bobbykennedyshusband

Latest Posts by bobbykennedyshusband

New York senatorial campaign, 1964.

god forbid a bitch catch a vibe with BOTH kennedy brothers 😒

Those’re my BOYS- Top contenders for my fav m&l duo Bill and Junior my beloved football bros

i feel like they touched each other in a romantical way. and sexual way.

kicking my feet looking at these pics

to bobby - joan baez

Jack and Jackie in Georgetown

do you guys think that jack ever had moments while sat at the resolute desk, simply mulling things over that he felt the unmistakable and over-ten-year-persist urge to call kick and ask her her opinion on what he should do?

do you think when bobby said he was naming his firstborn, his daughter, kathleen, that jack felt a tinge of sorrow, not because he didn’t want her to have the name or didn’t love his niece, his first niece, but because it was just another confirmation that she was truly gone, and that, should jack ever have a daughter, she’d never have that name?

do you think caroline, such a vivacious child, the apple of jack’s eye, ever did anything that was so innately kick, so reminiscent of her aunts lively and charming character that jack had to take a small moment to collect himself from seeing his sister again, just for a fleeting second?

do you think while at all the inaugural festivities, looking around and seeing all of his family members and closest friends, he couldn’t help but notice her absence more than ever; when getting all congratulations, he couldn’t help but feel a small longing for his first best friend’s words of devout pride?

do you think he ever dreamed of her, suddenly coming back to him, with her bright blue eyes and contagious laugh, that only left him sweating and suddenly heartbroken again when he woke up? having to tell jackie that, no nothing’s wrong, just a dream, because he’s so unsure how to explain the consistent open wound that is his sister.

do you think, in the fifteen years that his life continued after her passing, that he ever felt so stuck, so unheard, so uncertain, that all he could bring himself to think was, kick would know how i’m feeling right now, and she’d know just what to say.

jfk did not kill marilyn monroe

rfk didn’t kill marilyn monroe

neither of them ordered her murder

they had nothing to do with it.

- a poem by me. because i’m fed up.

#bringbackfingersinmouth #bringbackbiting #bringbacktoxicrelationships #bringbackfistsfullofhair #bringbackdryhumping

this movie is so tumblr girl

Pleaassseeeeee, an angsty fic with a smutty ending??? (Either with Bobby or Jack)

Faithfully, Foolishly

synopsis: you thought jack kennedy loved only you, but the hidden toothbrush said otherwise. you came to scream, to cry, to leave, but you stayed, and let him fuck you like it might undo the truth.

word count: 3.4k

pairing: john f. kennedy x reader

rating: 18+; includes explicit sexual acts tw: cheating, arguments author's note: now THIS is some angst! i hope you enjoy!

It was the toothbrush that broke you.

Not the lipstick on his collar—you'd convinced yourself that was from an overzealous supporter at an event. Not the late nights—those belonged to politics, to strategy meetings with Bobby and the other aides. Not even the way certain secretaries smiled at him, knowing smiles that made your stomach twist.

No, it was the toothbrush. Pink. Delicate. Tucked behind yours in the master bathroom drawer of Jack's Georgetown townhouse.

You stood frozen, fingers still on the drawer pull, staring at the evidence. So ordinary. So domestic. The kind of thing that spoke of routine, of comfort, of someone who stayed the night often enough to need fresh breath in the morning.

Your toothbrush was blue. Jack's was green.

Pink didn't belong to either of you.

The bathroom suddenly felt airless, the marble countertop cold beneath your palm as you steadied yourself. You'd come to freshen up before Jack arrived home. He'd promised dinner tonight—just the two of you—a rare evening stolen from his Senate duties and policy preparations.

You closed the drawer carefully, as if the pink toothbrush might bite. In the mirror, your reflection looked the same. Pretty in the fresh-faced way Jack had once said reminded him of springtime. But something in your eyes had changed, hardened like ice forming over a pond.

When you heard his key in the lock forty minutes later, you were sitting in the living room, legs crossed at the ankle, wearing the navy dress he'd bought you in Paris. The toothbrush lay on the coffee table between you and the door.

"There's my girl," Jack called, his Boston accent warming the words as he shrugged off his coat. His smile was easy, confident—the smile that had first melted you at that Georgetown cocktail party last year. The smile that made you ignore the warnings from your college roommate: "Kennedy men don't settle for one woman."

You hadn't believed her. Jack had chosen you. Made you feel special. Different.

"Hello, Jack," you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

He crossed to kiss you, but stopped short when he saw what lay on the table. His hesitation lasted only a fraction of a second—most people wouldn't have caught it—but you'd spent months studying his face, memorizing every expression.

"What's this?" he asked, voice light, gesturing to the toothbrush.

"I was hoping you could tell me."

Jack's smile didn't falter, but it tightened around the edges. He moved to the bar cart instead of coming to you, pouring himself two fingers of scotch. "Must be from the cleaning lady. Probably left it."

"The cleaning lady uses our bathroom? Keeps her toothbrush with ours?" You kept your voice level, giving him room to dig himself deeper.

He took a long sip, then turned to face you, leaning against the bar. "Alright, it's not the cleaning lady's."

"No."

"It belongs to a friend who stayed over. After a late fundraiser. She wasn't feeling well." The lie came smoothly, practiced.

You stood, smoothing your dress. "Jack, do you think I'm stupid?"

"Of course not, darling—"

"Because I must be, to have believed you all this time." Your voice cracked slightly. "To have thought I was different. Special."

Jack set his glass down and approached you, his limp barely noticeable today. Good days and bad days with his back, he'd told you. You'd massaged his pain away more nights than you could count.

"You are special," he said, reaching for your hand.

You stepped back. "Don't."

"Sweetheart, you're making too much of this—"

"Am I?" You picked up the toothbrush, held it between you like evidence in a trial. "This isn't just sex, Jack. This is someone who stays. Who keeps things here. Who brushes her teeth in our bathroom."

"It's not our bathroom," he said, voice suddenly sharper. "It's my bathroom. My house."

The words sliced through you. Of course. You didn't live here officially. You had your own apartment across town, maintained for appearances. But you'd spent nearly every night here for months. Your clothes filled half his closet. Your books lined his shelves.

"I see," you said quietly. "And I suppose that makes it your bed too? The one I've been sleeping in?"

Jack ran a hand through his hair, his composure beginning to fray. "Christ, don't be dramatic. You know how this works. My position, my family—"

"Your family?" You laughed, the sound brittle. "Your father would be proud, wouldn't he? Like father, like son."

His jaw tightened. "Don't bring my father into this."

"Why not? Isn't this the Kennedy way? Take what you want, who you want, consequences be damned?"

"That's enough." Jack's voice had that edge now, the one you'd heard him use in heated Senate debates. "You knew who I was when we started this."

"Did I?" You moved closer, anger rising to replace the hurt. "Because I thought I knew Jack Kennedy. The man who read poetry to me in bed. Who talked about changing the world. Who made me believe I was the only one who saw the real him beneath all that shine."

He softened slightly, reaching for you again. This time, you let him take your hand, hating how your body still responded to his touch.

"You do see me," he said, voice lowering to that intimate register that always made your knees weak. "Better than anyone."

"Then why?" Your voice caught. "Why isn't that enough?"

Jack's thumb traced circles on your palm. "It's not about enough. It's not about you."

"Then what is it about?"

He hesitated, and in that pause, you saw the truth. It wasn't about love or need or even desire. It was about power. About taking. About never being satisfied with just one of anything.

You pulled your hand away. "How many others are there?"

"Don't ask questions you don't want answers to."

"How many, Jack?"

He turned away, moving back to his scotch. "A few. Nothing serious."

"Nothing serious," you repeated. "Like I'm nothing serious?"

"That's different. You know it's different with you."

"How? How is it different?" Your voice rose, echoing off the high ceilings of the townhouse. "Because you tell me pretty things? Because you let me sleep here? Or is it because I was stupid enough to believe you when you said you loved me?"

Jack slammed his glass down. "Goddammit, I do love you! As much as I can love anyone."

The qualification hung in the air between you.

"As much as you can," you said softly. "Which isn't very much at all, is it?"

"What do you want from me?" he demanded, voice rising to match yours. "You want me to be something I'm not? Some devoted husband material? That's not who I am. That's not who I'll ever be."

"I want you to be honest! Just once, be honest!"

"Fine! You want honesty?" Jack's face flushed with rare anger. "I sleep with other women. I always have. I always will. It doesn't mean anything. It doesn't touch what we have."

"What we have," you repeated, the words tasting like ash. "And what exactly is that, Jack? What do we have that's so special it survives you fucking other women in our bed?"

"Don't be vulgar."

"Don't be a hypocrite," you shot back. "You'll put your cock in anything that moves, but heaven forbid I say the word 'fucking'?"

His eyes flashed. "That's not fair."

"Fair?" You laughed, the sound verging on hysterical. "You want to talk about fair? Was it fair when you told me you loved me? When you said I was different? When you made me believe I was the only one who understood the real you?"

"You are the only one," he insisted, moving toward you. "The others—they're just bodies. Distractions."

"And what am I? The fool waiting at home?"

"You're everything else," he said, his voice dropping to that persuasive murmur that had convinced voters and women alike. "You're my confidante. My partner. The one I come home to."

"When you're not coming home to them."

Jack's jaw tightened. "I can't change who I am. Not even for you."

The words hung between you, final as a door closing. You turned away, moving to the window that overlooked the quiet Georgetown street. Outside, normal life continued. People walked dogs. Couples strolled hand in hand. None of them knew their world was ending in this beautiful townhouse.

"Then I should go," you said quietly.

You felt him behind you before his hands touched your shoulders. "Don't."

"Why not? What's left for me here?"

His fingers tightened. "Everything. Us. This."

You turned to face him, surprised to find his eyes shining with something that looked almost like fear. Jack Kennedy, afraid? It seemed impossible.

"There is no us," you said. "There's you, and there's the women you use. I just didn't realize which category I fell into until now."

"That's not true." His hands moved to cup your face. "You know that's not true."

You should have pulled away. Should have slapped him. Should have walked out the door with your dignity intact. Instead, you stood frozen, caught in the gravity of him.

"I hate you," you whispered.

"No, you don't."

"I should."

"But you don't." His thumb brushed your lower lip. "You love me. God help you."

The truth of it burned worse than any lie. You did love him. Despite everything, despite knowing better, you loved this selfish, brilliant, damaged man.

"Loving you is the worst thing that's ever happened to me," you said.

Something flashed in his eyes—hurt, or maybe just wounded pride. "Then why are you still here?"

The question hung between you, unanswerable. Why were you still here? Why weren't you running for the door? Why did your body still lean toward his, even as your mind screamed to get away?

"I don't know," you admitted. "Maybe I'm as fucked up as you are."

Jack's mouth twitched. "Maybe you are."

And then his lips were on yours, hard and demanding, nothing like the careful kisses he usually gave. This was raw, angry, his teeth catching your lower lip. You should have pushed him away. Instead, your hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, pouring all your rage and hurt into the kiss.

You bit him back, tasting blood, wanting to hurt him the way he'd hurt you. His hands gripped your waist, propping you on the drawer beside the window. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs, but you didn't break the kiss. Couldn't. It felt like drowning and breathing at once.

"I hate you," you gasped against his mouth. "I hate you, I hate you."

"I know," he murmured, his hands rough as they gathered your dress up around your hips. "Show me how much."

You clawed at his belt, his zipper, desperate to touch him, to make him feel something—anything—as intense as the storm raging inside you. His fingers found you wet despite everything, and the sound he made—half-groan, half-laugh—made you want to slap him.

Instead, you guided him inside you, right there against the wall, not caring that anyone passing on the street might glimpse your silhouettes through the sheer curtains. Let them see. Let the whole world see what Jack Kennedy reduced you to.

He put his fingers into you, one hand braced against the wall, the other gripping your thigh to hold you open for him. Each movement drove you back against the hard surface, the pain a welcome distraction from the pleasure building low in your belly.

"Is this how you fuck them?" you hissed against his ear. "Is this what they get?"

Jack's rhythm faltered for a moment. "Don't."

"Why not? I want to know." You raked your nails down his back beneath his shirt. "Do you tell them they're special too? Do you make them feel like the only woman in the world?"

He silenced you with another bruising kiss, but you turned your face away.

"Answer me, Jack."

"No," he growled, his fingers still moving against your clit. "It's not the same. It's never the same."

"Liar."

His eyes met yours, dark with something that might have been anger or desire or both. "I've never fucked anyone the way I fuck you."

"Prove it," you challenged.

He pulled out of you abruptly, leaving you empty and aching. Before you could protest, he was dragging you across the room to the dining table where you'd shared so many intimate dinners. With one sweep of his arm, he cleared it of its contents—a crystal vase, yesterday's newspaper, a stack of campaign materials—sending them crashing to the floor.

"Bend over," he ordered, his voice rough.

You hesitated, some last shred of pride holding you back.

"Now," he said, and the command in his voice made you shiver despite yourself.

You turned, placing your palms flat on the polished mahogany surface. Behind you, Jack pushed your dress up again, tearing your underwear down your legs. You heard him spit into his hand—a crude, animal sound that made your face burn with shame and arousal.

When he entered you again, it was with such force that the table scraped against the floor. You bit your lip to keep from crying out, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. But when his hand came around to rub between your legs, your resolve crumbled.

"That's it," he murmured against your neck, his breath hot. "Let me hear you."

"Fuck you," you gasped, even as your body betrayed you, pushing back against his thrusts.

He laughed, low and dark. "You are."

The table creaked beneath you, the sound obscene in the otherwise quiet room. Jack's fingers dug into your hip hard enough to bruise, marking you as his even as you knew you weren't—not really, not exclusively.

"Tell me you love me," he demanded, his voice strained.

You shook your head, tears pricking your eyes.

His hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back. "Say it."

"No."

He slowed his movements, torturing you with shallow thrusts that weren't nearly enough. "Say it, and I'll give you what you need."

"I hate you," you sobbed, the pleasure building unbearably despite your best efforts to resist.

"No, you don't." His lips brushed your ear. "Say it. Tell me you love me."

"I love you," you finally whispered, the admission torn from you like a wound opening. "God help me, I love you."

Jack groaned, his control snapping as he drove into you with renewed force. The table jolted beneath you with each thrust, your fingers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth surface. When your climax hit, it was with such intensity that your vision blurred, your entire body convulsing around him.

He followed moments later, his rhythm faltering as he spilled inside you with a hoarse cry that might have been your name.

For several long moments, the only sound was your combined breathing, harsh in the quiet room. Jack's weight pressed you into the table, his forehead resting between your shoulder blades. You could feel him softening inside you, the evidence of his pleasure beginning to leak down your thighs.

The physical reality of what you'd done crashed over you like a wave. This wasn't lovemaking. It wasn't even sex. It was something darker, more primal. A claiming. A punishment. You weren't sure who was punishing whom anymore.

Jack straightened first, pulling out of you with a gentleness that felt like mockery after the violence of your coupling. You stayed bent over the table, unsure your legs would support you if you tried to stand.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice returning to its usual cultured tones.

You laughed, the sound hollow. "What do you think?"

His hand stroked down your spine, a tender gesture that made you want to scream. "I think you're stronger than you know."

Finally, you pushed yourself upright, turning to face him. Jack had already tucked himself away, looking almost composed again except for the flush on his cheeks and the disarray of his hair where you'd pulled it.

"This doesn't fix anything," you said.

"I know." He reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "But it doesn't have to be the end either."

You stepped away from his touch, suddenly aware of how exposed you were—dress bunched around your waist, underwear torn and dangling from one ankle. You pulled your clothing back into place with as much dignity as you could muster.

"What would it be, then? Me, knowing about the others? Pretending it doesn't matter?"

Jack sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It could be whatever we want it to be. We make our own rules."

"No, Jack. You make the rules. The rest of us just live with them."

He didn't deny it. Instead, he moved to the bar again, pouring fresh drinks for both of you. You accepted the glass when he offered it, needing something to do with your hands.

"I don't want to lose you," he said quietly.

The admission surprised you. Jack Kennedy didn't admit weakness, didn't acknowledge need. It was the closest thing to vulnerability you'd ever seen from him.

"Then change," you said, knowing even as the words left your mouth that he wouldn't. Couldn't.

He smiled sadly. "Would you really want me if I did? The man you fell in love with—he's this man. The one who takes what he wants. The one who breaks rules. If I became someone else, some domesticated version of myself, would you still want me?"

The question struck you like a physical blow because you knew the answer. You'd fallen for Jack Kennedy—the real one, not some sanitized version. The ambitious, brilliant, deeply flawed man who lit up rooms with his presence and left destruction in his wake.

"That's not fair," you whispered.

"None of this is fair." He moved closer, not touching you but near enough that you could smell his cologne mingled with the scent of sex. "Life isn't fair. Love certainly isn't."

You drained your glass, welcoming the burn of alcohol. "So what now?"

Instead of answering, Jack took the empty glass from your hand and set it aside. Then he sank to his knees before you, his hands sliding up your calves to your thighs beneath your dress.

"Jack—"

"Let me," he murmured, looking up at you with those eyes that had charmed a nation. "Let me show you what you mean to me."

You should have stopped him. Should have walked away. Instead, you let him push your dress up again, let him press his face between your thighs where you were still wet with him. His tongue found you, tasting both of you together, and the intimacy of it made you gasp.

Your hands found his hair, not pushing him away but holding him closer. His mouth worked against you expertly—of course it would be expert, how many women had taught him exactly what to do?—bringing you to the edge again with devastating precision.

When you came against his tongue, it was with a sob that tore from your throat, your knees buckling so that only his hands on your hips kept you upright. Jack rose to his feet, gathering you against him as your body trembled with aftershocks.

"Come to bed," he murmured against your hair.

You let him lead you to the bedroom—the same bedroom where other women had lain, where that pink toothbrush owner had slept. The sheets were fresh, you noticed. Had he changed them, knowing you were coming? Or had they been changed to erase evidence of someone else?

Jack undressed you slowly, reverently, a stark contrast to the frenzied coupling earlier. You let him, passive under his hands, watching his face as he revealed your body inch by inch. When you were naked, he stripped himself with less ceremony, his body lean and beautiful despite the scars from his war injuries.

He guided you onto the bed, settling behind you, his chest warm against your back. One arm draped over your waist, holding you close. His lips pressed against your shoulder in a gentle kiss.

"Stay," he whispered.

You should have said no. Should have gathered your clothes and your dignity and walked out the door. Instead, you lay still in his arms, feeling his heartbeat against your back, steady and strong.

"For how long?" you asked.

His arm tightened around you. "For as long as you can."

It wasn't a promise of fidelity. It wasn't even a promise of love. It was simply an acknowledgment of reality: this was who he was. This was what he could offer. Take it or leave it.

You closed your eyes, feeling tears slip down your cheeks. Jack's thumb brushed them away, but he didn't speak. There was nothing left to say.

RFK at a neighborhood Easter Sunday party, 1967.

On the first anniversary of the assassination, Bobby donned Jack's old aviator jacket, adorned with the Presidential seal, and drove to Arlington to kneel before the eternal flame and pray at the grave. Returning home, he said to a friend[John Seigenthaler], “You know, I had a conversation with him a couple of days before it happened. He had called to wish me a happy birthday. The thing is, I can't remember what he said. I've tried and tried and I can't remember. I've searched my mind over and over.”

The Last Brother by Joe McGinniss

Let me make this very clear, the Trump administration does not give two shits about the legacy of JFK or RFK. They release the files and then stomp on their legacies by implementing policies that are completely opposite of the Kennedy administration’s goals. They wish they will ever be held in the high regard that those two men are, they wish they will ever be revered in the way those men are.

Listening to JFK cuss over some furniture is too funny.

Guys I genuinely don’t know what I will do when my fixation with the Kennedy’s is over. It will probably be a WHILE from now but still I think I’ll cry

bobby kennedy, c. 1968

anyways, here are some of my favorite photos of Bobby <33

him and Ethel in the last photo ;( my heart

Jack and Jackie

I love every single person on this app who has an unhealthy obsession with the Kennedy’s y’all match my freak so good I have cackled for the past like fifteen minutes

thinking about how jackie called jack ‘bunny’. like can u imagine jack kennedy, who squirms at the idea of affection and literally called her ‘kid’ as a term of endearment, reacting and responding whenever she called him bunny.

"Johnson and the Kennedys" from the August 7th, 1970 issue of LIFE Magazine.

another day has passed and I still miss jfk. rip sexy.

shit bobby would get up to on a campaign stop just to get some votes 😭 like he just be doing anything… and i respect it!