Can we get Bobby who is childhood friends with reader and has his father kind of arrange their marriage (totally for political gain and not so he could marry his obsession)? Maybe reader is a bit passive aggressive about it.
bobby anons im so glad I'm entrusted with genius ideas like this . very very nice to write a slightly crazier bobby prompt as a lover of obsessed men . enjoy anon !!
no nasty but hes insane about you without explicitly saying so . || prompt above. 50s bobby .
He tells you it's because his father wants it to happen. And if Joe Kennedy wants something, very few people stop him. It's for the politics.
(a republican's eldest. think of the reach for fifty-six. for sixty. think of jack.)
Bobby tells you it's out of his control, while he's got your photograph in his pocket. It's one of the things he always carries.
He tells you, my father wants us to marry, and tries not to sound personally thrilled.
It'd been gloomy recently, rain rushing towards the ground and hydrating mother nature's offspring. The compound was taking in every inch of dreary shade given.
Bobby, prior to entering his father's office, looks out at the simmering sea and thinks of you. You consistently enter his thoughts, briefly or entirely.
The color of your eyes. The memories he has of childhood summers spent by the water with you. Glittering waves in beaming sunlight and your hand gently brushing his.
Not holding. Holding was romantic, and you two were friends.
Friends.
The word felt right at first, until it didn't, and then Bobby could never want anything more than to hold your hand.
You were his companion. Even if Bobby should've been hanging out with other boys, doing things boys do, he was instead found sitting with you in the library.
Bobby grew up thinking you would always be by his side. And the idea of you not being at his side was uncomfortable.
They'd lost Joe and Kick (and Rosemary), and Bobby didn't want to lose you.
When he enters his father's office, he knocks first. He waits.
Bobby keeps his head level when he enters the room. His posture remains straight beneath his sweater.
Perfect. Prim. Nothing less.
He makes sure his father's door is locked when he twists the knob. This is a private conversation, an ask disguising a plea for who he wants more than anything.
Ten days later, Bobby telephones you, asks you to come down. You're already going with them for Florida in the summer, but you and Bobby spend time together outside of those family trips.
(and if there's no chaperone, he doesn't tell his mother, and he doesn't tell Jack and he only tells it to himself late at night—no chaperone, we had no chaperone.)
Bobby neatens himself up while awaiting your presence. He shaves the one-day stubble that's unearthed, he brushes his hair out properly, and he swallows back his fear.
Your figure emerges from a car just outside. Sliding out, you gather your bag and give another glance to the sprawling Kennedy palace.
There. Inside, a thousand memories and a couple ghosts lived.
He greets you with a boyish smile and his hands behind his back. His hair is already beginning to unfurl from its sweep.
"You didn't give much away on the phone, Bob." you say, words softened by the rain-slick ground and the smell of ozone in the air. The sky's grey tones emphasize the blue of Bobby's eyes.
"It's better in person."
You smile. Bobby's mirrored expression is hiding a bit tongue.
He doesn't touch you, but he does gesture inside. Their mother is spending her free time in another part of the world, which means he doesn't have to worry about any 'improper' implications by being alone.
Bobby leads you to the living room, rain beginning to dot across the windows once again. The sky rumbles ominously outside, and you anticipate a rainstorm later.
"What was so important, I had to come here without warning? I could've been busy, Bobby," yet your little smile gives away that you're teasing.
Bobby doesn't sit. He glances outside briefly, thinking about his next words first. They roll in his throat anxiously.
When you sit, Bobby inhales slowly, a breath he won't exhale until it's safe.
"My father wants to join us together."
"… what?"
You think he means bonding. The slight tilt of your head, you're not sure, but you're assuming it's anything but a faux marriage proposal.
"My father," Bobby's throat works down a swallow. "Wants us to marry."
I want us to marry.
You look at him, and your face drops. No marked disgust forms, but you're not going to play nice—not really, and Bobby knows this. He knows you.
In the hundreds of letters you two have exchanged, you are his favorite person to know.
"… your father sure believes in extremes," you comment, the effort of challenge beginning to edge your words.
You wouldn't outright tell Bobby's father to kick rocks. But the words I don't want to marry you and have never thought of it are a lie sitting on your tongue.
You could say it.
You ultimately play subtle.
"Is it because he thinks we're such a good match?" You lean back, not revealing a lick of intense emotion.
I think we're a good match, Bobby thinks. Bobby thinks you're admirable. Bobby thinks you're everything he wants, and he wants.
"It's because he thinks his politics and your father are a better match. For the cross-party reach. For—"
"For the presidency."
Bobby goes quiet.
The worst kept secret on earth. Joe Kennedy wants, and will get, one of his sons in the White House, no matter if it takes a war or another son to get there.
"No," he rejects, lower, "for the future."
"The future? Our future?"
Bobby wishes he could truly tell you. How well he'd take care of you (and he would), how well he'd love you (how deeply), and how he could give you as many babies as you want and a home you'd be proud of.
He'd follow the fate his father's hands crafted. He'd come home from work, tired and worn. And he'd find his sweetness back in your arms, just as you'd recognize his as reliable.
But the thought. The idea. Our future, leaving your lips, a joint path to take together.
His chest tightens, sickly sweet adoration clawing up his throat.
Bobby loves you the way he's devoted himself to his family. Loyally. Wholly. Completely. And he thinks, I'll show you the world and build our own together if you let me, but that's not what he says.
"… yes. You won't have to worry. About anything. About my family, or the wedding, or—"
"If I won't have to worry, Bob, what's the list for?"
You stand, your bag strapped back along your shoulder. When your eyes appraise Bobby, the need for your existence is clear in his eyes, the edge of a lover's seas reflecting your form.
Those eyes will be yours to dream about. The hair threatening to fall along his forehead will be yours to run your fingers through, a wedding ring cold against the strands.
Bobby will be yours more than he already is.
But of course, you aren't going to write poems before you're done causing Bobby, or the former ambassador, grief.
You give Bobby a smile. It's sharpened by your newfound revelation that you will be marrying him, but the remaining softness is permanently fixed.
A gesture he doesn't expect, you neaten his hair with your hand, gently nudging it back into place. Bobby shudders underneath your touch.
His eyes don't pull from yours. He can't. He simply can't look away from you, and he never has been able to, not willingly.
And then it's back to the subtlety.
"I will telephone you Monday with my answer."
You begin to exit the room, Bobby's frame static, feet glued to the floor. He remembers his manners when you're half to the door, but you brush it off.
Polite, but new. You'd previously accept his help, even when you didn't quite need it.
"I am capable. I'm sure that's part of why your father wants me as your bride."
Bobby falls ever so more in love with you because of your refusal to just nod and say yes.
He lets you leave without attempting to handle your bag for you, or open the door for you, and he knows he's waiting for Monday.
Bobby is nearly itching with impatience. But he waits. He waits, even as you occupy his thoughts while he's eating dinner, while he attends Sunday mass, while he's sailing with his siblings and thinks about how you love the salty air and the cool breeze.
He imagines sailing with you with children in toe, and your smile beaming at him across the boat, and it sticks in his brain like syrup for the rest of the day.
When Monday finally arrives, Bobby is hyperaware of every ring of the telephone.
He originally thinks the third call of the day is for him—it has to be, it's five by that point—but it's for Teddy instead.
Bobby waits until eight at night.
Instead, you call him on Wednesday. Not overly late, but purposefully.
"I want to choose our honeymoon."
It's an indirect agreement. Bobby almost wants to drop.
"My father already chose."
"Is he going on the honeymoon with us?"
Bobby restrains a smile. That was technically a joke about his father, and he couldn't smile at that.
"Thankfully, no."
That's all he gives you against his father.
"Would you come down this weekend?"
You laugh across the line, which plays at his heartstrings relentlessly. "I get to choose my schedule, but not who I wed."
"You didn't say no."
"Would it have mattered?"
Rhetorical. You both know it wouldn't have.
You let Bobby go after telling him you'd consider coming down to the compound, just to leave him hanging, though you're already decided. You'll go down there. It was never a question when it came to him, even now, when you're playing sharply passive.
He doesn't have to know how unopposed you are. He can know in ten years. He doesn't have to know before that.
only two more reqs to write chat im getting there i prommy
authors note: i am just now realising that this a lot more about bobby than it is jack 😭😭. my bobby bias strikes again I suppose! nevertheless i hope this satisfies the limited amount of people who even still care for my writing! this is not proof read so im crossing my fingers that it's legible.
summa: following the birth of her second baby, a 6 pound and 14 ounces baby boy to be exact, the first lady is staying at her brother in laws six-room pied-a-terre on the 14th floor. read below to be a voyeur in her life from the hours of 6am to 6pm
December 16th, New York City (1962)
5:00am:
first lady!reader wakes in a donald judd plywood bed to the click of a mortise lock disengaging and the soft coos of a newborn babe. bobby's has taken fantastically to the role of self appointed night nurse. per jack's request it was decided that the first lady would depart the peoples house and join her brother-in-law at his new york residence to spend the last remnants of her 'maternity leave' before the new year rears it's ugly, tiring head. as custom she feeds the weary eyed boy in her arms. arms that are still slightly ruddy and freckled by the sun from her and jack's baby moon trip to the baja california peninsula.
bobby leaves soon after passing the boy to reader for the sake of his sister-in-laws privacy, but not before subtly presenting a glass (1, 2) of chilled water and a plate of fruit (1) he got an assistant to acquire from the amish market on 45th street but went to a personal effort to cut the provisions up into bit sized chunks while playing catch up on memos.
reader finishes up after about thirty minutes leaving an empty plate and glass, and a very full and happy baby. she calls bobby back in to take the baby who smells like honeysuckle and sandalwood (hermés' cabriole scent). but not before asking whether jack has called, since she knows for a fact he can't sleep past 4:45am. bobby shakes his head solemnly, and then if deciding what to do next, strides the length of the room back towards the bed and kisses reader on the patch of above her right temple.
thereafter, he exits the guest room. she closes her eyes.
7:00am:
reader wakes for the second time of the morning and pads from the guest room to the living room, a room outfitted with the apropos brands: knoll, knoll textiles, vitra, herman miller, and cassina. bobby has left a note on a post-it stating he's "left for a string of meetings, i will join you at 5 -Bob".
i imagine the apartment to look similar to these images in vibe:
checking the time on the clock on the living room wall, she writes a short letter to jack detailing the new milestone their son has reached despite being away from jack for only a matter of days (he can now smile!). while doing so, breakfast is prepared by a private staff member named pete. breakfast consists of a piece of bread (1, 2), a boiled egg, and a pot of black coffee (1, 2, 3, 4).
being three months postpartum reader chooses light, crepe dresses (1, 2, 3, 4, 5), and cotton fabrics (1, 2) that skim the body such as these:
10:00am:
baby wakes up from his nap just as first lady!reader is set to take a relaxing bath. instead of engaging the nanny, she takes her baby into the bath with here. they both have a bounty of fun as evidenced by the floor covered in water, with the only relaxing element remaining being the hurricane lamp (1) softly illuminating the bathroom.
12:00pm:
jack writes back around lunchtime while reader busies herself by taking the baby out to the peter detmold park dressed in anti-pap attire (an hermés silk scarf, akris double faced cashmere coat, and a pair of celine disc glasses):
"That is terrific news about our dear boy, i always knew he would be an overachiever it must be in the blood. i won't be able to write back anymore today as i'm tied up in the office but do not let this discourage you from writing again today, i long for your voice even if only through your terrific handwriting. take refuge in the knowledge that i won't rest until i can come to New York next week and steal you back from Bob. He's had enough fun.
-Love, Your Jack."
1:00pm:
after the traversing 51st street, she enters the UN plaza through the double doors and is met with the emblematic red carpet donning the lobby alongside it's twenty-four hour reception desk, concierge, and doormen (1). the cook whips up a cobb salad (a recipe which came straight from the cooks at the carlyle) in a crystal salad bowl by lobmeyr, alongside a tumbler of warm milk (1, 2).
4:00pm:
she gets one of bobby's assistants stationed at the new york residence to call down to the concierge desk to set up a last minute home appointment with the hairstylist guido palau.
first lady!reader gets her hair washed, trimmed, scalp exfoliated, and well coiffed into any one of these three hairstyles:
she remembers how jack once washed her hair during a vacation to camp david. a stay in which they had relinquished majority of their staff for the week in order to establish a pseudo sense of normalcy. they gone out to a particularly exhilarating yet exhausting soiree at a compound in emmitsburg belonging to a socialite and her oil heir husband. it had been great fun but left the first lady particularly fatigued. so fatigued that jack elected to wash her hair himself, sensing her trepidation at the end of the evening.
first lady!reader returns the favor the next morning, by taking it upon herself to do his shaving routine upon his lap—his most favourite place for her to be of course:
5:00pm:
bobby returns home when he said so, to the minute (a trait he so possesses unlike his brother counterpart). reader and bobby sit side by side in matching billy baldwin club studio chair's (1) alongside tv trays (1) with meals meticulously cooked by the staff. the pair bicker about the socio-political and economic issues of the week, talk about how well jack is doing, how utterly busy at all hours of the day, week, month.
skirting around the enormous steiff elephant (a sweet yet untimely gift from jack's father and mother) in the room is a talent well practiced balancing act for the first lady and the attorney general. they both have devoted their lives to a singular, flawed man who's successes and indiscretions reflect onto them in equal parts. perhaps that's why they get along so well!
perhaps that's why jack, after retiring to the living quarters after a hard days of work, suddenly feels the urge to collect his wife and baby son at an earlier date than expected back where they belong ... right beside him and in the white house.
i love your writing and how you choose to incorporate historical details into it as well! not to be that guy, but when is the jfk First Lady story coming out? sorry if it seems like I’m rushing you, take your time!
that is endlessly kind, thank you!
I'm finally going to start writing tomorrow (hopefully) as I've collected certain materials/links i want to incorporate into the story, i might change the moodboard slightly but nothing drastic!
never feel like i think I'm being rushed, it really does motivate me knowing that people care at all lol!!
Dear Mother,
Nothing much has happened since yesterday. It was a little bit colder today I think.
Our school marks for the month went in today. I think and I hope mine are passing.
Everybody is feeling fine here. Miss Dunn and Kick went out tonight to have supper and then see Sonia Henie give an exhibit.
I hope you are feeling better
Love
Bob.
xxxxxxxxx
