#jfk x reader

[laceybouvier]

imagine coming home in the 1940s and this is ur fine shyt

[nobunnieycares]

another req - jack being jealous of you getting male attention and fucking you…

warnings :: smut, piv, senator jack era, petnames (doll), thats it i think, maybe slight breeding kink from jack

a/n :: ohmygosh this is so horribly written!! pls don’t mind if there’s potential grammar or spelling mistakes! pls don’t be afraid to message me if u spot any!!

It was some little get together a few senators attended along with their wives. Nothing too fancy.

You didn’t realize that small get together would turn into your fiancé pounding into you with his hand over your mouth in the bathroom.

He had you with your hands braced on the sink as you looked at him fucking you in the mirror. The sight of him so focused on thrusting into you almost made you forget why you were here in the first place.

One fellow senator had approached you two and, according to Jack, spent too much time looking at you as he talked. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t notice. The man was practically eye-fucking you as you stood there next to your fiancé!

As soon as the man had left after being called over by another senator, Jack was dragging you down the hall and into the bathroom.

Now, here you were.

You could hear Jack grunt as he spoke up. “Y’know, that man is the same one who finds any way to get at me at work.” He said as he continued his rhythmic thrusts.

If he wasn’t absolutely fucking your brains out you’d respond with something smart, but you could only let out a small whine against his palm.

“That bastard saw you and probably thought he’d find a way to piss me off, even out of work.” He added with a deep thrust that had you seeing stars.

Your legs quivered as he went on and on about the man. He looked so hot all angry and jealous. The thought of another man’s attention on you sickened him it seemed.

His hand snaked down to rub your clit in small circles as a way to throw you over the edge. “But that’s fine.. as long as he’s not the one getting to know what this pussy feels like.”

With the combination of those words and his fingers rubbing your clit, you whimpered. Your legs were growing weak as you felt your high approaching.

As if sensing how close you were, Jack sped up. For the next few seconds the only sounds audible in the bathroom were the slick sounds of his hips ramming into yours and his grunts of satisfaction.

“Fuckin’ perfect..” he murmured as he sped his fingers up circling your clit. In the mirror you could see his high approaching. “Perfect..” he repeated with a grunt as he finally came, spilling himself inside your cunt.

Your eyes squeezed shut as your climax followed immediately after. You moaned desperately against his palm as you tightened around his cock.

As soon as his hand left your mouth he was dragging you gently by your chin to meet his lips. The kiss was messy and hot but undeniably a billion of unsaid words put into a kiss. At the same time, his cock was still rested in you as if he were plugging you up with his cum. It was as if it were an act to prove you were his and only his.

After a final second he slowly pulled away and stood there admiring you. Your eyes were watery and your lips were moist from his kiss.

“You’re a doll.” He murmured as he stroked your bottom lip. “Only my doll.”

And in that moment you thought, maybe him getting riled up with jealousy wasn’t so bad.

[ryuzakisnote]

husband president!jfk hcs?? Pretty plss 💗🌺🌷🫧

president kennedy as your husband ۫ ꣑ৎ.ᐟ

⋆ . ࿔ ˚ despite how busy he was, jack always made time for you somehow. even if it meant pulling you into an empty hallway in the white house just to kiss you for a few seconds before another meeting.

⋆ . ࿔ ˚ he loved hearing your opinion on speeches before he gave them. late nights in the residence would often turn into the two of you sitting together while he read drafts aloud, loosening his tie halfway through when he noticed you getting sleepy.

⋆ . ࿔ ˚ jack was incredibly protective over your privacy. being first lady meant the public wanted to know everything about you, and he hated how invasive people could be.

⋆ . ࿔ ˚ even during tense political moments, he always tried to keep things light around you. teasing you under the table at dinners, whispering jokes during events, grinning whenever he managed to make you laugh in front of important guests.

⋆ . ࿔ ˚ he constantly stole little moments of affection whenever possible. a hand on your waist while walking past, kissing your knuckles during car rides, pulling you closer beside him during long flights.

⋆ . ࿔ ˚ even though the sex became less frequent when he got into office, he still takes his time with you, worshipping every part of your body like you're a goddess.

[jacksdear]

My panties drop every time i see jack or bobby with rolled up sleeves.

[jfkateee]

Silk Secret

w/ president!John f. kennedy warnings: explicit sexual content, vulgar language, & pet names summary: when intimate desires and raw tensions finally surrender, jack and his secret are left with an inescapable interlude.

The quiet in the Oval Office was never truly silent; it was a dense, tangible substance, woven from the scent of aged mahogany, the ghost of his Havana smoke, and the crisp, expensive wool of his custom-tailored suit. It was a tension so exquisite it felt like a physical weight pressing down on the room, residing in the charged, invisible space between the imposing Resolute Desk and the modest leather chair where you sat, the steno pad—a relic of your professionalism—now forgotten and useless in your lap.

For weeks, this had been a meticulous, almost cruel form of foreplay. It manifested in the way his gaze would catch yours across a briefing, lingering a breath too long, the look suggesting a private language only the two of you spoke. It was in the deliberate, proprietary brush of his fingers against yours when he handed over classified files—a touch so fleeting, yet so foundational, that it left a persistent warmth wherever it landed.

But it was his voice, your name spoken in the quiet, that undid you. He didn't use the clipped, executive tone reserved for aides. Instead, when he addressed you, the syllables softened, becoming a low, private intonation—a sound that settled deep in your marrow, clinging to your skin long after you’d left the West Wing, an invisible, intimate perfume blending with your own.

Tonight, that fragile facade—the decorum you both maintained with such strained effort—was finally beginning to fray.

You looked up from the meaningless paperwork to find him watching you. His elbows propped on the vast expanse of polished wood, his chin resting thoughtfully on his steepled hands. This was not the distracted scrutiny of a man wrestling with geopolitics. This was a focused, predatory stillness, the quiet intensity of a hawk circling its quarry, making the air in the room grow heavy and humid. The lamplight carved out the sharp architecture of his jaw, illuminating the handsome exhaustion beneath his eyes—a tiredness that melted away when he looked at you.

He had been watching you for an eternity, it seemed.

“Stay for a little,” he murmured. It wasn't a request. It was a doux command, sweet and inescapable.

You remained, the motion of your heart now a frantic, undeniable tremor against your ribs.

He moved from behind the desk, a slow, deliberate circle that drew you inexorably into his orbit. The luminescence of light caught the subtle looseness of his tie, the strong, capable architecture of his forearms where his white sleeves were rolled back—a hint of the raw strength he usually kept so rigidly leashed. He stopped inches from you, close enough that the latent heat radiating from his body became a tangible field of energy. You inhaled deeply, catching the clean masculinity of his skin mingling with the dark, smoky incense of his ambition.

He exhaled, a quiet, almost amused sigh that ghosted across your temple.

“I’ve been trying,” he confessed, his voice dropping to a low, rumbling register that vibrated through the floorboards, “to be the gentleman this office demands.” He leaned in conspiratorially, his eyes burning with an honesty that stripped you bare.

“It’s been a miserable failure.”

A breath you didn't realize you were hoarding escaped you in a faint rush.

“Is that so, Mr. President?” you managed, the title feeling dangerously soft on your tongue.

A genuine, small smile finally tugged at his mouth, but his gaze remained fixed, intense—a burn of hunger he no longer bothered to conceal.

“Terribly,” he admitted, and the space between you dissolved.

He closed the final inch in one decisive step. His hand lifted, not to command, but to cup your face, his thumb stroking the sensitive valley just below your ear. The touch was electric, a pure, unadulterated jolt of want that made your foundation shift. He paused there, an elegant suspension just before the fall, granting you a final, silent courtesy—the moment to retreat.

You anchored yourself against the urge, leaning infinitesimally into the warmth of his palm.

His hand moved then, fingers tracing the curve of your cheekbone with a startling, delicate reverence, as if committing the geography of your face to memory. “You are going to be the death of me,” he whispered, the confession sounding like something illicit ripped from a private diary.

“I'm utterly wrecked for you.”

He leaned in, the kiss was a revelation: soft, a tentative exploration, impossibly tender. It was the gentle yielding of something long held back, the sweet taste of mutual surrender. But the tenderness was merely the shimmering surface before the deluge. When he pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, you felt the low, satisfied tremor of his triumph in his chest.

“I’ve wanted to erase the distance between us since the first day you walked in here,” he confessed, the words a husky confession against your skin.

You offered a weak, honest smile in return. “I was hoping for this,” you admitted.

That broke him open. His quiet chuckle deepened into a warm, genuine sound. His hand slid down from your face, wrapping around your waist, drawing your body flush against the solid heat of his own. The permission was assumed, the boundary officially obliterated.

He leaned in again, and this time, the kiss was a collision—a messy, desperate, grasping clash of lips and tongues that tasted of weeks of unspoken obsession. His hands left your waist, sliding down your back, gripping your hips with sudden, firm authority, pulling you tight against the undeniable, insistent proof of his desire pressing against your center.

His mouth left yours to blaze a trail down the vulnerable column of your throat, his lips and teeth a delicious torment against your rapidly hammering pulse.

“Mr. President—” The title ripped from you, a raw, broken sound in the otherwise sacred, stunned silence of the chamber. It was the last vestige of your control shattering.

“Tell me to stop,” he growled, the words hot breath against the skin just above your racing heart, his fingers already fumbling with the pearl buttons of your crisp silk blouse.

“Tell me this is a mistake.”

You couldn’t. You could only arch desperately into the pressure, your body screaming an affirmative that eclipsed all reason. You turned your head, seeking his mouth once more, and your kiss was your answer—open, greedy, a desperate pledge.

With a slow, inexorable authority that brooked no argument, he turned you until your back was flush against the hard, polished mahogany of the desk. You felt his body press against yours—a solid, demanding presence. His face immediately buried itself in the soft weight of your hair, anchoring you.

"Look," he commanded, his voice a rough, possessive whisper directly into your ear, the sound sending shivers down your spine.

"Look at the masterpiece we're making right here... Look at what is irrevocably mine."

His reflection in the vast, dark window was a study in contained power, yet his hands, betraying the composure of his face, trembled slightly as they ruthlessly parted the fabric of your blouse. The cool, conditioned air hit your overheated skin, followed immediately by the searing, demanding heat of his palms as they covered your breasts, his touch utterly proprietary.

He guided you, gently but firmly, until you were facing the desk, the cold wood, a startling contrast to your feverish skin. His arousal pressed a hard, insistent line against the juncture of your thighs. His hands found the hem of your skirt, gathering the expensive fabric up around your waist with a frantic efficiency, exposing the sheer, delicate lace of your underthings to the sterile air of the government building.

His breath hitched—a sharp, quiet intake of air so close to your ear it made you dizzy.

A single finger, shockingly warm, traced the damp, darkening patch through the lace. The scent rising between you—musk, heat, and raw need—was intoxicating.

A choked, guttural sound escaped him, a sound of pure, dark satisfaction.

“Christ,” he ground out, his voice thick with awe. “You’ve been like this for me, haven’t you? All day, all week?”

You could only nod, your head thrown back in mute surrender, your cheeks blazing.

With one decisive motion, his fingers hooked into the fragile lace of your panties and pulled. The sound of the fabric tearing was soft, utterly obscene in the historical quiet of the room. He kicked your legs apart instantly. His hands moved to his own belt, the faint, metallic clink of the brass buckle shockingly loud. His eyes, fixed on yours, never wavered. There was a startling, almost brutal economy to his movements, the only indication of the primal hunger he was struggling to cage. The sound of the zipper shearing downward was a harsh declaration. His trousers and boxers were swept down in one practiced motion, freeing the heavy, hot weight of him, straining against his core. The length of his pressed hard upon your opening, allowing a soft, desperate moan to escape from you.

"Shhh," he murmured against the curve of your neck, his lips tracing the frantic path of your pulse point.

"Be the good girl you pretend to be for everyone else. Stay quiet for me, hm?"

He guided the thick, slick head of his cock to your slick entrance, nudging gently through your folds—a torturous, exquisite promise of what was to come. He braced one hand on the desk for leverage, the other tangling fiercely in the soft locks of your hair, yanking your head back until your throat was utterly exposed to him.

“Tell me you want this,” he commanded, the only question he allowed himself.

“Yes,” you gasped, the word barely audible.

“Please, Jack. Please.”

That plea shattered the last of his formidable control. He pushed inside, a slow, relentless invasion that stole the air entirely from your lungs. The stretch was magnificent, a glorious, burning fullness that made the room tilt on its axis. He sheathes himself completely, a single, deep thrust that filled every hollow space within you. A choked, strangled cry tore itself free from your throat.

Instantly, his hand that had been gripping your hair, came up to cover your mouth, his palm warm and smelling intimately of his skin.

“Quiet,” he breathed, his voice a velvet-wrapped, possessive growl against your ear.

“We can’t have the entire free world knowing their President is fucking his sweet aide right here over this desk, can we?”

He began to move, and the rhythm he established was neither gentle nor democratic; it was a punishing, perfect cadence built entirely on power and proprietary claim. Each drive was profound, stealing the breath and replacing it with a muffled cry pressed against the warm, damp cushion of his hand. The sound in the vast, ornate room was suddenly dominated by the wet, slick slap of flesh against flesh—a sound obscenely loud, a testament to the raw, unchecked urgency of their sinful coupling. It was a perfect, terrifying synthesis of violence and devotion, a language of the body for which no civilized vocabulary existed. He was everywhere: the clinging, clean sweat mingling with the expensive cologne, the sheer, overwhelming heat of his body eclipsing yours, the low, filth-laced liturgy he whispered directly into the shell of your ear.

“So tight,” he grated out, his rhythm fracturing into a desperate, staccato beat.

“Taking me so exquisitely. My good girl. My only secret.”

 His fingers slip from your mouth, tracing your wet lips before pressing inside. You tasted salt, the faint trace of his skin, the tang of your own want. You suck on them, your eyes rolling back, the groan that rips from him is utterly animal.

The pressure in your core became a magnificent, tightening coil, winding tighter and tighter toward an edge that felt dangerously close to oblivion. He felt your body clench around him, the desperate contracting muscles, and he adjusted instantly. With a grunt of exertion, he hooked one of your legs, hiking your thigh up onto the cold, lower edge of a mahogany drawer, forcing your opening wider, reaching deeper into the core of you. That altered angle was devastating, brushing against a nerve deep inside that sent shockwaves of searing pleasure through your system with every punishing, relentless drive.

He seized your jaw then, his grip firm enough to demand attention, turning your face toward his in the dim, shadowed reflection of the window. “Watch,” he commanded, his thrusts becoming sharper, more focused, each one a deliberate claim.

“Watch us.”

That order—the raw, needy imperative in his voice—coiled the rising tension in your belly into a single, burning knot of exquisite agony. He withdrew the wet fingers from your mouth, glistening slickly in the lamplight, and brought them directly to his own lips. He traced the wet outline with the tip of his thumb before bringing the digit to his own mouth. You watched, dizzy and lost, as he sucked the taste of your want—salt, musk, and the faint, metallic tang of your own arousal—from his skin. He never broke eye contact as he sucked them clean, the act so profoundly intimate, so utterly transgressive, it seemed to steal the very oxygen from the room.

You bit down hard on your own lip, the sharp, coppery taste of blood grounding you momentarily. Your fingers, seeking salvation, clamped onto the carved edges of the desk.

The heavy wood shuddered under the force of his relentless rhythm. Your heel scrabbled against the smooth surface for purchase, for salvation. it was a vain effort.

You were there. Trembling, vibrating on the precipice.

He felt the imminent breach. His powerful pace faltered, becoming slower, deeper, more agonizingly deliberate.

“Come for me,” he ground out, his voice completely shattered. “Come for your President.”

The use of the title—his title, his authority—in this moment of absolute surrender was the final key unlocking your cage. The orgasm crashed through you, violent and sweet, a blinding, shattering wave that seized around him, squeezing him tight as you cried out. He followed you immediately over the edge, his own release a deep, shuddering convulsion that rocked his entire frame. He buried himself deep in one final, possessive surge, and you felt the hot, demanding pulse of him flooding you, claiming you in the most elemental way imaginable.

For a long, suspended moment, there was only the sound of your ragged, shared breathing, the slow drip of sweat lubricating the space between your bodies. He softened within you but did not retreat, his weight a heavy, welcome anchor securing you to the moment. He gently rested his forehead against the curve of your neck, pressing a kiss there—tender, reverent, the first truly gentle touch since the beginning.

“My devoted little doll,” he whispered, the words heavy with possessive satisfaction, a secret sealed between the desk and the oppressive dark.

“My beautiful, litte secret.”

kate says: hii lovelys!! im so sorry this is so rushed but im so happy to post again! pls lmk if there's any errors or changes to fix, tysm!!

𑣲 @jacksfavgirl @aliiscooljackieo @jfkenndy tysm for being excited to read this, it means sm to me!! I luv u guys so so much<3

[1-800-apricot]

Dreamer

John F. Kennedy x Fem!Reader

Description | You end up in an unexpected courtship with Jack Kennedy.

Word Count | 2.2k

Note | This just the first part of a series I'm making! It's roughly based on this imagine of mine :) This part takes place in fall of 1937 after Jack gets back from his trip in Europe. (also the beginning looks kinda depressing but it gets better I promise lol)

Marriage was never meant to be easy. You always knew that. It was practically law amongst the higher class of Boston. There were no sweet kisses or gentle embraces. It was just business. Paired together for convenience and family image. A way to move up in the world or however else they justified it. Some ladies found their places within this. But that was not without scrapping off pieces of themselves. It was never a pretty sight when they were forced into that tiny box built by society.

You've seen it enough now. Friends who were starry-eyed and rosy-cheeked before walking down that aisle. So sure they’d be the exception to the harsh curse of wifehood. When you saw them months later it was always the same. Those starry eyes dulled with a mix of denial and acceptance. The honeymoon phase had worn off by then and they no longer seemed bound to the oath of keeping their husband’s good name. Instead there were whispered stories that left everyone quiet and the tea unappetizing. This wasn’t how it always stayed though. Some girls found a rhythm. A way to live through loveless marriages by finding other things they could love. Then there was the second group of girls, the lucky ones, who could find love within their relationships. It wasn’t perfect. Never would be with the habits of men, but it was better than nothing. Finally there’s that third group. The ones that can’t or won’t adjust. These aren’t the ones people discuss in polite company. Instead they come up after a glass of wine or two. Their names are thrown out and shared. Accusations murmured in sympathetic tones yet delivered with the sharpness of a dart. Speculated on as if it were some witch trial.

This was the environment you knew when it came to the topic of marriage and love. Husband and wife. Unequal in sickness and health until death do they part. It was unappealing to say the least. And when your father offered your hand to Jack Kennedy, you weren’t thrilled. In fact you were more or less heartbroken. You’d already been courting a Yale boy from Connecticut. He had the prettiest brassy hair and the darkest eyes. A charming smile with even more charming thoughts. He was perfect and your father seemed to think so too. At least until he had that dinner with Joe Kennedy. Your pretty boy from Yale was no more that night and whispers of a Kennedy marriage blossomed. 

←→

Meeting him was unimpressive. Your heart was sore from the loss of your previous relationship and you had no desire to look for new love. But matters of the heart had no place here so you two sat at a table in some distinguished restaurant. The dining rooms were only lit with candles and lamps which offered a dim atmosphere. Your fathers were sitting within sight but far enough away that you could likely talk without being heard. This was on purpose. Their presence was enough to keep you behaved, but their distance was enough to allow you two to comfortably get to know each other. 

Jack took full advantage of this freedom. His eyes were bright and scanned your face every time he said something. Searching. Perhaps he was looking for amusement at a joke or a moment of contemplation at a political reference. But whatever he found seemed to sober him fairly quickly and here arose a factor he’d never considered: you didn’t want to be with him. It wasn’t that he’d never encountered rejection or someone not liking him. This alone wasn’t shocking. It was the circumstances. You were at an expensive dinner. Most girls at least attempted to be interested. Especially when it came to such a prominent family. But he found none of that meek acceptance. In place of it was a wall of steel. You were still polite of course but the dry answers spoke for themselves. He’d have to figure out how to get through this unexpected challenge. The thought thrilled him. 

You didn’t intend to be rude. In fact you’d had full intentions of having a fulfilling conversation. But there was something about seeing his face that soured your hesitant kindness. He looked nothing like your Yale boy. His eyes were the wrong color. His hair was styled differently. Where yours had been shorter but strongly built, the man in front of you was taller and lankier. Jack Kennedy was by no means unattractive. It’d be abhorrent to say he was and you did not hate him in your head. He wasn’t a bad fellow. Just following his own father’s will as you were following yours. Yet your heart couldn’t help but blame him. If he and his father hadn’t come along then everything would’ve been different. You’d still have your fellow. That was ultimately what pushed you to hide whatever olive branch you once held. It was terrible, but it felt good to see the sureness in his eyes fade. To have the tables turn.

←→

“Why do you hate him so much?” Ruth was sprawled out on the loveseat by the window and watched you with lazy curiosity. She’d been your best friend since preparatory school and now shared an apartment with you. Now you consulted her on almost everything. Though it helped that she’d managed to escape the clutches of marriage so she had the time to listen. Her shoes laid messily on the carpeted floor and her dress was partially undone so she could lay more comfortably. A cigarette sat in between her fingers like it belonged. You on the other hand paced around the room, getting ready for another outing with the Kennedy in question. No cigarette to soothe you.

“I don’t. Not liking someone doesn’t equate to hating them.”

“You talk like you do.”

There was nothing to say to that so you simply turned away with your face screwed up in annoyance. You slipped another dress onto a hanger and shoved it in your closet. Your room was a mess from Ruth’s search for the “perfect date dress.” It was foolish and you’d said as much. You didn’t even want to go out on this date. It’d been a few weeks since that dinner together and you’d hoped that’d been the end of it. You were sure he’d lost interest after the bland dinner. His lack of contact in that time combined with the Kennedy name being absent from your father’s tongue had only reassured you. But then came the phone call.

You’d believed it was someone different. Helen was it? It was hard to remember since you two rarely talked anymore. She was an old classmate who was in Boston and she swore to call so that you could plan a meet up. This meant that when you picked up the phone, the cool receiver pressed to your ear, and heard Jack Kennedy you were a little thrown off. Weeks of silence and growing assurance that you’d thrown him off were suddenly ripped away. You would’ve assumed he had the wrong number if he wasn’t so chipper when you spoke. It was a mournful experience really, but you couldn’t ignore the twinge of satisfaction at the fact that he’d called. And perhaps it was then that you should’ve known what the nature of your relationship would be. 

“I don’t even know how he got my number,” You lamented.

“It’s a mystery,” Ruth agreed as she closed her eyes and took a drag.

“It was probably some directory or whatever they call it. Awful things.” 

“Most girls like a guy who chases y’know.” 

“He hasn’t chased, Ruth. He’s strolled along and decided he wants another date after four blasted weeks. Probably because he can’t get another girl to go out,” You rambled and Ruth snorted at the words. Though you did make a point. He wasn’t being the chaser that girls would romanticize him as. Getting a number didn’t take four weeks to get. He was either the world’s worst procrastinator or he was just messing with you, and it was pretty clear which one was the realistic option. Tossing a pair of heels into a basket, you continued to tidy up your room. The two of you fell into idle chatter until you both fell silent at a sound. The doorbell. You felt sick. 

You stared at Ruth for a long five minutes with an almost pleading expression and she stared back expectantly. There was no getting out of this. You were doomed to yet another cruel trial. With exaggerated despair, you grabbed your coat and slipped it on before putting on your hat. Ruth had jumped up now and grabbed your makeup. She was quick to help correct anything out of place and she could only grin when looking you over.

“You’re gonna have so much fun.”

“I hate you.”

With that you snatched your beaded clutch back. Ruth offered a mock salute and you promptly left the room. This would be the death of you and that might as well be a fact. Your heels dragged against the apartment floors before arriving at the door. Taking a breath deep enough to burn your lungs, you opened the door and smiled. It was tight-lipped and clearly not genuine, but it was the best he’d get. 

Jack offered his own smile in return. It was charming as ever and almost enough to make you feel guilty for your attitude. Taking a step out of the house, you closed the door behind you. The temperature was cool but not enough to make you shiver and it would only warm up as the sun rose higher. The young man took in your appearance. Polished but not glamorous.

“You look lovely.” He complimented. Anyone passing by could’ve confused his expression with a kid in a candy store.

“Thank you. You cleaned up nice as well.” Your tone was sharper than intended, but it didn’t seem to discourage him. If anything he seemed to brighten even more.

“I’m delighted that you think so.” 

←→

The walk to Boston Common was long and quiet. He didn’t attempt to speak as he had at dinner and you certainly didn't either. A part of you was satisfied with that. It only confirmed that he was no chaser. He was probably bored when he called you and underestimated the memory of how dry your first encounter was. The thought reassured you greatly. There was no way he was interested. Yet his face seemed just as bright as it was on the porch. 

“It’s been a while. I thought I scared you off.” Your words were pointed and more annoyed then they probably should have been.

“How so? We barely talked.” He was so upbeat and it grated on your nerves.

“Perhaps there’s a reason for that.”

He didn’t say anything to that at first. His handsome face twisted into a contemplative expression. The whole thing was throwing you for a loop. Why was he acting like the date had gone just fine? It’d been about as interesting as watching paint dry, but you kept quiet. The breeze danced around you two and it was the only relief you found from the scenario. 

“I don’t think you know me well enough,” He stated finally, so sure of himself.

“Is that so?” You look at him now.

“Sure.”

Silence followed that. The chatter of passing couples and animals surrounded you. It's like some salesman has crawled his way into your life. Then it struck you. A salesman. That’s what he is. You could’ve screamed as the thought sunk in. He’d never leave you until his product was sold and you along with it. There might be periods of no contact, but it’d never really end. Stopping at a park bench, you watched as he stumbled a little when realized you no longer walked alongside him.

“What if I don’t want to know you?” 

“I like sailing.” He ignored your words and returned to your side.

“You’re not serious.”

“I am. I live for it.”

His interest in sailing wasn’t what you doubted and you decided then that he wasn’t being truthful. Not based on his words but by the way he looked when he said them. You were a lot of things, but you weren’t a fool. His shoulders were too drawn up to be considered at ease and his jaw was set in a way that showed defensiveness. He had stepped out of his comfort zone. There was a sort of satisfaction in that. You drew up your own shoulders and set your own jaw in a sort of mockery. Then, in the most pompous voice you could muster, you said, “Well I hate sailing.”

Jack was quick to melt when he realized you weren’t being serious. A breathless sort of laugh left him and his grin grew real. Running fingers through his hair, he watched as you took a seat on the park bench. You wouldn’t let this be easy on him in the slightest. You two had gotten stuck together and he’d unknowingly stripped you of the ability to choose your own husband. It was practically a given that you’d make this difficult. He could only laugh as he sank onto the bench next to you.

“Christ.”

masterlist

make sure to leave a like and reblog if you enjoyed <3

[cutepolkadots]

fingers in your mouth

john f kennedy x reader

Jack puts him two fingers in your mouth while you fucks you deeply

a/n: sorry I haven’t been writing lately!! hope you like this short story, also not proof read

his fingers curl into your mouth, his digits are long and warm. you wrap your plump lips around his tanned fingers, the small hairs on the end of his fingers brush against your pink lips.

he grunts lowly, his other hand holding your hips pinned down to mattress beneath the both of you. “that’s it” he grunts into your ear, his breath hot and heavy against your neck. your teeth graze against his skin before biting down on his fingers as you hold back a moan.

he’s pumping in and out of you, stretching you out almost painfully. his free hand grips your thigh, holding on tightly as he holds you open. “you can take it” he encourages into your ear. you whimper softly “jack..” you whisper softly around his fingers.

he grins slightly, pushing his fingers deeper into your wet mouth, curling them against your tongue. he’s thick, heavy inside you, making your lower stomach bulge with every thrust. it makes your mouth water.

“I’m getting there doll” he whispers between gritted teeth. all you can do it nod your head, too full of him to get anything out from between your lips. with a few more deep pumps and slips out of you, his hand works on his dick before spilling his hot cum on your stomach.

you look up at him with big expecting eyes. “you wanna come?” he asks softly, almost teasingly before pulling his fingers from between your lips. he chuckles almost before sliding his wet fingers to your clit.

[avenori]

can you do newlywed life with Jack? Like late 1953- 1954

newly wedded ! jfk x wife!reader hc’s

a/n: taking request!

• you two are out swimming at least twice a week to help his back problems

• jack enjoys talking about history with you at the dinner table :)

• anytime he’s in the hospital you’re always by his side.

• and when jack is back out you’re babying him justttt slightly

• you two start off on a rocky foot but eventually it gets better with time

• every Sunday afternoon you make pastries for the week and jack packs one (a lot) for his breakfast at work

• the days he’s off work he’ll wave you off to your studies and greet you on the porch when you arrive back

• we know Jack isn’t the most affectionate, but he does little things to show his love

• example, if you read he’ll organize your bookshelf for you.

• or if you do sports he will be right next to you

• sometimes when you two butt heads it ends up with….. pants off…?

• his cheating habits bother you yes, but it bothers him even more when you don’t acknowledge him

• he tries to make it up with jewelry and a date but you can only sigh and accept it

• sorry, sex isn’t that great. he’s lazy. jack loves when you ride him though

• keeps a photo of you and your baby on his desk

• jack LOVESS when you massage or scratch his back after a long day at work

• he loves bubble baths with you as well

• while he has flaws, he loves you because you accept him for him. that’s why you two are bonded together