Chapter 1: First Date
(FINAL VERSION)
A Joe Kennedy Jr. x Reader Fanfiction
Further Info: Debutante reader, fluff, SFW (a first for me!)
Word Count: 1541
A/N: I am sincerely sorry this fic took forever. But-- this is only the first chapter in a series I hope you’ll enjoy. I’d like to give a special shoutout to @joejrarchives for giving me insight into Joe’s thoughtfulness and romantic nature. If you’re missing the smut version, get ready for Chapter 2! ;) It’s gonna be better and much more accurate to Joe Jr.’s real personality in romantic relationships!
“Tick, tick, tick...” It was as if the second hand of your antique alarm clock was teasing you, creeping slower and slower with each staccato beat. Try as you may to be a proper, patient girl, you never quite grasped the concept of “the watched pot never boils.” You sighed as you reluctantly turned back to your vanity’s gargantuan mirror. The Kennedys had a reputation for punctuality. Well, at least Joseph Jr., the eldest sibling and your prospective date for the night, did, according to your parents.
You’d crossed paths briefly and very, at that, on the night of the debutante ball. Though your respective parents ran in the same circles, yours treated you with a level of caution that bordered on stifling. Being the youngest of two daughters in a prominent family, you were doted on, but never given the freedom to experience life to the fullest extent as you dreamed of. Your parents barred you from mingling with boys until they felt you were “ready” (had officially made your debut, like a proper society lady), and the Kennedy sons were no exception.
You flitted through the ballroom in your white confection of a gown, occasionally pausing to compliment one of the neighbor girls when you caught them out of the corner of your eye--your parents conversing with a tall, bespectacled gentleman. Presumably, this was Mr. Kennedy, based on prior descriptions your father had given when discussing workplace gossip. Adjacent to the commotion, and visibly listening in, was a young man (though older than you), as good-looking as any leading actor, leaning back in his seat. As he reached for a glass of water, his steely gaze turned to you. Your heart swung to the back of your throat. Without thinking, you lifted a white silk glove to your cheek in astonishment. Heat. The corner of his lip curled into a slight but confident smile. Your trance was broken unceremoniously by the delighted chuckles of your parents and Mr. Kennedy, who had apparently witnessed the whole ordeal. Never before had you found yourself possessed by the desire to run and hide in such a magnitude. You mingled with the crowd when necessary, but spent most of the night holding the wall.
By the time the festivities ended, your family eagerly ushered you into the back of the car, which seemed utterly impossible given the plume of taffeta encasing your body. Your chauffeur-- you thought, must have the patience of a saint. After successfully taming your skirt into a holdable position, you received news from your parents: the Kennedys’ oldest son-- as they referred to him, “the one that you would not stop staring at” was interested in making your acquaintance. In the following days, your respective families coordinated an official date over the telephone.
In a futile attempt to distract yourself, you neatly rouged the apples of your cheeks. Love, sexuality, men, were mysteries to you. You spent many nights as a schoolgirl listening as your more experienced peers shared tales of their tawdry summertime dalliances, wondering if you too would someday experience the thrilling touch of the opposite sex. You spent your time watching boys from afar, offering a polite conversation when situationally required, but you’d never been alone with one before. Your train of thought was derailed by your mother knocking on your door, notifying you that the Kennedy family’s chauffeur had arrived. The hot feeling in your cheeks returned to haunt you once again. Hurriedly, you reached for your purse with a clammy hand and shuffled out the door.
After a silent 30-minute drive, you arrived at the restaurant (the name of which evaded you; your brain had been a mess for the past hour or so). A well-dressed waiter greeted you at the door and led you through a busy dining room to their event space, neatly tucked behind a pair of large wooden doors. In contrast to the previous room, the event space was surprisingly... intimate.
Sat at the lone table in the center of the room, washed in the red-orange haze of candlelight, was the Kennedy family’s oldest son. You noted his perfect posture and how dashing he looked in his tweed suit. In place of a greeting, he smirked and raised an eyebrow. One hundred butterflies swarmed your chest.
“H-Hello, Mr. Kennedy,” you stammered, slithering into your chair. “Mr. Kennedy’s my father, you can call me Joe,” he quipped. His thick East Boston accent stirred something within you.
You laughed nervously.
“Pardon my mistake, Joe.” You set your napkin neatly in your lap.
“And you,” he started, “you’re Y/N from the Debutante ball? How could I forget someone with a face like that?”
“You flatter me,” you giggled, wanting to hide your face in the sand like an ostrich. You never felt comfortable taking compliments. To you, that kind of praise from a boy carried an intimacy, at least based on what you learned from your peers in boarding school.
“I can assure you I am simply being honest,” Joe replied with a smile. “I went looking for you that night. Before your parents spoke to me, I wanted to ask you for a dance.”
A slow shiver crept down your spine. The notion that you’d caught the eye of such a handsome gentleman without your parents' meddling was as exciting as it was foreign. Joe stood up from his chair and approached you with the care one would give to a stray cat.
“I’d be remiss if I did not ask you.” He extended a large hand. “May I have this dance?” At first, you were puzzled-- how could you dance to no music? You soon realized, as you glanced around the room, that having your first romantic encounter with a boy in seclusion like this was actually far preferable to the prying eyes of your respective communities.
‘’Yes, please,” you responded as you reached for him, briefly stopping to tuck your chair in. Joe lifted you to your feet with ease, then pulled you close, clasping your much smaller hand in his. You felt as if your heart were on the brink of exploding as you swayed back and forth, his breath hot on your neck. Joe was even dreamier up close. His square, chiseled jaw and softly dimpled chin gave him the appearance of a classical hero. His hair was artfully tousled-- occasionally, a loose strand would fall between his kind, downturned blue eyes. Instinctively, you leaned closer, resting your head atop Joe’s shoulder. The aroma of expensive aftershave tickled your nose as his embrace tightened, pressing your body against his as you rocked in unison. For a moment, you forgot the private dining area was silent. Not that it mattered, as, for the first time, you found yourself in the arms of a handsome gentleman.
Your embrace was unceremoniously brought to a pause when the waiter cleared his throat. You gasped as your entire body flooded with white-hot cortisol.
“Pardon my intrusion. Have you two Turtle Doves decided on your entrees for the evening?”
Your cheeks flushed a deep crimson. Every cell in your body begged for you to run and hide. Without missing a beat, Joe replied with complete confidence.
“We will both be having the baked lobster, thank you, sir.”
“Baked lobster.” The waiter muttered, scribbling on a small notepad. “I will be back momentarily with your meals.”Just as promptly as he arrived, the waiter was gone. Gone, too, was the weight from your chest.
It was as if Joe had read your mind. As a New England girl through and through, you could never resist a hearty meal of buttered lobster. You wondered how, in a moment of panic (at least for you), he was able to remain centered. You were paralyzed by fear, and he handled everything so smoothly. You didn’t know it was possible, but Joe seemed even dreamier now.
“Now, where were we?” Joe asked, rubbing his large, rough thumb over your hand, possibly attempting to soothe you. Once again, he whisked you into his big arms-- his embrace warmer and tighter than before. “Don’t you worry that pretty little head of yours, darling,” he cooed. Your knees grew agonizingly weak; you wanted to melt. You swayed in the warm glow of candlelight for a handful of minutes before you returned to your respective seats, anticipating the waiter’s eventual return. You asked Joe about his many younger siblings, summering in Cape Cod, and his life at Harvard (all of which your parents informed you of in the days leading up to your rendezvous, thank goodness). What surprised you most, though, were his thoughtful questions in return. For years, you listened as your mother lamented that men tend not to care about our inner worlds as much as we do theirs. Joe, however, seemed different-- and genuinely interested.
At the end of the night, Joe escorted you back to the car you arrived in-- not without kissing your hand, an act of chivalry that sent a wave of heat through your entire being. As you sat in silence in the back of the vehicle, watching the stars twinkling lazily above you, the sound of your heart pounding was deafening in your ears.
