Hii I absolutely adore your writing and I was wondering if I could request something for Bobby 💌🐇. Could I please request a smutty/fluffy fic where the reader and Bobby haven’t seen each other in a while and they can’t keep their hands to themselves once they’re finally together again?
make it as sweet as possible please 😞! I feel like Bobby’s dirty talk would be really sweet/gentle
The Night Before Tomorrow
synopsis: bobby’s been swallowed up by his brother’s presidential campaign. but one late october night, he shows up on your doorstep with nothing but an overnight bag and a whole lot of love to give.
pairing: robert f. kennedy x reader
rating: 18+; includes explicit sexual acts
The house had grown too quiet. You'd chosen it together last spring, this little place with the wraparound porch and the garden that needed tending. You'd imagined weekends spent fixing it up, Bobby with his sleeves rolled to the elbows, paint on his forearms. You'd imagined evenings on the porch swing, watching fireflies rise from the grass.
Instead, you got silence. A house that creaked and settled without him. The campaign had swallowed him whole—Jack's presidential bid consuming every waking hour of Bobby's life. You understood. Of course you did. This was history unfolding, and Bobby was its architect, the tireless machine behind his brother's ascent.
But understanding didn't warm the other side of the bed.
Three weeks since you'd last seen him. Three weeks of phone calls that grew shorter as he grew more exhausted. His voice thinning over the line, words clipped with fatigue. You'd stopped asking when he'd be home. He'd stopped promising dates he couldn't keep.
The October night had turned cool enough for a sweater. You'd made tea and carried it to the porch, wrapped in one of Bobby's old cardigans that still held traces of his scent if you pressed your nose to the collar. The radio played softly through the open window—some crooner singing about lost love. You almost switched it off.
The headlights caught you by surprise, sweeping across the lawn as a car turned into the drive. Your heart leapt before your mind could temper it. You'd learned not to hope. Campaign staffers sometimes dropped by with papers for you to sign, messages to relay.
But the car door opened, and there he was.
Bobby stood in the wash of porch light, overnight bag hanging from one hand. He looked thinner than when you'd last seen him. The angles of his face sharper, shadows beneath his eyes deeper. His tie hung loose around his neck, his shirt wrinkled from too many hours.
"I should have called," he said, voice rough with fatigue. "I just wanted to come home."
You set the teacup down and crossed the porch in three steps. His bag hit the floor as his arms came around you, solid and real. He smelled like airplane cabins and coffee and that particular scent that was just him. You pressed your face into his neck and breathed.
"You're here now," you whispered against his skin.
His hands spread across your back, fingers pressing into the knit of his borrowed cardigan. "I'm here now," he echoed, the words vibrating through his chest and into yours.
You stood like that for a long moment, neither of you willing to let go first. When you finally pulled back, his eyes were soft with something like relief.
"Have you eaten?" you asked, though you already knew the answer.
He shook his head. "Not since... I can't remember."
In the kitchen, you made him toast and scrambled eggs, simple food that wouldn't overwhelm his empty stomach. He sat at the table watching you move, his tie now discarded, collar unbuttoned. The campaign had carved away the softness in his face, leaving only determination and bone.
"Jack's going to win," he said quietly, as if confessing a secret.
You set the plate in front of him. "You sound certain."
"I am." He picked up the fork, then set it down again to reach for your hand. "But I'm not here to talk about the campaign."
His fingers were cool against yours, his wedding band catching the light. You squeezed gently. "Eat first. Then we'll talk."
He ate slowly, methodically, like a man remembering how. You made fresh tea and sat across from him, content just to watch him exist in your space again. The kitchen clock ticked steadily in the background.
"How long?" you finally asked.
Bobby looked up, a flash of guilt crossing his features. "I have to leave tomorrow. After lunch."
Less than twenty-four hours. You nodded, swallowing disappointment. It was more than you'd had in weeks.
"Jack needs me in Philadelphia," he continued, setting down his fork. "The final push."
"I know." You reached across the table, brushing crumbs from the corner of his mouth. "I'm not angry, Bobby. I'm just glad you're here now."
He caught your wrist, turning his face to press his lips to your palm. The simple gesture sent warmth spiraling through you. Three weeks was too long to go without his touch.
"I've missed you," he murmured against your skin. "Every night, every morning. All the moments in between."
You stood, tugging him gently to his feet. "Show me."
The bedroom was cool and dark. You switched on the small lamp by the bed, casting the room in soft amber light. Bobby stood in the doorway, watching as you turned down the covers. When you looked back at him, his eyes were fixed on you with quiet hunger.
He crossed to you slowly, deliberately, like a man in no hurry despite the tension humming between you. When he reached you, his hands came up to frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones.
"I keep a picture of you in my wallet," he said, voice low. "I look at it when things get overwhelming. When I need to remember why we're doing all this."
You leaned into his touch. "And why are we?"
"To build something better." His eyes searched yours. "Something worthy of you."
The first kiss was gentle, almost tentative, as if he needed to relearn the shape of your mouth. His lips were slightly chapped, warm against yours. You sighed into it, hands coming up to rest on his chest, feeling his heartbeat quicken beneath your palm.
The second kiss deepened, his tongue sliding against yours, tasting of tea and hunger. His hands slid from your face to your shoulders, then down your sides to your waist, pulling you closer until your bodies pressed together. You could feel the hard planes of him through his clothes, the evidence of too many missed meals.
"I need to see you," he whispered against your mouth. "All of you."
Your fingers found his shirt buttons, working them open one by one. He stood still, letting you undress him, his breath catching when your knuckles brushed against bare skin. You pushed the shirt from his shoulders, revealing the white undershirt beneath, the hollow at the base of his throat where his pulse jumped.
He reached for the cardigan you wore, sliding it down your arms. "This is mine," he said, a small smile playing at his lips.
"It smells like you," you admitted. "I wear it when I miss you too much."
Something flickered in his eyes—regret, tenderness, desire. He kissed you again, deeper this time, as his hands found the buttons of your blouse. He worked them open slowly, reverently, exposing inch by inch of skin to the cool air and his warm gaze.
"Beautiful," he murmured, pushing the blouse off your shoulders. His fingers traced the straps of your slip, then the lace edge where it met the swell of your breasts. "I dream about you like this."
You reached for his undershirt, tugging it up and over his head. His chest was leaner than you remembered, ribs more visible, but still strong, still Bobby. You pressed your palm flat against his sternum, feeling his heart thunder beneath.
"What else do you dream about?" you asked.
His smile turned hungry. "Let me show you."
He guided you to the bed, easing you down onto the cool sheets. His hands slid up your calves, under the hem of your skirt, finding the clasps of your stockings. One by one, he rolled them down, his lips following the path of newly exposed skin. By the time he reached your thighs, your breathing had grown shallow, anticipation coiling low in your belly.
"Lift up," he instructed softly, and you raised your hips so he could slide your skirt down and away. You lay before him in just your slip and underwear, feeling exposed and cherished under his gaze.
Bobby knelt between your legs, his hands warm on your thighs. "I've thought about this every night," he confessed. "The taste of you. The sounds you make."
He hooked his fingers in the waistband of your underwear, drawing them down with deliberate slowness. When they were gone, he pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee, then higher, mapping a path toward your center. His breath was warm against your skin, raising goosebumps in its wake.
The first touch of his mouth against you made you gasp. He started gently, almost teasingly, his tongue tracing light patterns that made your thighs tense and your fingers curl into the sheets. When he found the sensitive bundle of nerves, you couldn't help the moan that escaped you.
"Bobby," you breathed, one hand moving to tangle in his hair.
He hummed against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. His hands slid beneath you, cupping your backside, lifting you slightly to give him better access. The new angle made you cry out, your head pressing back into the pillow.
He worked you with single-minded devotion, his tongue alternating between broad strokes and focused attention, building a rhythm that had your hips rising to meet him. When he slid one finger inside you, then two, curling them just so, you felt the tension coiling tighter.
"That's it," he murmured against you, his voice vibrating through your core. "Let me feel you comek."
Your release washed over you in waves, your body arching, Bobby's name falling from your lips like a prayer. He stayed with you through it, gentling his touch as the aftershocks rippled through you, until you tugged lightly at his hair, too sensitive for more.
He pressed a final kiss to your inner thigh before moving up your body, his expression one of pure satisfaction. You pulled him down for a kiss, tasting yourself on his lips, feeling the hard press of him against your thigh through his trousers.
"My turn," you whispered, pushing at his shoulder until he rolled onto his back.
You straddled his thighs, your fingers working at his belt, then the button and zipper of his trousers. He lifted his hips to help you slide them down, along with his underwear, freeing his erection. You wrapped your hand around him, feeling him pulse in your grip.
"Christ," he hissed, his head falling back against the pillow. "Your hands."
You stroked him slowly, relearning the weight and feel of him. When you bent to take him in your mouth, his hand came to rest on the back of your head, not guiding, just connecting. You took your time, using your tongue and lips to bring him pleasure, watching his face as it tightened with need.
"Wait," he gasped after a few minutes, his hand tightening in your hair. "Not like this. I want to be inside you."
You released him and moved up his body, settling over him. His hands came to your waist, then slid up to the straps of your slip, easing them down your shoulders until the garment pooled at your waist.
"Come here," he said, pulling you down for a kiss as he rolled you both over.
He settled between your thighs, his weight a welcome pressure. You reached between your bodies, guiding him to your entrance. He pushed in slowly, both of you sighing at the sensation of being joined again after so long apart.
"I've missed this," he whispered, his forehead pressed to yours. "Missed you."
He began to move, slow, deep thrusts that had you wrapping your legs around his waist, drawing him closer. Your hands roamed his back, feeling the muscles flex and shift with each movement. He kissed you deeply, swallowing your moans, his own breath coming faster as the pace increased.
"Bobby," you gasped against his mouth. "I need..."
"Tell me," he urged, his hips never stopping their rhythm.
"Harder," you breathed. "Please."
He complied, his thrusts becoming more forceful, the bed creaking beneath you. One of his hands slid between your bodies, finding where you were joined, his thumb circling in time with his movements. The dual sensation had you climbing rapidly toward another peak.
"That's it," he encouraged, his voice strained with his own approaching release. "Let go for me."
Your second orgasm crashed through you, more intense than the first, your body clenching around him as waves of pleasure washed over you. Bobby's rhythm faltered, his movements becoming erratic as he chased his own release.
"I love you," he groaned against your neck as he came, his body shuddering against yours.
You held him through it, your hands stroking his back, his hair, anywhere you could reach. As your breathing slowed, he rolled to the side, bringing you with him so you remained connected, face to face on the pillow.
"I love you too," you whispered, brushing damp hair from his forehead.
You lay like that for a while, trading soft kisses and softer words, until your heartbeats returned to normal. Bobby's hand traced lazy patterns on your hip, his eyes never leaving yours.
After a while, you turned in his arms to face him. His eyes were heavy-lidded, satisfied, but still hungry. You traced the line of his jaw with your fingertip.
"One more time," you whispered. "I want to feel you beneath me."
His smile was slow and heated. "Whatever you want."
You pushed him onto his back, straddling his hips. His hands came to rest on your thighs as you positioned yourself above him, sinking down slowly, taking him deep inside. The fullness made you gasp, your head falling back as you adjusted to the sensation.
"God, look at you," Bobby breathed, his eyes roaming your body with undisguised awe. "So beautiful."
You began to move, setting your own pace, rolling your hips in a way that made his fingers dig into your flesh. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his gaze never leaving your face as you rode him. You placed your hands on his chest for leverage, feeling his heart race beneath your palm.
"That's it," he encouraged, one hand moving to where your bodies joined, his thumb finding your center. "Take what you need."
You moved faster, chasing the building pleasure, watching Bobby's face tighten with his own approaching climax. When his thumb pressed just right, you shattered, your body clenching around him as you cried out his name.
He followed immediately, his hips bucking up into yours, his release pulsing deep inside you. You collapsed onto his chest, both of you breathing hard, skin slick with sweat. His arms came around you, holding you close as the aftershocks rippled through your joined bodies.
Later, after you'd cleaned up and returned to bed, you lay in his arms, your head on his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat. His fingers combed through your hair, occasionally pausing to trace the shell of your ear or the line of your jaw.
"When does this end?" you asked quietly. "The campaign, the constant travel."
Bobby was silent for a moment, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek. "Soon," he finally said. "Win or lose, it'll be over in November."
"And then we figure out what comes next." His arms tightened around you. "Together."
You nodded against his chest, knowing there would be more campaigns, more causes. Bobby wasn't built for stillness. But there would be moments like this too—quiet nights, shared breaths, his body warm and solid against yours.
"When do you have to leave tomorrow?" you asked, already dreading the answer.
"Not tonight," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "Tonight I'm all yours."
