes— goodness!”

Again. His kisses, then moves his lips to the side, down to your ear. He bites, “Yeah.”

Again, and again. Five, six. He knocks at your puffy clit. Ten, eleven. He catches in your leaky hole. Again—losing count. Again.

“Please! Please Stevie— Daddy! Please, I need it bad, badbadba—”

He thrusts inside.

“Fuck!”

“Shit.”

He’s a lot. It’s all a lot. How he plunges himself into you, his teeth and tongue at your neck. His hands on you hips, gripping, clenching and smoothing, on your ass. You hear the hardwood of the coffee table scrape against the floor panels, close. You rise, ever so slightly, when he perches one foot against it, and plants the other into the ground. He pulls you from him and tugs out at the same time, an embellished loss.

The way he fucks up, into you is magnified.

“Oh, my god.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. Nips— snaps at your supple neck. “Biiig stretch, ain’t it?”

Your nod is frantic, revered. “Yes! Big, big, so big.”

The absence of his marred paws—then three rapid shots at you. Both sides.

“Fuck! Fuck, fu—”

Another—and a heavy jam of his cock, up, up. Just for emphasis.

“No more,” he grunts. “You know the rules.” You whimper, rueful and wispy.

His hands go soft again. Sooth. And he starts to move, fluid. Slow, sacred—the way you’re split over the girth of him, filled—full—makes you feel all of it. All of him, spread inside all of you. Touching every crevice and corner, reaching latent places and grazing lithe nerves. He circles and swivels his hips into that soft spot in the very back, that sensitive spot that makes you shake and shutter and shiver in his arms.

He chuckles, and shushes you softly. You try to listen. Whether you do or don’t doesn’t matter; his hands find your swelling chest and he presses you back. Pulls your shirt up, and unclips your white bra, lacey like his favorite panties.

“Oh, willow.” His arms start to weave around you, bulky branches encasing your little vines. A hand messing through your head; twigs tangled in your hair. He looks at your breasts, the soft peaks of your stiff nipples, and sighs. His mouths smears into your temple. “My little weeping willow, look at you.

“So pretty. So tiny, I could just— I could…” His arms tighten around you, squeeze you tight while his thrusts get harder til the get restless. Shift from your back to your ass; ass to thighs, thighs to hips; stomach, breasts, nipples—scratching, slapping, squeezing. Can’t get enough; can’t get his fill.

His foot drops from the coffee table beside the other on the floor, and suddenly you’re up, in the air. Still locked around him, stuck on his fat cock.

He maneuvers his arms between the bends of your thighs and hikes you up—you bounce on his cock and moan something broken at the feeling. His hands splay on your spine, nails digs in your flesh, and then he fucks you.

Fast and deep. Rough and heady. You bury your face in his neck, cry cry cry, and let him hold you though it. Hold you through getting brought to the cliff, right on his tip. Hold you through feeling him bend and tap your swollen clit, twitchy, then notch back inside. Hold you through the way he moves you, fragile, on and off of just that, just the head—pop.

Pop!

Holds you through it, when he dips back in, digs, deep. Right there again, right at your spot.

“S’good?”

You frown.

Why is he asking that? Can he not tell? He can always tell. Why can’t he—

Smack.

“Is it good, willow.”

Not a question.

He just wants to hear me say it.

“S’good.” You nod, desperate, into his neck. Muffled, “S’so freaking good, daddy.”

He nods back, “Hm…”

He uses you; moves you up and down on him to give you both what you need. You’re the one mouthing at his neck, now. Nipping and licking like a little kitten in heat. Mewing and purring into his throat.

He bears himself to you. You bite; he chokes.

You smile. Lick over the marks.

“That’s nice, willow baby,” he says (and there’s something in that, that combination, that makes you a little dizzy). His voice is rough with pebbles and want, pure. “Get to keep you with me, too, don’ I?”

And it was heady before, fuzzy, but now it’s better—worse. You don’t know.

“Y’gonna come for me?”

You bite again. Harder, and you both groan.

“Yeah? Gonna come for your daddy?”

He kicks the coffee table back—you bounce twice on his cock, out of rhythm. Shutter.

Drops to the wood panels below and cages you beneath him, ankles to ears. Starts sinking inside. Hitting things he wasn’t before, more… more.

You feel him in your throat.

“G’na— Hmm, hmph.” You gasp around you words, eyes wild. Your pupils bloom; you stare at him, scared.

He slaps you. You cry out something sweet, and he fucks it in harder. “Gonna what, willow baby—”

“G’na come! Please, I’m— m’g’na—”

“Ask me.” He squeezes your cheeks together, purses your lips. “Don’t interrupt your daddy, and ask me.”

You wide eyes start to well. He sneers, nasty.

“Sorry. M’sorry.”

“Ask me,” he repeats, ignores your apology. But the way his words are as fragile as you feel, and his cock feels… kinder. The way he uses it, and you. Like before, like the beginning, when he held you to him, kept you to him—makes you feel like you’re almost out of trouble.

“Please,” quiet and fractured. “Please, can I come? I wanna come; you’re gonna— you’re g’na make me come.”

“Daddy’s gonna make you come, sugar?”

“Yeah,” you sniff, grapple at his biceps. “I wanna— please let me come, daddy.”

He lets go of your jaw. Brings his hand to the top of your head, pets your hair down. Soft, sweet—correct when he says, “You can come.”

Starts going harder, hitting deeper, but only so far as to get that spot again, the one that makes you shiver on it.

You feel it in your toes. Spreading, spiking through to your soles and up your calves. You start to breathe heavier. “Daddy.”

“What?” He asks, scratching your scalp, soothing. “What do y’need, honey?”

It moves up your thighs, into your stomach. Up, to your chest, at your neck—in your throat.

“Need— kiss. Kissy please, daddy. Need a—”

He drops down, plants his mouth, square, on yours. You come in an instant. Cream around the thick of him filling you, spasm around it, clench, choke. He grunts with every pulse. Kisses you through it. Fucks you through it. Holds you through it.

You gasp into his mouth. “Can’t stop. Can’t— comingcomingcoming.”

He nods, lips brushing your gaping mouth. “Keep comin’ then, sugar.

“Keep comin’, an’ you’re gonna make daddy come.”

“Yes! Please come, please, I— I need it.”

Something gruff licks up his throat. “Yeah? You need that?”

“Mhm!”

“Mhm? Yeah?” His lips curl up at the sides; you can feel them on your own. “Yeah. Yeah, you do, baby. You need my cum; you need my cock, you need my cum. And you need me.”

“Need you. Needyouneedyoudaddy.”

“Yeah,” he groans.

And he spills inside you. You keep coming with him. Tighten up with each white hot spurt shot inside you. Crane your neck and kiss him through it like he kissed you through it. Jut your hips and try to fuck him through it like he fucked you through it. Wrap your arms around his neck and hold him through it like he held you through it.

He laughs something fond into you. “Greedy,” he huffs. “Sweet, and greedy.”

You smile.

He smiles back. “You’re cute.”

You stay like that for a long, long time, too. Cock up your cunt, limbs linked, tongues tied.

You think you like it when he holds you. When you cry, when you kiss; when you fuck, and when you come. Foreign, but not sour.

You like it when he holds you.

so many new ideas came from writing this i'm so excited!!! hope you enjoy, leave a note/reblog if you do <3.

James Buchanan

President of the United States of America

To all to whom these Presents shall come, Greeting:

Whereas at a term of the District Court of

the United States for the District of Wisconsin, on

the 13th day of January, A.D. 1855, Sherman M.

Booth was found guilty on an indictment for

obstructing, resisting and opposing the execution of

process,and aiding, abetting and assisting the es-

cape of Joshua Gloves; and was thereupon on the

twenty-third day of January 1855, sentenced to be

imprisoned for the term of one month in the Jail of

Milwaukee County and in such other prisons or places as the

Court or the Judge thereof might from time to

time direct, and to pay a fine of one thousand

dollars and the costs of prosecution; -

And whereas, the said Booth has served

out the said term of imprisonment, and has been

imprisoned ten months, and is still imprisoned for

the non-payment of the said fine and costs of

prosecution; -

And whereas, it appears from his representation sustained by the satisfactory evidence,

that he is unable to pay the said fine and costs; -

And whereas, many respectable prisons have

petitioned for the remission of the said fine, and have

represented that it will be in their opinion impos-

sible for the said Booth to pay it; -

And whereas it has been the practice of

the Government to remit fines and penalties, when

from the pecuniary circumstances of the offender, it

becomes manifest that an enforcement of the sentence

will subject him to perpetual imprisonment; -

Now, therefore be it known that

I, James Buchanan, President of the Untied States

of America, in consideration of the premises divers

other good and sufficient reasons me thereunto mov-

ing have granted, and do hereby grant unto him

the said Sherman M Booth a remission of the afore-

said fine and costs of prosecution.

In testimony whereof I have hereunto signed my name and caused

the Seal of the United States to be affixed.

[seal of the United States in the upper left corner of the document]

Done int he City of Washington this

Second day of March A.D. 1861

and the Independence of the

United States the Eighty Fifth

James Buchanan

By the President

J. S. Black