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justastarlightslittleworld · 5 days ago

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YOU’RE SO HANDSOME WHEN I'M ALL OVER YOUR MOUTH! - a JFK and RFK love triangle one-shot.

authors note: this is part one! also can you tell i watched the jfk movie starring patrick demspy as young jfk... cause, mama i am howling at the moon for that man i hate to say it y'know i do! another thing, this is not edited because i actually cannot right now, it will be soon enough! iloveuallx summary: an afternoon in dallas leaves an indelible mark on your relationship with your husband, bobby kennedy, and his brother jack kennedy... you'd be surprised how much can be identified based on one moment of pure, animalistic reflex.

tags: @obsessedwithjohnjr @candyneckl6ce @rocker-chick-7 @ultr4v1ol3nt @violetharmonsfavgf @strip-weather-forecast @darcyspirits @fortheloveofjos @h-l-v-kennedy-blog @h-l-vlovesvintage @bluelancergirl @snowsgames @salvatoresablondie @dulcegal @kennedyism @bloxholden35 @kimcrystal123@absurdlyvintage @jackiesgirl @chemicalw0rld @remotewatch @starsprangledgirl @strryhaze @beloved-angel

warnings: alternative universe take on the assassination of JFK, mild gore, blood, and violence.

words: 1070

Now you weren't proud to admit this, but you hadn't been entirely truthful to Bobby when it came to just how familiar you were with his older, illness-prone, shit-eating-grin wearing brother Jack.

Well you see, you'd met Jack a long time before you'd met your beloved Bob. A quite long time indeed.

*flashback to Peter Bent Brigham Hospital, Boston 1931*

The Jack you'd met—well his name wasn't even Jack when you'd met him, for some strange reason he adopted an alias named "Dan" whenever you two would converse. You could tell it was a fake, obviously, but you entertained it and by extension him, blinded by the vision of him in a white wife-beater and a fawn penny loafer.

If you were asked, you'd put those psychology books you'd been left to read in 29' to good use and say that he was attempting to distance himself from who he thought people expected a promising son of Joesph Kennedy to be from the disease ridden boy he came to quickly resemble through his child and teenhood.

You'd forever hold dear to your heart the first time you'd laid your sore eyes upon his almost tragic kind of grace and beauty. Jack was never a stellar patient—not like you were, forever you were a quite careful daughter that never did seem to shake that pesky cold that eventually turned into a much graver prognosis for you, par for the course you'd met Jack while he was trying enter back into the hospital after hours—no doubt coming home from God knows what, doing God knows who.

And in doing so, he'd obviosuly over indulged himself and gone far beyond his doctors orders in terms of physical movement. Jack would go on to tell you that he thought his doctor would soon try to put him in a contraption not disimilar to a straight jacket just for him to get some rest.

In a haze of overexertion and clear fatigue Jack accidently mistook your room for his, and no less but climbed into your bed—with you sleeping in it, none the wiser, and the mistake wasn't noticed by you, himself, or his nurses until the morning.

Safe to say you two, unknowingly got decently comfortable with eachother after that. Nothing deviant, purely platonic but a sense of camraderie and friendship had been born that night out of plain happenstance.

By some miracle you'd condition had steadily improved and no sooner than five months are meeting Jack, you were saying goodbye to him all the same. You didn't want him to feel a sense of betrayal due to your leaving so you vowed to eachother to keep in touch through letters—with you promising to entertain him through ink and paper when visitation hours were up for the night.

*end of flashback*

You two would keep that promise to keep in touch until certain life-shaped obstacles got in the way, chief among them being a certain sandy-blonde named Bob Kennedy.

Though you missed Jack and longed to rekindle the camraderie you once shared, you didn't quite expect it to come about like how it did....

After a few months of courtship between you and Bobby, in which you swore you'd never seen a man so dedicated to loving another person in your whole life: and to be on the recieving end of that affection felt euphoric. So, naturally, a spring wedding was to be set, but not before meeting the family.

So in 1949 that's exactly what you did, timidly clutching Bob's hand while trying to make pleasant conversation with the younger of his siblings—of which there were many. One caught your eye. A certain Jack Kennedy, who looked remarkably similar to the addled boy you'd met back in BLANK.

Side stepping what couldve been an awkard moment you both handled it with poise, pretending as if you two had just met for the first time. You didn't mention it to Bobby, i mean really what was there to mention? a six month friendship whom bonded over the lonliness of having a chronic illness? It wouldn't do any modicum of good for anybody. And certaintly not Bobby.

Though you hadn't met his brothers until that day, before Bobby would talk of them as Greek Gods—untouchable beings that he could only hope to be half as divine as. You didn't understand Bobby's habit of denegrating himself to pump up his brothers. To you he was everything he thought his brothers to be. Smart, handsome, charming, and above all indeliably loyal. To a fault sometimes.

No matter how many times you assured him that it was him you wanted, not anyone else. Bobby wasn't a particulary jealous person, pathologically insecure would be a more suitable assessment.

But it was that near medievil dedication to his brother that got you here: getting ready for a texan motocade with the president: who was none other than Bob's brother and your old friend from the infirmary, Jack Kennedy.

You've chosen as simple navy two piece in wool, you'd gotten so cold in your first trimester and hadn't been able to shake it off in the second. You and Bobby were delighted to be granted the utter gift of being parents, having had troubles concieving for the first couple of years into your marriage.

After the reception your hounded by assistants and courtiers into the car, only having time to exchange sincere pleastries with the president and his wife. Despite the years long hiatus in your friendship, you and Jack had mostly picked back up where you left off back in the thirties.

Though the dynamic was different now that you were both married, and with children on the way, it felt good to have a Kennedy-born ally that wasn't your husband.

Before you can say much else, the car's fully on the move, and everyone has their hands up and waving, expressing diplomatic pleastries. The car moves onto Elm Street, and as if out of nowhere your eye focuses in on the most peculiar almost minscule object flying from a nearbywindow, and heading straight for the seat holding the your old friend, and the president of the united states.

And out of a kind of pure, subhuman instinct, in disalignment with any kind of common sense you believed you had ever possessed in all your life, you move to shield his body with yours and—*BANG*

end of part one.

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justastarlightslittleworld · 5 days ago

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Sibling Rivalry - Part 1

pairing: senator!john f. kennedy and bobby kennedy/reader

summary: senator jack kennedy and bobby kennedy both have an eye for you, and you can’t help but enjoy watching as they try to win your affection. but when the brothers’ competitive natures inevitably take over, you realize you might not have as much power in the situation as you thought.

warnings: 18+, nothing super graphic yet but descriptions of dub-con and infidelity

word count: 2.4k

a/n: this fic is based on this ao3 fic i read a while ago! i definitely recommend checking it out

sorry this took so long guys 😖 i decided to just go ahead and post it even though i’m not sure how i feel about it lol so plz let me know what you think. this may or may not be the worst thing i’ve ever written.

this section of the fic is basically just a set-up for the eventual smut, which will be in part 2 if you guys want it

The hour or so you spend in Bobby’s office every evening is the only time all day you can relax. You know Bobby feels the same way. That’s part of the reason why he stays so late after the rest of his big brother’s campaign team is long gone. And since you’re his personal secretary, you feel obligated to stay with him. He’s told you before that you can go home with everyone else, that you don’t have to stay with him, but you always insist. You and he both know he could use all the help he can get as he blearily writes and re-writes strategy sheets or tallies up the daily budget in the growing darkness. And you both benefit greatly from what usually happens between you two after the day’s work is done. Your fingers massaging the stiff back of his neck, his lips warm on your skin. These methodical, intimate evenings are a welcome interlude between a long day of the raucous, back-slapping, wolf-whistling fraternity party that is Senator Jack Kennedy and the rest of his campaign team and a night full of giggly questions from your roommates about the newest juicy details of your job. Tell us one more time what it was like meeting Frank Sinatra. Is it true the senator is sleeping with his daughter’s babysitter? Is Jackie nice?

On this particular evening as you walk into Bobby’s office, having just completed the work you personally wanted to finish in order to get a headstart on the next day, you find yourself chuckling a little at the sight you’re greeted by. It’s only seven, and Bobby has already abandoned his desk for the sofa. Usually, he doesn’t take a break until closer to eight. As your eyes adjust to the dim lighting, you notice he’s leaning almost completely sideways on the armrest, his eyes closed, head slowly drooping off of the closed fist it’s propped up on. His gray-striped tie is a limp tangle on the floor. His dress shirt has been untucked from his slacks in what seems to have been a pretty violent manner—you notice that its bottom two buttons came undone in the process. His red, fuzzy lower belly is squishing out over his belt.

Just to make sure he’s not asleep, you whisper, “Bobby?”

In response, Bobby opens one eye, looks at you for a moment, then shuts it again in a playful, darting way, like he’s playing peek-a-boo with one of his hundreds of kids. Then he pats his hand on the cushion beside him, and you’re immediately starting towards him.

His office is snug, tucked in a literal corner of Senator Kennedy’s headquarters. Your only source of light as you pick your way through the towering stacks of paper all over the floor is the golden streetlamps of Boston outside the window, which look smeared now from the raindrops that streak down the glass. The only noises you hear are the scuff of your heels on the carpet and Bobby’s breath whistling faintly in and out of his nose.

Once you’ve sat down beside him and are wiggling out of your heels, he finally opens both eyes. You watch patiently as he slowly sits up and swings his heavy head to look at you. Poor thing. He gives you a soft smile, his big front teeth just barely peeking out under his lip. His fluffy hair is slightly mussed—and extra-fluffed—on the side he was just leaning on. You smile back.

“Tough day,” you say.

He blows his cheeks up with air and nods. “Yeah.” His voice is just a murmur, even though there’s really no need to be quiet since you two are the only ones left on the entire floor.

He’s been working extra late and extra hard now that the senator’s presidential election is only about a month away. This is quite an achievement, seeing as, even in the earliest days of the campaign, Bobby spent almost all day locked up in his office, tirelessly barking orders into one of the three constantly-ringing telephones on his desk or scribbling incessantly in the margins of a drafted campaign ad. Only every few hours would his door would bang open and he’d come stalking straight into the middle of where the rest of Senator Kennedy’s inner circle lounged, feet up, in a lazy haze of cigar smoke. Then Bobby would launch into a passionate explanation of whatever incompetent mistake on their part had prompted him to leave his office this time. You remember one specific afternoon when Bobby marched out, planted his hands on his hips, and said, “Alright, now, I just finished with that biography draft, and I want to know who approved it because it doesn’t do Jack justice at all. I mean, God, why mention the Addison’s?” One of the men replied, “Well, see here, that was my suggestion, Bobby. We need to get out in front of these things.” Naturally, an argument ensued. Bobby can be combative on a good day, but with the weight of the campaign largely on his shoulders, there was no way he’d be able to stop himself from spitting back a fiery retort at the other man’s condescending tone—and not to mention, he hates when men who aren’t his brothers call him “Bobby.”

As the yelling got louder and louder and all eight of Senator Kennedy’s henchmen eventually tossed their cigars aside and surged up on their feet to try their luck against Bobby’s razor-sharp Kennedy wit, Senator Kennedy himself simply observed from his desk like a Roman emperor watching his gladiators, leaning back in his chair, opening and closing his lips around his cigar. You knew better, though, than to ever let the senator’s laid-back mannerisms fool you. You clocked how his eyes were shrouded in a dark, calculating shadow, how they lingered on each of the nine men in turn. He was testing them, watching to see what they’d do, what positions they’d argue for. You could tell he was deeply focused. He never flinched or even so much as blinked as the men continued to yell and shake their fists and get closer and closer to each other’s faces. You doubted this sort of thing could be good for team morale, but you’ve accepted by now that it was Senator Kennedy’s strange, mysterious way of coming to a decision on something.

At one point during the dispute, the senator looked over at you and raised his eyebrows as if to say, Get a load of this, huh? You smirked coolly back at him, but a small shiver seared down your spine as you did. Nobody makes you nervous quite like he does. It’s sort of titillating, this power he has over you, but it’s also why, despite the senator’s movie-star smile and smooth one-liners, you’ve always felt more comfortable with Bobby.

After several minutes of watching the men yell, once he’d evidently seen enough to make whatever judgment he’d been ruminating on, Senator Kennedy stood up from his desk. The room snapped into a ringing silence.

The senator ran a hand through the little curls that framed his forehead, then nonchalantly said, “Bobby’s right.”

Another stunned beat of silence. Instinctively, you looked to Bobby, who simply sniffed and scratched his nose, seemingly as unfazed by the whole debacle as his big brother was.

One of the other men, Bobby’s brother-in-law Steve, bravely piped up, “But, Jack—”

Senator Kennedy cut him off. “It’s the presidency, gentlemen,” he told them wryly. “Don’t overthink it.” And with that, he huffed back into his chair. Then, almost as an afterthought, he pointed a long finger towards Bobby, and with a barely perceptible teasing bounce in his voice, said, “Alright, back to your corner.”

Bobby chuckled and spun on his heel towards his office. “Don’t have to tell me twice.”

Bobby drops this tough, Irish-bulldog exterior around you. You’ve gotten pretty comfortable with each other in the past few weeks, ever since Bobby told Senator Kennedy that he needed his own personal secretary and that he’d chosen you for the job. This announcement, which you overheard from across the room at the little clump of secretary desks, was a bit of a surprise to you, despite the fact that it was well-known that you were the best typist in the office. It definitely wasn’t an unwelcome surprise, though. You’ve always been fond of Bobby. You think it’s sweet how he talks to you and the other girls in such an innocent, genuine way, like he’s actually interested in your secretarial skills and what you have to say instead of just your body and your face, unlike certain other members of the campaign.

It was immediately obvious, though, that your sudden closeness to Bobby agitated Senator Kennedy. Since you’re the only secretary who hasn’t slept with him yet, the senator has a particular fixation on you, and Bobby knows this well. You had to bite back a giddy smile that afternoon when you saw how the senator’s eyebrows dropped low over his face as Bobby informed him of your new job title. “Personal secretary, huh?” the senator sneered, teeth flashing. Bobby simply grinned.

Bobby and the senator were intensely, at times comically, competitive. You’ve heard them go back and forth over such trivial things as who played better in a weekend family football game or who could read the morning newspaper faster. Once Bobby made you his personal secretary, though, more and more often they’ve been going back and forth over you.

From day one of the campaign, practically, Senator Kennedy has been pursuing you relentlessly, looming over you, tugging at a loose strands of your hair as he teases you for coming in late, unashamedly eyeing the way your ass moves in your pencil skirt, saying things like, “Nothing makes my day like seeing that pretty smile of yours, sweetie.” And the longer you pretend not to notice his advances, the more relentless he is, and, admittedly, the more you find yourself wanting to drive him crazy. It’s fun for you, and honestly quite flattering, that you can get him all riled up by simply brushing against his shoulder as you drop a paper on his desk and whispering breathily in his ear, “Here you are, Senator. Anything else I can do for you?” You can’t get enough of the incredulous look that takes over his handsome, always-nonchalant face—his nostrils flaring, his eyebrows raising, his eyes firing up like a cat who caught sight of a mouse—afterward as you skitter away. On a serious note, though, you figure you’re actually doing him a service by holding out like this. The way he acts with women is absurdly arrogant. He’s like a spoiled child, always getting everything he wants. Secretaries. Call girls. Actresses. All delivered to him, pretty much, at the flick of his hand. You figure it’d be good for him to not get something he wants for once, all flirtations and teasing aside.

You came dangerously close to having your vow of celibacy broken at a celebratory dinner party a few months back. The senator followed you to the back hall as you were about to leave, pushed you up against the wall, and before you even knew what was happening, he stuck his hand up your dress. He’d had a little too much to drink that evening, and he was like a wild animal in that dark, empty hallway. Tearing at your stockings, practically snarling in your ear, cursing you for “driving him crazy” at the office.

“Senator,” you gasped, “please—”

“Please what?” he scoffed. “You think you can act like a little harlot all the time and nothing’s going to happen to you?”

After a moment, your inner desires took over and you gave up resisting. You spread your thighs and let him finger you. It’s not your proudest moment. You hated to let him have that little victory over you, but with the entirety of his body weight against you and his big hands holding you still, there was really no way you could’ve stopped him, even if you’d wanted to.

This game you have with Senator Kennedy has been taken to a whole new level now that you’ve actively chosen to spend almost all your time with Bobby. You can tell by the way the senator shakes his head as he watches you and Bobby walk around together, like you’re two little children misbehaving under his watch, that this is really grating on his competitive side. Bobby doesn’t help matters with the way he smirks and wiggles his eyebrows at the senator when he thinks you’re not looking. Sometimes, the senator will tease Bobby by saying things like, “Don’t you think it’s, uh, a little unfair that you’re not letting anyone else work with our best typist?” or “I’m starting to doubt whether you two are actually getting any work done. Don’t make me take Y/N away from you, Bobby. She’s just on loan, you know.” Bobby does his best to appear to be the mature one in front of you, opting to half-playfully shove the senator with his shoulder as he walks by instead of snapping back some kind of retort.

You still aren’t entirely sure what Bobby’s real motives were for picking you as his secretary, whether it had purely been about spiting the senator, or he’d genuinely admired your skills, or he’d planned to turn your evenings together into sexual rendezvous all along and he was much more like his brother than you thought.

But since, in the process of this whole thing, you’ve developed a genuine relationship with Bobby—and it’s pretty clear, you think, that he has bested his big brother in this little game—you suppose his pushing back against the senator has more to do with the pure competitive spirit of it all at this point than any possessiveness he might feel over you. But still, you get out such a kick out of the fact that they never fail to play right into your hand when you pit them against each other, flirting with one brother in front of the other, making flippant comments to the senator about how wonderful your evenings alone with Bobby are.

Sometimes, though, your confidence in your femme-fatale abilities wavers slightly. Almost daily, Bobby and the senator will convene at the senator’s desk for an intense, private conversation about what you originally assumed was various campaign matters, but every once in a while, you’ll glance up during one of these conversations to find them both looking at you from across the room. The senator will mutter something, and Bobby will nod, and the low sound of their confident, patronizing male laughter will rumble across the office. You instantly drop your eyes back to whatever memo you’re working on, heart suddenly racing. What on earth could they be saying? And why do you have the creeping feeling that this game isn’t going to be so easy for you much longer?