#The Kennedys

[bobbykennedyswife]

“Dream A Little Dream Of Me” 💝

Bobby Kennedy x Reader

synopsis : Bobby has always given you everything you’ve ever wanted, always spoiled you endlessly, and a certain dream makes you feel ready to do the same in return, in the best way you can.

word count : 1.8k

warnings : nothing graphic goes on, just talks about domestic family life and marriage

authors note : hiii this is my first fanfic ever so it might be kind of all over the place, sincerest apologies if that’s the case. also sorry for any grammar or spelling mistakes. I hope you enjoy!!

🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽

Bright beams of sunshine passed in through your window, breaking through the silky curtains Bobby had put up for you months earlier, and pulling you from your deep sleep. You rubbed your eyes carefully and shifted slightly, rolling over so your back faced the window and nuzzling your face into the pillow Bobby usually slept on as you began to think. Your mind was fogged by the aftermath of deep slumber, but you could remember one thing clearly. You’d been having quite vivid dreams all night long, ones that made you think about things you hadn’t even considered. Made you think about Bobby, and your future, and the past and present too.

The last time you remembered having a dream as vivid as the one from last night was on the night after Bobby’s proposal to you.

You’d been so excited, and all night long your mind had gifted you with visions of a big, beautiful wedding—a long white aisle with a lace veil trailing along it, wedding rings, Bobby’s tanned hands holding yours and his lips offering generous kisses, an impressively beautiful layered cake, ribbons in your bridesmaids’ hair. It’d all been wonderful to get to imagine, and it left you smiling and blushing bashfully when you awoke, excited like a schoolgirl who’d just been asked to prom.

It hadn’t all just been dreams either, for all of it had really been brought to life, thanks to the sweet nature of your darling Bobby and his extensive familial wealth. You’d told him about your dream, and about your fantasies of your ideal perfect wedding. He’d taken every bit into consideration, and made it all a reality on your big day. The venue and decor at your real wedding had all been beautiful, just like in your dreams—pale shades of pink, yellow, cream, and blue dancing all around the place in exquisitely pleasing order—and the ceremony had been even better, the most romantic, fulfilling moments of your entire life that nothing could’ve ever prepared you nor could ever live up to.

For your honeymoon as well, he’d planned that according to your fantasies of a perfect vacation months earlier. You’d been flipping through a women’s magazine and saw photos of a beautiful 17th century estate in Portugal. A big, castle like home with dozens of rooms of gleaming marble and stone and intricate hand painted designs. A large garden out front filled with beautiful flowers, with a big staircase leading to a huge crystal clear pool, acres of perfect green grass and a clear path through the enormity of the estate intended to be used as a moat of admiration. The coast was nearby, as well, so you could make a trip out to the beach whenever you wanted.

You had adored the property, and showed it to Bobby later that evening in bed. You’d hinted at maybe going somewhere like that for your honeymoon, or for some other vacation down the line. You hadn’t explicitly stated that you wanted to stay in that exact home, you knew renting it would be enormously expensive and you didn’t want to make Bobby feel like he had to put all the money unnecessarily into something like that. You didn’t want to seem too frivolous or like a gold digger, nor did you want to overwhelm him. Your worries were completely thrown out the window by Bobby, though, and you discovered this was such when he surprised you about a week later with plane tickets to Portugal and the news he’d rented the whole place out for your honeymoon.

You’d been so excited and thanked him nearly hundreds of times, basking in the joy of having a man that really seemed to be eager to do absolutely anything under the sun if it would please you. He was so doting and so kind, and spoiled you so much you almost felt guilty for it. You knew you were much luckier than most women, knew you had the greatest husband you possibly could. He gave you everything, did everything, and it made you want to do the same for him.

And maybe that—knowing Bobby would do anything for you, everything was possible with him, you could have any future you thought up thanks to his doting unconditional sweetness—was why you’d dreamed so vividly of finally making a father out of him.

That was certainly the greatest gift you could give him, and was a dream of yours, like a majority of other wonderful things you’d enjoyed together.

Your dreams of a wedding had of course come true, your dreams of a perfect honeymoon had come true, you had a marriage that would’ve been the stuff of fairytale and fantasy to you when you were a young girl. Maybe this was supposed to come true as well. Maybe the next thing you were meant to have was.. a baby.

You were snapped out of your long winded train of thought by the door creaking open, and you turned your head up to see none other than Bobby stepping into the room, in all his handsome Kennedy glory. He usually got up earlier than you and wasn’t in bed when you woke up, so you hadn’t even really processed his absence till now, but now that you had, you realized you’d missed him. He was already dressed for the day in a sweater and slacks, and held a cup of coffee for you in his hand.

“Well, good morning, dear.” That familiar boyish smile came onto his face as he spoke and made his way over to the bed, sitting on the edge and setting your mug down on the nightstand. He leaned down, brushing your soft hair off of your face and pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead, his lips curved up in a faint smile.

“I would’ve woken you up a bit sooner, but you looked so peaceful, I just couldn’t bring myself to.” Bobby spoke, keeping his voice soft and running his fingers through your hair, gazing down at you. “I made a cup of coffee for you. Figured you’d want it, you usually do.”

You allowed yourself to relax against his touch and shut your eyes again, though it wasn’t for the intention of sleeping or even really relaxing. It just served the purpose of allowing you to focus more solely on Bobby’s gentle touch, and bask in the quiet intimacy of the moment without the extra stimulation of sight.

You gave a slight nod after he told you he’d brought you coffee, smiling softly. Bobby was quiet for a moment after your lack of a response, and he soon started to talk about his duties for the day, softly speaking about plans with Jack. He had a few meetings or something, and had paperwork to fill out. You didn’t really know, as you hadn’t been listening much. You were too busy thinking still, and Bobby always had a tendency to ramble.

You gently interrupted him a minute or two into his soft rambling.

“I dreamed about you.”

Bobby was snapped out of his thoughts upon hearing your voice. He processed your words and smiled a bit at them but didn’t respond with much, just a soft, “Yeah?”

He was hoping his lack of substantial reply would encourage you to speak again, and tell him more. He was always interested in what went on in your mind, whether it was when you were asleep or awake. He thought you had a beautiful way of thinking, a beautiful mind and psyche. Probably why he always took your advice on serious matters, with no second thoughts.

“I dreamed that.. that we had a baby. A little girl. She had your eyes and smile, and my hair. We loved her so much, she fit right into everything. It felt so real. We gave her a pink nursery and she had little pajamas with Bambi on them, and we put little pink bows in her hair. Oh, it was so precious.”

Bobby’s eyes went slightly wide for a moment at the words that sounded from you. He hadn’t necessarily been expecting to hear that, but he wasn’t upset about it. No no, not upset at all. Quite the opposite, really. He’d been waiting to hear something like that from you, waiting for a confirmation that you were ready for a life like that with him. He’d always known that you would eventually, he’d just chosen to be a gentleman and wait for you to decide when you wanted it. And now that it sounded like you were reaching that point, he was beyond excited. The prospect of a baby, a sweet little thing to cherish and love, filled him bright joy.

“Well I.. I’d be ready to make that a reality. That is, only if you are, Y/N. You’ve never brought this up before, so don’t decide on a spur of the moment type thing. We have all the time in the world, you know.”

You’d been married for just under a year, but you loved eachother so deeply, you both could be certain that nothing could happen that would cause you to split. And most certainly a baby wouldn’t . A baby would be a blessing, the physical embodiment of your love for eachother. It’d tie you together even more, make you as close as you possibly could be past marriage, bonded for life. You’d be parents together, the natural next big step in your love story.

You fluttered your eyes open and looked up at the man in front of you. You smiled softly and reached your hand up to rest it on his hand that was still against your cheek. You leaned your head to the side a bit and gently kissed his palm. “I.. I think I’m ready, Bobby. I just needed a little reminder that it was a possibility for us. I guess that’s why the angels or something blessed me with a dream about it.”

Bobby’s smile widened and he gazed for a moment before sliding his hand away, instead wrapping both of his arms around your waist and pulling you up slightly. He leaned in further and pressed gentle kisses to your face, all along your cheeks and your forehead and jaw, and anywhere else he could reach without going below the neck. You smiled brightly and allowed him to shower you in all this attention, definitely enjoying it quite a bit and showing your appreciation in soft giggles and an embrace, your arms sliding around his neck.

Bobby finally stopped the kisses and nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck. His face was smooth, so you knew he’d shaved this morning, and you could feel his lips curved up into a smile against your skin. You slid your fingers through his hair, and he sweetly spoke up.

“What are we waiting for then?”

[withthecolorizedkennedys]

could you write a president jack x reader smut 🥹

35,000 Feet

synopsis: you’ve spent months resisting the president, keeping things strictly professional, but at 35,000 feet, your resolve starts to nosedive.

word count: 2.5k

pairing: john f. kennedy x reader

rating: 18+; includes depictions of semi-public sex and vaginal sex

author's note: i just realized i spelt synopsis wrong in all my previous posts fml

The hum of Air Force One's engines provided a constant backdrop to your thoughts as you made your way down the narrow corridor. The plane was quieter at this hour—most of the staff had retreated to their designated areas to catch what little rest they could before landing in Berlin.

You checked your watch: 11:42 PM.

When the call had come through to your cabin phone, you'd nearly ignored it. "The President needs those polling numbers from Pennsylvania before we land," his secretary had said, voice clipped with efficiency. You knew it was bullshit. Those numbers weren't due until next week, and Kennedy had never once requested them ahead of schedule.

For three months, you'd managed to maintain a professional distance. Three months of strategy meetings where his eyes lingered on your mouth while you presented policy briefs. Three months of "accidental" brushes in narrow doorways, his hand finding the small of your back as he let you pass. Three months of late-night discussions that veered dangerously close to personal territory before you'd excuse yourself, citing early meetings.

You weren't naive. John F. Kennedy's reputation with women was as well-documented as his political acumen. You'd seen the way he looked at you from day one—that particular focus he reserved for challenges that intrigued him. And God help you, you'd wanted him too, right from the start. But you'd worked too hard to get here, climbing through ranks of men who assumed your degree was merely decorative. You wouldn't throw it away for a presidential conquest, no matter how tempting.

So you'd kept your distance. Kept conversations professional. Ignored the heat that spread through your body when he rolled up his sleeves during late-night strategy sessions. Pretended not to notice when his hand lingered on yours while passing documents.

But tonight felt different. The air in the plane seemed charged, like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm. Your knock on his private office door sounded unnaturally loud.

"Come in."

The office was dimly lit, just his desk lamp casting a warm glow across the polished wood. Kennedy sat behind his desk, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loosened. He didn't look up immediately when you entered, instead finishing whatever he was writing with deliberate strokes of his pen.

"You wanted the Pennsylvania numbers, Mr. President?" You kept your voice neutral, professional.

He set his pen down slowly, finally raising his eyes to meet yours. "Close the door."

You hesitated, hand still on the doorknob.

"Please." The word wasn't a request.

The door clicked shut behind you. Kennedy stood, moving around his desk with that fluid grace that belied his chronic back pain. He leaned against the front edge of the desk, arms crossed over his chest.

"We both know I didn't call you here for polling numbers."

Your throat went dry. "Sir, if there's nothing you need—"

"There is." He pushed off from the desk, closing the distance between you in two easy strides. "You've been avoiding me."

"I've been doing my job."

"Brilliantly." His mouth quirked up at one corner. "That's not what I'm talking about."

You took a step back, feeling the door press against your spine. "Mr. President—"

"Jack." He placed one hand on the door beside your head, effectively caging you in. "When we're alone, I want you to call me Jack."

His proximity was intoxicating. The faint scent of his cologne mingled with something uniquely him—clean skin, fine wool, the barest hint of whiskey on his breath. You could see the faint stubble beginning to shadow his jaw, the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes.

"This is inappropriate," you managed, though your voice lacked conviction.

"Is it?" His other hand came up to brush a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your cheek. "Tell me you haven't thought about it. Tell me you haven't wondered."

Your pulse hammered in your throat. "What I've thought about doesn't matter."

"It matters to me." His voice dropped lower, intimate. "I've watched you for months. The way you hold yourself back. The way you leave rooms when conversations get too personal. The way you flinch—just slightly—when I touch you. Not because you don't want it, but because you want it too much."

His accuracy was unnerving. You swallowed hard, trying to maintain your composure. "We work together."

"We do a lot of things together." His thumb traced the outline of your bottom lip. "Working is just one of them."

"Sir—Jack—" You corrected yourself, trying to regain control of the situation. "This can't happen."

"It's already happening." His eyes held yours, intense and uncompromising. "It's been happening since the moment you walked into my office three months ago and told me my Cuba strategy was shortsighted."

The memory made heat rise to your face. You'd been new then, still trying to prove yourself, and you'd spoken without thinking. Instead of firing you, he'd laughed—a genuine laugh—and asked you to elaborate.

"I respect you too much to lie to you," he continued. "I want you. I've wanted you from the beginning. And you want me too." His hand moved to your waist, fingers splaying possessively. "Tell me I'm wrong, and I'll step back. We'll never speak of this again."

The challenge hung in the air between you. You could deny it—should deny it—but the lie stuck in your throat. His proximity was overwhelming, breaking down the carefully constructed walls you'd built.

"You're not wrong," you whispered, the admission feeling like surrender and victory all at once.

Something flashed in his eyes—triumph, desire, relief—before his mouth claimed yours. The kiss was nothing like you'd imagined in your weakest moments. It wasn't gentle or tentative. It was consuming, demanding, his lips insistent against yours as his hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you in place.

You responded with equal fervor, months of denied attraction erupting in a single moment. Your hands found his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him through his shirt. He made a sound low in his throat, pressing you harder against the door as his tongue swept into your mouth.

His hand at your waist slid lower, gripping your hip, then your thigh, hiking your skirt up inch by inch. "Tell me to stop," he murmured against your mouth, even as his fingers traced the edge of your stockings.

"Don't stop," you sighed, past the point of professional concern, past the point of caring about anything but the feel of his hands on your body.

He smiled against your lips, a predatory curve you felt rather than saw. "Good girl."

His fingers found the damp center of your underwear, and he groaned when he felt how ready you were for him. "Christ," he muttered, pressing against the fabric. "You've been walking around my plane like this? Soaked through and pretending you don't want me?"

Your head fell back against the door as he pushed your underwear aside, his fingers exploring you with devastating precision. He watched your face intently as he worked, gauging your reactions, learning what made your breath catch.

"Look at you," he said, his voice rough with desire. "So composed in those strategy meetings. So professional. If they could see you now…"

His thumb circled your clit as two fingers pushed inside you, and your hips bucked involuntarily. He captured your gasp with his mouth, kissing you deeply as his hand established a rhythm that had you clutching at his shoulders.

"Jack," you moaned against his lips, feeling yourself climbing rapidly toward release.

He withdrew his hand suddenly, leaving you aching and empty. Before you could protest, he was unbuckling his belt, his movements swift and efficient.

"Turn around," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument.

You obeyed, bracing your hands against the door as he lifted your skirt to your waist. His hand slid between your shoulder blades, pressing you forward until your cheek rested against the cool wood.

"I've imagined this," he said, positioning himself behind you. "In meetings. During briefings. Watching you present those economic projections last week, all I could think about was bending you over my desk and fucking you until you screamed my name."

The crude language from such a polished man sent a fresh wave of arousal through you. You felt him, hard and insistent, pressing against you.

"Tell me you want this," he demanded, one hand gripping your hip, the other tangled in your hair.

"Yes," you gasped. "God, yes."

He entered you in one smooth thrust, filling you completely. The sensation was overwhelming—the stretch, the fullness, the knowledge that this was John F. Kennedy, the most powerful man in the world, groaning in pleasure as he buried himself inside you.

He established a relentless pace, each thrust driving you against the door. One hand snaked around to find your clit, circling it in time with his movements. The dual stimulation was almost too much to bear.

"You feel incredible," he murmured against your ear, his breath hot on your neck. "Better than I imagined. So tight. So perfect."

His words, combined with the persistent pressure of his fingers and the deep, rhythmic thrusts, pushed you over the edge. Your orgasm hit with unexpected force, your inner muscles clenching around him as waves of pleasure coursed through your body.

He groaned at the sensation, his rhythm faltering momentarily before he resumed with renewed vigor. "That's it," he encouraged, working you through the aftershocks. "Let go for me."

As you came down from your high, he withdrew suddenly, turning you to face him. His eyes were dark with desire, his hair disheveled where you must have run your fingers through it.

"I'm not done with you yet," he said, lifting you effortlessly. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he carried you to his desk, sweeping papers aside with one arm before setting you down on the polished surface.

He pushed you back until you were lying flat, your legs dangling off the edge. Standing between your thighs, he looked down at you with undisguised hunger.

"Do you have any idea how many times I've pictured you like this?" He ran his hands up your thighs, pushing your skirt higher. "Spread out on my desk, waiting for me."

He lowered himself over you, his mouth finding your neck, trailing hot kisses down to the collar of your blouse. With deft fingers, he unbuttoned it, exposing your bra. He made a sound of appreciation before pulling the cup down, freeing your breast to his mouth.

The wet heat of his tongue on your nipple sent fresh arousal coursing through you. You arched into his touch, your hands finding his hair, holding him against you as he lavished attention on first one breast, then the other.

When he finally positioned himself at your entrance again, you were desperate for him. He entered you slowly this time, watching your face as he filled you inch by inch.

"Look at me," he commanded when your eyes threatened to flutter closed from the sensation. "I want to see you."

You forced your eyes open, meeting his gaze as he began to move inside you. This time his pace was measured, deliberate, each thrust deep and purposeful. He maintained eye contact, an unexpected intimacy that was almost more overwhelming than the physical pleasure.

"You're mine now," he said, his voice a low growl. "You understand that, don't you? This isn't just tonight. This isn't just once."

The possessiveness in his tone should have alarmed you, but instead it sent a thrill through your body. You nodded, unable to form words as he hit a spot inside you that made your vision blur.

"Say it," he demanded, slowing his movements to an agonizing pace. "Tell me you're mine."

"I'm yours," you gasped, desperate for him to resume his previous rhythm. "Please, Jack—"

Satisfied, he increased his pace, driving into you with renewed intensity. His hand found your clit again, circling it with practiced skill until you were teetering on the edge once more.

"Come for me again," he urged, his own control visibly slipping. "I want to feel you."

Your second orgasm built more slowly than the first, but when it hit, it was even more powerful. You cried out his name, your back arching off the desk as pleasure radiated through every nerve ending.

He followed shortly after, his rhythm becoming erratic as he approached his own release. With a final, deep thrust, he groaned your name, his body tensing as he came inside you.

For several moments, neither of you moved, both catching your breath in the aftermath. He remained inside you, his weight supported on his forearms as he looked down at you with an expression that mingled satisfaction and something deeper, more complex.

Finally, he withdrew, helping you sit up on the edge of the desk. You both adjusted your clothing in silence, the reality of what had just happened settling over you.

"I should go," you said, buttoning your blouse with fingers that weren't quite steady.

He caught your hand, stopping you. "Stay."

"Jack, we can't—"

"Not for that." He smiled, the boyish charm that had won over voters now directed entirely at you. "Though I wouldn't object to a repeat performance once we land in Berlin."

The suggestion sent a fresh wave of heat through you, despite your recent satisfaction. "This is complicated."

"Life is complicated." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch gentler now. "This doesn't have to be."

You knew it wasn't true. Nothing involving John F. Kennedy was ever simple. But as he pulled you against him, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was surprisingly tender, you decided that complications could wait until morning.

He released you reluctantly, straightening your collar with a proprietary touch. "Get some rest. We land in four hours."

You nodded, moving toward the door on slightly unsteady legs. As you reached for the handle, his voice stopped you.

"That economic briefing tomorrow—wear the blue dress."

You turned, raising an eyebrow. "Any particular reason?"

His smile was slow, deliberate, sending a shiver down your spine. "It has buttons all the way down the front. Easier access."

The implication was clear. This wasn't a one-time indiscretion—it was the beginning of something. Something reckless, potentially disastrous, but utterly irresistible.

"I'll see what I can do, Mr. President," you replied, unable to suppress a smile of your own.

The blue dress hung in your cabin closet. You'd wear it tomorrow, you decided. After all, who were you to deny the President of the United States?

[brooklineboyz]

It’s all a game to me anyway…

[dreamofstarlight]

[raspberryknees]

joseph kennedy jr & grandfather pj kennedy, nantasket beach

[ptskipper]

jfk + jackie keychain designs i made for my boyfriend !! :3

[mrskennedy]

Jacqueline Kennedy photographed during the Kennedy’s official state visit to Paris. June 2nd, 1961.

[lancer-andlace]

Jackie Kennedy with her daughter Caroline

[ddlydevotion]

I’m still so distraught about the fact that both him and bobby were assassinated ughhhh

jfk :(

[chesue00]

THE KENNEDYS

Most of these men are bachelors, they're single🤭 dw about the father he's long been divorced sooooo

[melancholicstation]

HUSBAND JACK SCHLOSSBERG HEADCANONS 𓍼 𓇢𓆸

taglist: @remotewatch @bloxholden35 @kennediva @h-l-vlovesvintage @absurdlyvintage @chemicalw0rld @fortheloveofjos @kimcrystal123 @astro-vibes-bro @tsloverr-13

might make this into a couple of one-shots??

imagining WIFE!READER as an orion carloto type, who balances modelling and writing, and makes tiktoks in the same vain of alanabananaxox on tiktok (she's been my no.1 tiktoker since 2021) and sotce.

met wife!reader at a runway after party of an up and coming new york indie brand ( sandy liang, khaite, bode etc. )

proposes to you with the blythe doll you had been obsessing over, dressed in a wedding dress and hand-customised by a popular etsy dealer with quite a high rate like this girl on tt

encouraged by jack to do a ‘what’s in my ( miu miu joie leather ) bag’ video on tiktok to help campaign for kamala akin to this video of anne hathaway but with a different vibe.

jack is ultimate embarrassing hard launcher bofy, leaving in all his girlfriends giggles that come from his chaotic antics when filming his videos.

wife!reader loves to slather jack’s face in biologique recherche’s “masque vivant”, he complains that it smells like rotting meat😹😹😹😹😹.

jack would be always on that damn phone during your runway shows, recording each time you pass him by in the catwalk.

would be the absolute opposite of marriage-shy.

unpopular opinion this man would be asking about marriage, a solid 3 months in ( jfk and jackie married in a YEAR )

fucks UP a rotisserie chicken.

forwards you his tweets before and asks if they’re good enough to post.

smells like aesop musk and of herbal deodorant.

wife!reader buys rick owen’s black and white t-shirts and slacks for jack, and jack’s absolutely baffled when he learns the price tag.

love language is buying wife!reader drinks whenever and wherever they are: hot chocolate in central park, home-delivers you a sab benedetto sparkling water because he had a meeting at cipriani downtown, and always orders a polo bar punch for you prior to your arrival to your shared weekly dinner date at the polo bar on 55th st.

instigates a24 marathons on friday nights, much to the dismay of your prior night plans ( you are more of a criterion collection girl and have held a subscription since you were a freshman in college )

( clumsily ) slips lana del rey lyrics into sexting and dirty talk.

husband!jack and wife!reader texts go like this:

jack is horrific at low impact pilates, he needs to be near a body of water.

he wears your prized doublesoul x orion caroloto ‘lamb’ socks around your woodfloored high-rise despite your varied attempts at hiding them from him.

constantly frets over you during society galas, which is quite convenient due to your tempered social anxiety and your forgetful memory of high society etiquette.

immediately brings you to meet the family, for which you were completely unprepared for ( i’m imagining something reminder of that one story of meghan markle meeting princess kate middleton in ripped jeans and bare feet )

jack loves to wear your 100% cotton brandy melville pointelle tanks despite them being comically tiny for his frame.

would have an innocence kink.

he gets intensely flushed when called his proper full name: john bouvier kennedy schlossberg, wife!reader abuses this to the HIGHEST degree!!!

the first time he entered you apartment he was constantly paranoid of breaking anything because your house was littered with ceramics from brooklyn under-ground designers and clay lamb figurines.

he NEEDS his beauty Zzzzzzz or else.

plays with your very expensive westman atelier blushes like a toddler.

sickly devoted to you.

you both want to adopt a lamb despite living in a HIGH-RISE apartment.

sends pics captioned with anaïs nin lewd quotes.

he would think whole foods was stupidly over priced but would purchase his groceries there in spite of his opinions.

has hyperfixations on old-hollywood women which causes you to be snippy at him for exactly 2-3 hours ex. jack’s current hyper fixation on audrey hepburn being his doppelgänger.

wife!reader definitely participated in that egg cracking trend where girls would crack an egg on their boyfriends head.

would love caring for your hair and doing your curly girl hair routine if you had one.

wife!reader does small yet viral shoots for brands like mirror palais, the row, and loewe.

manhandles you ( lovingly ) without even trying.

mans is a chronic diptyque candle lighter.

loves to be coddled and cradled as a grown man…

plays with your van cleef stack before stage when he’s nervous about his speech landing correctly

uses his family connections to get his girl courted by the high-ticket fashion brands: schiaparelli, chanel, dior, yves saint laurent etc.

[reminiscing4ever]

[withthecolorizedkennedys]

A girl shows off her JFK memorabilia, 1964.

The following memorabilia are shown in the picture:

John Fitzgerald Kennedy: A Memorial Album

LIFE Magazine, November 21, 1960

LIFE Magazine, November 29, 1963

Look Magazine, December 3, 1963

LIFE Magazine, December 6, 1963

The Saturday Evening Post, December 14, 1963

(colorized by me!)

[kennedyformee]

😩😩😩😩

[newwavesylviaplath]

jack schlossberg for vogue (2024)