notes. i can't stop thinking about this man. sorry jack, i think my frontal lobe is developing.
bobby doesn't like to spank you. in fact, before meeting you, the thought of doing such a thing had never once crossed his mind — not with any of his previous lovers. but you’re endless provoking pushes him past the point of any other effective solution.
he’s tried other things, but none of them are quite as effective as literally knocking some sense back into you. and although he doesn’t like it, he gets some kind of depraved pleasure from disciplining you in such a way. whether you're giving him an insolent attitude, doing something he explicitly told you not to, or something that especially irks him, swearing, bobby has absolutely no problem taking you over his knee, flipping up your skirt, and whacking at your ass until it’s bright red.
and despite years spent at catholic school, where swearing was strictly prohibited and would result in an immediate strike across the knuckles, there are a few occasions where an expletive forcefully falls from your lips. burning your hand on the stove, missing your exit on the highway, or when your husband is thrusting into you, hitting the spongy spot inside of you that you didn’t know existed before meeting him.
your hands and knees are digging into the plush comforter as bobby quickens his pace from behind you, his hands tightening their grip on the plush skin of your hips. you let your head fall onto your clasped hands, held together tightly like they are every night before you get into bed.
it comes out after a particularly hard thrust. a soft ‘fuck’ that’s partly muffled by the comforter, but it doesn’t escape the ears of your husband. his hand cracks down onto your ass without a missing beat, like he was waiting for you to slip up. the smack sends a jolt up and down your body, your back arching slightly, daring him to do it again. “language,” he chastises you in his tone that makes you want to hide inside yourself, but also makes you impossibly slicker around his cock. you whine, which is also partially muffled, and it earns you little sympathy.
the hand that dealt the blow is cradling your reddened behind with a stark softness, thumb rubbing back and forth like it can possibly soothe the sweltering skin. his other hand comes up to your neck, lifting your face from your drool-covered hands and the subsequently dampening comforter, holding it with more forcefulness than just a gentle cradle.
suddenly, you feel the unmistakable tickle of his chest hair against your back. it’s slick with sweat, and probably slightly matted down with dampness. you try to turn your head, to see him, but his grip on your neck tightens, holding you in place.
his breath is hot against the back of your skull, coming out in hard puffs of exertion as he continues his relentless pace. both of your thighs are now drenched with your wetness, the smacking of your skin echoing shamefully throughout the room. his thumb snakes its way up from your neck to your bottom lip, dragging it down until he feels the silky inside. “don’t make me wash out this mouth.”
whether that’s a threat or a promise, you wouldn’t object either way.
CHRISTMAS BREEDING KINK WITH BOSS!BOBBY KENNEDY AND ASSISTANT!READER
IX.
summary: a single mother of a precocious and very talkative young girl finds herself employed with the only royalty america has to show for itself. most specifically she's found herself working for its second youngest son, robert f. kennedy. a man who holds an annoyingly good rapport with her sweet six year old girl, so much so that when he learns her greatest wish for the christmas of 1962 is to have a baby sibling next year... well who is he to deny her? and, well... he has always had a soft spot for the single mother anyway, so what's the real trouble in bobby doing his part to spread a little christmas cheer for the holidays?
tags: 18+, heavy breeding kink, holiday party shenanigans, fade to black sequences, sorry, unprotected sex cause lets be serious here, can be pervert!bobby depending on what way you wanna look at it, undertones of daddy kink, saviour complex!bobby but we already knew that! also want to shout out @unmarlou for the single mother bobby au that was literally a galaxy brain moment!
authors note: haven't done this in a while, hope I'm not too rusty. this also hasn't been proof-read I'm very apologetic but this really needed to get this out and i didn't want to tease people any longer. hope you love 🐑
Winifred could feel the crumbs on the sides of her mouth, a parting gift from the mini pandoro's handed out courtesy of the catering team. Treats hunted and gathered by Harriet, her young daughter. Who came giggling as she bounded across the sisal patterned carpet of the trianon suite at the carlyle, bounties in hand and tartan slippers on feet. Both a strategic choice where comfort was concerned, and an attempt to adhere to certain holiday colour scheme. It was a holiday party after all.
"Mommy, can I please go say hi to Aggie? you said she's going to Aspen for the holidays and it'll be forever until she gets back home," said the six year old. Her cheeks flushed by the incessant flow of air-conditioned warm pumping the room. Surely an attempt to safeguard the hotel's inhabitants from feeling the effects of a harsh winter in the city.
"Of course, but stay where I can see you. I don't want you to blend into the decor will all that tartan you've got going on," she says while giggling to herself, lightly tickling her daughter's pyjama clad belly.
As the young girl turns away and falls into the swirl of party goers, a familiar sense of dread falls over the woman. Harry had mentioned her friend's trip no less than 5 times during the last 48 hours.
Beautiful and very long (with the impressive stamina only a small child could muster) stretches of conversations during school drop-offs were spent over the topic. She cherished all conversations shared, but the topic of extravagant winter vacations hit a certain sore point in the woman. Particularly instigating feelings of inadequacy that she couldn't afford that kind of lifestyle for her daughter. The kind of lifestyle that she had repeatedly been offered and repeatedly and (she prayed) graciously declined. Offers that came from her boss Robert, or as was mandated in the office where she worked as assistant—Bobby.
"Call me Bobby, just Bobby that's all," he would say with the grin of a handsome man, the handshake of a lesser one, and a Cincinnatus kind of brand of humility.
There were many times Robert—No, Bobby tried to help the struggling mother of one doing it all on her own. I mean with his own brazen case of mother issues and an incessant reflex to "fix" things, situations, people, relationships, PR ordeals. And he was Born and bred for it, too.
So, the idea that his own primal (whether that be through nurture or nature) instincts to fix and repair would be tamed with words like "human resources" and "professional working boundaries between employer and employee" was truly laughable.
Every single time he would even mention the word, or general topic of a raise or a bonus for a job well done, the young assistant would immediately stone wall. She would turn cold and distant, as it the mere acknowledgment (through financial means) of the beneficial addition she contributed to the office culture was an affront to her.
Leaving it to be a very long, and very quiet day at the office.
Save for the usual, near choreographed down to the minute, routine in which Harriet would go in search of candy after getting bored in the interim time between her getting off of school and waiting for her mother to finish the work day at the office.
The search for candy would always lead her to the doors of Bobby's office, a room you wouldn't know was his due to its stark lack of senatorial dramatics that would be all too common elsewhere.
Though it became increasingly clear who inhabited those four walls, when they were covered with drawings, endlessly endearing chicken scratch that were clearly done by very small children with unlimited access to colourful pigments.
"Well, well, well,"
"Now what do we have here, Little Miss Harry?" the young senator would declare.
Always with the same amount of gravitas non-dependant on the company he was seeing at any given moment—business moguls, fellow senators, millionaires pissed off at whatever new policy that was up for grabs that wasn't fine tuned to benefit them—and most of the time only them. It didn't matter either way to him, he wasn't ashamed of looking weak.
Bobby would be rewarded with the sweetest saccharine grin from the small child. for her troubles the young senator for New York would lean down into his weathered chair. A leather seat which had seen its fair share of black scruffs and markings. Most of which came from the patent leather of his young daughters school shoes scuffing the leather of the chair as they descended on the chair in search of their father's tactile affection.
From under the shadow of the mahogany desk, he would produce a handful of assorted goods. Sometimes it would be louis sherry's caramels, or boston baked beans, or gummy bears, or some sticks of clove gum, or new england salt water taffy's, or necco wafers, or peanut butter logs, or perhaps a handful of old fashioned nonpareils.
Most of the time it was a mixed bag since Bobby was finding it increasingly hard to say no to the little girl. And it was through the pseudo candy trade between the young senator and the child that an alliance of sorts formed.
Winifred was broken from her dazed day-dream with the unremarkable thud of a door opening.
And in walked him. Him in his lovely and un replicable him-ness. Casually accoutred in a cable-knit, black trousers, a silk bowtie, and a cashmere coat that would be immediately disregarded once he was out of the city's bitter cold and into the lobby. (authors note: this is what i'm picturing the outfit to look like, this particular styling is on behalf of the formidable ghiaia cashmere. check them out when your in LA if you have the chance to.)
And he didn't just bring himself, he also brought what looked to be an old summer camp tote from Massachusetts. A tote which was filled to the brim, almost overflowing with children's toys and other presents for the employees.
Whilst he mingled shaking hands, putting arms on shoulders, when children excitedly bounded over lured by the mere sight of presents. He gave each a scruff of their hair and a quick playful scratch of the back of their necks, which made them all invariably fall into pits of laughter and giggles. Some received teddy bears (1, 2, 3), some received a nativity set, some a donkey, some a great dane bear, some a treff, and some even got a stieff king kong.
Though one bear was left, and as Winifred tracked her eyes across the room in search of what corner of the event hall her daughter and her friend had most certainly wandered off to without a car she met his eyes. Eyes which had seemed to be tracking her for a while now. And with nothing more than a crinkle of his eyes and a cock of his head he beckoned Harriet over who ran over with a great amount of enthusiasm and presented her with a very soft looking traditional stieff teddy bear.
From the moment Bobby produced the bear, Winifred was already calculating how much it would've cost to get Harriet that bear. It had to be more than any boss should spend on their assistant's child. I mean for god sakes you'd think the senator should be running out of money by now—what with the amount of children he needs to shop for christmas gifts. And yet.
The young mother is tempted to, and already preparing a speech to, scold bobby on the present but is stopped completely by the look on her daughter's face. A face of pure unadulterated happiness.
Winifred observes the sight with a small smile. Then observes the young senator bend down to ask what she presumes to be a question, to which Harriet emphatically replies though it's particularly impossible to assuage either the question nor the response.
Though from both Bobby's and Harriet's faces once the conversation concluded they appeared as though a pact had been made.
...
The gathering had ended unceremoniously in a beautiful manner. After all it was nine pm and Harriet was not used to staying up this late due to her mother's penchant for a strict bedtime routine.
Bobby insisted that he walk Winifred and Harriet back to their rooms (the fourth floor of the hotel had been booked out for the employees per the occasion). He maintained a respectful distance as the mother and daughter went about the nighttime routine, and Harriet was tucked into a hilariously oversized king bed by 10pm clad in a tartan dressing gown in case the room caught a chill.
Bobby did manage to convince the young mother to one drink in his presidential suite.
At the suggestion she would go on to call him "presumptuous" to which he would reply that she was a prude. They both giggled to themselves along the track down the hallway from the fourth floor to the service elevator, a security protocol no doubt. Though Winifred couldn't judge as the only way she was convinced to leave her daughter alone was with Bobby's assurance that there would be dedicated round-the-clock supervision outside the door at all times until she would return.
It was somewhere between the fourth or five old fashioned that Winifred found herself on the lap of her boss. His forearm cradling the backs of her knees, with her head in the crook of his arm. Soaking up the feeling of him. The smell of him.
Maybe his thumb started rubbing her cheek. Maybe it moved further to her lips. Maybe it circled them. It may have even invaded its way in, and remained. Maybe his thumb stayed in Winifred's mouth longer than they both like to admit, occasionally being sucked in further, occasionally being drawn out.
She couldn't really find it in herself to be particularly bothered of the possible ramifications of this direct contact. It felt too good for that. It felt good to be coddled in a way. It felt good to not be doing the caring, but being the one who is taken care of. Though the man was less than ten years her senior, she felt he could be trusted.
And he felt nice to be trusted, to be needed. It felt utterly natural for Bobby to do the caring, after all it's all he knows.
After all what is a racehorse without a race to win?
And this feels like a race Bobby can win, a thing he can save. He objectively knows that no person can save another, and that it most definitely shouldn't be him if it's even possible to begin with.
And as the story so often goes, Winifred found herself in the presidential suite at the Carlyle. Slightly light headed, in a daze gazing out at the city skyline so beautifully framed casement windows. The senator lay beside her half on her breast, with enough space between her nipple and his mouth that there was plausible deniability as to what might have occurred. Winifred almost always felt restless after but this was on another level. Her legs shook like a restless greyhound. She felt completely unmoored but so full.
Full of him. Full of love. Full of his love.
Bobby knew he was a dead man walking from the first time she interviewed with him. They were drawn together by impenetrable forces, unmoved by either one's protests. Bobby liked saving, and Winifred felt the need to no longer refuse a life boat in the middle of a choppy sea.
And as the young senator watches his cum pebble and seperate, falling onto the sheets below. He picks up a glob and smears it back where it should be. Where it all belongs. Where it should've been all along. He silences Winifred's beautiful murmurs with a shush and kiss.
If all goes well he might even be able to keep his promise to grant Harriet a new sibling by next christmas, he'd heard her pleas to her mother for months now after witnessing her other school friends and their sibling relationships. She wanted one of her own. And he wanted to give that gift to Harriet. Give that gift to Winifred. She wouldn't have to worry about a thing anymore.
He'd make sure of that. One way or another.
...
There's a new baby next December. The new family stays at a brownstone in Tribeca while the place in Virginia is getting remodeled.
And Bobby spares no expense for his growing family.
ex-husband!bobby arriving at your child’s birthday party, a large family and friends affair at your house (you and he still haven’t gotten around to discussing the logistics of what do with the summer house - and probably never will) on the cape, where a day of minor inconveniences that domino effected one another were piling up to make it anything but enjoyable for you; of course you’d held it together for the kids, smiles and forehead kisses galore, but with the cake not being ready on time, key decorations not being delivered, and rose kennedy breathing down your neck about quite literally everything, by the time bobby arrived - not late on purpose, you’d come to learn - you were just about bordering tears.
the sweet shout of, “daddy!” rings loud among the children, and while tending to the presents table, you could see out of the corner of your eye, all the little ones running up and bombarding a larger figure, who’s sunglassed face and wide stretched arms accepted with the utmost affection.
while he himself may be empty handed, to receive the kids in a loving embrace, teddy and lem come trailing closely behind from his car, both with heaps of gifts and balloons (that color match the party’s theme) they struggle to keep it all together in their arms.
your sigh is involuntary, a genuine breath of relief at his final presence, and watch intently as the kids hang off his arms while he strides further into the party grounds. he’s entirely attentive, remarkably so, even as he bids necessary hello’s and how are you?’s to the adult guests, not waiting for their responses because he’s too busy trying to tickle all three of your children at once as they walk.
“where’s your mother?” you hear him say, with the gentleness he only possess with them, leaning down to hear the answer and follow where the small pointer finger is directing.
while his eyes remain shaded, he now looks up to face you, nodding before sending the kids off to play and enjoy the festivities with a kiss, and making his way over to you.
his smile is full and comforting, reassured there’s no worry in the world, and you can almost feel the days stress breaking on your shoulders, thus you work extra hard to maintain composure and not let the built up frustrated tears spill immediately. holding his arms out to accept you into an exchange of pleasantries, a casual hug and kiss to the cheek, you breathe out a simply, “bobby, thank god.”
“it’s alright,” his voice carries the airy cadence of a laugh, his arm hooks around your shoulders securely and you mindlessly fasten yours to his back, as he turns to face the party with you, his hand brushing up and down your upper arm to soothe, “we got the cake, no need to worry. teddy’ll bring it in now.”
your head snaps to look up at him like he’s some miracle, and frankly, sometimes you’re sure he is, “what, how? they said it wouldn’t be ready.”
he gazes down at you with a coy smile, still holding you in the crevice of his arm and torso, readjusting the swoop of his hair as the ocean wind blows through lightly, “and i told them that was unacceptable. it’s our kids birthday for crying out loud.”
he continues his calming motion at your arm, leaning to place a quick and effortless kiss to the top of your head, “don’t you worry… i’m here now.”
The letter was unsigned, unpostmarked. Tucked inside a plain white envelope that bore only her name—handwritten, unmistakably in his script.
She hadn’t slept much since Dallas.
She had watched the funeral in silence, the tears coming only when she saw Jackie, veiled and hollow, holding the hands of their children. The sound had gone out of the television then, or maybe it had gone out of her world.
The letter sat on her desk for hours before she finally opened it.
Alejandra—
I don’t know if I’ll send this. Maybe I won’t. Maybe it’s safer that way. You always told me I never knew when to leave something alone, and maybe you were right. But there are things a man ought to say before it’s too late.
I’ve done the things I was supposed to. I wore the masks. I played the part. But you were the only thing I ever chose for myself.
I miss you. In a way that terrifies me.
Yours, always—
J.
She closed her eyes.
There had been a time when she thought she could change the ending—rewrite the lines before history inked them in permanent record. But Jack had always belonged to the world, even when he told her otherwise.
The fire beside her cracked softly. She didn’t move to feed it.
Instead, she placed the letter in the drawer beside her bed, where the others lived—hidden, unspoken, untouched by time.
And then she whispered into the stillness, “You never stopped being mine.”
—————-
Ok, so this is the prologue to my JFK fanfic. Kind of scared tbh but y’know what, YOLO lmao
But forewarning: this is not going to be a happily ever after fanfic (clearly as stated in the prologue). I’m thinking of going forward with a forbidden love-esque, right person, wrong time type of thing. Don’t ask me why…I guess I just love angst and heartbreak…y’know emotional torture for some reason. If you’re interested in this fanfic continuing on, let me know! This is me putting out some feelers
Also….no smut unfortunately…I’m not good at writing smut as much as I am at reading it but if someone wants to take over the smut part, let me know.
Chapters: 3/?
Fandom: Political RPF - US 20th c., Historical RPF
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Robert F. Kennedy/Original Female Character(s)
Characters: Robert F. Kennedy, John F. Kennedy, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, Joseph P. Kennedy Sr. (1888-1969), Eunice Kennedy Shriver, Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy, Original Characters, Original Female Character(s), Original Male Character(s), Kennedy Family (US Political RPF)
Additional Tags: Age Difference, Meet-Cute, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - 1960s
Series: Part 2 of Kennedy RPF's (JFK, Jackie O, RFK)
Summary:
It was an unexpected turn for Robert when Ethel chose God over him and left their relationship to join a convent. He understood her to some measurement as a Catholic, yet a part of him thought he had found the one. He decided to dedicate himself not to God but help his older brother on his growing political and government career.
So, in 1949, even with a broken heart he went on with his studies at the University of Virginia. He made a few good friends and befriended Alec Worthing, whose younger sister he ended up meeting in 1958 at a campaign celebration party for Jack after he was re-elected to the Senate after winning against Republican lawyer Vincent J. Celeste.
early mornings in the californian enclave for the family are not unlike those of the median nuclear family. spite of some substitutions: white porcelain in lieu of melamine place settings, carbon steel cookware instead of stainless steel, and weekly seasonal harvest deliveries in place of late-night grocery runs. however, it might be surprising to note that despite the differences, the family of the attorney general wakes up like most of the country.
more often than not the attorney general's wife wakes up to limbs (which could belong to either her gaggle of children or her husband, both of which are of equal probability) wound so tightly around her own it would seem that a plot to fuse the two together had been put into motion.
howbeit, the coin flip between her children and the lawyer she'd married many moons ago would unceremoniously reveal her beloved husband. all with his bestial-like chest, so hairy that it revealed a tiny speck of leftover brown sugar he'd neglected to wipe off in last night's shower (caused by the perhaps ambitious decision of both of you to hand-bake a rhubarb pudding to welcome a new couple to the neighbourhood). at someplace during the night, their breathing patterns had begun to synchronise, which felt fitting since these days she little knew where she began and bobby started.
it was that kind of instinctual bond between the two that slowly roused bobby from his sleep. even in his slumber sensing a change in her levels of consciousness, and needing to adapt himself. "morning my sweet boy", she says while trying to get the sleep out of his eyes, not to the aid of bobby who's hands intercept her efforts, instead grabbing them with an intimate kind of force to instead to kiss each fingertip individually...
8:55am:
being that it's a sunday, the husband and wife normally try to catch up on some together time before the child induced chaos that would inevitably descend on the house (a byproduct of their "bright" idea to build a new wing off the side of their master bedroom to add in a nursery for their growing family. great for midnight feedings, not so great for the couple's privacy! especially not with bobby's near gluttonous for her company and bare flesh ever since the birth of their twin girls).
after the inevitable welcomed disruption of baby breath and peter pan collared pyjama sets (1, 2, 3, 4) bobby handles the girls as they still haven't seemed to have grown out of their needing their dad at all hours of the day phase. reader is kind of a wellness freak about packing undetectable goodness (macros, proteins, collagen, locally sourced etc. etc.) into her children and husbands diet, not in the alt-right pipeline way, but more in the way of an anxious woman who's walked into wifehood/motherhood with major anxiety issues and is using this as a way to cope with the stresses (which, i mean, there could be worse things in the world!). plus that she physically feels a pain in her chest at the thought of any of her family getting sick or having any kind of normal ailment (god forbid once the children are school aged! god help them all, but most specifically god help bobby!).
i feel like it was never specified who did what but the couple would both kind of decide that bobby was much more patient at attempting to get the twins to consume any food, and that reader was much better at making edible baby food than bobby. cooking is very much not the lawyer's métier. certainly not after an injurious stint of occasions at college in which bobby would try to make meals in order to impress his little girlfriend. but would be so clumsy that he'd accidentally injure himself and minuscule streaks of his blood from tiny nicks of the knife would be on the plate served, along with several paper cut like scars along his fingers. but his efforts didn't go unappreciated, as reader would decide to freak that little college dorm up a bit! and lick his minuscule wounds clean as well as the plate! (and that's when he mentally started planning the engagement, and asking his dad for his sales associate at lorraine schwartz).
before running down the gambit of the breakfast made for each family member, here's some very important context for what kind of kitchen this couple is cooking up a storm in (the storm is simply artisanal sourdough with cottage cheese, it's admittedly simple): the open air shelves are filled with special occasion glassware from gohar (1, 2), old french textiles as tea towels (1, 2), and cheesy saint tropez white ceramics which act as a reminder of the couple's honeymoon destination (1, 2, 3, 4).
as far as breakfast confectionary works:
wife: maple sausage with cottage cheese
bobby: runny eggs and manuka cornbread
twins: whatever vegetables that will be used for tonights dinner mashed and cooked, served with a side of the bottle of the breast milk she pumped last night (while bobby watches with a jealous gaze so covert it could be easily missed, but reader knows what kind of man she married! bobby lactation kink you are avenged in my canon).
if she would ever take photos and post to a social media, it would not be to instagram but she could possibly have a substack that would act as a kind of digital scrapbook of sorts (authors note: these little fics of mine live in a liminal time period of space. despite bobby being from the 60s the stories are not intended to be set in that period unless you want them to be in your own head, as you can tell from the links i draw from both modern and period sources so it's up to you! hope it isn't too too confusing!)
these are the kind of photos she would be taking if she did partake in the cesspit that we all call the worldwide web:
(though, i personally feel as though reader would need to be chronically offline to deal with that kennedy wifehood scrutiny that's basically a rite of passage for these women whenever they are connected to these men)
10:11am:
reader has been loving to open up her casement, round top windows to allow the outside noise to travel inside her home. most of the outside noise is dominated by the chirps and prose of the little birds outside her window: a direct consequence of the couple insistence to continue to grows poppies, red carnations, and rugosa roses. no matter how much it costs to salary their in-house and on-call gardener who convincingly justifies the price to employ his services through his master's degree in architectural landscaping at harvard's school of design.
the renovated 1930s seaside bungalow (pictured in 1, 2, 3) looks out at the californian coastline, the oak shingles seem almost swallowed up with the amount of boston ivy crawling up the walls much like veins you or me have: entirely uncontrolled and completely integral to the facade of the house, while the rear of the house is encased in brick equipped with a garden courtyard.
the very courtyard, that reader looks out of every morning to get herself ready for the day. the routine is simple, unfussy:
skincare routine (she strictly uses monastery products since she went to their SF location and began to get obsessive as she ought to do) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 (yes she has bought into the red light propaganda, and yes bobby is terrified of the mask)
brush teeth
blow out the hair
beauty routine (face prep, makeup, perfume)
wash hands at least 2 times (cause once again she is an ANXIOUS new mum!) with yes, this ancient rome reproduction soap from pentreath and hall that unsurprisingly was all bobby's machination.
after hopping out of the shower and doing the aforementioned list of rituals (that both bobby and her therapist suggested would be good to help her not totally lose herself in the throes of motherhood) she dries herself with an hermēs beach towel she and bobby drunk bought during a trip to greece for a wedding (in these specific colors that coordinate with the bathroom color scheme: 1, 2, 3).
makeup is minimal and done with the hands. a welcomed change of pace from her prior heavy makeup application, as in the present moment reader's day generally consists of baby hands grabbing onto any and every part of her face their little motor skills can coordinate so there's really no sense in trying to hide her imperfections any longer.
bobby is taking care of the twins while this is taking place as he feels near biblical levels of guilt around not spending enough time around the children due to his inherited job title. sometimes reader's assurances puncture his need to self flagellate, sometimes they don't. bobby gets a lot of his view of fatherhood through scripture so that's really how he's able to sleep at night without crushing dad guilt.
most days, and especially days like today she can hear bobby reciting from the other room another speech said during the 1960 oregon campaign—or was it for that state visit to japan?—she can never truly keep up. bobby learned to recite past speeches instead of future ones when putting on the funny displays the twins loved oh so much: a result of a funny (though not at the time) event in which you all were out at a state banquet and just as bobby reached the crescendo of his (very well performed, if you might say so yourself) speech your baby girl mumbled the last sentence in the perfect cadence, tone, and volume despite the words being entirely unintelligible. bobby look startled at once, then an expression those in the room could only render as the mien of father who truly loved to be a father, not in spite of but because of distractions like those.
as far as outfits are concerned reader would have a vast amount of clothes for a vast amount of occasions, but she's not the tiktok overconsumption vibe. all her pieces have been collected over trips with bobby, restaurant t-shirts from hole in the wall italy restaurants in bari, and the seventies silhouettes (1, 2) combination of a sweater + textured trouser (all purchased from loro piana).
on a errand running, but mostly home-centric day the outfit is nothing overly exciting or eye-catching, if not for the methodical work of her tailor. on a normal day it consists of black pedal pushers, a knit tank, and a pair of leather peep-toe slingbacks.
she keeps accessories (such as hats: 1, 2) for state visits and professional engagements up high anticipating the day one of the twins wanders into the closet and causes an unimaginable level of chaos that will, no doubt, seem outrageously hilarious in their minds. her knits (that she meticulously borrowed over the years of her stays in hyannis) to lounge are kept in the chest of drawers parallel to the bed, while her assortment of silk and crepe day dresses and blouses (that bobby cannot differentiate between what so ever).
after getting herself as ready as necessary for the events of the day, she immediately feels called back to other room where her children and husband are situated. some might call it codependent, but reader genuinely cannot get enough of this little family and life she's created for herself. definitely part of her constant yearning for their company is wrapped up in the fact that she very much fears daily that this could all be taken for her in an complete instant, that this could all be a silly dream inside of her head and not her true, lived reality. though, as she steps into the room, the unabashed bliss found in the gaze of her husband staring back at her, and the two pairs of hands reaching for her legs render her fearful notions moot.
11:30am:
reader and bobby definitely have chauffeured vehicles, but bobby and her have a beaten up (or more like, their version of "beat up") red supersport when they want to go incognito on a date night without the kids.
on most days that are pretty low stakes (errand running, shopping, farmers market etc.) and consequently don't need a full security detail (a fact of life the couple have had to live with ever since the family began to get inducted into the hallowed halls of america's infamy) reader will normally take her white supersport for a spin (a color that was most definitely inspired by joan didion's personal 1969 white corvette).
she didn't have much on the docket for today shopping wise which meant that after she could catch up with a few girlfriends at république. but, at the present moment the shopping list looks round about like this:
get sicilian olives at bucatini for night cap martini's with bob to round out the evening
order over the phone to schedule a basket by alimentari flaneur to be dropped of to maria's brownstone in the west village to wish her a happy 30th birthday.
acquire the oceanic themed belgian linen's (1, 2) for the twins themed first birthday party (yes it is in 3 months, no there is no such thing as planning too much ahead)
very quick meeting with sa at the beverly hills location to discuss the details of the custom saddle you and the associate have been working on for bobby's beloved horse (1, 2, 3)
grab bobby a new pair of boat shoes at ghiaia's to prepare for a hyannis summer
once all is done, reader meets up with a couple of girlfriends she met over an online mom board. the conversation is deliciously mundane, reader can smell her friends' geranium scented hand cream from how hard she's leaning in to hear what new idiotic thing her friends husband has said to date, the stained glass casts funny reflections on her hands and she thinks to take a photo to show the twins later.
today has been pleasant so far.
1:30pm:
around lunchtime is normally around the time when the packages start rolling in at the couple's (gated) entrance: baskets by alimentari flaneur from congressmen to congratulate bobby on his work at the doj, peak season fruits and artisanal mushrooms and regenerative farm boxes from flamingo estate (reader has a subscription and bobby just thinks seasonal fruits magically appear at the house), barbecue boxes from butchers local to her area (she would never buy ballerina farm meats, that's just not her vibe okay!), french poultry from the market five minutes from her house (she was swarmed one time at one of their farm stands and vowed to solely order online from now on).
although it looks like a lot from one family to eat it has to be noted that reader and bobby typically host a lot of campaign and fundraising/philanthropic events at their estate so it's highly convenient to have all this fresh food, poultry, and pantry provisions lying around. plus the twins have taken up a personal alliance to purely purées made out of the finest seasonal fruits (pricia apricots, golden nectarines, fresh lychees) directly sourced from paris' new covent garden market because of course they do!
bobby's in the office because as much as he wants to forget sometimes, he does have to catch up on the millions of calls from members of the public! (he's a man of the people, people princess you might say! you might say that!). so you and the twins make lunch: a réjane salad that would've normally taken about 15 minutes to make turned into a 50 minute affair with all the grabby hands, screaming and screeching, and swinging uncoordinated limbs that are associated with young babes
she definitely owns an aga stove in the color pewter that today she used to cook the sliced cucumber in salted water. she pairs the salad with chicken breast and truffles julienne, topped off with a fine herb vinaigrette seasoning. she makes two: one for herself to eat while reading whatever latest novella she picked up over her travels (novellas because she seriously does not have enough alone time for longer novels) and another for bobby whom she leaves on his desk with a short note, a kiss on the top of his scalp and a bottle of pellegrino (specifically dressed like this:
4:30pm:
bobby's normally done in his office by about half past four so the couple normally goes on a walk alone (the babies being taken care of by a norland alumni nanny ) around the estate grounds—everything is green and bright and in bloom and all perfectly yours. together. spring is one of reader and bobby's favourite times of the year so it's definitely just a time slot of semi-rejuvenation for the pair, sometimes one thing leads to another and the two need to hide from the gardener after thoroughly messing up the bushes of claude shride...
(authors note: in my tom stuart smith designed this whole backyard)
they don't do any prior planning for what to have for dinner until its about four o'clock and by that time the meal is determined based on the cravings of the couple (reader and bobby naturally despise meal prep/planning for dinner unless it pertains to using up vegetables while they're still in season or planning get-togethers like christmas and thanksgiving).
a low record (either this, this or this) playing on the wheel turntable can be typically heard while the two make absolute fools of themselves in front of their twins who sit in matching high chairs (a reluctant gift from joe and rose on the announcement of reader's pregnancy). though the couple tries to not get the twins too excited as they try to stick to a schedule of winding down two hours before their seven pm bedtime, they mostly cannot help themselves.
reader is a big fan of making meals to cure the ailments and worldly terrors so whenever there's a small chill in the air or there's bad news blasted over the tv she tries to include all fresh spring produce, make it into a meal and serve it to the people she most loves: her sweet bobby and her little twins. tries to almost encase them in a bubble of sweet californian domesticity.
both reader and bobby cherish being able to feed their babies dinner, so five pm around the table most probably appears from birds eye perspective to be a chaotic mess of hands trying to feed each other spoon fulls of rhubarb and heirloom tomatoes.
most times the couple forgets to eat themselves in the chaos of it all, so once the babes have been cleaned from dinners fun and are happily sat in their pack and play, reader and bobby re-heat their own dinner, hop on the couch, put on roman holiday (their comfort watch) and sit facing each other spoon-feeding each other the dinner of the day (yes the couch is white, yes bobby is a terribly messy eater, and yes there are a copious amount of stains covered by silk velvet textiles).
6:48pm:
reader puts the twins to bed while bobby prepares a full bath for the couple to enjoy. reader and bobby normally spend about the time it takes for bath water to turn chillingly cold around the skin, as bobby thoroughly enjoys the amount of skin-on-skin a clawfoot bath can accommodate for (which may be how you ended up in the whole twin pregnancy of it all!).
sometimes she'll do a hair mask and let it soak, bobby seemed to want nothing to do with it on her first couple of attempts to get him to try. but, after some very physical convincing on reader's part, the papers would soon be reporting on the illustrious look of bobby's hair, marvelling at its recent boost of shine!
despite the single digit time, the couple starts preparing for bedtime. reader decides to, after doing her usual night-time rituals, sneak in a night-time snack and nightcap for the two. for bobby she decides on a glass of brandy and a small plate of cheeses to which he gracefully accepts with a grateful—"thank you ma bichette"—and a playfully yet reverent bow of the head. for herself she lands on a slice of olive oil cake and a glass of milk (authors note: you guys she is not drinking straight milk in the creepy way but instead in the kafkaesque bedtime routine way, ex. kafka in his diary wrote "i will now drink my milk and go to sleep. keep well! yours, franz")
once all has been eaten, and the crumbs have flung of the sheets: the couple lays down together while each does their own thing: reader purveying her very favourite personal essays of her most beloved writers, while bobby tries to transcribe the illegible scribbles of his assistant into actual words that he can decipher...
bed most probably won't be for another forty minutes or so but for now: the scent of bobby's skin, the rustling of parchment, and the creak of the floorboards are conspiring just enough for reader to well and truly relax into herself...
summary. a sweet slow dance confessional during the reception of yours & bobby’s wedding.
lacy says. short. & maybe bad. forgive me lol.
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his suit jacket’s shoulder is softer than you had initially anticipated.
your cheek wears against it, taking notice of how well it’s made, not grainy or unpleasantly rough - it’s wool blend is plush and ample, delicate, and soaked in his scent from the days wear. it’s the pillow you wish to eternally sleep on.
the lulling rock of yours and bobby’s sway accompanied by the consistent taps of dress shoes on wood and live band only furthers this thought.
he’s leading, one gentle hand planted on your waist and the other holding yours with even more ease. you close your eyes, relinquishing all uncertainty and spacial awareness to him, which he happily withholds in honor.
under the intense spectacle that today has been, you revel in this moment. undoubtedly, there are people watching: surrounding dancers, coupled or otherwise, those that are seated at tables, basking, just about anyone who’s in attendance - but you don’t allow it to impede on your being with him, in his lovely arms you can now call wholly yours.
“i was speaking with my brother not too long ago,” he begins.
his tone is designed only for you, sweet and private, which he’s utilized many times today in reminding you, i love you.
you hum in recognition, wanting to hear only his voice. the expectation of an amusing story about jack or teddy’s ludicrous manner rises as you prepare for a laughable visual of their actions and accents.
he takes a pause, the four-piece band’s music filling the empty air, and although you can’t see his face, you know he’s in thought; you remain silent yet aware.
“i told him how nervous i was about today,” sheepishness is prevalent not only in his words, but in the huffed laugh he pushes out from his chest, “god, he looked just as i remembered too… it was so strange, he was still 29 but i was me now…” 
you feel as though you’re not following, but before you can tell him as much, he continues, “he said, ‘bobby, don’t worry about that’ he told me, ‘when you know, you know.’”
it strikes you suddenly and with vigor with whom he speaks of: not any brother of his you’ve met - not jack or teddy, not even lem - he’s reciting to you a dream, where the only brother who couldn’t be in attendance today has visited him.
your head lifts, feeling beholden to him and his vulnerability. finding his beautifully gracious face like it’s all you’re meant to do in this life, your regard is solely unspoken, figuring no words measure even close to enough for him.
his dazzlingly blues are far and away as he steps back into his mind to open it’s doors for you.
“when you know, you know… for the longest time i thought that feeling would remain indescribable,” he never fails to keep you both in steady motion, cradling you as tenderly as when you first started dancing, “i suppose he’s been watching over us.”
the understanding that he doesn’t actually want a response, certainly not some sappy staggering placation about his late brother that demeans his entire purpose in this confession, is primitive.
his confiding is a final offering, an invitation to make yourself at home in his mind and heart, where you will spend the rest of your lives together.
and so you only continue to hold his face with your eyes as dear and lovingly as he does you.
when meeting you back on the designated dance floor for the celebration of your everlasting love, he returns to your glory. he admires how natural it is to look down to you and become overwhelmed with that newly descript feeling.
the music strums slow, singing a song of life and love. in circles you continue to turn, living it truly and in real time.
as if at all possible, you lean to be nearer to him - the puff of your gown limits much, but ripping a layer off doesn’t seem like such a big deal anymore - placing your cheek just beside his. like two puppies helplessly in love, you both veer into each other, faces resting against one another. close can never be close enough.
“i feel,” his whisper is warm from your ear to neck, traveling in goosebumps throughout your whole body, “i feel i’ve known everything since there’s been you.”
