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withthecolorizedkennedys · 1 month ago

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Could you write a fanfic where the reader visits the Kennedy compound and gets hit on by whomever? It could be fluffy or smutty, either would be nice

Summer Tides

synopsis: When kick kennedy's english friend arrives for a summer holiday, her brother jack thinks he's found his latest conquest. between tennis matches, sailing trips, and sunset conversations, the real question becomes not whether she'll fall for his notorious charm, but whether he'll survive falling for hers.

word count: 3.3k

pairing: john f. kennedy x reader,

rating: e for everyone!!!

The telegram from Kick had arrived in April, just as the daffodils were pushing through the soil in your family's garden in Hampshire.

SUMMER AT HYANNIS STOP FATHER SAYS BRING FRIEND STOP YOU MUST COME STOP SAILING AND SCANDAL GUARANTEED STOP

Your mother had raised an eyebrow at "scandal" but relented when your father, charmed by the diplomatic connections of Ambassador Joseph Kennedy, pronounced it "an excellent opportunity." You'd met Kick Kennedy during her family's London season, when you were both attending finishing school. She was brash where English girls were demure, competitive where they were accommodating, and utterly unconcerned with appearing proper. You adored her immediately.

Which is how you found yourself, on a bright June morning, stepping off the train at Hyannis Station, squinting against the Massachusetts sun that seemed somehow more assertive than its English counterpart.

"There you are!" Kick's voice cut through the station noise as she bounded toward you, tanned already and wearing a blue-and-white striped dress that matched the nautical flags snapping in the harbor wind. She embraced you with American enthusiasm. "I've been dying without you. It's all politics and prayers at breakfast, and the boys are absolutely insufferable."

"How many brothers are actually here?" you asked, gathering your suitcase. You'd met Kick's elder brother Joe Jr. in London—handsome, serious, groomed for politics—but the others had been just names in Kick's stories.

"Just Jack and Bobby and Teddy. The little ones are terrors, but Jack's the one you need watching for," she said, giving you a significant look as she led you to the waiting automobile. "He's decided he's irresistible this summer. Keeps asking when you'd arrive."

"How would he even know who I am?"

Kick rolled her eyes as the driver loaded your luggage. "I made the mistake of showing him that photograph from Claridge's. He's been like that ever since." She lowered her voice to a murmur. "Joe's off with Dad in Washington, so Jack's been strutting about like he owns the place. Thank goodness you're here to deflate him a bit."

The Kennedy compound revealed itself through a screen of pines—white clapboard buildings with green shutters facing the sea, surrounded by manicured lawns that rolled down to a private beach. Cousins darted across the grass, their voices carried on the salt breeze. It was exactly as Kick had described: America distilled into one privileged enclave.

The car had barely stopped when the front door swung open and a tall, lean figure loped down the steps. He moved like someone accustomed to being watched—a rolling, deliberate gait that suggested both athletic grace and the awareness of it.

"That'll be Jack," Kick muttered. "Right on cue."

He was taller than you'd imagined, with chestnut hair sun-bleached at the temples and a smile that transformed his face from merely handsome to something more potent. He wore tennis whites despite the lack of racquet, and a faint sheen of sweat suggested he'd been playing earlier.

"Miss Kick Kennedy," he drawled, "returning with your long-promised English rose."

"This is precisely why I didn't want to leave you two alone," Kick said, but there was fondness beneath her exasperation. "Jack, this is—"

"I know exactly who this is," he interrupted, extending his hand to you. His grip was warm and firm, lingering just a moment too long. "The girl who told the Duke of Norfolk his opinion on Auden was 'embarrassingly derivative.' Kick hasn't stopped talking about it for months."

You felt heat rise to your cheeks. "He was being condescending."

"I'm sure he was." Jack's eyes—blue with flecks of amber—crinkled at the corners. "I've been waiting to meet the girl who can silence titled Englishmen."

"She can silence untitled Americans too," Kick interjected, nudging her brother aside. "Come on, I'll show you to your room before Jack convinces himself he's being charming."

As Kick led you up the steps, you glanced back. Jack Kennedy stood watching, hands in his pockets, with an expression of amused interest that suggested he was already plotting something. Against your better judgment, you found yourself curious about what it might be. ━━━━━━━━━

The tennis courts at Hyannis Port gleamed white in the morning sun, the chalked lines startlingly bright against the green. You'd agreed to a doubles match only because Kick had insisted it was the quickest way to integrate into the Kennedy social rhythm.

"The teams need balancing," Jack announced, appearing at your elbow as you adjusted the borrowed racquet's grip. "Eunice plays like a professional, and Bobby cheats. You're with me."

Kick snorted. "Subtle, Jack. Really subtle."

"I'm being practical," he insisted, but the glint in his eye betrayed him. "Besides, how else will our guest learn the Kennedy way of tennis?"

"The Kennedy way?"

"Win at all costs," Kick and Jack chorused, then laughed.

You soon discovered that "Kennedy tennis" involved creative interpretations of the rules, relentless trash-talking, and an alarming level of competitiveness. Jack proved a focused partner, calling out encouragement between points and strategizing during changeovers with an intensity that seemed comical for a casual game.

After you missed a straightforward forehand, he positioned himself behind you, one hand lightly on your waist.

"You're rotating too early," he said, his breath warm against your ear. "Keep your shoulders square until the last moment." His free hand guided your arm through the stroke. "Like this."

You were suddenly, acutely aware of his height, the solid warmth of him behind you, the way his fingers splayed against your waist through the thin cotton of your tennis dress.

"I think I've got it," you said, stepping away.

He didn't move immediately, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Just being helpful."

"If you two are quite finished," Kick called from across the net, "some of us would like to actually play tennis."

Jack winked at you before returning to position. "Ready to demolish them?"

Against all probability, you made a good team. His athletic prowess compensated for your rusty strokes, and you discovered a shared ruthlessness that Kick later declared "frankly disturbing." When you won the deciding point—a perfectly placed lob that Jack had coached you on—he lifted you briefly off your feet in celebration.

"A natural Kennedy," he declared, setting you down but keeping his arm around your shoulders. "We'll make her an honorary member, won't we, Kick?"

"God help us," his sister replied, but she was smiling. "Another competitive maniac is exactly what this family needs."

As you walked off the court, Jack's hand brushed yours—accidentally, perhaps, though you doubted anything Jack Kennedy did was truly accidental. The contact lasted barely a second, but it lingered like sunburn on your skin. ━━━━━━━━━

The family picnic on the beach was orchestrated chaos. Servants laid out blankets and wicker hampers while younger Kennedys darted between them, snatching sandwiches and disappearing toward the water. Rose Kennedy supervised it all, dispatching her brood on various errands that somehow resulted in an orderly arrangement of food, drinks, and sunbathers.

Jack materialized as you were settling onto a blanket, situating himself beside you with practiced nonchalance.

"Lemonade?" he offered, handing you a sweating glass. "Made with sweat and tears. Mostly Bobby's tears, after I thrashed him at sailing yesterday."

"You're awful," you said, but accepted the drink.

"I prefer 'persistent.' Awful suggests I might grow tiresome."

"Who says you haven't already?"

His laugh was genuine. "You wound me. And after I saved you the best spot on the beach."

"I wasn't aware this spot had been reserved."

"Everything good in life requires advance planning," he said, leaning back on his elbows, his body a diagonal line of tanned skin and white linen. "Speaking of which, I've entered us in the sailing regatta next weekend."

"Us?" You raised an eyebrow. "I don't recall volunteering."

"You're the only one I trust not to capsize us deliberately," he said. "The Kennedy competitive streak runs deep."

Before you could respond, he reached for a bowl of strawberries that a servant was distributing. He selected one, perfectly ripe, and held it out to you.

"Taste of summer," he said, his expression serious for once. "Cape Cod berries are the best in America."

Before you could take it from him, he moved it toward your lips, clearly intending to feed it to you directly. You froze, caught between the rudeness of recoiling and the intimacy of accepting.

Kick's groan broke the spell. "For heaven's sake, Jack." She snatched the bowl from him. "Stop terrorizing my friend."

"I'm being hospitable," he protested.

"You're being transparent," Kick retorted, but there was more amusement than censure in her tone. She handed you the bowl directly. "Don't encourage him. He's insufferable enough already."

Jack affected a wounded expression, but his eyes never left your face as you bit into the strawberry—sweet and sun-warmed, juice staining your fingers. You met his gaze deliberately as you licked them clean, a small victory when his smile faltered momentarily.

"See?" Kick muttered. "Now you've done it." ━━━━━━━━━

The sailing trip was Jack's idea, naturally. He'd appeared as you sat reading on the veranda, declaring the afternoon "too perfect to waste on dead Russians." Before you could defend Tolstoy, he'd whisked you down to the docks where a sleek sailboat waited, its white hull gleaming against the blue harbor.

"The Victura," he said, helping you aboard with unnecessary attentiveness. "My personal escape vessel."

"From what are you escaping?"

He smiled, untying lines with practiced efficiency. "Expectations, mostly. Family comes with plenty of those."

You watched him work, noting the ease with which he handled the boat. His usual performance gave way to genuine competence as he raised the sail and took the tiller, guiding you smoothly away from the dock.

The wind caught, filling the canvas with a satisfying snap. Jack adjusted the sail and settled beside you, one hand on the tiller, the other braced against the gunwale inches from yours.

"Have you sailed before?" he asked.

"On the Solent, a few times. Never alone."

"You're not alone now."

You glanced at him sharply, but his expression was guileless as he guided the boat into deeper water, the Kennedy compound growing smaller behind you.

"Worried I'm kidnapping you?" he asked, noticing your backward glance.

"The thought had occurred."

He laughed. "Relax. I don't have provisions for a proper abduction. This is just..." He gestured at the expanse of blue surrounding you. "The only place where nobody's watching."

Something in his tone—a rare note of earnestness—made you study him more carefully. Without the audience of his family, Jack seemed less performative. The wind ruffled his hair, and he squinted against the sun's glare.

"Do you mind it?" you asked. "Being watched?"

He considered this, adjusting the sail slightly. "It's all I've known. Dad has plans—for all of us, but especially Joe. I get to slip under the radar sometimes." A grin crept across his face. "Which has its advantages."

"Such as?"

"More freedom to pursue personal interests." His gaze was direct, unambiguous. "Like showing beautiful English visitors the best views in the Cape."

You rolled your eyes, but couldn't suppress a smile. "Is this your usual routine? Sailing and flattery?"

"Nothing usual about it," he said, suddenly serious again. "I don't bring many people out here."

The boat sliced through the water, carrying you farther from shore than you'd intended to go. You should have felt concerned, but instead found yourself relaxing into the rhythm of the waves, the steady presence of Jack beside you, his shoulder occasionally brushing yours as he adjusted course.

He began pointing out landmarks—the lighthouse, a distant island, the curve of the Cape—and telling stories of childhood adventures. His gift for narrative was evident; he rendered his siblings as distinct characters in an ongoing family saga, mimicking their voices with uncanny accuracy.

"You should write," you said when he finished a particularly vivid account of a childhood prank.

He looked surprised. "I do, sometimes. Nothing worth reading."

"I doubt that."

A smile spread slowly across his face. "Maybe I'll show you. If you promise not to judge too harshly."

"I make no such promises."

His laugh carried across the water. "Honest, at least." He adjusted the tiller, bringing the boat around in a wide arc. "We should head back before they send out a search party. Kick already thinks I'm a terrible influence."

"Aren't you?"

"Absolutely," he admitted cheerfully. "But even terrible influences know when to retreat strategically."

As you sailed back toward the dock, he drifted into a quiet sort of thoughtfulness, his profile sharp against the fading light. You found yourself watching the line of his jaw, the way his forearms flexed as he steered, steady and sure.

He caught you looking and held your gaze without his usual smirk or quip. And in that stillness, something passed between you. Not words, but a sense—like maybe, underneath all the charm, there was something else taking shape.

Then he grinned, breaking the spell. "Race you back to the house?" ━━━━━━━━━

"'...and do tell your charming friend with the pretty eyes that I look forward to meeting her properly when I return.'" Kick finished reading Joe Jr.'s letter with a dramatic flourish, lounging across her bed in a silk robe. "Can you believe him? He's never even spoken to you, and already he's staking a claim."

You sat at her vanity, brushing your hair before dinner. "He's only being polite."

"He's being a Kennedy," Kick corrected. "Dad practically invented strategic courtship."

From the chaise lounge by the window, where he'd installed himself uninvited twenty minutes earlier, Jack snorted. "Bit late, isn't he?" He was leafing through one of Kick's magazines with feigned disinterest, but his eyes flicked up at Joe's mention. "Besides, I thought you were bringing her here specifically to distract me from getting into trouble."

"That was before I realized you'd be one," Kick replied. "Now I'm just hoping she escapes with her reputation intact."

You met Jack's gaze in the mirror. He offered a half-smile that managed to be both apologetic and not at all sorry.

"My reputation survived finishing school with you," you told Kick. "I imagine it can withstand a few weeks of Kennedy attention."

"Few weeks," Jack echoed softly, almost to himself. Something in his tone made you turn toward him, but he was already rising, tossing the magazine aside. "Better get dressed for dinner. Mother hates tardiness almost as much as she hates Protestants."

"Jack," Kick admonished.

He raised his hands in surrender. "Just reporting facts." At the door, he paused, looking directly at you. "Save me a dance later? Kick's convinced the new gramophone player to work."

After he left, Kick groaned and flopped back on her bed. "I've created a monster. I never should have mentioned you were coming."

"He's just amusing himself," you said, though you weren't entirely convinced. There was something in the way Jack looked at you sometimes—a flash of sincerity beneath the practiced charm—that suggested more than casual diversion.

"That's what worries me," Kick said, studying your face. "You're actually falling for it, aren't you?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Hmm." She narrowed her eyes. "Just remember—Jack collects interesting people like some boys collect baseball cards. He's fascinated until he isn't."

"You make him sound rather fickle."

"Not fickle," Kick said, her expression softening. "Just... young. We all are." She sat up, suddenly businesslike. "Now, wear the blue dress tonight. It makes your eyes look dangerously intelligent, and that always confuses the boys." ━━━━━━━━━

The final days of your visit acquired the dreamlike quality particular to endings—each moment sharper, more saturated, weighted with the awareness of its impending conclusion. The Kennedy routine had become familiar: competitive morning activities, leisurely afternoons, evenings filled with music and debate and laughter.

Jack sought you out constantly, with increasingly transparent excuses. I need a partner for charades; I found a book you must read immediately; The view from the east lawn was particularly spectacular at sunset, and wouldn't you like to see it?

Kick observed it all with amused resignation, occasionally running interference when her brother's attentions grew too obvious, but mostly letting the situation unfold with the fatalism of someone watching an approaching storm.

On your last evening, you slipped away from the family gathering, needing a moment alone before the whirlwind of departure. The sky was smeared with sunset colors as you walked along the path to the small dock where fishing boats bobbed in the twilight.

You weren't surprised when footsteps crunched on the gravel behind you.

"Running away?" Jack's voice carried on the evening air.

"Just breathing," you replied, not turning around.

He came to stand beside you, hands in his pockets. The golden hour light softened the angles of his face, catching in his hair and turning it bronze at the edges. Neither of you spoke for a long moment, watching the water turn from blue to silver as darkness fell.

"I've been thinking," he finally said, uncharacteristically hesitant.

"A dangerous pastime."

His smile was quick but faded almost immediately. "I was wondering if you might write to me. After you leave."

The simple request caught you off guard. You'd expected a final flirtation, perhaps a bold declaration or attempt at a kiss—not this quiet uncertainty.

"You want me to write to you?"

"Is that so surprising?" He looked genuinely perplexed.

"I rather thought I was just this summer's distraction."

He winced. "Kick's been sharing her theories, I see."

"She's protective."

"She's right, usually," he admitted. "But not about this." He turned to face you fully. "I like you. Not just because you're pretty, or because you're Kick's friend, or because you're new and different. I like how your mind works. I like arguing with you. I like that you don't let me get away with anything."

The naked sincerity in his voice startled you. Without his usual armor of charm and wit, Jack Kennedy seemed suddenly younger, more vulnerable.

"I might write," you said carefully. "If I have something worth saying."

His smile returned slowly. "You always have something worth saying. That's rather the point."

The breeze picked up, carrying the scent of salt and distant rain. Jack stepped closer, near enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him.

"I'm leaving for Harvard in the fall," he said. "It would be nice to have someone to tell about it. Someone who sees me, not just the Kennedy name."

"Is that what I do?"

"From the first day. It's terrifying, actually." His smile turned rueful. "No one ever accused me of enjoying discomfort, but I find I don't mind it with you."

The compliment, if that's what it was, held none of his usual polish. It felt raw, unplanned—and all the more powerful for it.

"I should get back," you said, suddenly uncertain. "Kick will wonder where I've gone."

"Kick knows exactly where you are," Jack replied, but he made no move to stop you as you turned toward the path. "Think about it? The letters?"

You paused, looking back at him. In the gathering dusk, with the sea behind him and the wind ruffling his hair, he seemed both familiar and strange—the charming boy who'd greeted you that first day, and someone else entirely, someone you'd only glimpsed in quiet moments between performances.

"Maybe I will," you said. "If you promise not to be insufferable about it."

His laugh carried across the water. "Now that," he said, "is a promise I definitely can't make."

You smiled despite yourself and walked back toward the house. Just before you reached the garden path, you called back over your shoulder without turning around:

"By the way, Jack, I already asked Kick for your Harvard address."

His startled laugh carried across the water. You kept walking, biting your lip to keep from grinning too broadly, quite certain you'd managed the impossible: leaving Jack Kennedy momentarily speechless.

Let him stew on that during his fancy Harvard autumn.

As Kick would say: game, set, and match.

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