#it's like when an italian finds out that your last name is sicilian

[meanbossart]

Hi!! Found your blog while looking for other Bg drow pc! I'm in love with your artwork and DU Drow and astarion chemistry, I am invested and listening ! Please take this "same hat!!" parody i made while scrolling your blog - so this ask wouldnt look--- too empty...

I'm fucking dead LMAO YOU DREW HIM SCARIER THAN I DO

WELCOME ABOARD AND THANK YOU!!!!

[mariacallous]

Teitel Brothers, the 105-year-old Italian provisions store on Arthur Avenue in the Bronx, is not Italian at all. In fact, Teitels is the only existing store in the Bronx’s Little Italy, the real Little Italy, with Jewish roots.

Arthur Avenue is a gem in New York City’s cultural and culinary crown. It’s authentically Italian with your selection of paneterie, pasticcerie, salumerie, and pescherie —food stores that specialize in one type of product: bread, pastry, meat, and fish. As customers bustle through stores you can even hear the Italian “buona giornata!” Have a good day! 

At the corner of Arthur Avenue and 186th Street, also named Teitel Brothers Avenue, is the eponymous store. Outside is an eye-catching, colorful display of pastas, olive oils, and the best-priced Rao’s tomato sauce in all of New York City. If you don’t look down, which is easy to do when taking in the hanging prosciutto di Parma above and the olive bar to your right, you will miss the Jewish history right below your feet. At the entrance to the store is a Star of David mosaic.

I sat down with Eddie Teitel, one of three brothers who runs the family owned shop with their father, Gilbert, to find out how Jewish immigrants from Austria built a successful Italian grocery store. 

Unlike most Jewish immigrants who assimilated to New York’s Lower East Side in the early 20th century, Jacob and Morris Teitel, tailors from Austria, arrived in 1912 and headed north to the Italian neighborhood of Arthur Avenue. In 1915, they opened Teitel Brothers, importing high quality provisions from a country they had never visited. Jacob and Morris learned to speak Italian before they spoke English. 

In the 1930s, as fascism and anti-Semitism continued to rise in Europe, the Teitel Brother’s landlord warned them, “If people knew you were Jews, nobody would shop here.” A week later, they installed the Star of David mosaic so everyone who crossed the threshold knew they were Jews. “It took a lot of courage to do something like that,” Eddie remarked.

While Teitel Brothers was not the only Jewish merchant on Arthur Avenue, it is the only Jewish store in the neighborhood that exists today. Why did Teitel outlive the other Jewish stores? According to Eddie, “We’re the first ones here in the morning. We start at a quarter to five and we work hard. We’re one of the last stores to close up and we have a great product.”

It’s true. Teitels is the Wonka factory of Italian provisions. Two thousand products mask the walls of the 900-square foot corner store. In Teitels’ 105 year history, much of their inventory has remained constant, but if their customers want something they don’t have, they will order it. For example, as more immigrants from Albania and Yugoslavia have moved to the neighborhood, Teitels has added feta and phyllo dough to their shelves.

Eddie is the first Teitel in the third-generation business to visit Italy. Every other year, he attends the Food Show in Modena, takes tours of olive oil factories in Spoleto, and sees where their Romano cheese is made in Nepi. 

Before Eddie traveled to Italy, one way Teitels would find new products was through salesmen. Eddie tells a story of a persistent salesman whose cousin from Sicily made a delicious olive oil. Eddie and his brothers liked the olive oil so much that when their uncle passed away, they bought the exclusive rights and named it “Don Luigi” in his honor. In 2001, The New York Times praised the Don Luigi extra virgin olive oil as being “the perfect expression” of Sicilian olives and “a bargain worth seeking out.” After the article was published, Teitels sold out in three days.

When Eddie travels to Italy, he brings back the best of Italian provisions, and also the European hospitality, which he describes as “second to none.” It helps that Eddie has known many of his customers since he was ten years old, when he started helping his father in the shop. 

Each generation of Teitels have brought something new. The first generation opened the store. The second opened the wholesale business. When the third generation took over, there was one truck and now there are eight. Jean, the oldest brother who was a merchant marine, applies his discipline to keep their warehouse across the street in order. Michael, the middle brother and a chef of 35 years, loves to share recipes with people who come in. As for the next generation? Eddie’s son, who was recently bar mitzvahed, helps in the store on the weekends. Before he joins the family business full-time, his father will make sure he has a college education. 

This past February, Teitel Brothers was honored by the New York City Department of Small Businesses as one of ten century-old establishments across the five boroughs that have proven to be a permanent neighborhood fixture between 1878 and 1920, along with the famous appetizing spot, Russ & Daughters. 

Teitel Brothers is more than a store. It is a glimpse into the history of Jewish New Yorkers, the discrimination they faced, and their resistance to such hate — all preserved in cans of tomato sauce, aged salami, and an almost century-old mosaic.

[anthrofreshtodeath]

Crossover Angst

Find previous rizzles/bones crossover work here.

—

When Booth hops out of the Sequioia and opens Brennan’s door, it’s already kinda late. He’s an in-bed-early, wake-up-even-earlier sort of guy, and this Boston team… They burn the candle at both ends. All ends. Hell, they even strike a match under the middle. He’s tired, and he’s hungry, and he needs a couple hours away from the mania to talk things over with his partner. 

Who just so happens to be the woman he’s madly in love with. Christ.

“What is this place?” Brennan asks, rousing him out of his exhausted musing. They amble toward a little storefront on Prince Street, which has seen its tourists exit for the day, leaving locals to patronize the restaurants, the butcher shops, the bakeries, during their last few hours of operation. Angelina’s. 

“Little Italian joint, Bones,” says Booth, pulling open the door. The heavy, wooden frame squeals as it swings out, and he licks his lips in some relief. “Hear that? Means the food’s gonna be good.”

Brennan is only inches ahead of him, and she turns with a little disbelief. “The squeaky door?” she chuckles, “how could that possibly relate to the quality of food?”

“Don’t know how to explain it; don’t need to,” he tells her. “There’s mostly Sicilian fare but apparently they’ve got a puttanesca that rivals your own.”

“Your favorite,” Brennan chides. “The whore sauce.”

“The whore sauce,” Booth affirms. “But it comes from my neck of the woods, from Rome. So hey, can’t go wrong, right? Anyway, Rizzoli said they had some good vegetarian options.”

“Ah, Jane recommended it,” Brennan draws out. She takes off her trench coat and hangs it over the back of an old wooden chair when the waiter pointed them toward a table toward the windowfront. “That’s why we’re here.”

Booth knots his eyebrows together. He’s good at reading Brennan, probably better than anyone else, but he’s stumped here. That jumble of words usually signals jealousy, especially in girls - women - but Bones looks pleased. Humored. “That a problem?” he asks, searching for more. He needs more.

“Not at all,” Brennan answers. She does this thing where she shrugs and scoots her chair in at the same time, but the movements are fluid. There is no waste, no excess in the motion of her body. This enthralls him; it always had, though he hadn’t realized it until his love for her crashed down on him in a particularly painful, sweet revelation. Smitten had felt like an apt descriptor, but when Jane told him about the Sicilian thunderbolt, that punch of lightning, that felt perfect. And painful. It’s painful to watch her move, but also exhilarating, like he’s just stuck a fork in a socket. “You respect her.”

“Yeah, I guess I do. She’s good people,” Booth says. He takes the menu given to him by the waiter, and nods toward the middle of the page, where all the red wines are named. “Give us a bottle of the Sangiovese, huh? You’re gonna love this one,” he tells Brennan when the waiter nods and turns their wine glasses right side up before going back for the wine. “It’s bold. Real hearty, velvety Italian flavor.”

“Sounds like we’re still talking about Jane,” Brennan teases. Her eyes sparkle when she looks at him, and she offers him one of her signature, garish winks. 

Booth turns dour. He crosses his arms, his crisp white shirt rolled up just under his elbows on either side. “What?” he demands.

Brennan registers the change in mood, and he thinks about lightening up because he can tell she doesn’t know what she’s said, what she’s done, but dammit if he isn’t tired of the games. “Well, I… I wasn’t being very serious, Booth.”

“You weren’t, huh?” He prods.

“No, but, what would be the issue if I were? She’s attractive, you’re attractive, and you’re both single. You seem to suit each other. At least, superficially,” Brennan reasons aloud. She leans forward, puts her elbows on the tablecloth. She believes she’s making sense.

And maybe, in any other world, she would be. Maybe, in another world where she and Booth are just partners, just coworkers who collaborate to bring murderers to justice, just colleagues who sometimes grab after-work drinks, this argument would make sense. Rizzoli is… well, Rizzoli looks like a supermodel and she drinks some of his old army buddies under the table. She’s loud and to the point and kind of grumpy, but he can be, too. He thinks back to that early morning last week, when they’d held hands in mass while the priest ushered them through Eucharistic prayer. After all night at the scene of the first fresh crime they’d encountered in their time together, blood and brain matter and torn flesh seared in their consciousness, they’d agreed together that only the blood of Christ would wash it all away. So they’d dropped their scientists at their respective abodes and trudged into St. Joseph’s just after sunrise. And they’d touched because they needed the intimacy, the spirituality, without all the goddamn battle. 

Rizzoli’s perfect on paper. 

There’s just, y’know, the problem of both of them being in love with someone else. That thought, of yet another opportunity crushed under the weight of Bones’ magnetism, under the way she expands so as to push anything else out of the room, leaving nothing but the two of them and his annoying heart, angers Booth. He turns his eyes toward the flow of wine out of the bottle and into their glasses. He concentrates only on that so that he can speak without raising his voice. “Why you gotta do that? Why- why you gotta try to hook me up with people?”

“Booth, I was just-”

“No! No,” He shudders when he hears his volume the first time, like he’s gunshy of himself. He quiets down, a fist going into his hand when he props his elbows up on the table like she had. “You… I laid my heart out for ya, Bones. I told you I was in love with you. And god help me, I think you feel the same way. But for whatever reason, you didn’t… you can’t go there with me. And I’m tryin’ to be respectful of that. But this? Tryin’ to get me to go out with other people when you know I’m not even thinkin’ about anyone else right now is…”

“Alright, alright,” Brennan puts up her hand just so he’ll stop. “I… I won’t. I won’t anymore. I just… I care about you, Booth,” she confesses, her blue eyes screwed up and watery like she’s in pain, like she has any right to be in pain when she’s done all the pushing. “You deserve to be happy.”

“That doesn’t sound like you stoppin’,” he grumbles.

“I can’t give you what you want. I… don’t know how to be what you need,” Brennan whispers. She cries openly now, and Booth waves the waiter away as a kindness. 

But he still seethes. “Easy, Bones. Just be you,” he says, low and full of spite. 

“But it’s not that easy. Of course it’s not that easy. I’ve been me with you for years now and I still… I’m still…”

“Afraid?” He mocks, and when she nods because it doesn’t register with her, because she doesn't see the way he has intended to hurt her. “I just… I don’t get it. Help me understand, here, Bones, because you don’t seem to have trouble bein’ what other guys need. Jerks like Stires, Wexler, oh and god, Mark. Remember Mark?”

“I don’t appreciate-” Brennan’s face drops, she sniffles, and her brow furrows, but Booth pushes right through.

“So it’s me, right? Because you have no problem giving them the time of day, and I’m right here. I’m right here and I’m better. So it must just be that I don’t do it for you. I’m not enough of an asshole,” He is quiet and severe, leaning in to make his point.

She looks toward her glass of wine, thinks about throwing it in his face. And Booth knows he’d deserve it. But the bell over the door rings, and whatever, whoever Brennan sees, makes her put her hand down. “I’m leaving. This isn’t the time, or the place. If you want to have a discussion about this like an adult, give me a call.” She rises, snatches her coat from her chair, and glares at him for good measure.

“Oh? And where’re you goin’, huh?” Booth demands.

She aims to hurt him because she puts her face in his. She only does that when she spits fire. “I’m going to Jane’s. She invited me over to watch the game.”

“Oh yeah? Do you even know which game?!” Booth calls when she starts to walk away. He guesses that Jane’s invite was probably for the C’s game, which is currently just underway, and he guesses that Bones had originally turned it down. 

“Doesn’t matter!” She shouts back. She’s right. Really doesn’t matter.

___

“Hmm,” Maura holds Jane’s face as they kiss, soft and sweet in the low candlelight illuminating Jane’s small bedroom. Jane is on top of her, they’re under the covers naked, and god it feels good. Like eating cake with your hands or pouring a second glass of rosé when you said you’d just have one. “Hey.”

Jane groans because talking breaks the kiss open. She writhes closer, deepens the post-coital, sweaty embrace between them in hopes that she can erase all language. 

Maura must deny her. She offers Jane one last kiss, but then she tilts her head so Jane’s lips shift to her chin, across her jaw, down her neck. “Hey, hey…” she tries again. “I saw you stuffing down that Powerbar on the way back from Amherst this morning. Was that the last thing you ate?”

At the mention of the Powerbar, Jane’s stomach grumbles on Maura’s own. “What’s it to you?” Jane snarks. There is no bite in it, or rather, no power, because Jane currently bites on the mark she’s already left on Maura’s collarbone. 

Maura hates that she doesn’t hate it. That she won’t hate walking in public with it on, she won’t hate people seeing it and wondering. Or knowing that it was Jane. “That was almost twelve hours ago. Let me feed you.”

“You already did,” Jane snarks, teeth still out and nipping.

“Jane,” Maura warns. “I’ll go to Angelina’s. Pick something up and bring it back. Eat with me?”

“Angelina’s, huh?” asks Jane, rolling over onto her back so that her shoulder touches Maura’s. Maura kisses it. “Sounds good. I told Booth about it a few days ago. Thought it might be a good place for him to take Doctor B.”

Maura stops mid-smooch, lips pursed and frozen against Jane’s still-warm skin. “And how are things between you and Doctor Brennan?” she finally asks when she regains her thoughts. 

“Uh, normal? Things have been a lot less heated,” Jane says. “Uh, well, maybe that’s not the right word. Things are a lot less acrimonious.”

“But still heated?” Maura prods.

Jane chuckles. “Hey, don’t put words in my mouth when I specifically took ‘em out. But I mean, I’m tryin’, honey. I really am. I invited her over to watch the Celtics and Lakers tonight. Teach her the rules of basketball so she, I dunno, can make it a whole game without embarrassing Booth.”

“And she said no?” Maura turns her head at the exact moment Jane turns hers, and they gaze into each other’s eyes. Jane won’t be able to turn away. 

“She said no,” Jane affirmed. “But at least she knows I am attempting friendliness after last week.”

Maura pauses for a long time. Then she inches forward to kiss Jane. She injects it with lust, with luscious and wet intent as she rows their swollen, dusky lips together. “Jane?”

“Yeah?” Jane sighs.

“Don’t fuck that woman,” Maura threatens.

Jane smirks, and immediately Maura knows she’s shown Jane a weakness. But there’s no way she can take it back. She hardly cares about her exposed desperation. “Which one?” asks Jane. “Abby in payroll? She’s been wanting me to ask her out for years,” she teases. And god, she’s right. Abby wants Jane, pines for Jane even now. Even if Jane is full of shit. Maura frowns. Jane laughs, then quiets. “Or the Chief Medical Examiner? I heard she’s a real ice queen but I think she likes me.”

Maura softens at that, and shakes her head. This time, it’s her teeth that sink into Jane. Both soft and hard, and into Jane’s shoulder. “Don’t. Fuck. Her.” she reiterates.

There is no room for discussion.

“You got it,” Jane kisses Maura’s forehead with kindness when Maura latches onto her with possession. “You really gonna go get food? Because I could go for that Brasat’.”

“Beef, hmm? You’re quite hungry,” Maura muses, but she does sit up and look for the jeans she put on to come here.

“I just burned an NBA game’s worth of calories!” Jane answers back, But she blushes when Maura looks back from over her shoulder and smirks. They lock eyes, and certainly, the same scene, where Jane grips the corner of the bed while she drives into Maura from on top, crying out when Maura scratches long red lines down her back, runs through both their minds. “But I don’t have to tell you that.”

“I am going to get food, yes. I’ll even get an appetizer for us to share. But you have to get up now,” Maura orders. She stands, her pants on, and she shuffles around until she finds her bra. After that’s on, she shrugs her blouse over her shoulders. Jane continues to lay, and her eyes flutter shut. “I mean it, Jane. I’m not ordering all that food just for you to be too sleepy to eat. Get up. Get dressed. Turn on the game - find a way to stay awake.” Maura says. Then she throws a decorative pillow in Jane’s face.

“Ouch, fuck! Alright, alright, I’m gettin’ up,” grouses Jane.

She does indeed sit, and Maura rewards her with a kiss to the lips. “Good. I’ll be back. Set the table.”

“Yup,” says Jane.

Maura slips on her sandals, and lingers in the bedroom doorway. She doesn’t say anything, but catches Jane’s eye one more time and nods. Then she leaves.

Her car is close; Jane had given up her parking spot for Maura and put the unmarked around the corner. Maura had hidden the giddy, bubbly smile the gesture inspired and opened her legs instead. 

She really, really needs to stop doing that. At least, long enough to give her some time to think. Cases like this were always hard, and up until now, Maura had medicated by sliding Jane into place on top of her and blanching her brain. Well, now appears to be more of the same, but then, they’d been married, and it had been… allowed.

She trots down the stairs and out the side exit of the building, straight into the parking area. She gets in her car, turns on the engine, and sighs. They’re grown adults. They can sleep with whomever they please, including each other. But something about all of this feels forbidden, and Maura wonders if that’s why she likes it. That’s the part that she needs to slow down on. The part she needs to figure out. The part that feels like using, as she’d confessed to Jane some nights ago. 

Angelina’s is not far from Jane’s place, maybe a ten, fifteen minute drive, so Maura calls in her order before she pulls out of her spot. Maura also contemplates all these things as she maneuvers there, and mourns the Maura who had put down some of the best boundaries of her life at the start of her divorce. Where is that Maura? When she pulls up to the neighborhood, Jane’s old neighborhood, she finds a spot on Hanover Street and makes the short trek over to the storefront, resolving to worry about boundaries after she gets food into Jane’s belly. 

When she pulls open the old wooden door and steps inside the entryway, her sandals scrape against the mosaic-style tile until she stops where she stands. “D… Doctor Brennan?” she sputters when the woman herself stands up from her table. Brennan says something to Booth, Maura can tell him by his shoulders, hulking and sad. And then, Brennan makes her way to the door. Toward Maura. 

She’s angry. Maura reads the microexpressions and stands aside, while offering a half-smile and a look in that direction. No eye contact, that would make the both of them too uncomfortable. “Doctor Isles,” Brennan says, just before she pushes toward the door. “Have a great night.”

“Are you-? Where-?” Maura is still shocked to see the both of them here, she feels as though she should say more, that they should have a perfunctory conversation at least; her Brahmin upbringing vibrates within her. But Brennan is already gone. 

The door swings and rattles in its frame and there are a few head turns from other patrons, but that settles quickly enough as Brennan’s form retreats into the North End evening. Maura walks up to the counter, hands over her card, and in less than a minute or two, both it and her boxes of food are brought out to her, tied up nicely in a plastic bag. 

She is about to leave, to abandon the awkward situation she just messily dove into, until she turns and sees Booth’s face - well, she should revise. She doesn’t see his face, because it’s in his large hands, the heels of which press into his cheeks. She shakes her head, and then she crosses the few short feet to get to him. “Sangiovese is one of my favorites,” Maura tells him. He jolts, just a bit, and squints when he looks at her. 

“Doctor Isles, hey, how are ya,” He says. There is no conviction in it. 

“I’m just fine,” she starts. Then, she puts her bag of food on the table. “I’m picking up dinner for my ex-wife when I know I should not be. I’m very confused. All the time.”

He chuckles once, bitterly. “Yeah? Me too. Join the party,” he says. Then, he shrugs, like the assholishness is something he can remove like a coat. “I’m sorry, y’know. That you and Rizzoli are such a mess.”

“I’m sorry you’re going through your own mess,” Maura nods toward the door. “Is she alright?”

Booth sighs, and leans back into his chair, his glossy eyes toward the ceiling. “I don’t think so. I think I made the mess. And right now she’s, agh. Well, apparently she’s over to your guys’ place to catch…” he slides his watch around, “well, I’m assuming Celtics/Lakers.”

“She’s… she’s going to Jane’s?” Maura asks. Her head pounds, and she squeezes her hands together. She sucks her teeth.

And Booth, of course he reads that. He quirks a brow. “You didn’t know?”

“I thought she said no,” Maura’s acrimony leaks through the veneer, but she pulls it back as soon as it trickles forward. “You didn’t even get to eat?”

Booth chuckles. “No, no we didn’t.”

Maura pats the top of her bag. “Well, let’s eat this, shall we? It’s warm. We shouldn’t let it go to waste.”

Booth leans forward, rubs his hands together. “What about Jane?”

“She ate,” Maura snaps, pink suffusing her cheeks. Vengeance is a dish best not served at all. Her own words ring hollow and mocking in her head - do not fuck that woman. “And if she gets hungry enough she can have some cereal. We’re here, we should enjoy the cuisine while it’s fresh.”

“You know what I really wanna do?” says Booth. He downs the rest of the glass of wine in front of him. “I wanna go over to that bar next door. Screw the food.”

Maura hangs her head and she laughs. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” says Booth. Now that he thinks about it, he’s sure of it. He drops enough cash on the table to cover the bottle of wine and then some, and then he stands up and shrugs his blazer on. “They’re havin’ their fun, why don’t we?”

“Ok,” replies Maura. She stands, too, and smirks when she sees her package on the table. “Screw the food. They have a scrumptious Amarone that I think you’ll like.”

“I will, huh?” asks Booth, holding open the door as they step into the cool spring air. He holds out his elbow and she takes it, even though the walk isn’t long.

“If you’re like me and the Sangiovese is also one of your favorites, yes,” Maura tells him. She gets the door of the next establishment, and she ushers him in with a hand to the small of his back, like Jane is moving through her. 

He is surprised by it, but his smile is warm. Not bitter like it had been when she first saw him in Angelina’s. “Well you got me there, it is.”

They take their place at the bar, just a few other drinkers along its edge, and Booth insists that Maura order for them. She does, and he compliments her taste in reds. The dance floor is old, the lights swooping over it reminiscent of a high school dance, but he wags his brows when the music shifts. “Ole Blue Eyes,” he says when Frank Sinatra begins to croon. “My favorite.”

Maura sips the exceptional drink in her glass before setting it down. She pulls her lips back and stares at the napkin under her fingers. “Jane is partial to Dean Martin.”

“Well, can’t go wrong with the Rat Pack,” Booth says. “Hey, did you uh, did you tell her where you were? Tell her you weren’t comin’ back with her food?”

Maura’s face crumples when she shakes her head. She hides from him, and then she lifts her face up so that her tears don’t ruin what little makeup she has on.

Booth shuffles on his feet. Shit. “Uh, hey, Maura, hey. C’mon. You, you wanna go dance? No talkin’. We can just move a little.”

She looks up, and he looks down, and she can tell he has surprised the both of them with his offer. But, what the hell. She takes her drink, then he takes his, and she leads them over to the floor. They are by far the youngest couple currently dancing, the rest of the people their age at various tables, and they aren’t even a couple. They shouldn’t dance.

But Booth stands there, wide angles, gallant masculinity, open arms, and Maura folds into him. She puts her head on his shoulder and the hand he’s not using to hold his wine at his side goes between her own shoulder blades. Nice. Easy. Safe. He sways her, and she is content to be swayed by him - no expectations or rules.

It is the most comfortable she’s felt with a man wrapped around her - when he is devastated by his love for someone else. When her love for someone else keeps her heart far away from his. “I’m sorry,” she tells him. 

“Hey no,” he assures her. “Tell me what you’re thinkin’.” Frankie sings and he holds her close, and fuck. This may be the saddest he’s ever been. He prays she doesn’t ask him the same question.

“I’m thinking that I’m here with the wrong Italian, Seeley,” Maura whispers, turning so that it bounces on the cavern of his chest. “You are so unbelievably kind. But wrong. But I can’t stop hurting her.”

“You know, I was just thinkin’ the same thing,” he says. She’s unburdened him with that confession. So hell, maybe, even though it feels like digging a hot poker into his belly, he should just confess, too. “I was thinkin’ that I’m here with the wrong scientist. But she, oh god,” he inhales without exhaling, a ragged breath that cuts into the air around them. He catches her tears like a virus, but his don’t fall. “She can’t stop hurting me. What a pair, huh?”

Maura wraps her arms around his waist despite her drink, as though she’s forgotten it and knows only the shape of the glass in her hand. She squeezes him because he is warm and if she closes her eyes he feels like Jane. “I don’t know what I’m doing, and I feel like I’m looking at myself from the outside, unable to get her to stop.”

Maura doesn’t feel like Bones at all. But Maura needs him. Needs him to lie, needs him to hold her, needs him to ride out this slow dance and maybe a few more glasses of wine. “Things are… things are gonna be just fine, Maura. They’re gonna be just fine.”

She doesn’t say it back to him.

[melis-writes]

Moth to Flame [Michael Corleone x Reader Series, 18+ Smut] Chapter 1 – Power Imbalance.

Read on AO3 / Chapter Masterlist / Fic Playlist.

18+, explicit smut read.

1949. Your name is Victoria Ferrari, and you’re the only daughter of one of the most powerful mafia families in New York—the Ferrari’s. To bind the families together as one in an offering of peace, friendship and business, you are to be married to their youngest son, Michael Corleone. As you ensnare yourself in the life of a mob wife by Michael’s side, what you don’t know is his old ties with Kay Adams, your best friend from Dartmouth, and that he returned from Sicily a widower. A ruthless mob boss to be, you unravel Michael’s dark past and the brutality that has changed his personality. You find yourself adapting to your new life, betrayed by those you love most, and in high profile to Ferrari and Corleone family enemies. Falling deeply in love with Michael, you enter a life and marriage filled with secrets and darkness. Bearing his children, supporting his crime empire and following him into the shadows, you’re unable to deny your passion and desire to the new Don. When it comes to Michael Corleone, you are but a moth to a flame.

Your name is Victoria Ferrari, twenty-five years old, born and raised in Corleone, Sicily before relocating to New York at the age of ten as the only daughter to rejoin your Italian family mafia in New York—the Ferrari’s, run by your father, Giuseppe Ferrari, and your brothers.

With both a powerful and influential family and name, you always lived a comfortable and luxurious life, chasing after your own goals and dreams within your university education and staying out of the family business, much to your family’s full support and happiness.

Full Sicilian roots running through your family and blood, you speak fluent Italian as your first, native language and perfect English as your second without an accent.

Filled with connections and immense wealth, opportunity is constantly at your feet to do as you please even though you’re aware of your family’s illicit dealings and the hold they have in New York along with the other six families.

After Virgil Sollozzo’s murder in 1946, your family became the first to notice and take advantage of another taking his place, waving the opportunity of the drug trade still hanging in the balance—unabused by the other crime families.

Word that the Ferrari’s began dealing in narcotics spread to the six families like wildfire, raising suspicion and caution all around. Within six months, your family made millions, gaining powerful allies in powerful places, immense wealth to keep whomever and whatever on payroll, protection to go around tenfold, and influence the other crime families had never seen.

It struck a deep and severe blow to the power dynamics with New York’s crime families, but specifically hit a personal nerve with the Corleone family.

It was Michael Corleone after all who shot and killed Sollozzo and the police chief, McClusky—something the Ferrari’s did not know, but was all too fresh for the Corleone’s to remember.

With friendly faces and historical ties, the Corleone’s have decided to calm the Italian mafia scene and take matters into their own hands, knowing this could mean a full-scale war between the seven families and possibly a hit on Michael if the Ferrari’s decided to investigate and take revenge for Sollozzo’s murder.

Your family already have ties with the Corleone’s in Sicily, and no bad blood has ever existed between you two. Don Vito Corleone has personally invited your entire family to his residence in New York to make peace, speak on the matter and resolve it once and for all by explaining his concerns and wishes, expecting the same from your father.

It was on that day that your life would change forever because of the Corleone’s. Vito Corleone would make an offer to you that you couldn’t refuse.

  [New York, 1949.]

  “Here we are, miss—the Corleone residence.”

You’re the last one to cautiously step out of one of your family’s many vehicles as you spot your older brothers, Lorenzo and Leonardo already mingling with Peter Clemenza, Tom Hagen and Sonny Corleone up ahead.

“Ah, yeah, just like the old days, right?” Your older brother Leonardo gives a laugh, shaking Sonny Corleone’s hand firmly before giving him a hug as if the two had known each other forever, following behind your father who approaches the front doors, giving hearty greetings and waves before entering inside.

You place your hand on the rim of the car door, taking in the full appearance that the Corleone manor has to offer.

With cars parked all over the street and driveway, you know today’s meeting is absolutely crucial for both your family’s business and personal relationships with the other crime families.

You've heard of the Corleone’s before of course, a few names here and there, but never met, and wouldn’t have come at all either if it wasn’t for the sake of showing appearances.

You wouldn’t be going inside to deal with business like your father and brothers would until it was time for formal family introductions, but the Corleone’s knew you, the only daughter of the Ferrari family are here too.

You let out a soft sigh, watching the handful of kids playing in the nearby yard and attempting to get your mind off of just what this meeting could mean.

As much as you didn’t want to get involved in any mafia business, you couldn’t help but worry what would happen if Don Corleone and your father couldn’t come to an “agreement” on what to do with such a power imbalance.

Your brief thoughts are suddenly interrupted by your brother Alessio calling for you across the street. “Hey, sis!”

You turn, swiftly closing the door and slapping the roof of the car to signal to the driver as you spot Alessio, holding your younger brother Dante’s hand, giving you a warm smile as they both approach you. “Hope it’s not much trouble if you spend some time with Dante while we’re here, eh?”

“Not at all.” You beam, ruffling your ten-year-old brother’s hair as he moves to your side shyly. “Everything gonna be alright today?”

“Of course, why not?” Alessio straightens out his tie, smoothening the cuffs of his suit. “We’re here on a personal basis, not business, of course.”

“Right.” You smile weakly, taking Dante’s hand. “We’ll be over there with the kids if you need us.” You gesture over to the yard.

“No problem. Take care. Lorenzo and I’ll let you know how it goes.” Alessio rubs your arm reassuringly before planting a quick kiss on Dante’s forehead and skipping off to catch up with the others.

“Are they gonna take long?” Dante peeps up at you.

You chuckle, pinching his cheek playfully. “Who cares, buddy? The longer they’re gone, the longer you get to play.”

A bubbling grin forms on his face as you two scurry over across the street and over to the yard, waving at the kids who clutch onto their toys before turning and noticing the two of you. “Hi there, got room for two more?”

“Sure!” The kids giggle, tossing their inflatable ball over to you as you give it a good rub between your hands, winking at Dante and throwing it with as much force as you can across the yard, causing the kids to screech in joy and chase after it as Dante runs off with them too.

You cross your arms and watch the kids run off to play. At least you could keep them preoccupied here and have something to do while the meeting is ongoing. 'This is gonna be a long day', you tell yourself.

  ~

  “Tom, there you are.” Michael Corleone’s voice rings out as he exits the manor from the side entrance, catching Tom Hagen in the other half of the fenced yard leaning over the hedge, taking a cigarette break.

“Ah, Mikey. Hey.” Tom glances over to the side, smiling and taking the burning cigarette out of his mouth. “What are you doing out here?”

“I could ask you the same,” Michael approaches Tom by the ledge. “They’ve no need for a consiglieri just now?”

“Not yet, but you're a different story." Tom chuckles, shaking his head and taking another puff of his cigarette. “The old man will want you back in a second.” 

“He plans to formally introduce me to Don Ferrari after their meeting.” Michael slips both of his hands into his coat pocket and joins Tom in gazing outside. “What do you make of it all?"

“Mm.” Tom blows out the cigarette smoke, looking out peacefully and enjoying the moderate silence with the muffled shrieks of the excited, playing kids towards the back.

He notices Michael’s solemn look and silence, breaking in. “All I know for now is that we'll be fine, Mikey. I don't see this turning against our family somehow.”

“Don Ferrari had business connections with Sollozzo.” Michael purses his lips. "His family's business and intentions should be directly against me since I took out his favored business partner."

“That's business, but it's not personal.” Tom puts out his shrunken cigarette, patting Michael’s back. “And until you cross that line, you're in the middle, unaffected by it all.”

Michael nods slowly, his expression growing colder. 

Tom lets out a drawn out sigh. “Everyone’s here. The whole family—us and them. The Ferrari daughter is here too.”

Michael’s eyes fill with interest. “The Ferrari daughter?”

“Yeah, didn’t you see her?” Tom coughs a little, straightening up. “All her brothers and her are here. Arrived in the last car. About this tall, absolute beauty.”

Michael ignores Tom's comment about your physical appearance. "I wasn't aware Don Ferrari had a daughter."

"Neither was I," Tom replies. "We know nothing of her or who she is but considering the Ferrari's are all here, we're bound to find out. I know Lorenzo and Leonardo. Sonny and I met them way back before the war. You're bound to meet them eventually today." Tom pats Michael's shoulder reassuringly.   “See you back inside, kid.” Tom turns on his heel, patting Michael’s shoulder. “Don’t take too long out here, eh?”

“I'll join the others back inside in a moment.” Michael replies, keeping his gaze fixated afar as Tom heads back inside the Corleone manor.

“Hey, hey! Play fair! That’s totally not fair!” Your laugh breaks Michael’s silence loudly from the back as you chase Dante and the kids, jumping about wildly in the pile of leaves and fighting for the ball. “Get back here, you little rascal!”

Noticing the feminine voice, Michael steps back and strolls around the house towards it, standing by the corner of the yard before peeking over. He spots you gleefully laughing in a pile of leaves as the kids begin to throw it about at each other, finally finding the ball snug in your arms as they begin to tickle you to win it over.

“Hey!” Your laugh is sweet and contagious as you give into the tickling and let the ball go, “hey, no fair!”

Michael leans against the ledge, watching how you interact with the kids quietly. Tom may as well have just pointed you out; there's nobody else who would fit the description of the Ferrari daughter but you.

You stand up, brushing the leaves off of your jacket and fixing your heels as the kids run off to the other end of the yard with their ball.

For a moment, Michael is mesmerized by the sight of you even though you stand further away, especially amused with how well you get along with the children.

Feeling a pair of eyes on you, you glance around before finding Michael Corleone gazing over at you from around the corner.

You’ve never seen this man before, but you assume he’s one of the Corleone brothers, like Sonny and Fredo.

He catches you off guard as you blink, blushing in embarrassment as you pick off some remaining leaves from your coat.

The two of you lock eyes in an intense gaze before you notice another, hefty figure coming out from behind him.

“Hey, Mike.” Clemenza places his hand on his shoulder, causing him to spin around. “The old man wants to make introductions.”

“Alright.” Michael speaks in a distracted tone, turning his back on you and heading off inside the house with him.

  ~

  “What this means has nothing to do with rivalry.” Giuseppe Ferrari speaks in a calm and polite tone, sitting across from Don Corleone with his leg crossed over the other. “But I understand its implications to become one. That is why I do not wish to refer to you as my business rival, Don Corleone. I respect you. You are a wise man. You, along with the other families, are a part of my family as well.”

“I never judge a man based on how he makes his living.” Vito nods, lacing his fingers together. “I have to say I am impressed, if anything, that you took such a deal. Narcotics can be dirty business, surely you know.”

“Indeed.” Giuseppe agrees, taking a sip of his whiskey as the door to Vito’s office opens quietly—Michael slipping inside and standing by Tom, Clemenza, Fredo and Sonny. “It’s all about the connections and protection, otherwise none of it would come together.”

“You have gained a considerable amount of influence, wealth and power in a very short amount of time.” Vito purses his lips. “It’s admirable, so I wish for nothing to interfere. Our family will not.”

“And neither will ours.” Giuseppe sets his whisky glass down. “The Ferrari family comes bearing peace and gifts, Don Corleone. There is no bad blood. I understand what you are saying. I reassure you once more that it is not my intention to take advantage of this, power imbalance.” He gestures with his hands. “I deal privately and manage my business. The police and politicians are in my pocket as the bare minimum to deal in narcotics. I don’t see competition with the other families, especially in this kind of setting. I wish for nothing but peace.” He slowly rises to his feet with Vito as Giuseppe approaches his desk, extending his hand.

“I predicted such an outcome, my old friend.” Vito smiles at him, shaking his hand. “I am proud you settled the rest of your empire from Sicily to New York.”

Giuseppe lets out a small chuckle. “And it is a good thing you have no such competition from us either. I see it as fair now rather than a power imbalance."

Michael half listens alongside his other brothers, paying attention to what is generally going on as his gaze hardens over to his father’s table. The rest of the tension is relieved in the room as Sonny begins to whisper to Tom and Giuseppe’s sons smile, letting their tense muscles relax as they stand on the other side of the room.

“Please forgive me, I have barely introduced you to my family.” Giuseppe glances over at Alessio, gesturing to him. “My boy, bring in Dante and Victoria, would you?”

Michael’s eyes shoot up to Alessio who nods, quickly exiting the room before his mind wanders off to the “Ferrari daughter” that Tom had just mentioned. He exchanges a look with Tom, who has a playful expression on his face back to Michael.

  ~

  “Hey, Victoria!” Alessio peeks his head out the front door, gesturing with his arms.  “Dante, Dante! Come here, both of you. Father is asking.”

You look up, quickly getting up to your feet. You wave over to Dante, calling him over as you take his hand and wave back at the kids as you straighten out Dante’s shirt and head inside the Corleone manor, following Alessio. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s perfect. Father is doing introductions, they’ll want to see you.” He whispers, opening Vito’s office door and allowing them in.

Giuseppe grins, extending his hand and gesturing over to his boys first. “My sons, Lorenzo, Leonardo, Matteo, and Alessio. All intelligent, young men with their own strengths in our family business. This here is our little Dante.” He chuckles.

“Wonderful young man.” Vito smiles down on Dante who peeks back at him shyly, standing by politely.

You stand close by the door out of respect, immediately freezing in your spot as you catch Michael Corleone’s gaze on you across the room. Your face flushes red once more in embarrassment, noticing him looking at you. Michael blinks, turning his head back to face his father.

You nibble on your bottom lip, pretending none of that just happened.

You can’t get a good look at his face in this lighting and setting, but from what you can see, he’s strikingly handsome.

You make a mental note to avoid looking over at this Corleone boy and humiliating yourself in front of your family.

“My only daughter, the beautiful Victoria Ferrari.” Your father introduces you as you take a step up to Don Corleone, who extends his hand over to you.

Little did you know Michael’s eyes were on you again, eyeing you up and getting as much of a look as he could in the dim environment.

You lean over, kissing his ring and nodding politely back. “A pleasure to meet you, Don Corleone.”

“Likewise.” He gives you a warm, fatherly smile. “You have a beautiful family, Giuseppe. They’ll make a lovely addition to ours.”

He points over at his boys, “my Sonny, Tom, Fredo, and my youngest, Michael.”

'Michael. Michael Corleone.' Your heart races as you look over at him, learning the name of the handsome Sicilian at last.

“This is just what we need.” Giuseppe agrees enthusiastically, “I am a man of my word, Don Corleone, and yet I understand words are not enough to reassure a man in your state, therefore I do not wish to disrespect you. Rather, I wish to give you my reassurances through a peace offering.”

“A peace offering?” Vito smiles back at him. “What have I done to deserve such kindness from you, my friend?”

“Oh, don’t you insist, Don Corleone? What our family’s both need is a familial bond of peace.”

“Probably gonna offer up Mike or something.” Sonny snickers, joking quietly to Tom who smirks, stifling his laughter.

“He’s all we have to give up.”

Michael remains still and silent, focused on his father and Giuseppe's words.

“What a perfect idea, Don Ferrari.” Vito glances over at the boys. “My youngest, Michael here, is our eligible bachelor. I would love to have the honour of offering your beautiful daughter a husband. In return, we will gain the friendship and family of the Ferrari family both in business and personally.”

The smile falls off of Sonny and Tom’s shocked faces.

Your eyes widen, but you quickly hold yourself and your bewildered facial expression back, standing perfectly still.

Your heart races and pounds in your chest as your blood rushes, causing the back of your neck and tip of your ears to prickle in embarrassment.

A million questions with no answers whizz through your mind as you essentially begin to freak out at the proposal.

At this point, neither you or Michael can take your eyes off of each other.

'Gain a husband?'

“Michael is twenty-nine, and he has also spent time in Sicily. It would be a great act of family and peace to bond us together over.”

“I could not agree more.” You watch as your father shakes hands in agreement once more with Vito Corleone. “I know all of the Corleone boys are something to boast about. Michael seems like such an established, young man. He will be perfect for my daughter.”

“Sir.” Michael acknowledges.

“Victoria was born and raised in Sicily.” He wraps a loving arm around your shoulder, “she’s a Sicilian beauty who just finished law school here. If there is no rejection or refusal, of course…” Your father looks over at you with eyes of wonder before glancing at Michael, then Vito’s. Nobody speaks up or does anything. “We are in agreement then?”

“Michael.” Vito murmurs, giving a little gesture of his hand over to him.

Michael rises from his seat, first gazing upon your face in the light before promptly kissing your father’s ring. “I would ask to court your daughter in a traditional, Sicilian manner, Don Ferrari, with your permission and blessings.”

“You have them both, my boy, yes.” Your father gives a little pat on Michael’s hand. “Victoria, my dear? Any objections? Anything at all? It’s up to you, ultimately.”

Your breath hitches as you nod, turning to face Michael.

All eyes in the room are on the two of you as you finally get to see the details of his face and the rest of his appearance before you.

5’8, with swept black hair, intense dark eyes, and full lips. It’s impossible for you to deny the attraction you hold towards him going through you like waves of electricity.

He stares at you in the same mesmerized fashion, admiring your Sicilian features and realizing his attraction back to you.

“Will you marry Michael Corleone?”

Without taking your eyes off of Michael, you say, “yes father, I will.”

Your fate is sealed.

[lenawin4]

vincenzo & the godfather

okay okay so from someone who has watched/rewatched The Godfather multiple times for the past seven years, it is very easy to see why I loved Vincenzo so much. The Godfather has been my favorite movie ever since I watched it, so now Vincenzo is my favorite kdrama. because I literally cannot shut up about how much Park Jae-Bum drew from it, I will proceed to just write meta about this gd show. warning for an incredibly long post, where I’ve bolded the most direct parallels. listen to this while you read it.

What is The Godfather?

Well, the IMDB summary says this:

An organized crime dynasty's aging patriarch transfers control of his clandestine empire to his reluctant son.

Which is pretty accurate. It’s a modern Greek tragedy about the son, Michael Corleone: we see his descent from a kind-hearted veteran who wants nothing to do with the family business to becoming a corrupt, cold-hearted businessman for the sake of his family and his family’s legacy. After his father, Vito, is nearly killed, a series of events leads Michael to become the new Don.

Now the main characters are:

Michael Corleone - the youngest son

Vito Corleone - the Don, or in Vincenzo terms, the Capo (both refer to the Godfather/the boss)

Sonny Corleone - the oldest son (very brash + impulsive, which is why Vito doesn’t want to hand power to him)

Fredo Corleone - the middle son (seemingly sweet + clueless, the least business-like, which is why he never gets involved in any family business)

Tom Hagen - the consigliere

The Consigliere

The first incredibly impressive characterization Vincenzo gets right is the consigliere’s ruthlessness. In the first two Godfather movies, Tom Hagen:

Cuts off the prized horse’s head to convince a man to sign a document (yes, that famous horse head scene)

Orchestrates the assassination of the head of another family and a police officer under his payroll

Convinces someone to commit suicide by indirectly threatening his family

Not only that, but Tom Hagen himself is an orphaned Irish boy, adopted into an Italian Mafia family. He’s an adopted foreigner groomed to become the capo’s/don’s right-hand-man as the consigliere. 

In the first movie, Sonny (the oldest son) is angry after his father’s attack and wants to strike back at the other family who ordered the hit immediately. Because Tom is a lawyer and has advised Vito for years now, he advises Sonny not to act so impulsively. In response, Sonny yells, “Will you just do what I tell you to do? Goddamn it, if I had a wartime consigliere, a Sicilian, I wouldn’t be in this shape!” There’s a moment when Sonny cools down, tries to backtrack what he says, before apologizing. Tom isn’t having it.

Now watch Vincenzo battle racism and an impulsive, brash, violent brother. He is a lawyer, yes, but that’s most likely what they groomed him to be after he turned to the Mafia to torture and kill his foster parents’ murderer. It probably wasn’t his choice, much like it probably wasn’t Tom’s choice, to become consigliere: it was just the only option they knew, to give back to the Family that took them in. It was for their survival in a world where they’re outnumbered and ostracized for their race, and their advice (Vincenzo criticizing Paolo for killing women and children vs. Tom criticizing Sonny’s impulsiveness) is ignored by those who still see them as outsiders, even after the Don/Capo accepted them into their families.

The New Don

OKAY SO. I didn’t think Park Jae-Bum would go ALL out on the Godfather references - I thought it would end with the first episode/how they built Vincenzo’s character to become a direct mirror to how Tom Hagen was a foreigner adopted into the family. But the conversation with Park Seok-Do to get Vincenzo to call him hyung, Seok-Do calling him Michael Corleone, and the Godfather theme playing in the background - made me go absolutely insane.

So here’s the deal about Michael. First, Michael before his father’s attempted assassination:

Is a sweet, patriotic boy who just came back from the war (WWII)

Has a girlfriend named Kay who he promises he won’t get involved with the family business

The Lighter

Then his father almost dies, and Michael is pulled into the business. He protects his father when he’s healing in the hospital against hired guns from a rival family. There’s an excellent scene analysis on Youtube (1:15) about how just one simple two second frame shows that while one of his father’s friends nervous, and yet Michael — who has, arguably, fought in a war — isn’t nervous at all, which foreshadows his level-headedness and cold cruelty when he becomes the new Don. How, you ask, do we know? WELL.

The hired bodyguard can’t seem to ignite his lighter because of his nervousness. Michael, calm and collected, takes the lighter and ignites it from him.

*distant screaming*

Vincenzo’s lighter has always been his go-to tool to calm him down, to collect himself, to prepare for war. It’s the sound that makes him think. It’s poetic that it’s also Michael’s way of telling the audience that he is ready for a war between Mafia families.

The Lovelife

So after protecting his father, Tom Hagen and Sonny are discussing how to deal with the rival family. Michael himself volunteers to murder them by shooting them at point-blank range at a restaurant. He then flees the country, after taking care of his father’s business, much like how Vincenzo leaves Italy after Fabio’s death. Michael goes to Sicily, where his father was born, while Vincenzo returns to Korea.

In Sicily, Michael falls in love and gets married to a Sicilian woman named Apollonia. Like Michael, Vincenzo returns to his roots and falls in love with a woman who supports his position as a part of a Mafia Family and accepts him. (Side note, Michael’s marriage is problematic in and of itself, he literally didn’t say a word to Kay about anything, but anyway)

However, back home, there are problems in the family: Sonny is brash and arrogant, and gets killed by the rival family. Just when Michael is informed and asked to come home, Apollonia is also killed in a car bomb. You can imagine why I was concerned for Chayoung’s life at one point of the series before I realized Park Jae-Bum was too good for that.

But here’s where Vincenzo diverges from Michael, and what makes Chayoung superior to Apollonia and Kay’s characters.

Michael goes home a changed person. Apollonia’s and his brother’s deaths are the final nails in the coffin for him: there’s no going back and not taking part in the family business. He is the only option to become the new Don. When he gets back, he gives Kay empty promises about becoming the new Don to make his father’s empire clean and stop the corruption. She believes him and agrees to marry him.

Famously, the last scene of the first movie is Michael being crowned the new Don (people kissing his hand and asking for his favor) as Kay watches from the other room before the door closes in her face. His favorite line to Kay is, “Don’t ask me about my business.” (This scene always gives me chills!!!)

While Michael starts off kind-hearted and open, someone who sees his family’s business as corrupt and unapproachable, Vincenzo is already a hybrid of Michael and Tom when we meet him. It is, as SJK said in his recent interview, an opening and softening of his character: the complete opposite of Michael’s character development.

Apollonia barely has three lines in the movie and barely has any role but to be the woman Michael falls in love with and to represent the idea of him staying in Sicily and not moving back to take over the family. She is an ideal Sicilian wife who understands how the family business works. His American girlfriend Kay, on the other hand, can never accept this Sicilian part of Michael. He shuts the door on her and never lets her in on anything that he’s doing, and eventually, Kay wants no part in the marriage, either.

Chayoung is stronger than Apollonia in that she takes the center stage of Vincenzo’s masterplan. She is allowed more agency and access into Vincenzo’s world than Kay is into Michael’s world, because Vincenzo considers her his partner, while Michael considered Kay to be his subordinate. 

The fact that Vincenzo begins as post-Sicily Michael makes the show so satisfying to watch if you’ve seen The Godfather. Vincenzo is a story where a woman gains power and respect from her Mafia partner, and a man forced into violence and ruthlessness finds someone who accepts that part of him wholeheartedly. The Godfather ultimately ends in heartbreak and tragedy, but Vincenzo’s ending is hopeful and fulfilling for both of our main leads. They have an accepting, powerful love that Michael does not have with anyone.

Betrayals by Brothers

Last one (for now)! In the second movie, Fredo betrays Michael to a rival business partner, which almost leads to his assassination. When he finds out it was him, Michael keeps him alive until their mother passes away before ordering his men to kill him. (Also by now Michael and Kay have two children who are close with Fredo so like rip childhood trauma when your father murders your uncle ahahahahah)

SO ANYWAY this part has haunted me for days. When Paolo betrays Vincenzo the second time, why doesn’t he kill him? Is he waiting for Fabio’s wife to pass away? Does Fabio even have a wife? Did Vincenzo respect her as he respected Fabio? I HAVE SO MANY QUESTIONS.

Or maybe it’s because he’s different from Michael: the second movie confirmed that Michael has become so cold-hearted that he doesn’t think of his family when he makes decisions, whether that’s killing his own brother or divorcing Kay. For Vincenzo, family is the most important thing in the world. For Michael, the Corleone family becomes just a business to run.

In other words, it goes to show that Vincenzo’s worst self-deprecating thought — that villains don’t deserve to love, because love is just an asset to them — is proven wrong for him through his love for Chayoung, the Geumga Plaza Family, and even the Cassano Family, while it is proven right for Michael.

OKAY that’s it for now. Thanks for listening. Literally if you have any questions about the Godfather let me know because I could talk about it for hours.

[cryhardanddanceharder]

Andy’s headcanons because we need to talk more about her:

She’s 6732 years old. She says she doesn’t remember her age, and it might be true, maybe she forgot to keep counting, but she thinks she’s somewhere between 6500 - 7000.

She’s a warrior since she’s a teenager, because the time she was borned was the “eye for eye, teeth for teeth” period.

She’s more an action person than a word person, because her first language was everything related to gestual actions. She can read body language better than anyone, so she can make you feel the more comfortable or uncomfortable you ever felt in your life depends the situation. She does little actions to show her love.

She’s ambidextrous. She can use her weapons perfectly with each one of her hands. (and later write too)

She’s been worshipped as a goddess at least in two or threes comunities she’s been part of. She actually thought she was a goddess at the beginning, because she was the only one who couldn’t die. But then, when years passes and she’s the only one not dying, but she loses all the people she loves and trascend generation after generation, she stops thinking it like a goddess thing and starts seeing it as a curse.

She used to wear clothes made of extinct animals skin, necklaces made with teeth, flowers and horns crowns.

When she was a goddess she had slaves, but once she overcome her goddess complex and realises how wrong it is (because all humans are equal, they all die no matter their social status, their nationality, their religion, skin color, gender, sexual preferences) she stops it. She starts fighting against it, every time she can. She still fight against it in the present time (human trafficking). 

I feel like she could also been a slave or prisoner in some period time. Maybe as a punnish from her inmortality? Because mortals see her as a threat?

She loves storytelling and stargazing. That’s why in present time she loves to go camping, she loves sleeping outside. She’s so old that even she had seen the sky change. The stars constellations changes but she learns those changes. There is something comforting about stargazing, so she keeps doing it.

She has very good location sense. She can always find the way to get to where she wants to go.

She’s been there when the first language was created, that’s why it’s easy for her to learn new languages. 

She was there when the pyramids of Egypt were built, maybe she worked in the construiction of one of them (?

She’s gender fluid and bisexual (or could be pansexual).

She knew the Sahara dessert before it becomes a dessert. She knew it with trees and vegetation.

She loves horses more than (most) people. 

 She was the lider of the scythians.

Her name “Andromache” comes from all the legends, that actually are true. She’s the amazon who defeated Heracles and once upon a time she was married to Hector of Troy.

She was the one who trained the amazon warriors on how to be warriors.

She was a gladiator for some time and had fights in the roman colliseum.

She writes mixing languages, because why not? That’s how her thoughts are anyway, in mixing languages. “Let’s put this word in scythian, and that one in greek, and the other in saumerian or tamil, and let’s finish in italian because italy it’s actually the country i am at the moment”.

When she starts dreaming about Quynh she thinks she’s crazy, untill she starts dreaming about Lykon too. She tried to indentify wich languages they speak in the dreams, so she could learn them before meeting them. 

She met Jesus once. She doesn’t find him that special. He didn’t come back to life, at least not in the way inmortals do.

Lykon, Quynh and her have a chaotic dynamic. They always die to save the others, to save them from the pain; wich in some way it’s ridiculous because they are all inmortal. But they always fight about it like children.

She can speak all the languages (even those that are extinct), only she sometimes forget how to speak in some of them, but remembers once she hears someone speaking it.

She knows more way to kill than entire armies will ever learn. 

She can use any kind and type of weapon. She’s as good as archer as Quynh and as good as a sniper as Nicky, but if she can choose another weapon she will do because she prefers hand and hand combat. 

She feels every death. She might have been a warrior all her life, but she doesn’t take pleassure on killing. We can see that in the church scene, her face tells us all how much it takes from her to be that lethal.

She’s very protective of the others inmortals. They are her family. And she feels like she has to protect them, because she has been alone for so long that she doesn’t want to take chances on that ever happening again. 

She’s become more protective after Lykon’s death, because now they know even them don’t last forever. She wants to protect the time she has with the other and thinks the best way to do it is to be the one who always goes first. 

She hates to dream about Nicolo and Yusuf at the begining because it hurts her to see them killing each other. For someone who has been alone for so long, it hurts to see that. Because for her they are lucky to have started their inmortality together.

Lots of deaths and trauma. She probably been raped at least once. 

She died from dehydratation and hunger more times that she can count. That’s why she’s not picky with food, she’s happy as long there is something in front of her to eat. She can cook good enough, but she’s not fan of doing it.

She died from every tipe of weapon: spears, swords, arrows, axes, throwing stones, daggers, knives, cannons, guns, grenades, bombs. Also she died from being dismembered, from being hanged and burn alive.

Once Quynh’s is taken to her ocean prison, Andy was tortured and burned alive. They chose water methods for Quynh and fire methods for Andy.

She have tried to kill herself sometimes when she was depressed. They way i see it probably three times: one when she found out her inmortality and wanted to see how it worked, two when she lose her goddess complex and was tired of being alone for so long, and three after she realised that finding Quynh was impossible.

She spent lot of years looking for Quynh with Joe and Nicky, untill they realised it’s an impossible mission. She still checks new technological inventions and andvances to see if they have a chance. But as long as she knows it’s impossible and technology doesn’t help, even the marines and ocean experts says it would be easier to find something in the moon than in the bottom of the ocean.

The only time she prayed in her life was to ask for Quynh’s death, so she would stop suffering from constantly drowning. And for hers, because she doesn’t want to keep living without Quynh.

She keeps Quynh’s belongings saved in one of her fav caves.

She likes wearing things from the other inmortals because it gives her comfort and help her feel ground. She always wears Quynh’s necklace. And sometimes she wears Joe’s cap, Nicky’s hoodie, Booker’s jackets. She also shares t-shirts with them, or more like stole t-shirts from them.

Wars she probably fighted in: Achaemenid conquest of the Indus Valley, Corsica civil war, war between Corinth and Corzira, Expedition of the Ten Thousand, Latin wars, First Peloponnesian War, First medical war, Thasos Rebellion, Roman-Etruscan wars, Samos War, Second medical war, Wars of Veii, Trojan war, Sicilian wars, Alexander The Great  conquest of Persia, An Lushan Rebellion,  Mongol Conquests, Conquests of Tamerlane, Qing dynasty conquest of Ming dynasty, Dungan revolt, Hundred Years’ War, World War I, Russian Civil War, Ten Years’ War, World War II, Vietnam War, Afghanistan War.

Some modern revolutions and independence processes she possibly was/could be: French Revolution, Haitian independence, USA independence, Russian Revolution, Cuba revolution, LATAM independences, India independence, Australia independence, New Zeland Independence, Africans independences.

She died from electrocution, trying to find out how electricity works.

She died learning to drive a car and learning to pilot a plain. 

In World War II she was a pilot of the night witches.

Baklava and really anything that is sweet are her comfort food.

The first time she had ice cream she became a fan and only eat ice cream for like an entire year.

She likes percussion music: all types of drums, cymballs, tambourine, maracas, bongos, castanets.  

She likes theater more than cinema. 

She likes tea more than coffee. 

She can sleep everywhere. A chair? Good. The floor? Good. The earth and grass in the middle of nowhere? Good. A cave? Good. A tree? Good. The train. Good. A Car? Good. The bus? Good. A plain? Good. The couch? Good. An armchair? Good. All is good. Sleep when you can moto is big on her, because beds are a modern concept she still can’t fully incorporate. And without Quynh doesn’t feel like doing it. 

She’s very good on learning new things because she’s used to everything constantly changing. And when she finds something hard to learn she is patient, after all she has all the time on the world to learn it and master it (she’s kinda perfectionist).

She’s okay with technology, she could understand more if she wanted to. But she let’s Booker have that place and handle it, because she sense he needs to have something as his responsability to feel he’s useful to the team.

There’s personal things (clothes, weapons, paintings) of her in lot of museums. Joe and Nicky would try to recover some things of her (and them) from time to time.

Hard on the outside, soft on the inside. Ironic and dark humor.

She’s the best at dissapearing when the team takes time out of their missions, if she doesn’t want to be found there is no way you could find her.

She’s been nomad most of her life. She can’t stop moving. She loves traveling with no destination in mind, just for the act of it.

She gives up sometimes because she’s old and she’s tired, but if you give her a good reason to keep fighting she’s all in. 

She has the biggest heart (even if she tries to hide it) and actually loves humanity, if not she wouldn’t have fight for so long… and still does. 

(if you want to read more headcanons: here are the ones i have for Quynh)

[allscalliepsds]

RP GUIDE: TIPS FOR WRITING ITALIANS CHARACTERS!

So, from one Italian roleplayer, check this list for creating credible Italians fictional characters. I don’t know if you’re ever gonna read this post, but let’s try. Aaaand, if it works maybe one day I’ll do a list of italian faceclaims, or italian names and surnames. (Obviously, I’m not used to writing in english. Ignore my mistakes, lol)

• We have very different features. We’re not all tanned, with brown eyes and brown hair. My best friend is pale as hell and blonde like a freaking scandinavian. So we have lighter skin, darker skin, we’re tall, very short, redheads. And we have different cultures here! You can use asian faceclaims, black faceclaims, tunisian faceclaims... your character can have any kind of origin and still have the italian citienzship.

• Food is important. And by saying this I do not only mean that things like pineapple pizza or carbonara with pancetta are unacceptable! I mean that we EAT together. Most of Italians families have lunch together daily, same happens for dinner. Eating means spending time with family and friends. On sundays a lot of families reunite and have lunch with other relatives like grandparents or uncles, without even being on holiday time. We do not need Christmas or Easter to have lunch with relatives. Talking more about food: every place has its own speciliaties, so look for them when creating a character.

• Talking about food, WE DO NOT SHARE PIZZAAAA! Okay, maybe we do, sometimes, but it’s different. I’ve seen a lot of American tv shows or movies where they order just one pizza for four family members. Like, what?? Here in Italy most of the times we have one pizza per person. Because Italian pizza is obviously better and lighter, so you don’t get your belly full just by eating two slices unless you’re 5 y/o.

• We might be spending a lot of time complaining about our country and what doesn’t work, but in reality we are very proud and sometimes a lot patriotic. You know what really gets me super mad? Scrolling tik tok and seeing Americans that call themselves ITALIANS just because their grandma’s uncle was from Salento. No the hell no, that’s not how it works. You’re not Italian you cunt. 

• We’re a little bit a cliché, I gotta give you that. Sometimes more than a little bit. When quarantine/lockdown started here in Italy it was sooo hard finding flour and baking powder at the supermarket. And it’s not just a Super Mario thing: we do actually say mamma mia! But we’re not all the same. Please do not consider always the same kind of relatives: conservative religious parents with that grandma that always cooks a lot of stuff and blablabla. Think out of the box!

• Talking about grandmas: if you wanna follow that cliché of the Italian grandma that cooks and makes you eat until you pass out, it’s fine. You can do this. One of my grandma is like this and even though we have lunch in like four people she’s still gonna cook for an entire army. But if you don’t wanna do that, then don’t. My other grandma does not know how to cook and so she doesn’t that much. It’s fine, no one’s gonna revoke your character’s Italian citizenship if you don’t stick to those basic clichés we’re tired of.

• Please, look for a map. Not every Italian lives by the sea, it isn’t always sunny and hot and you don’t always feel in the right mood for a gelato. The northern part of Italy is colder and there aren’t as much bathing areas. Even if your characters lives or is from Sicily ( which is where I’m from ), it isn’t sure that he’s gonna have the beach next to his house. I’m a lucky person, in jenuary from my balcony I can see the sea on my right and the vulcano Etna covered by snow on my left. But it depends, so choose a city and look for it.

• We have dialects. So, let me try to be clear. Italy is a country divided into 20 regions, okay? Sicily is a region of Italy, Lazio ( where Rome is, to be clear ) is another Italian region. The official language is obviously Italian. So since I’m from Sicily, with a girl from Lazio/Rome I’m gonna speak Italian. But, inside the regions, there are dialects. Since I’m sicilian my dialect is called siciliano, and it’s influenced from all the past invasions. Sicily was conquered by arabs, and arabs also conquered Spain which is why some words in siciliano are similar to spanish words. Even though we have dialects we can understand each other pretty well. Southern dialects are all pretty similar, for example. But I gotta be honest, I don’t understand a single words in northern dialects. If you wanna stick to that grandma cliché I mentioned before, then add the dialect to it. Grandparents speak dialects. Generally speaking, old people speak dialects way more than the younger ones. Unfortunately it’s a culture that is starting to disappear.

• Please, dress properly. You’re never gonna see a true Italian walk out of his own house in his pajamas and with slippers, that only happens in nightmares. We’re classy. And by saying this I do not mean that we dress Dolce&Gabbana and Gucci. We don’t. I mean, rich people do, they’re lucky enough. So you do not need to mention important and expensive brands. We’re not all rich. Or at least I’m not as I wish. Last thing: it’s VersacE, not Versaci.

• Italy is (unfortunately) a pretty religious country. You know, we have the Vatican here. The most common religion here is Christianity. Not everyone practise it, and not everyone goes at the Church every sunday. 

• ROME AND MILAN AREN’T THE ONLY TWO ITALIAN CITIEESSS! I know, they’re the most known, Rome is beautiful and in Milan there’s the fashion week, I get that. But Italy is full of beautiful places. Maybe you don’t wanna choose unknown little towns with less then 3.000 habitants, but be original.

• There isn’t a large representation of Italy outside our country, so you might know very few of how we live here and what our habits are. Let me do just a small list of things:

- At 18 years old you are old enough to take your driving license, your car, and to drink. Obviously do not do everything together, lol. But you can buy alcool at 18 and go to the clubs.

- We kiss. If you’re my friend I’m gonna give you two kisses on the cheeks to say hi and to say goodbye. Even if you’re not my friend but you are with my friends, I’ll do that to be polite. And sometimes It can be pretty boring, but If I’m leaving a room with 12 people I (more or less) know I’m gonna kiss all of those 12 people.

- We have school from monday to saturday, mostly from 8 am to 13 pm. So we do not spend the afternoons at school like Americans do, and we do not have all those extracurricular activities and sports.

- We do not use snapchat anymore, while I know that it’s still a thing somewhere else. And for texting we mostly use Whatsapp and Telegram. Not iMessage because not everyone has an iPhone (they cost a little bit more, here), and neither we use Messanger that much.

- We do study a lot of art, history and literature. They’re not optional subjects. And we really praise our artistic patrimony. You can’t live here and study in Italy and then don’t know how to recognize a piece of art of DaVinci, Michelangelo, Botticelli or Caravaggio. If you’re Italian you know who Dante is and that he wrote The Divine Comedy.

- I don’t know how it is in the rest of the world, but when we go out (like, at night??) we have this thing of going downtown. So you can go to a restaurant with your friends for dinner or you can go out after dinner and just meet your friends at a square, grab a beer at the nearest bar and sit on a bench or on the stairs of something that faces that square and even stay there all night. It might sound strange, but that’s how it works and in towns where there are a lot of young people or university students those squares and those bars next to them are always full of people. Here’s an example.

[infinitelytheheartexpands]

My laptop is currently updating, so while I have that working in the background, I wanted to share a series of six short, mostly-opera-inspired autobiographical narratives/prose poems I wrote last April and May:

I would kill to have some wine right now.

There is a bottle of red wine sitting on the kitchen counter. My father bought it when he went to the store the other day─ don’t ask me what day it was, I don’t remember, the days already blend together as is─ and I have considered pouring even just a little bit into a glass and downing it.

And then proceeding to throw the glass against the wall and shatter it.

I’ve been contemplating doing that a lot lately.

True, I would kill to have some wine, but if I did go ahead and pour even just a little bit into a glass, and down it, and possibly then proceed to throw the glass against the wall and shatter it, I would most likely be killed before I had the chance to kill.

Kill or be killed. We are all trying our very best to do neither these days, but it happens anyway.

I am sixteen years old. As I start writing this, I am nine days away from turning seventeen. For me, alcohol consumption is thus not only not approved by the Parents, but also illegal. But then again, so is voting blue in the 2020 US Presidential election. That is also something neither approved by the Parents nor legal for me. But I digress.

Thirty-one, twenty-nine, thirty-one again, sixteen now, that makes sixty, ninety-one, one hundred and seven days since I watched one of my classmates get drunk at a New Year’s Eve party. She downed a whole bottle of peach wine (I didn’t even know that was a thing) and looked at me with her red eyes and silver-sequined halter top and curly dark brown hair in a high ponytail. You’re more beautiful than Jesus she told me and you’ll go to the moon on a rocketship. I laughed.

I laugh when something’s so unexpected I can’t do anything else. I laughed when I first heard Notre Dame Cathedral had caught fire because it seemed so ludicrous that I couldn’t do anything else. Notre Dame on fire? You can’t be serious, it can’t be serious.

It was serious.

I’m not sure if she was.

A little part of me wishes she were.

When I was in sixth grade, I told the same girl I thought her hair was luscious. Sixth-grade me didn’t know the word had a sexual connotation; the girl did and was offended.

Maybe a little part of me did know, somehow.

***

As I write this next part, I am working on a paper about state-sponsored censorship. I have picked this topic because it is a fascinating topic, it fits the requirements for the paper─ write about a major global problem─, and because I feel censored myself.

Expressing anything that conflicts with the Parents’ thoughts and opinions is strictly forbidden. If you are different, you are ostracized. I am different, so I am ostracized.

I am too proud, too strong to succumb. But it still hurts.

As I write this, I am listening to Act IV of Rossini’s Guillaume Tell, an opera about liberation, appropriate for both me and my paper. At this moment, Hedwige is calling on God, ‘the hope of the hopeless’, to save her husband and break the yoke of oppression that binds Switzerland.

It’s very nice, and the sentiment is good and true, and it works for her and Mathilde and Jemmy and the Swiss women, but it does not work for me. I lost my faith a long time ago. Ironically, it is French grand opéra, the genre to which Guillaume Tell belongs, that is partially responsible for my loss of faith.

It was impossible for me to watch Verdi’s Don Carlos for the first time in eighth grade and Meyerbeer’s Les Huguenots in tenth and not be horrified by the things people do in the name of religion, to kill people senselessly just because they believe slightly differently than them─ even their own daughters (as is the finale of Les Huguenots).

How can a good God allow such things?

Do I realize these works are fictional? Yes. But do I know they are based on history, on real events? Yes.

“These things are meant to happen; they are all in God’s plan.” Well, can God just not find another way to make what’s meant to happen happen? I cannot believe in a God that allows these things to happen. To say that an all-powerful, all-knowing, all-good God who can allow such things exists is a lie.

***

Now that Guillaume Tell is over, I am listening to another grand opéra, Les vepres siciliennes, albeit in its Italian version, I vespri siciliani. Another opera about occupation and liberation, but a liberation that comes at a horrible cost: the entire French ruling class is massacred by the Sicilians at the end of the opera.

If I didn’t care, I would stage my own personal ‘massacre’: I would turn my back, walk out the front door with the possessions I most needed to survive on my own, and never come back.

But I do care. They may not care, but I do.

One of my greatest curses is that I care about what I care about too much. My heart is too deep to not care.

There are some battles that are not worth being fought.

If a massacre is your only recourse to accomplish something, perhaps you should not do that thing. Or, at least try to find another way.

Right now, I am at the beginning of Act III, at Monforte’s aria “In braccio alle dovizie”. In the original French, it’s called “Au sein de la puissance”. At the breast of power.

Monforte is the hated French governor of Sicily, the revolutionaries’ primary target. When he sings this, he has just learned that one of the main revolutionaries, Arrigo, is his long-lost illegitimate son.

By rape.

‘The breast of power’ indeed.

Just like with a massacre, if rape is your only recourse to accomplish something, perhaps you should not do that thing either.

Just a thought.

I’m a woman. What do I know, in the eyes of many out there?

One of my friends said that Verdi gave Monforte his just deserts, but also overly beautiful music. “He couldn’t help it, though, not when his Dad Music Instincts were activated.”

I feel guilty listening to the aria, even though it is truly a beautiful piece and the recording I’m listening to─ a 1989 recording from the Teatro alla Scala, with Giorgio Zancanaro as Monforte─ is absolutely gorgeous.

Can we separate the music from the character, the art from the artist? I do not know. Everyone has something utterly heinous to someone else. Once we stop separating the art from the artist, where do we begin again? And yet, I do not want to support people who do horrible things to others.

Perhaps it is all relative.

Perhaps everything is.

Perhaps nothing is absolute at all.

That frightens me.

***

Today is Rome’s 2,773rd birthday. As a six-year Latin student and future classics and history double-major, this is cause for celebration.

If things were normal and I were at school, my Latin teacher would bring birthday cake for all the Latin students, and we’d eat it and sing “Felix dies natalis, Roma”. Happy Birthday, Rome.

But things are not normal, and I’m at home multitasking between this and a presentation script for that paper, and still listening to I vespri siciliani.

Now I’m at the end of Act IV. Everyone is celebrating the impending marriage of Arrigo to Duchess Elena, one of the Sicilian revolutionary leaders. Sicilian and French, united at last. Everything is set to work out.

But there’s still Giovanni da Procida, the other major revolutionary leader, who is hellbent on revenge. He sees this wedding as the perfect opportunity to strike down the French once and for all.

And thus, the massacre.

Everything can be set to work out, but there is always something that comes up. A massacre, a pandemic, a set of internal troubles that bring a proud empire to its ruin.

Now I’m in Act V, at Elena’s bolero ‘Merce, dilette amiche’. She has no idea about Procida’s plans; she’s just excited to marry Arrigo and bring peace to her beloved Sicily at last. I think I’m going to change operas again after this is over; the act is rather uneven (though I still very much like it) and I would prefer not to listen to everything falling apart today.

I debate listening to Berlioz’s Les Troyens, the closest thing to an opera about the founding of Rome and a masterpiece itself. But there is still too much about collateral damage for my tastes today: one kingdom falls and another loses its benevolent queen, all in the name of a supposedly greater destiny. And that’s just based on the first third of the Aeneid. I wrote an essay about that first third once for English class, using that thesis; my English teacher said it was one of the best essays he’d ever read. But I digress.

After a quick refresher on the synopsis, I decide to change styles and go with a story from the heyday of the Roman Empire: Handel’s Agrippina. Lots of plotting, but everyone gets what they want in the end and it ends happily for all. No collateral damage here. I am weary of that.

Sometimes I feel like collateral damage.

It’s tough to remember that you’re the master of your own story, not just a side character or a scapegoat in so many others’.

Everyone in this opera knows they’re the masters. That’s the problem. But it ultimately works out.

I want nothing more than for it to work out for me. It hasn’t yet.

But I have a feeling it will.

***

I got maybe halfway through the first act of Agrippina yesterday. I love Baroque opera, but I guess only in small doses.

No matter.

Today I’m listening to the beginning of Act II of Verdi’s Don Carlo. This is the fourth time in a row I’ve listened to it.

I read John Green’s Turtles All The Way Down recently. The main character frequently finds herself stuck in ‘thought spirals’, where she keeps thinking more and more about the same thing. I have those too, although I tend to picture my mind more as a bullet train: it always moves hundreds of miles an hour, faster than I can control, from one thought to the next. I constantly find myself retracing the figurative map of my mind to figure out what I was thinking about, what I need to remember but simply cannot. And it’s like my mind keeps returning to the same stations a lot; these are my equivalent to the spirals.

This opera, this moment, is one of my frequent stations.

Make that five times in a row now. This will be the last, I promise myself.

In this scene, a group of monks chant, praying for the rest of the dead Emperor Charles V, whom, I note with a smile, was himself a character in one of Verdi’s earliest operas, Ernani. In that opera, he sings an aria where he confronts his destiny as the next Holy Roman Emperor. My legacy will live throughout the ages, he sings.

Including in two different Verdi operas.

But there I go again on another bullet-train route.

The monks are singing now, their stark minor-major shifts making me feel as if I am there, in the cloister of San Yuste or in any of the great cathedrals of Spain, looking up into the vaults of the ceiling, of heaven itself, seemingly. The only lights come from candles in my mental picture, and I gaze up, my head uncovered, my mind only partially spellbound, more by the visual beauty and the history than by any religious feeling.

I am a heathen.

I have only been inside a Catholic church once, when I was fourteen; it was an impromptu side trip during a school-sponsored tour of colleges in St. Louis. One of the chaperones said the Cathedral Basilica had can’t-miss art, and thus managed to get a large section of the attendees to come with her.

She was right. It was one of the most beautiful places I’d ever seen. And that was all I thought.

Okay, that’s a lie. I did wonder what it would be like to be able to have faith again, to be able to kneel in one of the pews, and pray, and believe, as my ancestors have done before me; after all, if religion were something you inherited in your blood, then I would be half-Catholic.

But I cannot kneel and pray and believe.

In this scene, one of the monks claims that Charles V fell because he was too proud, because he believed that he was greater than God. If a god exists, I do not claim to be greater than them. I am not perfect, not by a long shot.

He did not die because he did not believe in God. He died because everyone dies, even those who are supposedly the greatest of us.

God alone is great, the monk proclaims. I do not, cannot believe that. We are all great to begin with, but some of us are led to believe we are not.

We are the masters. I must remember that.

And I realize that I have let it play a sixth time.

Sometimes I am not the master of my own mind.

***

The sixth time was the last.

Now I am at the end of the act, listening to the showdown between Filippo II, King of Spain, and Rodrigo, Marquis di Posa. Filippo is the guardian of the way things are; Verdi called Rodrigo an anachronism, and indeed, he was the only principal character who never existed.

Rodrigo, he said, was at least two centuries ahead of his time.

I don’t know what exactly Verdi’s feelings were about this, but personally, I do not think this is a bad thing. Progressivism is often progressivism in any age.

At any rate, Rodrigo, who has recently returned from Spanish-held Flanders, has taken his chance─ a rare private meeting with the King, who is confused as to why Rodrigo has never approached him for favors like all the other courtiers─ to confront him about the horrific conditions of Flanders and its people. Give them liberty, he pleads.

No. I have given them the same peace I have given Spain.

A horrible peace!, Rodrigo fires back. The peace of the tomb!

We should not have to suffer until death.

Let history not say of you, “He was a Nero.” A murderer of innocents, a torturer of the defenseless, an occupier, a denier of liberty─ perhaps the greatest torture of all.

I once watched a video in which a director said, “To live in an occupied country is to live only half a life.” I would say that to live in an occupied country, or even any place where you cannot be free, cannot live fully as yourself, is not even that. It is to barely live at all. It is to merely have a beating heart and breath.

To live in spite of this, to simply be as you wish, is the ultimate act of defiance.

[legallyharrie]

BERLERMO ALTERNATIVE UNIVERVE : ART GALLERY IN PARIS

Hello,

I’m sharing with you my first Berlermo AU in wich Andrés is the owner of a art gallery in Paris. He met Martín who came to buy some paintings for his new place.

Sorry for the mistakes, I was tired when I wrote it and english is not my native language !

***

Since his primary childhood, Andrés has always been in love with art. It is the only way he has found to express his feelings. Art helps him to feels love, joy, sadness. Painting and sculptures are the only things to which he let his true self exposed. Even if Andrés is now in is forties, he never said “I love you” to someone. Not even to his parents, or to his little brother, Sergio, or to one of the five women he married. The fact is that Andrés is also extremely ill at ease with shows of affection.

After running the world for fifteen years as a consultant in Renaissance art, Andrés decide to settle five year ago in Paris and open his own art gallery. He found a little gem in the heart of the Marais, a fancy neighborhood of the French capital. Andrés decided to name it “La Galerie Berlin” in reference to Berlin, a city full of artists and in which is sell his first drawing.

In a lovely spring afternoon, a green-eyed man opened the door and cried out in a broken French “ Bonjour !”. A big smile was now invading Andrés’ face. The man was slightly younger than him and seemed very dynamic. He also immediately recognized his Argentinian accent.

“ Buenas Tardes amigo !” Andrés said.

« I’m Martin Berrote. I am an Argentinian engineer sent to Paris for a one-year mission. I lost myself in the neighborhood and then I saw your store front. Could you help me to select some painting, I really need to garnish my apartment! “

Martin was a very talkative person. During his speech, he looked Andrés straight in the eyes with his two-sapphire iris. His accent was also very melodious, and you can hear Italian intonations.

It needed some seconds for Andrés to come back to his senses. He coughed in his fist before answering to Martin.

“Nice to meet you Martin. I’m Andrés De Fonollosa. I’m a Spanish art expert, established for five years in Paris…” without stopping talking, Andrés moved with a rare elegance between the multiples sculptures, glass boxes and showed to Martin every painting.

Even if to them it seemed like only ten minutes have passed, the two men talked about lives for two hours straight. Martin’s childhood in Buenos Aires, the violence of his father, Andrés’ travels, and his unperishable memory of Argentine, his history of art studies. They found a lot of common in each other.

After this long discussion, Martin choose three paintings all of them were abstract art. Vivid colors. Anarchic paintbrushes. It was a pretty realistic representation of his mindset and his thoughts. As nature gifted him with a great intelligence, it was also born with a brain fill with ideas and unable to rest for more than thirty seconds.

“Are you free tonight?” Martin asked.

“Hmm. I just divorced from my fifth wife some weeks ago and I have only a cat at home. So, I guess that I have nothing planned. Why?

“Would you do me the favor to take a drink? Some friends told me that The Marais was full of bars and places to go out.”

At this moment, Andrés was not able yet to put words on what he was feeling but he was mesmerized by this Argentinian guy. It was a magnetic force, something that no one could see. It was unusual, unique, for Andrés to be this confused.

“Of course. Just give five minutes to close the gallery. Let me store your paintings there and I will help you later to grab them to your place.”

A soft wind was now diving into the streets of Paris. The two men were giggling in their way to a little bar. It was crowdy and filled with pride flags and rainbow crosswalks. Even if it was a fancy neighborhood, Andrés preferred the chic of Saint-Germain-Des-Près. They both sat inside a little pub and ordered tapas with a pricy bottle of wine that Andrés recommended to Martin. If he had had the choice Martin would have only ordered a regular beer but he could not disappoint his new friend. They continued to talk about themselves, the highs and downs of each other lives. Martin confess to Andrés how disastrous and toxic was his last relationship with a Sicilian guy. Andrés reviewed his five weddings, all of them sold by a divorce. He admitted to Martin that he really loved women but in the end that he never understood them. He covered them with flowers, luxurious hotels, and jewelries but it seemed that it was not enough for them.

At several moments, they both stopped talking and stare each other in the eyes. But at no time, it became weird. They both needed calm. In these silences, both of them could red the other thoughts. It’s been less than half a day since they met but is seemed like they have known each other for years. Martin understood Andrés. Andrés understood Martin. They were born in different continents, shared a different culture but they shared the same point of view on most of subjects. For the first time in his life, Andrés opened up to someone, naturally. It was like a flood barrier had been broke.

Shortly after midnight Martin asked Andrés if he was not too tired to go back to his gallery and pick up home the paintings. Martin’s flat was 2 miles away from there. As the engineer he was, Martin had a secret plan in mind.

During the way back to the gallery and his place, Martin became quite touchy with Andrés. He touched his arm and then he started to put a hand on his back. Andrés didn’t objected and didn’t moved either. He thought that the feeling was pleasant and showed a knowing smile.

After climbing the four floors which separate the street from Martin’s place, the little Argentinian offered to Andrés a tour. Immediately, Andrés argued with Martin about which walls the paintings should be hang on. At the end, they decided that two of them would be perfect in the hall. The largest one will take its place upon Martin’s bed.

Martin was leaning to the framing of the bedroom’s door staring at Andrés four feet away. Now, they both had sleepy eyes. Today had been intense but none of them have the intention to end it now.

Even though Martin was not a shy person, his arms were full of goosebumps. On top of that, the little butterfly he started to feel sooner did not stopped to grow in his stomach. In fact, thousands of butterflies were now flying in his body. Before, Martin never believe in love at first sight. He was a bit misogynistic and, in his mind, it was for girls and for fairy tales. What he did not know yet is that the supposedly straight men, five times married to women, was also devoured with strange butterflies. And he that he was submerged by the same sensation even if he tries his best to burry it. In any way, Andrés thought that he was uncapable to have feeling for someone. To genuinely love someone.

Martin inhaled a big bowl of air and made a step. He looked Andrés straight in the eyes, smiling.

“Andrés. I wanted to thank you for this wonderful evening. Since I left my country, I felt very alone. But then, I met you and your crazy passion for art and beauty. I never get along so fast and so well with someone.”

“ I have to admit that it’s a first time for me too. Sorry if I bothered you with all my problems and everything. I never felt that connected with a total stranger. But I find in you someone who listens to me and who understand my point of view on life. “. Andrés said with glazed eyes. This, was a first time for him too. He never cried in front of someone. Maybe he even never cried since is childhood.

“ Cariño, you didn’t bothered me.”

Martin made a new step towards Andrés. Then, another one. The distance was now quite close between them. Martin gently wipe Andrés eyes with a comforting “shhh”. His hands were now wandering on Andrés’s cheeks and he brushed the back of his hair. For sure, since the moment he saw Andrés when he first entered in the gallery, Martin thought that Andrés was a very charming and seducing men. Now, he was staring at him and the distance between them was only of twenty centimeters. This close, with the moonlight transpiercing the curtains, Andrés was even more sexy and Martin craving to taste how soft was his lips.

In order to finally break the distance, Martin slowly approach his nose to Andrés’. Andrés raise a eyebrow at first, surprised by Martin boldness but then, they begun to rub each other nose. It was pure, it was soft, it was new. Time was frozen around them. Andrés closed his eyes; he was one hundred percent confident in Martin. He puts his hands on Martin’s hips and pull him closer to break the distance once and for all.

Shortly after, Martin gently kiss Andrés lips. As he imagined they were beautifully soft. Andrés responded to the kiss and their lips began to move synchronically and it became less and less innocent. No words were needed and like they both already learnt today, they didn’t had to speak to understand each other.

“There is no accidental meeting between soulmates”

[reblogthiscrapkay]

Persephone in “Genealogy of the Pagan Gods″ by Giovanni Boccaccio

Let me tell you a story about how I’m a witch.

So over the last week, I had been living at my best friend’s house because the power went out at my house. One day after watching a documentary about rare booksellers, we went outside to take a walk around and discuss it and there was a package on his deck. He opened it up and it was a book he had ordered by an ancestor of his, a famous Italian author (arguably the second most famous Italian author? he’s definitely been getting some recent press as his most famous work is about a plague). My friend is trying to get translated copies of every book written by him. Because my friend knows about my interest in mythology, he immediately handed me the book and I opened it up to a random page to see this header:

I showed him what I had done and my friend was like, “Well, she’s calling to you.”

So let’s talk about my girl Persephone (or Proserpina in this case) via her mom Demeter (Ceres in this case).

There is so much interesting detail here!

First of all we have Demeter lighting torches. Hecate is usually the one portrayed with torches because of her nature as a crossroads goddess but I’ve also seen a lot of ancient art (especially in Eleusis) of Persephone with torches too. Never Demeter.

The idea of Demeter confronting Hades (how? was he above or she below?) is not one I’ve really seen and the idea that she ate poppy seeds actually made me really excited. The poppy is one of the things associated with Demeter, and this is the first time I’ve seen it included as an element of this myth.

Also, I have to laugh at “Pluto’s pleasure garden.” Because I’m a child.

Demeter making Trip immortal seems to me to be a confusing mistake or possibly Boccaccio trying to make the myth make more sense. In the Hymn, it’s Demophon, not Trip, who she tries to make immortal. Since Trip is the more important one who works for Demeter, I could see why changing this would make narrative sense. Also never heard the idea of her KILLING a king. Also Trip and Demo were Celeus’ sons not “King Eleusis”? This whole thing is kind of a mess.

The mention of Demeter’s son makes sense because this is a chapter on her specifically. A lot of the time I’ve seen the son’s name as Plutus to try to distinguish him from Hades, but since Plutus and Hades are both gods of wealth, the whole thing has always been kind of a mess that clearly shows a bunch of myth meshing over time.

Then we get Boccaccio’s interpretation, which is some of the most interesting stuff because of how it reflects his time (medieval) and place (Italy, so he’s viewing this from an Ancient Roman and not Ancient Greek lens). According to Theodontius (who’s work is apparently mostly unknown except for liberal references made to his work by BigMouth here), Demeter is the wife of the king of Sicily, Sicanus, which makes sense when you consider that Sicily is considered Persephone’s island.

All his talk about the moon and layers of the earth is so unique. And his literary interpretation of Persephone as a crop! So cool, but also tells me as a reader so much about Boccaccio in a way. Through a modern lens and all the 20th/21st century texts I’ve read, we often see Persephone as a symbol of the life/death cycle or as a symbol of maturation (with seeds being more of a sexual thing or of choosing to grow up than an agricultural thing). It makes me wonder if the nature of Boccaccio’s society is more agrarian or maybe he’s more male-fixated and therefore less likely to think of Persephone in such female-focused ways, that makes the crop comparison make more sense to him. He also uses Ovid as justification, which tells me a lot (as someone who has some not-so-positive feelings for Ovid).

Orcus, as it turns out, was basically another Hades idea common in rural areas. Like Pluto, he’s Hades but also not. Orcus also was apparently more of a scary demon type underworld king, than Hades or Pluto. Orcus/Pluto/Hades is what happens when you have too many gods doing the same thing. THat gives me a thought actually. What is someone wrote a story where Orcus and Hades both exist but Orcus is the villain? Or even Orcus is an alter ego of Hades?

All that stuff about Trip is confusing to me. The mixing of mythologies is making my head hurt. 

Glauca I can’t even find anything on. I’ve heard of Glaucus, of course, but I’ve never heard of Hades having a twin sister who died young. Or of the idea that Hades was actually protected from Kronos. That was just Zeus. Hades was swallowed.

I respect Boccaccio citing his sources.

Super minor detail but I often hear of Hades having four, not three horses. I sometimes wonder if the four has something to do with a Biblical conflation.

Also, I have read Ovid (Metamorphosis, but then I don’t know what BigMouth is citing here) and I don’t remember Hades going above ground to check on his roofing, but I got a good chuckle out of it.

Hades having a kid named Veneration is SO Roman. The Romans had so many random gods like this that the Greeks didn’t, most famous being probably Fortuna, goddess of fortune. There’s a bit more on her at the end of the Pluto chapter (with more super Roman ideas and the detail of Persephone being barren, which is super ironic and totally possible):

Back to the main narrative on Hades: I also laughed at “Tricerebus.” And Tisiphone as a guardian of wealth instead of a Fury? Odd.

And then BigMouth’s going off with more interpretation. The idea that a combination of abundance (represented by Persephone) and wealth (represented by Hades) yields nothing 1. would be an interesting way to explain their lack of children and 2. again says a lot about Boccaccio’s perspective.

The notes on naming Hades are really interesting and connecting him with February and funeral rites. And then we have the world dividing and such.

So I used the index to look up more on Persephone specifically and found some other little mentions of her including one that said the Sirens where her companions and when they couldn’t find her, they were turned into marine monsters. We get this absolutely hilarious line explaining BigMouth’s opinion on this, “I think they were companions of Proserpina because by Proserpina is understood the abundance of Sicilian products, from which libidinous sexual craving is especially derived and the delights of food and leisure are supplied” (195). I read this line out loud to my friend because the side of his family related to Boccaccio is also Sicilian so at some point in the last 600 years, BigMouth’s descendants decided that the land of sexual craving and food is the place to be.

We also have the myth of Pirithous:

I have read versions where Persephone is the main one to stop him, Hades is the main one to stop him, and now Cerberus. Also leave it to a man to somehow have a weird moral to this story about manliness.

And finally, we have this incredibly odd tale that is both specifically Roman and also kind of exemplifies everything I’ve said before about how much the Romans messed with Greek mythology by just smushing everything together and then adding new gods from local cults:

“In fact I detest these riddles and ambiguities and gladly lay them aside” (331). You said it, BigMouth. I hope you’d be proud of your great-great-great-great-great-great-great-etc. nephew or son or whatever because he’s one of my favorite people.

[pillow-ghost-nan]

SPAMANO FANFICTION REC LIST

Because I’m a spamano trash and I think I’ve read way too many fanfictions than I should have.

I will try to keep this list updated. If you know some good story that isn’t here let me know. Also if there’s anything wrong with the sources feel free to message me too

Multichapter:

All of our flaws by lastdreamofmysoul

Antonio is a man whose world revolves around anyone but himself. Lovino is a man with dreams bigger than a job behind a drugstore counter. Antonio is broken; Lovino is incomplete. Will a chance meeting lead them to mending their cracks and finding their missing pieces? Human AU, trigger warning for self-harm. - Ongoing

Credo by Cameron Kennedy

AU, 1502. Fueled by revenge, Lovino Vargas hasn't failed an assassination job yet - but when a new Spanish captain comes to Rome, killing the unorthodox Antonio Carriedo might just be the death of him.

The lemon tree by StarsMadeinHeaven

AU Lovino didn't want to be a slave in that scary mansion. He needed to break free. The fight for independence, however, is a difficult path, and falling in love with the man that destroyed his life doesn't make things any easier.

This fanfiction is just absolutely beautiful. Everything is just 10/10

The Many Personalities of Spain by Writer-Girl-19

England casts a spell to rid himself of Spain. As expected it goes wrong; leaving Romano to deal with the many personalities of Spain. That sounds like a normal day for Romano, right? It would be if the personalities not had their own personifications. - Ongoing

And the Birds Sing No More by Burlesque Romantique

"Don't ever leave me." Lovino said nothing. He allowed the tense heaviness to settle among his shoulders, tighten his lungs, and spread between the space from where he stood to where Antonio was seated lethargically. Antonio's gaze sharpened. Lovino, inclining his head slightly, whispered, "I won't." Spamano, AU

Bottoms Up! by Sunny Day in February

Follow Lovino on his weird and, well, at least quite interesting trip around Europe in order to find out some of the greatest secrets ever about himself, Europe, tomato-shaped alarm clocks and the past of his lovely, but complicated Spanish partner.

This one is just hilarious. It is a bit silly but will definitely make you laugh from the beginning to end.

Softness and Light by betka23

AU. Odrzucany przez bliskich licealista Lovino nieoczekiwanie otrzymuje pomoc od swojego nauczyciela. Choć nie chce się do tego przyznać, coraz bardziej zależy mu na uczuciach Antonia. Spamano, zawiera także lekki FrUK i GerItę.

Translation: Lovino is a high school student rejected by his relatives. All of the sudden he receive help from his teacher, Antonio. Even though he doesn’t want to admit that he cares more and more about Antonio’s feelings. Spamano. FrUK and GerIta mentioned.

So this one is in Polish. If you don’t mind reading with a Google Translate help then I really recommend it. It’s short but it’s an amazing story.

Secret Tunnels from Madrid to Sicily by PrincessSmuttButt

When Antonio Fernández Carriedo begins work as a professor at a prestigious university in Britain, one of his students, a Sicilian boy who goes by the name Romano, immediately catches his eye. He is a clearly gifted writer, who closes himself off in the wake of a dark and painful history. Even wrapped in his darkness, pushing everyone away, Toni finds himself determined to bring out the potential within Romano...They drag each other into a passionate, inevitable affair--doomed, they know, to end in flames.

A very beautiful and mature story. It’s also amazingly written. I cried like little shit at the end.

Tesoro Mio by spinyfruit

Antonio’s the charming, handsome farmer with an infuriating Spanish accent, and Lovino is the mysterious wine entrepreneur who comes and goes. When Antonio falls in love, he throws society, expectations, and religion to the wayside, but can a strict Catholic like Lovino do the same?

We the Dreamers by TheGoliathBeetle

New York City, 1940: Antonio is a recently arrived refugee from Spain, a scarred soldier with firm political convictions. For Lovino, everything is pointless and nothing ever lasts. The two of them live, love and dream desperately, as World War Two threatens to take it all away.

Greasy by evetnt

Summer time 1955, a mechanic equally as hot as the weather had been fixing up Lovino's car for what felt like forever and their fascination with each other grows passed auto-shit and sandwiches even as the pressure from Lovino's over-protective grandfather and greaser/soc gangs rise. -ongoing

Tight Rope by TheFreakZone

Rich, spoiled kid Lovino Vargas hates pirates. Pirate captain Antonio Carriedo hates rich, spoiled kids. None of them ever thought they could feel something different from hatred towards one another. However, Fate seems to have different plans for them, and twists their lives in unexpected ways. -ongoing

Breathless in the Atmosphere by Spinyfruit

Antonio only needed money for marble. He needed to make his art. And a chance encounter on the subway offers him a job as a male escort. It was just for the money. He could stop anytime he wanted to. Really.

The Space Between the Balconies by Spinyfruit

There's a space between the balconies, where glances are stolen, smoke flies, and dreams wander. Lovino draws the blinds, and Antonio opens his windows. They see each other sometimes.

Left me crying like a little baby. This is one of my favourite spamano fanfiction. It’s short but absolutely powerful and touching

Dance with me by StarsMadeinHeaven

AU. Lovino Vargas started taking tango lessons completely by accident. Who would have thought that one day he wouldn't mind those hands roaming over his body? That he would be dancing with his teacher as if there was no one in the room but the two of them? -ongoing

Bésame Mucho   by George deValier

WW2 AU. Lovino Vargas only ever wanted something exciting to happen in his boring, everyday Italian village existence. He never expected war, Resistance, love, passion, treason, or a cheerful, confusing, irritatingly attractive Spanish freedom fighter. -ongoing

Ok, I am very aware that everyone knows about this fanfiction but still I couldn’t resist

Numbered Lithograph by youaremarvelous

AU Spain x Romano. When Lovino starts attending art school with his brother he finds his most important lesson doesn't come from his professors, but from a culinary student at a sister school: sometimes the flaws hold the beauty.

Good Vibrations by The Cilantro Family

Lovino wasn't a fun guy to talk to, he knew this very well. When he signed he was speaking, not putting on a show. Usually his expression represented what he was feeling, rather than what he was saying. But this guy, for some reason, was different. He acted like he wanted to talk to Lovino even though Lovino had nothing interesting to say, and no interesting way to say it.

Oh boy, this fanfiction is one of the best things that happened to me. Absolutely recommend

One shots/ Two shots/ short stories:

Before the Snow Falls by Spinyfruit

Lovino, jersey number nine, right winger. He was ready to pass the ball, ready to set up the win, but Antonio, opposite team, center fielder, was ready too. Someone thought, and someone didn't, and they crashed. Hard. A few months later, Lovino's on crutches, Antonio has scholarships, and they have to deal with the aftermath of what happened. —Spamano, two-shot.

Liar by starshards

Spain cannot resist Romano, even though he hates himself for it.

Fool by faerichylde

Spain really was a fool. Otherwise he wouldn't have wanted Romano so badly. After all, fools always want what they don't have.

Rebels in a Sleeping City by konstellasjon

"I felt like we were in limbo, two blindingly awake rebels in this sleeping city. I didn't know your reasons for being up and about. But, you were, and so was I, grinning at you like it was going out of fashion."

Light by annapotterkiku

Lovino was convinced that he didn't have a soulmate.

25 MPH by writingandchocolatemilk

"Any reason you were driving fifteen miles under the speed limit?"

"Safety?"

Officer Vargas frowned. "Yeah, sure. Willing to take a breathalyzer test?"

"No!" Gilbert stumbled out of the car. "That is a bullshit request! Because if you don't, Antonio—"

"I'll shoot you," Officer Vargas muttered, and Antonio wasn't sure he actually heard that. He doesn't think he was supposed to. "Sorry, do you want to take the test, instead?"

Five Times Romano Unintentionally Made Spain Blush by darkhue

...and one time he did it on purpose.

Conversations on Cups by orphan_account

Lovino is not particularly fond of his job: working in a coffee shop can get infuriating, with the long orders and hard to spell names. But frustration at one customer has melded into friendship, and even that’s beginning to shift.

Leading the Blind by steingasse

Lovino Vargas’s life was simple, tedious, and a functional amount of lonely. Then one day a hung-over stranger broke in and passed out on his couch.

Door to Door by Canadino

Do not open the door. It could be a zombie, an unwanted boyfriend of your brother's, or a persistant salesman by the name Antonio Carriedo.

Chalk Dust by counterheist

Lovino Vargas (grandson, philosophy graduate, teacher, brother, man): 1. Fate: a lifetime. It’s a start.

The Spaniard and Death by Oboeist3

The tale of a young reaper, a heavy soul, and perhaps a bit of love.

whose thing is this anyway by ShippingEverything

In which Lovino and Antonio get their clothes, among other things, mixed up

Lovers by fuckingtomatoes

Antonio loved him. He loved everything about him

Language Barrier by TheFreakZone

Even though he doesn't understand him, Antonio loves talking to Lovino in Spanish. Lovino doesn't say it, but he loves it too.

It’s a story based on a prompt that Antonio thought that Lovino doesn’t know any Spanish so he kept saying many filthy things because he was sure that Lovi did not understand. Oh boy was he wrong Super cute and hot

Non Omnis Moriar by Burlesque Romantique

Antonio knew that once someone is bitten, they're dead after dying. So all he can do is run.

Unrighteous by SnowyWolff

Lovino has been unrighteously charged for crimes he did not commit and has been sent to teach at a remote northern Magical College. There, he meets Antonio, who makes the never-ending cold a little warmer.

Lifeline by antiheroics

AU (human names used); Suicidal Lovino Vargas makes a suicide pact online with equally suicidal Antonio. They meet, they get mistaken for a couple out on a date, they drink a lot of badtasting vodka, and Lovino begins to wonder not so much if he wants to kill himself, but if he wants Antonio to.

32 Thursdays by counterheist

Antonio is a physics student in love. To Lovino’s embarrassment, so is he.

Aroma by Jacquzy  

This is how it happens; how Antonio Fernández Carriedo comes to fall in love with the sweet-scented child seven years his junior.

Progression by Horribibble

When the Vargas Famiglia lost its Don, Lovino was abruptly faced with all of his nightmares. The worst of which wants nothing more than to give him a kiss.

A Trip To The Cinema by lullabyemyuu

Surrounded by the ruins of the ruined cinema, an elderly Lovino both remembers and forgets.

I wouldn't if I were you by starshards

Romano comes to the shocking realisation that people actually think that Spain is attractive.

Cupcake by writingandchocolatemilk

"No, Lovino!" Feliciano pointed, tears evaporating. "It's a dog!"

"What?" Lovino looked around. "That's a fucking bear."

"Lovino," Antonio hissed, "be respectful! No swearing!"

"Shi—sorry. Antonio, look at that dog." Lovino pointed. "Look, it's a bear."

Ludwig leaned closer. "That's a newfoudland."

Lovino scowled at him. "That's a bear."

Disgustingly Sweet by Sunny Day in February

We all have this urge sometimes.

El Despertar by Tyranno's girl

Or 'The Awakening'. This world is filled with many strange things, people, and occurrences. Once must always be careful of who they put their trust into; everyone has a dark secret behind the mask they don in the day.

Spostare by Canadino

She was just one girl, one body in the whole human race, that made him realize he was undeniably, helplessly attracted to Antonio; and she was the one who stole Antonio's heart away. High school AU, onesided Spain/Romano

How It Is by counterheist

This is how it is in the house of the never-setting sun.

on the dimensionality of an n-night stand by counterheist

Antonio is the one night stand who just won’t leave.

Diplomat's Son by writingandchocolatemilk

Lovino is content to let Antonio touch him. Antonio is happy to do this, and he runs his hands up Lovino's sides, relishing at the feeling of skin against skin, at the quick heartbeat he can feel. His head spins and Lovino pulls him into another kiss.

"Oh, Lovino," Antonio murmurs.

"What?" he asks, sharp, but that just makes Antonio's heart melt. "Take off your shirt. I'm not going to be the only one naked."

"Yes, sir." Antonio laughs.

A Sprinkler of Disaster by SnowyWolff

Lovino comes home one day and the surprise that waits for him behind the door is not exactly what he had expected

Baile Con La Bula by Wendigo Heart

Romano thought the bulls were actually rather pathetic, allowing themselves to be slain. It was the matador’s control that really ignited his passion. But he would forever deny a certain matador’s passion; Romano refused to be his bull to slay -The original source was deleted...  That was hell of a good fanfiction

The Art of Flying by The Goliath Beetle

They're both a little bit damaged, a little bit unscathed. Lovino can only truly see the world when Antonio describes it to him. Words can be magical, words can drive the darkness away.

Exasperation by ReinMaker

Lovino reflects on how it came to this, thanks to himself and his mother-in-law.

PWP/Porn with some plot/basically smut

Praise by learninghowtosmut

Tumblr request for praise kink, ft blindfolds and gross sappy adoration

Six Times Romano Failed at Seducing Spain (And One Time He Unintentionally Succeeded) by sapphiire moon  

Spain is sick and tired of Romano constantly flirting in front of him, and so he decides to punish Romano by not having sex with him anymore. Romano does not like this at all, and he's determined to win his way back into Spain's bed (and heart) through seduction. Awkward, awkward seduction.

A Way to Say I Love You by sapphiire moon  

Spain and Romano's first time

With No End in Sight by stardropdream (orphan_account)

It's hot and Antonio is distracted.

For The First Time In A Long Time by Chaosride

Antonio has been hunting like this as long as he's been a vampire. Human's were more ripe during sex, and the bite was pleasurable anyway, as long as he didn't drink too much, but this times a little different. He picked up an Italian in a bar, expecting a quick meal.

Beautiful by   Chaosride  

A tumblr prompt requested Spamano BDSM

Give and Take by mareepysheepy

After hundreds of years in the making, Romano is in what he would grudgingly call a relationship with Spain. At least he thinks he is. He's really not sure. Weren't relationships meant to be about mutual give, and take, after all?

Jesus Christ I think this is the best written smut I’ve ever seen

Spirito Di Punto by starshards

After Romano's driving skills send another car to super-car heaven, his boss decides that it's time for him to have something much more modest. Luckily for Romano, Spain's there to help him learn how to appreciate it.

Like a Virgin by The Cilantro Family

Antonio's never had sex before. Lovino walks him through it.

Great spamano writers:

Basically almost all of their fanfictions and great, I just didn’t want to put them all on the list

Canadino

TheGoliathBeetle

sapphiire moon  (aka best spamano smut writer you can ever find)

StarsMadeinHeaven (former Happymood)

writingandchocolatemilk  (basically tons of amazing spamano one-shots)

userscounterheist

SnowyWolff

[melis-writes]

Moth to Flame [Michael Corleone x Reader Series, 18+ Smut] Chapter 17 - Anniversary.

Read on AO3 / Read Chapter 16 [AO3] / Tumblr / Chapter Masterlist. / Fic Playlist.

18+, explicit smut read.

You celebrate your one-year anniversary with Michael in Sicily, having your honeymoon at last with bonding time for the both of your families. Having returned back to Corleone, Sicily, after sixteen years, Michael takes you on a romantic outing in the vineyards, discussing the future of his family and the Corleone criminal enterprise. Letting you drive in Sicily, he offers an anniversary gift and experience to you like none other, professing his appreciation and love towards you as his wife and the mother of his children. The two of you spend a much needed, intimate night together--wondering how the two of your hearts lead you back to Sicily, as yours beckons for forgiveness.

[WARNINGS]: Smut/sex.

[SUGGESTIONS]: Anons for requesting: Michael’s parenting moments with the twins / Passionate love making with Michael / Emphasis on Michael's hands & arms. 😳

1949. Your name is Victoria Ferrari, and you’re the only daughter of one of the most powerful mafia families in New York—the Ferrari’s. When the Ferrari family began to gain heavy influence and power, it struck a power imbalance with the Corleone’s. To bind the families together as one in an offering of peace, friendship and business, you are to be married to their youngest son, Michael Corleone. As you ensnare yourself in the life of a mob wife by Michael’s side, what you don’t know is his old ties with Kay Adams, your best friend from Dartmouth, and that he returned from Sicily a widower. A ruthless mob boss to be, you unravel Michael’s dark past and the brutality that has changed his personality. You find yourself adapting to your new life, betrayed by those you love most, and in high profile to Ferrari and Corleone family enemies. Falling deeply in love with Michael, you enter a life and marriage filled with secrets and darkness. Bearing his children, supporting his crime empire and following him into the shadows, you’re unable to deny your passion and desire to the new Don. When it comes to Michael Corleone, you are but a moth to a flame.

[ August / Corleone, Sicily ].

The Sicilian sun shines its rays brighter than ever with its familiar humidity and the heat of the hot, Italian summer upon your skin, bringing back memories of your childhood in the vineyard just sixteen years ago.

The worn, dirt path surrounded by hundreds of fruit trees before you remain the same as ever, leading through the outskirts of the Corleone village where you were born.

Dressed in a violet shirt-waist dress, plain black flats on your feet, and your hair loosely dangling off your shoulders with a basket filled with fruits on your arm, you let the soft, Sicilian breeze sweep by you as you reach up on your toes, grabbing two oranges off from a tree—one for you, and one for Mama Corleone.

“Grazie.” (Thank you.) Mama Corleone takes an orange from you, beginning to unpeel it. “You’ve warmed right back up to Sicily already.”

“It’s good to be home again.” You smile back at her, the fragrant scent of the fresh fruit hitting you.

“You spent your entire childhood here, sweetheart?” Mama Corleone tugs off a piece of her orange.

“First ten years of my life.” You nod back, remembering the safety and luxury your mother and father’s villa provided you, leading a living a comfortable childhood for all those years. “I remember it all like it was just yesterday.”

“You must miss it often.” Mama Corleone munches on a piece of her orange, walking with you. “Oh, I know I do. We’re Sicilian in blood but American by heart now, aren’t we? Leaving our dreams here, living our lives there. Would you have done something different if you stayed?”

“Perhaps I would have worked at the vineyard instead of practicing law.” You exchange a glance with her, causing the two of you to giggle. “I’m not exactly sure! It’s when I came to New York that I had so many ideas—so many things I wanted to do with my life.”

“Michael was the same.” She peels off the rest of her orange. “It almost fascinates me to see how alike the two of you are. Ever since he was young, he knew he wanted to get into politics, so his father encouraged him to attend Dartmouth after high school. Dartmouth admitted him in 1939.” She swallows down a piece of the fruit. “For a Bachelor’s Degree in political science—and you?”

“I began my studies in 1939 as well and graduated in 1945.” You add, “attending the same years, I’m surprised I hadn’t ever seen him.”

“That’s because he decided to go off and enlist in the marines in 1941.” Mama Corleone rolls her eyes with a soft sigh. “His father and I had insisted he finish his school instead of giving up his life like that at a young age. Sonny wasn’t happy at all when he heard the news; he didn’t want his younger brother…” She pauses for a moment, using air quotes, “’blow himself up’ at the age of twenty-one.”

“Well,” you muse, “he did have a point, didn’t he?”

“I said the same thing, and so did his father.” Mama Corleone shakes her head. “That’s why Michael went and did it behind our backs—so we couldn’t refuse. Tom and Fredo supported him nonetheless.”

“As Tom always does.” You smile back, knowing how Tom always stands reasonably with all of Michael’s decisions, remaining ever so supportive and seeing the good in everything he chooses to do. “And Fredo too?”

“Fredo was very supportive. He used to support Michael for wanting to get into politics. He believes its a noble career to take on."

“It is.” You agree with her. "In its own way."

“I loved how ambitious my son was. He wanted to be a senator, a politician—something, but he wanted to serve his country in more than one way. The war gave him one of those opportunities, in a way. He questioned if there would ever be an Italian president, and that was the last of it. Fredo told him he was being ridiculous.”

You roll your eyes, chewing on another piece of fruit. “Is that why he didn’t return after the war?”

“He came back a hero.” Mama Corleone gives a melancholic smile, “and I believe he would have, but…” She gestures out with her arm, “the attempted assassination of his father changed him, ultimately. There was no going back after that. But events like that do tend to change a person’s life; as much as we may wish to deny them and forget them—we can’t. Was it your own interest that made you decide to pursue a career in law yourself?”

You ponder the question for a moment. “Not only was it my interest, but also because of my family.” You admit, “in a way, it was for my family, as much as it is for me. I enjoy it. I believe I ironically had a strong sense of justice growing up.”

Mama Corleone laughs, “see, there’s another similarity between the two of you.”

“That he is.” You can’t wipe the growing smile off your face, knowing how much of an involved parent he is with the twins, feeding them, spending time with them, being an adoring and protective father.

“Mhmm.” You hear Mama Corleone say as she gives your hand a little squeeze, slowing her pace down to stop.

You reach into your fruit basket, grabbing at another orange before you stop with her, raising your head up in curiosity. Having reached the gates of your father’s villa, you notice Michael up ahead.

Catching eye of his black suit and burgundy tie, he remains by the entrance, his eyes at first straining and squinting from the sun to see properly and make you out in his line of vision.

Spotting you through the summer rays, Michael's gaze rests and is locked upon yours in not expectancy or sternness but awe. Barely holding onto the orange in your hand, you stop in your tracks and gaze back up at him.

The sun beams over Michael's chestnut eyes and brushed back hair, remaining more casual than strictly cutthroat business, slicked back, and formal in his physical appearance than usual.

Mama Corleone stands to the side, noticing the longing, romantic eye contact between the two of you, only continuing to reassure her since your last girl talk with her and Connie about the clear radiating love you have with Michael—apparent to all.

Michael’s eyes no longer spot a prosecutor from New York or a businesswoman from a powerful family, but a beautiful Sicilian girl from the valley—her natural beauty speaking for itself as she returns from picking fruit on a hot, summer day.

Aware of his mother’s presence, Michael is unable to peel his eyes off of you. The way your dress adorns your body, how the soft summer breeze flows into your hair, and the way your eyes illuminate in the sun strikes him and his deep-seeded attraction towards you.

Blush hits your rosy cheeks as you drop the fruit back into your basket, picking up your pace to approach him. Mama Corleone does the same, rubbing a reassuring hand down Michael’s shoulder as she passes the both of you, entering through the gate to Don Ferrari’s villa.

You and Michael say nothing as you come face to face, scouring at each other as you haven’t been able to properly see or spend time with him since you landed last night. He spent the evening with your father and brothers, greeting Don Tomassino, who awaited your arrival as you spent the rest of the night with the twins, your mother, Mama Corleone, and Connie—getting as much sleep as possible from the jet lag.

In a way, the trip to Sicily not only serves as a part of Michael’s promise to make up your late honeymoon but also, as you wish, a way to spend time with both of your families back home—reconnecting with your Sicilian roots.

Don Tomassino’s men dropped Michael off just moments ago at the Ferrari villa; your brothers taking Sonny, Fredo, and Tom around the Corleone village for their first-time visits to Sicily. It leaves the two of you completely and utterly alone to spend the rest of the day with—as Michael planned. Today marks your first anniversary of marriage with Michael, after all.

“Buon anniversario.” (Happy anniversary.) Michael breathes out to you, his voice still laced in awe as he takes your free hand in his, pulling you even closer to him.

You part your lips to speak, but Michael silences you with his, catching you in surprise as he kisses you sweetly, his hand still laced with yours.

You blush deeply, kissing him back as your eyes flutter shut. He squeezes your hand, using his free one to gently caress your cheek as he slowly pulls away from you.

“Felice anniversario, amore mio. Missed me?” (Happy anniversary, my love.) You giggle back, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

“I did.” Wrapping his arms around your waist, Michael pecks another kiss on your lips. “And you fit right in with Sicily, don’t you?”

“I’m Sicilian at heart.” You pull back happily, reaching into your basket and handing him an orange. “And this is for you.”

“Mhmm.” Michael takes the orange, peeling a large chunk off. “So that’s what you were doing with mother all morning.” He laces a free hand with yours, leading you off towards your father’s villa. “How was the flight for you?”

“Surprisingly good for an eight-hour trip.” You walk with him, blushing at the sight of your hand intertwined with us. “The twins slept almost the entire time, thankfully.” You glance up at him, hesitating for your next question.

Having being born and raised in Corleone, Sicily, for the first ten years of your life, returning back to your homeland with your family and Michael’s is more of a bittersweet reunion at last. It’s a way to reconnect with your roots, relax and spend time with both families as much as possible while at the same time getting more opportunities to be alone with Michael on your honeymoon, saving time for intimacy and well-needed love and attention.

The topic of Michael’s marriage and Apollonia remains completely off-limits for the both of you so as not to fan the flames to a fight you know will be never-ending each, and every time it’s brought up. What’s said cannot be forgotten, and as time has passed since your fight, with Michael slightly on the more sensitive side of things in talking to you, you accept to make peace with it for yourself, but you know you’ll never forget.

“How do you like Sicily? Any different from when you last were here?” A bold yet pressing question from you.

You’re curious as to Michael's response—having not mentioned anything remotely to do with Sicily besides a plan for the honeymoon since your first fight together.

You notice a slight look of cautionary alarm in his eyes—the question of Sicily mixing in with his past and his lies to you about it from your fight coming back to his mind. In a way, he knows to answer you truthfully, but also carefully.

“It’s the same as I remember it.” Michael answers back, keeping his eyes on you. “And you? It’s been sixteen years, hasn’t it? You grew up here, unlike myself.”

Impressed by his answer, you keep your gaze back on him as he places his mouth over the peeled orange, suckling upon the juicy fruit.

“No different to me, even after all these years, but it’s funny…” Your voice trails off as you swallow the small lump in your throat, noticing how his tongue wraps around the piece of fruit in a most particular and erotic way—his full mouth slobbering over top of it.

His eyes flicker back down to yours after he notices your silence. Michael raises his brows, waiting for you to elaborate.

You watch as Michael presses his tongue in between the slices of orange, causing butterflies and a tinge of sudden arousal to knot up in your gut.

“Do you have to eat it like that?” You flush red, approaching the front door of the villa and unlocking it.

“Like what?” Michael glances back at you.

You’re almost certain you just saw a faint smirk over his lips as he finishes up the last piece of orange, slipping his finger into his mouth, licking it clean.

You shake your head, “nevermind, um…”

Your mother and father’s Sicilian villa remain before you in its full splendor, guarded heavily and kept in a secluded part of Corleone. The grand villa designed in classic Italian architecture boasts its timeless elegance, decorated with the finest antiques and handcrafted furniture. You were born in this very villa, raised with four older brothers, only continuing to remind you of the fond memories of your childhood.

Your family owns several dozen acres of vineyards and fruit farms, including various wineries across Sicily. Outside of the Ferrari mafia family’s criminal enterprises, your family makes a separate, hefty fortune out of the produce of the land you own, including olives, various organic jams, and rich wines.

Remaining in the same pristine condition as you remember it as a little girl, your eyes widen in pleasant surprise and expectation as you push open the front door. The first thing you notice is the twins before you—Niccolò in your mother’s arms as she sits upon the floor with Verona slowly crawling around over her baby blanket laid out before her.

“Victoria, benvenuta!” (Welcome!) Your mother grins back, rising to her feet and bouncing Niccolò as you rush to hug her, planting a kiss on her cheek.

“Mama—and my babies!” You beam happily, quickly slipping off your shoes as you smooch Niccolò’s cheek and smile down upon a blathering Verona crawling around.

“Michael, benvenuto! Mio genero—vieni e fatti abbracciare!” (Welcome! My son-in-law—come and get hugged!) Warm and bursting with friendliness as always, you take Niccolò from your mother’s arms, kneeling down before Verona as your mother hugs Michael with a laugh.

“Michael, è passato tanto tempo. Come va?” (It’s been so long. How are you?) She pats at Michael’s cheeks softly as he gives her a warm smile.

“Cia mamma. È bello vederti.” He hugs her back politely. (Hi, mama. It’s good to see you.)

“Maaaa…” Niccolò blathers to himself, sticking his hands in his mouth as you gently place him and Verona upon your lap, pressing little kisses on their foreheads and cuddling with your babies.

“Mama, yes.” You giggle back at Niccolò, giving his nose a little poke as you point up at Michael, “e papà.” (And daddy.)

“Ti piace la Sicilia?” (Do you like Sicily?) Your mother takes Michael’s suit jacket as he shrugs it off, hanging it upon the coatrack before coming to a realization and laughing, “oh! Lui è mai stato qui prima! Ho dimenticato!” (He’s never been here before! I forgot!)

You force an awkward smile back, noticing how Michael remains his polite posture, avoiding both answering the question and making any eye contact with you.

“Would you like me to prepare you two some tea?” Your mother clasps her hands together, turning around to face the both of you. “Or something to eat?”

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.” Michael’s eyes flicker back to yours for a moment, “we won’t be long.”

“Of course.” She picks up on his hint with a nod before smoothening out her apron. “I’ll be preparing supper if you two need me.”

You can’t help but blush, nodding back at your mother. “Thank you for babysitting today, mama.” You gently set Niccolò down upon the blanket next to his sister.

“Oh, as long as you bring those two cuties with you wherever I am, I don’t mind at all! Besides, it’s your anniversary, after all, sweetheart!” She chimes out, heading off towards the kitchen.

“Thanks, mama!” Your eyes find Michael again, who redirects his gaze down to the twins, turning to a soft and warm expression. He slips off his dress shoes, taking a few steps forward to the carpet where you and the babies are.

Sitting cross-legged, he blinks in surprise to see baby Verona grab onto his knee, crawling over to him. Michael gently picks her and Niccolò up from squirming upon the blankets, hugging them in his arms.

“How are my little twins, hmm?” He gives the twins several tiny little kisses upon their cheeks, causing them to giggle and fuss about happily.

'He always told me what an incredible mother I’d be.' You watch back in astonishment, seeing how Michael's fatherly side immediately comes out towards his children, melting through his cold exterior. 'But to see him as just an amazing father back to his children…'

“You look more like your mother every day, don’t you?” Michael speaks out softly to the babies as Verona attempts to grab onto his tie, and Niccolò hugs at his father’s arm.

The two of you briefly make eye contact—causing your blush to redden. The sight of Michael interacting with the twins, being patient, being fatherly, and giving them attention and affection makes your heart swell up in joy. You barely see Michael in such a disposition elsewhere, but even he makes it clear to you that his family is always going to be his soft spot—his weakness.

“You’re an incredible father, Michael.” You murmur softly to him, unable to wipe the smile off your face as he carefully helps Niccolò’s chubby little legs stand on his lap, clutching onto his shoulder.

“That’s coming from an incredible mother.” Michael notes back to you, scooting over to your side with the twins as he lets Verona fiddle around with his tie and Niccolò cling onto both of your shoulders, trying to regain his balance. “Who gave me two beautiful, healthy children.”

You grin back at him, resting your head upon his shoulder as he takes the tip of his tie, gently tapping it over Verona’s tiny hands as she bursts out into a small fit of laughter, catching both of you in a delightful surprise.

“Oh, she loves it!” You laugh back as she attempts to catch the tie from Michael.

A beaming smile forms over Michael’s lips as he gasps a little, finding Niccolò lunging at him. You shriek out giddily, holding onto him and Verona as Michael and you lay upon the carpet on your backs, all four of you laughing in unison.

You lace one hand with Michael as you place the other on Niccolò’s back, holding at him as he begins to crawl over you. Doing the same with Verona, Michael’s laughter causes you no small amount of butterflies to swarm in your stomach.

Feeling as if your heart just skipped a beat, you can’t stop yourself from adoring and admiring the man before you—seeing just how much he loves his family and spending time with you and the twins.

Michael’s laugh is genuine, filled with love and joy—his smile beautiful but foreign to his face, having been used to his serious and constantly stern disposition all the time. If anything, it’s a welcoming surprise you can never prepare yourself for. It strikes you as completely and utterly breathtaking each and every time.

Michael turns his head to you, his gorgeous smile eventually fading out. “They’re used to Sicily already—you see the energy they have?”

“They definitely get it from me!” You joke back playfully, sitting up with him.

“Mm, you grew up with four brothers in Sicily.” He exhales in relief, leaning his back against the loveseat as the twins crawl back down upon the blanketed floor. “Corleone, of all places. Coincidence or fate?”

“You tell me.” You blush back at him.

“Fate.” Michael raises your hand up to his mouth and kissing it. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“Funny enough.” You squeeze his intertwined hand with yours. “I never would have thought I’d be marrying Don Corleone from Sicily of all things.”

“You were in for a surprise.” Michael runs his fingers through his hair, attempting to smoothen out the stray strands. “As you are today as well.”

You move his hand aside, raking a soft hand through his hair. “You know how I feel about the extravagant gifts.”

“Yes, I do. You pretend you don’t like them for the sake of being polite.” Michael watches as you part his hair from the middle, letting each part dangle from the side of his head, fluffy and relaxed, instead of a completely slicked-back look. His hair is silky smooth, easily slipping between your fingers, glistening in health, and shining from the chandelier light.

“That’s completely not true! You know I just love spending time with you. That’s the only plan I want for the day.” You protest out, massaging through his hair as you trail your hand to the back of his head.

“Then let me surprise you again.” Michael leans the side of his body upon the loveseat, gazing back at you.

“With a third baby?” You tease back, slowly rising to your feet with him as you hear your mother’s footsteps beginning to return from the kitchen.

“I could make that happen too.” Michael wraps a loving arm around your waist to pull you closer to his side.

“I heard all the fuss!” Your mother calls out, coming out of the kitchen. “Think they missed you two already, hmm?”

“As always, they’re just bursting with energy—little cuties.” You shake your head, kneeling down to place more of their toys in the center of the blanket. “Which I do hope goes down by the time we get home tonight, or nobody’s sleeping.”

“Let them have their fun, hmm?” Michael looks down upon his children, a wide smile upon his face that even catches your mother off guard. “They get it from their mother.”

“Grazie, mama. We won’t be too late!” (Thank you.) You lace a hand with Michael as you begin to open the front door and slip your flats back on.

Michael reaches out to the coat hanger, opting for his black Cappola hat instead of his suit jacket, much to your surprise. “I may not have spent as much time in Sicily as you, but I might as well look the part.”

As the two of you step down the porch of the Ferrari villa, he places it over top of his head, sweeping his fluffed-up hair to the side of his forehead.

“Sicilian style…” You gaze at him with a giggle, feeling the butterflies in the pit of your stomach tugging at you at the sight of his natural handsomeness, even dressed plainly to blend in. “Look at you… No need for slicked back, cold and professional anymore/”

“Think we both left that in New York, didn’t we? Nobody’s looking for Michael Corleone here.” Michael lets go of your hand to roll up the sleeves of his dress shirt to slightly above his elbows. “Unless you don’t like it?” He raises his brows, reaching his free hand into the pocket of his dress pants.

“I absolutely love it.” You blush furiously at the sight of him, locking arms with his.

“And as a first-anniversary treat…” Michael fishes out a pair of car keys, dangling them before yours. “You get to drive.”

Your eyes widen in excitement. “You want me to drive you around Sicily?”

“Mhmm, under my supervision. Sicily and New York’s streets are incomparable. I could show you a thing or two, considering there’s little to no road here.” Michael offers, placing the keys in your hand.

“That I will not refuse!” You bubble with enthusiasm, skipping off to the driver’s seat of his car and unlocking it. “You have somewhere in mind?”

“Always.” Michael chuckles, pulling open the passenger door and getting in with you. “But you’ll be careful, no speeding, and you will keep your hands on the steering—”

“Michael!” You whine out playfully, “I already know all of that!”

He scolds you with his finger, “you haven’t driven in Sicily, have you? Exactly. So, I’m going to be teaching you until we get there.”

“Get where?” You start up the car, placing both of your hands on the steering wheel.

“You’ll see.” Michael leans over from his seat, closer to you as he wraps an arm around your shoulders, gazing up to the dusty, beaten road. “Just drive straight up out of here first, and follow this road here—” He points out the windshield.

“Okay, okay.” You giggle back giddily, unaware of the moment that Michael tenses up at first, attempting to relax as you begin to pull off from the villa’s driveway. “I got it!” You step on the gas a little harder than usual, speeding you out of the driveway.

“Fare attenzione!” (Be careful!) Michael scolds back at you, only fueling your playfulness as you drive straight down the dirt-filled road.

“What? You act like the car is going to explode.” You joke, slowing down.

“It just might.” Michael carefully watches as you continue driving down the rather bumpy road, following his directions.

“Still not gonna tell me where?” You rest the side of your head against his, feeling his arms tighten protectively over your shoulders as he places a hand over yours upon the steering wheel.

“Eager to spoil your own surprise, hmm? Ah, this way—take a left from here. Slow down, slow down, just—”

“Michael, I got it! Don’t worry!” You laugh back, slowing to take your left turn, heading down a narrow street.

“Both hands on the steering wheel—” Michael takes your other hand, placing it back. “It’s just up ahead if you pull up by—”

“Speed up?” You grin back mischievously.

“Not a chance in hell. I need you to be careful—like this, steer like this because you have to take a slight right--” placing both hands upon yours, Michael helps you redirect the steering wheel to the right. “Uh-huh, a little more…”

You blush at his warm touch—the scent of his expensive cologne lingering about in the car as the warm, Sicilian breeze flows through the windows.

Very sensitive at the idea of you driving once again, he keeps his eyes on both you and the road—completely focused on getting you there as safely as possible. “Now you’ve got it, just park to the side here.”

“Told you I could do it!” You reach a halt, pulling to the side of a cobblestone building shrouded in vines from your perspective as you park the vehicle. “And without a single scratch.”

“I’d rather the car get scratched than you, but you better not be driving this fast in New York.”

“Oh, this?” You peep back at Michael , stopping the car and pulling out the keys. “This is nothing—this is the slowest I can possibly go.”

Michael raises a questioning brow at you, a look of both concern and protectiveness flaring up in his eyes for a split second as he comes to the realization that you’re actually joking with him. “Uh-huh, very funny.”

You giggle quietly, “don’t worry about me, amore mio.” (My love.) You hand Michael back the keys, stepping out of the car with him.

“Mi preoccupo sempre per te.” (I always worry about you.) Michael places his hand over your waist and leading you around the building.

Your eyes widen as you approach the building entrance, gazing up at the rows and rows of grapevines above you, twisting and leading around the vineyard structure of the winery.

You watch Michael reach his arm up, picking out a ripe green grape before you. He raises it to your mouth as you lean over, letting him feed you the grape.

“What do you think?” Michael's fingers come into brief contact with your lips as you munch down on the grape, blushing.

“Mmm…!” You nod back at him, the juiciness of the grape hitting your tastebuds. “Definitely much better than the ones we have in New York. Have you been here before? It’s beautiful…”

“It was a family favorite.” Michael gazes back at you, rubbing at your hip as he continues leading you through the vineyard. “Father would always order his best bottles from here. I’ve wanted to share it with you for some time now. Here—” He takes your hand in his, “follow me. I’ve got something to show you.”

One hand clasped with yours, Michael leads you down through the vineyard, past the entrance where a handful of others gather for a winetasting. Speeding up the pace, he takes a few turns around the winery orchard before approaching a small, secluded location in the middle of it, surrounded by grapevines with a few tables scattered around.

You notice it's further away from the chatter near the actual winery, presenting an intimate moment between the just the two of you to spend time in. All of the tables distanced around each other remain empty, except for one.

The table in the center of the vineyard that Michael approaches with you is for two; a dainty set of furniture with the center covered in a checkered tablecloth. Overtop, a basket of fresh Italian bread is to be found, surrounded by a platter of various cheeses, saucers of several jams, two empty wine glasses in between a bottle of red wine, and a separate tray filled with fresh fruit.

You exchange a look with Michael—absolutely in awe of the setting before you. “Michael…?”

“Happy anniversary, darling.” Michael takes off his Cappola, letting the cooling Sicilian breeze sweep through his tousled, fluffy hair.

“Oh my God…” You blush, approaching the table with him as he sets his Cappola upon the ground next to his chair, grabbing the bottle of wine. “Everything about this is…it’s perfect.”

'A Sicilian-style picnic in the vineyards…' “And you said nothing ‘too big’ or ‘too fancy.’” He turns the label of the wine over so you can see it. “This is for you.”

Your eyes widen as you move over to read the wine label, expecting it to be some kind of expensive, finely aged wine, but instead, you find a red wine that is only aged for a year—as of today. The initials of VFC are engraved in gold cursive on the top of the label, only providing a date of “August 21, 1949”—the date of your wedding, one year ago today.

“I had this commissioned to be aged starting on our wedding day for our first anniversary.” Michael sets the bottle down carefully in the center of the table, taking a seat across from you.

You giggle back with a shrug, “red wine is my favorite—regardless.” You brush your finger against the smooth label, “we have our own wine, and…” You peek down at the wide selection of cheeses, slices of bread, and fruits before you. “You planned all of this?!”

“Mhmm,” Michael nods at you, grabbing at the corkscrew on the edge of the table, popping open the wine carefully. “I take it you like it?”

“I love it!” You bubble back at him as he fills your glass halfway first. “It’s so perfect! Thank you, mio amore.”

“You don’t have to thank me, darling. All the more and better.” Michael pours the rich, crimson liquid in his wineglass. “If anything, our lives are more hectic now than ever. The family business, my father’s retirement, our children growing up. They’ve filled all the gaps I can think of, but I’ve always promised to make time for you and I.”

You nod back, unable to wipe the smile off of your face as you gaze back at him. “It has, in the most beautiful way. I wouldn’t want it any differently.”

“Nor would I, darling.” Michael raises his glass, clinking it with yours. “To us, and a year of marriage with many more to come.”

“Cheers.” You beam back before taking a small sip of wine, savoring the sweet and fruity taste as you swallow.

The wine is delicious, regardless of only aging for a year. It has a more pronounced taste of fruit and sugar without leaving much of a bitter or dry aftertaste in your mouth. You immediately take a liking to it, quick to take another sip before you set it down.

It makes a perfect addition to the grapes, cherries, oranges, and figs upon the fruit basket before you two, surrounded by various soft and semi-hard Italian cheeses, including Stracciatella and taleggio mozzarella, and gorgonzola, just to name a few. It's with a fresh, sliced baguette, pane Toscano, crescentina, and focaccia bread alongside the selection of strawberry, apricot, grape, and blackberry jam all before the two of you.

Michael takes a sip himself, setting his wine glass down carefully and licking over his lips—his eyes still fixated on yours. “What do you think?”

“It’s sweetly delicious.” You grin, putting your wineglass to the side as you take a piece of sliced baguette.

“Just one glass, understood?” Michael advises, biting down on a piece of taleggio cheese.

“So protective as always.” You teasingly pout back at him, picking up a small jam knife.

“If you’re not sober for tonight, it’ll ruin the whole surprise, that’s why.” He munches down, pointing his fork at you.

“What surprise?” You blink back at him, picking out a small saucer of strawberry jam. “I thought—”

“You thought wrong.” There’s a faint smile upon his lips as he continues drinking his wine. “That’s all I’ll say on the matter until tonight. I want you to enjoy our honeymoon here, after all. I could have taken you to Sicily alone, you know.”

“Would you have preferred to?” You peek back at Michael, spreading the rich jam over the slice of your baguette.

“It’s not up to me to decide, is it? Whatever you want.” His knife sinks into the creamy, Stracciatella cheese as he scoops some over onto his plate. “And even on your own anniversary, you chose to be selfless and think about our families.”

“Bonding time with both.” You gush back, “Is that so wrong? Your brothers have never even been to Sicily.”

“It’s one of the traits I’ve always loved about you.” Michael snaps off a small branch of grapes from the fruit platter. “You put your family before yourself, before anything, which is why I wanted to tell you something.”

“Mhmm?” You take another gulp of your wine.

“I want to expand the Corleone family business in Sicily as well.” He begins, “I’m not backing out of our criminal enterprises, but I’m also indulging in business. I’ve already bought out all the major hotels in New York. I want your opinion on it.”

You gaze at Michael's expectant eyes, not entirely sure of what to say. Nothing he says came out as concerning or wrong to you; most of it was a given or already known to you in a way. “What do you mean by expanding in Sicily?”

“Just my father’s olive oil business.” Michael tells you, “I want to legitimize it here as well.”

“I don’t question your motives, Michael.” You speak out softly, “but I’m supportive either way. Are you planning on buying out Moe Greene’s casino resort in Las Vegas too, then?”

Michael scoffs quietly, leaning back in his seat. “He refused me and didn’t give me so much as a price. I believe he took it as an insult to his ego. I wanted to buy him out.”

“But your father essentially funded the place, didn’t he?” You furrow your brows, popping a handful of grapes into your mouth.

Michael nods back at you sternly. “Precisely. Fredo thought he could arrange a business deal with Greene, but we’re at a stalemate. It doesn’t matter.”

In a sense, he lies. Michael knows Moe Greene owes him his half-failing casino resort because of his previous financial ties to his father, only marking him as another loose end alongside the Barzini’s, Philip Tattaglia, Victor Stracci, and Carmine Cuneo—all whose deaths are ordered today.

“Unless you have a problem with either.” He raises his brows at you, specifically referring to both his new business dealings and partners, as well as the Corleone family's criminal activities.

“No.” You shake your head. “I support you either way.”

Michael places a hand over yours. Both pleased and expectant of such a response of your support and lack of involvement, he presses on. “Then let me take you and the children to Nevada.”

“Nevada?” You peep back at him, having sparked your interest.

“We’ll relocate with the Corleone enterprises, and I’ll get this Moe Greene business completely handled. There’s a lot more for us in Nevada than in New York. The children will love it. I’m thinking a compound by Lake Tahoe—somewhere private, secluded, guarded. We can go back and forth whenever we desire.” Michael's eyes search yours for a response.

You nod back at him, smiling. “I like the sound of that. As long as I’m with you and the children, I don’t mind any relocation.”

“I knew you’d see it my way. It’ll be good for us. A break from New York, perfect to raise the kids and our future children.” He sips down the last of his wine.

“Future children…” You repeat, feeling a wave of blush hit your cheeks again.

“Mhmm.” Michael eyes linger over yours. “What do you think about that?”

“Isn’t it too soon?” You ask, finishing up your plate. “I mean, now at least. We have so many babies running around…” You giggle quietly, “it would just be safer if Niccolò and Verona got a little older to have a third.”

“It doesn’t make much of a difference to me,” Michael muses, “but I understand what you mean.”

“Impatient much?” You’re unable to hold back your giggles, rather amused by how he wants to get you pregnant as soon as possible again. “If it were up to you, I’d be pregnant every year.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” Michael secures the wine cork back into the bottle. “You already know what an amazing mother you are. What’s the wait?”

“Nuh-uh, there is no wait.” You swallow down the last sip of your wine. “Not with you there isn’t.” That’s your big surprise for tonight, right?” You gently wipe off the corners of your mouth with a napkin as Michael extends his hand out to yours to help you up.

“You’ve got a funny way of asking to have sex with me, don’t you?” Michael rises up, taking the wine bottle.

You blush furiously, eyes wide. “I just—”

“I mean, if you really want to that badly, and you just can’t wait…” Michael whispers out to you, placing an arm around your waist.

“Michael!” You hiss back quietly, gently nudging him as you laugh.

“Is that a yes or no for a baby?” Michael takes you back around the entrance to the winery.

“That’s a ‘be patient.’” You reply with a smile, “but of course! Soon enough, although ironically, it probably won’t take long.”

“Again,” Michael glances at you, unlocking the trunk of his car and securely placing the wine bottle in. “I’m glad you see it my way.”

“No big surprise needed whatsoever because I got to spend my afternoon with you.” You purr back, taking your seat on the passenger’s side.

“What did you think I was going to do?” Michael gets into the driver’s seat, closing the vehicle door, and starting up the car. “Miss your Alfa Romeo?”

“Do I ever.” You grin at him, getting comfortable in your seat. “Are you gonna buy me another one here?”

“As long as you follow the speed limit, why not?” Michael lets out a breathy laugh, putting his hat back on and beginning to drive off.

“Uh-huh, then we’ll have a third baby on one condition too.”

“Do tell.” He places a hand upon your thigh.

“You gotta stop being like this all the time.” You point to both corners of your mouth, making an unamused, straight face. “Ten smiles a day in exchange for a baby.”

“What?” Michael looks back at your expression. “How about none a day?”

“Then explain your disposition!” You burst out laughing, hugging onto his arm. “I don’t even recognize Michael Corleone anymore."

“Michael Corleone is an American hiding in Sicily,” Michael points out, “I have to blend in with the locals.”

“Oh, you’re doing anything but that.” You bite down on your lip, admiring how his muscles tense as he drives, his exposed arms over the steering wheel.

“Have you seen yourself?” Michael purses his lips, taking a right turn off the road. “Sicily or not, you stand out everywhere you go.”

“Is that jealousy speaking?” You peek up at him.

“I am no such thing.” He denies back, “just protective over what’s mine.”

“And lost.” You point out at the road, the sun beginning to set. “This isn’t even the way we came back!”

“Of course, it isn’t because we aren’t going home.” Michael replies, “I told you I had another surprise for you, didn’t I? You thought we were going to end the evening already?”

“Well, the evening doesn’t end until…” A tinge of blush hits your rosy cheeks as Michael pulls over to the side of a gate.

“Uh-huh…” Michael's eyes flicker from yours down to your lips. “I know what you’re trying to tell me.”

“I’m not telling you a thing!” You refute, forcing back your laugh as the two of you step out of his car. “I’m just pointing it out."

“Don’t point it out. I’ll make it happen.” He takes your hand in his, leading you up the road. “Come on, just ahead.”

“In the middle of the road?!”

“Oh, you’re that insistent?” Michael continues to push his teasing.

“You’re taking everything I say out of context!” You squeal, “I asked for no such thing!”

“How about this, then?” He approaches another set of gates as the two of you watch it begin to pull open, revealing an entrance to a massive courtyard that puts your childhood villa in Sicily to shame.

“How about what—” You pause, your jaw-dropping open as you gaze upon the sight before you.

'Oh my God.' You find yourself at a loss for words at the grand villa before you, spanning out even farther than you can see from where you stand.

Guarded moderately by security, the estate before you is the pinnacle of classic, Sicilian architecture wrapped around a private garden, gazebo, a multi-tiered fountain in the middle of the grounds, and a swimming pool stretching out from the back.

“Lake Tahoe inspired me, but if anything, this is our home in Sicily.” He turns back to face you, his serious disposition returning to him around his men as he rolls down the sleeves of his dress shirt. “For you and our children.”

“No…” You run a hand through your hair, feeling tears of joy prickle in the corners of your eyes. “You didn’t…! This…this is ours?!”

“Of course.” Michael gestures to the manor, leading you in further towards one of the entrances to the villa. “It’s close in proximity to your father’s villa and is safeguarded just as well. I wouldn’t accept any less.”

“Lake Tahoe inspired you?!” You exclaim, unable to get enough of the spectacular view of the mansion before you. “Don’t tell me you—”

“I did.” Michael answers your question, rather amused with himself as he smoothens back the sides of his hair. “I’ve already bought the lakeside compound.”

Michael squeezes your hand, continuing to lead you off behind the villa next to the gazebo, revealing the swimming pool privately covered by one corner of the villa, leading up to a spacious balcony with a perfect view over Sicily.

“What do you think, darling? First anniversary, first home in Sicily? A new first in Nevada?” He wraps an arm around your back, gazing before the illuminated, still swimming pool.

“It’s gorgeous—it’s beautiful!” You wipe at the tears in your eyes, “it’s…I’m speechless. It’s nothing like I ever imagined. Wow.” You murmur in astonishment, discovering something new with every look around the complex. “Can we…?”

“Of course, I’ll take you inside.” Michael nods back, walking around the pool and to the back entrance as he unlocks it, letting you in first. “Remind you of home?”

Eyes filled with surprise, you spot the same framed photographs of the two of you adorning every corner of the home exquisitely decorated with the finest Italian and European furniture ranging from a set of velvet loveseats to an antique China cabinet across the room. It reminds you much of your estate in New York with much more of a timeless, Sicilian touch to it throughout each and every detail.

“Does it ever! It’s absolutely stunning!”

As your eyes scour around the living room in amazement, Michael locks the back entrance behind the two of you, pulling the blinds shut. Your reaction is everything and more as he hoped, only continuing to provide you the highest of luxury was his wife and the mother to his children with ease.

With a home to reconnect with both of your Sicilian roots whenever you choose to visit Italy, it is another way to Michael is both a gift he longed to give you back home and apologize for at the same time. A way to gloss over the fight, a way to rewrite what the two of you knew Sicily was with your own memories and wishes.

Michael puts his hands in the pockets of his dress pants, pacing around slowly as you pick up a wedding photograph from overtop of the fireplace, an image of the two of you dancing in the center courtyard of the Corleone manor, Michael throwing his head back in laughter.

“And this…”

You brush your thumb against the glossy, framed photograph—a smile growing over your own lips at the sight of how blissfully joyful he is in that moment—as if nothing else matters at the moment; not Kay, not the six families feud, not Alphonse. Nothing but he and I.

Michael’s eyes find yours upon the photograph—a ghost of a shy smile upon his lips as he sees how much you admire it before him, completely distracted.

Michael takes his hands out of his pockets, approaching you from behind as he places his chin upon your shoulder, lovingly pulling you by your hips against his back in an embrace. “I love you, Victoria.”

Your heart skips a beat, picking up its pace as you place your free hand over his upon your waist, your vision of the photograph beginning to blur from the tears prickling up in your eyes. You can feel his gaze looking upon you, causing a rush of adrenaline and butterflies to hit you in a wave of warmth.

Noticing your hand trembling, Michael reaches out to gently take it from you, setting it overtop of the fireplace once more. He laces his hand with yours, holding it up as he buries his face into the nape of your neck, planting a tender, lasting kiss.

“I love you too,” you breathe out at the touch of his hot lips against your skin.

Michael grazes the tip of his Roman nose against the side of your neck, the strands of his tousled hair dangling against your skin as he takes in the sweet scent of your floral perfume. He cocks his head upwards, gazing his dark, chestnut eyes into yours—speaking for him.

“Stai con me per sempre.” (Stay with me forever.) With the sun sinking into the horizon, the illumination of the sunset and ornate chandelier gleam above the two of you, intertwining in the moment of intimacy with the evening breeze flowing through the curtains and brushing up against your skin.

Only your heartbeat and the breathing of you two to be heard, you revel at the moment, experiencing a sensation of everlasting passion between Michael and you. His touch—gentle yet firm upon you, possessively adoring in his love language towards you.

His voice is low, husky to a soft whisper as Michael breathes against your neck. “Voglio passare il resto della mia vita con te qui.” (I want to spend the rest of my life with you here.)

Just as you turn your body to face him, he cups your face with both hands, pulling you in and silencing you with a deep kiss without another word.

You give in to his hot kiss, finding yourself lost between his soft, full lips as he kisses you slowly, yet with a fiery, insistent desire. Michael’s kiss is heated, needy, and demanding—wanting more of you than ever but patient to get it. A kiss filled with sincerity, longing, and apology in the privacy of your new home.

His hand slides down your arm and back to behind your waist as he embraces you to him as close as your body can get.

“M-Michael…Michael…” You breathe out shakily, almost in a dazed state, as he slowly parts his lips from yours.

Michael’s eyes flicker with lust at the sight of your wet lips aching for his kiss again. Just as he’s about to reach in, he tugs at the buttons of your shirt-waist dress, easily popping them open. “I need you, but I’m not going to take you here…”

Revealing your cleavage spilling out of your dress, he easily lifts you into his arms, wrapping your thighs around his waist as he pushes through the door to his right, leading into a guest bedroom.

Far too impatient and craving every inch of you to take you upstairs, he lays you upon the queen-sized guest bed, hovering over top of you. Groaning into your neck and leaving several trails of sloppy kisses, his hands gently cup at your sensitive, tender breasts.

“Michael, I—” You whine out in response, impatient towards his slow and teasing movements, bringing you to the edge with soft affection.

“You’re breathtaking…” Michael caresses your cheek with the back of his hand, pressing his forehead against yours.

Every muscle in your body writhes in response to his, your heart thundering in your chest. “Michael, I—Ah!” You feel him gently suckling kisses upon your neck, ever so slightly pulling at your skin to leave a small, reddened love mark.

“You have me, darling…” It sends sparks of pleasure inside of you as you feel his hands pull your dress off of your shoulders and down off your legs. “I’m all yours.” He grasps at one of your thighs, giving your ass a firm squeeze as he peels your panties down your ankles.

Arching your back to unhook your bra off, Michael’s tousled hair brushes against your shoulder, sending shivers up your spine. Waves of arousal flow through you over and over again, begging for his touch, aching for every part of him but through a longing love, not a hasty demand to fuck.

'I want him. I want him badly.' You tug at his tie to bring him closer to you as he unbuttons his dress shirt, throwing both of them off.

You scour your hands over Michael's smooth chest, feeling at his biceps as he raises his head momentarily. He breathes heavily, his eyes still fixated over yours as he tugs his dress pants and briefs down his knees.

In an instant, you feel the warmth of his cock against your mound, causing a little whisper of a moan to trail out of your mouth. “Ohh, Michael…”

“I told you…you don’t know what you do to me.” His hand clutches at the bedsheets as he raises your thigh upward with the other, leaving a wet, full-mouthed kiss right above your sex. “I can’t…”

Watching your blushing, squirming reaction, Michael keeps his sex-filled gaze upon yours, leaving another kiss in the middle of your waistline as he presses his tongue down, trailing it up to your stomach. “Get enough…of you…”

You clasp a hand over your mouth to stifle your moans, gasping a little from the pressure of the tip of his cock pressing upon your clit. His precum oozes between your folds, mixing in easily with your wetness.

“M-Michael, please…” You’re almost on the verge of begging as he taps his cock upon your clit, drenching his shaft with your soaked slit.

“Baby…” His breath hitches as he angles his hips upward, his ruffled hair sticking to the sides of his face. He intertwines one hand with you, holding your thigh with the other as he sharply thrusts up, his hips snapping into you.

“Ohhhhh!” You moan out loudly in response, arching your hips up to his, feeling his rock-hard length pushing inside of your wetness.

“Oh, baby—that’s only half of me.” Michael inhales sharply, gritting his teeth as he presses his hips in further, completely filling you to the brim with his cock stretching open your tightness. You rest your thigh above his shoulder, panting as you hold shaky eye contact with him.

Shockwaves of arousal pull at you with the sight of Michael naked, deep inside of you with his bedroom eyes watching your every reaction being held under his embrace.

“Just like that, darling…” Michael exhales slowly, kissing up and down around your collarbone, pinpointing the pressure from his lips over your skin as he steadily thrusts in and out of you. “Yeah, yeah…”

“Oh, God…” You whimper loudly, feeling your tightness convulses around his cock as you spread your legs open further, inviting all of him inside you. Your arousal pulsates in the pit of your stomach as you wrap your arms around his shoulders, barely able to hold on. “Michael, p-please…!”

“Ah, yes, yes, yes…” Michael moans into your neck quietly, only continuing to heighten your pleasure from the sound of his velvety voice groaning out. “Come ‘ere, come here…” He beckons, tilting your chin up with a finger as he kisses teasingly around your lips.

“That’s right—take all of me in…” You clutch a hand onto his back, feeling your legs begin to tremble at the familiar build-up of orgasm trickling through you. Michael buries his cock inside of you, his thrusts agonizingly slow and passionate as he makes you feel every inch of him with each push. “Mm, look at you…”

“You’re beautiful…” His waistline comes into contact with yours, pressing upon your clit back and forth. Breathy moans continue to spill out of your mouth as you tug onto his hair, running your hand through his silky, dark locks that bounce about over his forehead as he makes love to you.

Everything from the way he approached you from behind, how he pressed his body against yours and had you lost in his gaze and kiss in mere moments only heightens the ecstasy and powerful attraction you feel towards Michael Corleone.

“You feel so good…” He’s memorized every little sweet spot in your body like clockwork, obsessed with pleasing and teasing his wife. Each time his cock comes into contact with your G-spot, it feels like the very first. He beckons for your orgasm before his own, obsessed with the way you remain sprawled upon the bed, taking all of him in.

“Yeah, you love that, don’t you…?” He grunts, watching his cock slide in and out of your pussy. “See the way you take all of me in like that?”

“Harder, please, Michael…” You beg a complete and utter flustered mess. “Please, please…”

“You’re begging, huh? Dirty girl…” He leans down, licking over your lips before kissing at them again, clutching onto both of your thighs to spread them as wide as possible.

“N-never!” You moan back.

He presses his thumbs down to the creases of your inner thigh, applying pressure as he rubs down tenderly, only continuing to spill more moans out of your mouth. “Fuck, you’re so tight…” He pulls out halfway before slamming his hips back into yours deeply, keeping his slow pace but deepening his thrusts. “Li

Michael’s dirty talk not only turns you on but flares up your shyness as you moan through it. He’s completely and utterly dominant over you, gladly controlling every aspect of your pleasure. The pressure of his cock inside of you builds and builds—almost unbearably so.

“Ah, Michael!” The sensation of his hand trailing down your body, cupping at your breasts, and massaging your inner thighs gloriously mixes with his lips kissing around the outline of your jaw, sending sparks of pleasure flying through you.

“I wanna see you cum for me…” He pants, taking your right thigh and moving it to clench at your legs as he cups your ass, laying upon his side—your back to him as he thrusts upwards, fucking you from the side.

You cry out in pleasure loudly, cocking your head back as he grips a fistful of your hair, pulling at it to bury his face into your shoulder. He uses his free hand to hold your thigh up, pounding you from behind. “Cum for me, baby… Let me see you cum.”

“Hah…fuck…” He moves his hand down, ever so gently grazing the tip of his fingers against your clit as you let out a filthy moan, attempting to hold back your bolstering orgasm to no avail.

Your orgasm washes over you, tensing up your muscles momentarily as you feel yourself clench against him. Your eyes snap open, and you give out a half moan, half gasp to feel him press his hips against your ass, spewing his seed deep inside of you with a breathy grunt.

Michael lets go of your thigh, his firm, strong hand sliding up from between it and grasping at your throat, holding you in perfect position as he fills you with his cum. His fingers rub at the side of your throat, trailing back up to your jaw as he tilts your chin to face him, out of breath as he bucks his hips up to yours a final time. “Mm…”

You let a deep, shaky exhale out, barely able to maintain eye contact as the rest of your orgasm dwindles out, leaving you a flustered, freshly fucked mess in Michael Corleone’s grasp.

“Since you were so insistent…” His voice is filled with tease as he pulls out of you, letting your wetness and his cum trickle out between your thighs. “How could I deny you anything on our anniversary, hmm?”

“Oh…” You attempt to steady your breathing, gazing back at Michael, who lays on the bed upon his side, naked in full glory as he rests his cheek upon his fist. His hair clings to the beads of sweat upon his forehead, his lips half parted, and the muscles in his arms tensed.

His smoldering gaze is almost too much to handle. Even the sight of him like this before you makes your body throb. “Are you…are you trying to get me pregnant?”

“Mhmm.” Michael leans over, pulling you into his embrace—his eyes scouring at your body. “As I should.”

You giggle back to him breathily, brushing off the strands of his hair from his forehead. “Should have seen that coming…a third anniversary present.”

Michael pulls at the thin, satin throw upon the bed, sitting up and pulling you onto his lap as he wraps it up around both of your waists. “Mhm—your legs are still shaking.”

“I’m not gonna be able to go into my father’s house like this.” You grin back, snuggling onto his chest.

“Looking like I just bred you?” Michael purrs back, brushing aside a curtain of your hair. “I wouldn’t either.”

“How do I tell my family you bought a whole mansion for me on our anniversary?” You whine out to him.

“I think you’d be surprised by their reaction.” Michael purses his lips, “they know who you’re married to.”

“Don Michael…Corleone.” You say back in an Italian accent, giggling. “Mhmm, I do, but I don’t see you in that way.”

“Why’s that?” Michael raises a brow at you, propping a blanket up behind his back to lean upon it.

“Because the Michael Corleone I know and the Michael Corleone I’m married to are two different people, aren’t they?” You lace a hand with him—your wedding band clinking against his. “One is the head of a powerful family—a ruthless businessman, and the other is my husband—the man I sleep next to every night, the father to my children. I’m wed to both, but you don’t sit in our bedroom and make me business offers I can’t refuse, do you?”

Michael gives you a nod. “You have a point there.”

“Only I see this side of you, however.” You blush, gazing up at his handsome, Sicilian features. “Which is more than I could ever ask for. I’m in love with all of you because I know all of you. I love everything you do for our family and me, but at the end of the day, it’s not fancy cars or a palace of a home to live in that I truly want. I just want to be with you.”

“Victoria—”

“In a way, I feel as if you’re still trying to apologize to me…” You gaze back up into his eyes, “especially here of all places.”

“How could I not?” Michael presses his lips down. “After everything? I don’t understand. Why Sicily? Out of all the places I could take you to?”

“Doesn’t it all come back to Sicily?” You pull the satin throw up to your breasts. “It’s where our families are from, our roots. The Corleone’s, the Ferrari’s. Where everything begins and ends—how could it not be? I’ve wanted nothing more than to be here with you, honeymoon, or simple family vacation—it doesn’t matter. And yet you go beyond my wildest dreams and—” You gesture to the villa, “amaze me once again. When I think of Sicily, Michael, I don’t think about your past. I don’t think about that night.”

“Why?”

“Because I chose to forgive you.” You tell him, giving his hand a squeeze. “I chose to look past that because I love you. Because I respect you because I want to understand you. I’m not in your past after all.”

Once filled with worry, Michael's expression begins to break down, his eyes softening as he listens to you. “You forgive me.”

“Of course I do. To be here with you after all of these years and with children of our own…it’s been an absolute blessing. You kept telling me you were going to make it up to me, again and again—that you would spend your entire life doing so if you had to. You never asked yourself if I would ever forgive you. You brushed off the thought completely, and I don’t want you to think that way about me. I could never hate you, Michael. My heart isn’t built like that.” You confess.

You reach up, kissing his lips sweetly. “I’ve seen you all day acting like it doesn’t bother you, but deep down, you’re tense. I don’t want you to think that way. The only way I’m enjoying our honeymoon—this anniversary, is if you are. Let me forgive you, and let it go.”

[breitzbachbea]

Day 1: Language [GreSic]

Here is my first entry for @aphrarepairweek2021! No intimacy like finding traces of a shared past on your tongue.

Ship: Greece/Sicily [OC] (Herakles Karpuzi/Michele Vento) Set in an Human/Organized Crime AU Read it here on ao3

All Sicilian & Greek words are translated at the bottom - I marked the words in red, so that you can easily find where you left off if you jump to the translations!

Much thanks to @amber-isnt-a-precious-stone for betareading this Oneshot & to @crispyliza for helping me with the Greek transcription. Love you guys <3

Since I don't describe Michele in the oneshot itself, here's also a Teenage GreSic kiss, drawn by my friend @/C0FFINATED from twitter! (They're 16 & 15 here; in the Oneshot, they're somewhere between 18 and 20)

In Una Lingua Familiare

They sat in Herakles’ old and battered kitchen. It must have been the height of Greek Luxury back in the 50s, when it had been renovated. Now it felt cosy, with all its chipped tiles and worn handles.

Something flew past the window and they both turned their heads.

It flew past the window again.

“Taddarita,” Michele told Herakles with a content smile.

Herakles smiled back. “Nychterida.”

“Oh, I think that’s the same word,” Michele said and lifted the small coffee cup to his lips.

“It’s not,” Herakles said. “After you butchered it.”

Michele chuckled about it. He still hadn’t taken a sip. Herakles had made them Greek coffee and Michele was careful with it. He dreaded the thought of reaching the bottom and ending up with a mouthful of coffee grounds. “We didn’t butcher them, we’ve made them our own. But we’ve kept them, regardless.” He finally drank some before he glanced back to Herakles with eyes half lidded. “Carusu,” he said.

“Agori”, Herakles replied.

They had drifted off and talked about history and linguistics again. A safe topic. No business. No nightmares. Michele had tried his best to get rid of the bags under his eyes before he came to Greece but he had no idea if he succeeded. Herakles hadn’t said a word about it and he was grateful for it.

He just wanted to go back to the days when he learnt Ancient Greek at the liceo classico and Herakles did the same at his lykio. When they had found another shared passion to fill the time of the rare afternoons spent together in Palermo or Athens.

“Modern Greek is still Greek” Herakles said. “The words we kept, we didn’t change.”

“Even if we changed them to suit our tongues, we haven’t replaced them,” Michele answered. “After the Phoenicians and the Romans came. And the Arabs and the Germans, the French and the Spaniards. None of them could take the words from us.” His voice was low and he wondered if it even left his mouth or just stuck as vibrations to his lips.

Herakles gave away nothing as he looked into Michele’s eyes. His form was mostly in the shadows, with only the dim light of the moon, the city and a dingy lamp in the corner of the room.

Almost nothing. His tongue darted out and licked delicately over his upper lip.

Michele watched him intently. “Liccu,” he said.

“Lihoudis,” Herakles replied.

They said nothing for a while, broke eye contact and Herakles took a sip of his coffee.

“There’s an Italian version of Herakles, too,” Michele said and Herakles lazily raised an eyebrow. “I could call you Erculi.” His accent was heavy when the name rolled off his tongue.

Herakles' thumb rubbed over the edge of his cup. His lips were slightly parted and Michele didn’t miss the attentive spark in his eyes.

He tried to distract himself by taking another sip of coffee.

“Mihalis,” Herakles said and Michele swallowed coffee grounds and sugar.

His hairs stood on end. He wanted to take Herakles’ hand and call him Erculi and babble sweet nothings in Sicilian at him. He wanted to be reminded of the touches they had shared when they had been kids, behind the safety of a schoolbook and the wild growth of a garden or sometimes tucked away in the corner of a dock wall.

Now they weren’t kids anymore, however, freed from their parents' watchful eye. He could do all that.

Herakles chuckled and despite the hour, it was a joyful little sound. Michele had put the coffee cup down and thought to get a glass of water to wash the coffee out of his mouth. He didn’t dare look at Herakles.

“You know who also changed my name?” Herakles asked and Michele glanced at him.

“Who?” The grounds stuck to his tongue and the walls of his mouth, but he wouldn’t say anything. Not unless Herakles said something first.

“Natasa. She calls me Iraklis, because she thinks Herakles is pretty pretentious in this day and age.” He chuckled again, his eyes on the table instead of Michele, and a faint smile on his face. “Maybe that’s also the reason why we Greeks changed all the words you Sicilians kept.”

Michele chuckled to himself. He got up to fetch a glass of water.

“She's been a big help in navigating this Shark Tank. Calls me Ira for short,” Herakles said and Michele nearly choked on the water. One last chuckle left Herakles, more of an amused sigh.

“Oh,” Michele said, as steady as his voice could manage.

“Interesting.”

Herakles looked at him from the corner of his eyes. “Yeah?”

In Italian, Ira means wrath.

They weren’t kids anymore, Michele thought. He wanted to sleep.

So he put his glass of water down, walked over to Herakles and peered inside his coffee cup. Empty, but so carefully drunk that he didn’t inhale the grounds.

“Iri means to go in Sicilian,” Michele said. Herakles had turned towards him. “I think I want to go to bed.”

Up close, he saw the dark circles underneath Herakles’ eyes. There was a cut on his thumb that hadn’t yet fully healed. Scratch marks peaked out underneath his hair and shirt.

And Michele didn’t care one bit for any of it, because it didn’t change that Herakles was so beautiful it knocked the breath out of Michele’s lungs.

Herakles scooted back with his chair, a dull sound on the old tiles, and welcomed Michele onto his lap. His hands steadied him as he sat down and one found its way into Michele’s hair as he kissed him. He liked the warm and heavy weight against his head and his own thumb brushed over Herakles’ cheek. Herakles’ lips were soft and warm and when his tongue darted out into the other’s mouth or it willingly met Herakles’ in his own, there was a faint taste of sugar and coffee.

Herakles broke their kiss and pulled back. When Michele opened his eyes, they went wide upon meeting Herakles’ stare. The pleading in his eyes scared him.

“Mihalis,” Herakles then whispered and Michele was ready to keel over.

“Erculi,” he got out, voice on the verge of tears and held onto Herakles for dear life as they kissed again.

~*~

"Taddarita/Nychterida [νυχτερίδα]" = Bat

"Carusu/Agori [αγόρι]" = Boy (In Greek, it can also be used to mean "Boyfriend". Since the Italian ragazzo works the same way, I assume the Sicilian carusu can also refer to a boyfriend. Do with that information what you will.)

"Liccu/Lihoudis" = Greedy; To have a sweet tooth

[beginagainunsolved]

RYAN: This week on Buzzfeed Unsolved, we cover the murder of the Bertinelli crime family, a prominent Italian mob family operating out of Gotham, New Jersey.

SHANE: Oh, I love a good mob story.

RYAN: Yeah, well, you might want to find someone else to move your couch for this one.

SHANE: Well, Ryan, now I’m titillated. 

RYAN (wheeze) Titillated?

SHANE: Titillated! 

RYAN, NARRATION: In the 1990s, the Bertinelli family was perhaps the most powerful crime family in Gotham City. Headed by Franco Bertinelli, the family enjoyed great wealth thanks to their deep ties with the mafia.

SHANE: That’s the dream.

RYAN: Being rich thanks to the mafia? That’s the dream?

SHANE: Frankly, Ryan, all rich people are shady. At least being rich thanks to the mafia is upfront!

RYAN: I’m sure they didn’t go around telling everyone ‘hey, the mafia made me rich!’

SHANE: Their last name is Bertinelli, Ryan. They didn’t have to tell people. People just knew.

RYAN: (wheeze)

SHANE: Look me in the eye and tell me Franco Bertinelli isn’t the most cliche mobster name you’ve ever heard.

RYAN: It --- It is pretty cliche, I have to give you that one.

SHANE: You do. 

RYAN, NARRATION: Well known around Gotham and the surrounding area, the Bertinellis were believed by many to be all but invincible due to their connections. This would change in the late 1990s. 

SHANE: Mafia life didn’t end well for them? It usually ends so well.

RYAN: How many stories have we done about mafia life ending less than well now?

SHANE: That’s, like, 90% of our job at this point. Just reading ‘idk, mafia?’ off a slideshow.

RYAN: And you still want them to move your couch.

SHANE: It’s a heavy couch! I’m not going to get indebted to them or anything. They’ll move one couch, I’ll do one thing for them, and we’ll be even!

RYAN: (wheeze) That’s not how the mafia works!

SHANE: How would you know?

RYAN: Because 90% of my job is reading ‘idk, mafia?’ off a slideshow.

SHANE: Touche. 

RYAN, NARRATION: In the late 1990s, when Franco’s daughter Helena was eight years old, an unknown person ordered a hit on the entire Bertinelli family. To this day, it isn’t known precisely who ordered the hit, but sources from within the organization claim that the contract came with an order to spare “the sister.” 

SHANE: Oh my god, there are nuns in this?

RYAN: What? (wheeze) No! Why would there be nuns in this?

SHANE: The Sister! Like a nun! These mobsters just didn’t want any nuns hurt.

RYAN: I promise you, this story has absolutely no nuns. 

SHANE: I’ll believe it when I see it.

RYAN: You’re seeing it right now, because I’m telling you.

SHANE: Hm.

RYAN: Ugh.

RYAN, NARRATION: The assassin who carried out the hit took this to mean that Helena, Bertinelli’s daughter, was to be spared. While Franco Bertinelli, his wife, and the rest of their family were slaughtered, Helena would survive the experience. She would, however, witness her family’s death.

SHANE: Can’t do that.

RYAN: Kill an entire family while their eight year old watches? Yeah, that’s not great.

SHANE: God that’s --- This is terrible. 

RYAN: Yeah, seems like they could have gone about it a little better.

SHANE: Like, maybe take the eight year old in the other room?

RYAN: Still not great!

SHANE: Well, no, Ryan, murdering a child’s entire family is never going to be great.

RYAN: But, yeah. You’d think they could have ‘spared’ her a little better here.

SHANE: These mafia hitmen need to stop taking things so literally!

RYAN: Actually… We’ll touch on that some more in the theories.

SHANE: Did I solve it?

RYAN: (wheeze) How is that anything remotely resembling a solve?

SHANE: I solved it!

RYAN: No! Stop saying you solved things.

SHANE: Jealousy is a bad look on you.

RYAN, NARRATION: For years, it was unclear what happened to Helena. Many people believed the rumors of her survival were false and that she had been killed along with her family. Other claims stated that she was sent to live with family in Sicily. Whatever the case, it’s clear that if Helena survived, she kept a low profile.

SHANE: I mean. Wouldn’t you?

RYAN: Yeah, if my entire family was killed in front of me at eight years old, I probably wouldn’t be going to many parties.

SHANE: (in a bad English accent) Oh, hello! Why, I haven’t seen you in years! My father? Ah, yes! Brutally murdered in front of me. My mother? Also brutally murdered! My brother? Why, it’s funny you should ask! He, too, was brutally murdered!

RYAN: (wheeze) Why are you doing English? They’re Italian. 

SHANE: All rich people are British, Ryan.

RYAN: No they’re not.

SHANE: At parties they are.

RYAN: That’s definitely not true.

SHANE: How do you know? Have you ever been to a party for rich people?

RYAN: ...You got me there.

RYAN, NARRATION: So, who ordered the hit on the Bertinelli family? Why were they killed? And, perhaps the bigger question, why was Helena Bertinelli, an eight year old girl, the only member of the family to survive? Let's get into the theories. The first theory points to Stefano Mandragora, a Sicilian mob boss, as the man behind the order.

SHANE: This is a boring theory. Where’s the excitement, Ryan? Where’s the pizzazz?

RYAN: I’m getting to the excitement! Would you let me finish?

SHANE: Get on with it! 

RYAN, NARRATION: This theory seems plausible, but the real meat comes from the local family tasked with completing the hit. Santo Cassamento was the leader of the Cassamento Family, one of Gotham’s Five Families. Because the Bertinellis were also one of Gotham’s Five Families, Cassamento would have had regular contact with them. This theory states that, during meetings and gatherings with the other Five Families in Gotham, Cassamento fell in love with Franco Bertinelli’s wife, Maria.

SHANE: Ooh, that is juicy. 

RYAN: Oh, it gets juicer.

SHANE: Go on.

RYAN, NARRATION: This theory goes on to claim that Helena Bertinelli wasn’t the daughter of Franco Bertinelli at all, but was in fact an illegitimate child conceived between Maria Bertinelli and Santo Cassamento. When tasked with eliminating the Bertinelli family, Cassamento knew he couldn’t save the woman he loved, and instructed the assassin to spare their daughter instead.

SHANE: That’s kind of sweet, in a way.

RYAN: How is that sweet? She died! He let an assassin kill her!

SHANE: Yeah, but --- It’s like Romeo and Juliet!

RYAN: I’m not convinced you’ve read Romeo and Juliet.

SHANE: I saw the movie.

RYAN: Which one?

SHANE: The one with Leo.

RYAN: That one’s pretty good.

SHANE: Yeah! See, I don’t have to read it. No one needs to read when they can just watch Leo do all the hard work for them.

RYAN: That’s… No. 

SHANE: You heard it here first, kids! Reading’s for chumps!

RYAN: No!

RYAN, NARRATION: A second theory believes that Helena Bertinelli was spared accidentally. According to this theory, there were no secret instructions to spare her at all. Rather, the eight year old got lucky when she managed to avoid the onslaught of bullets that killed her family and survived by hiding beneath her mother’s body until most of the assassins cleared out. When one of the assassins was tasked with confirming the kills, he couldn’t bring himself to kill the little girl and instead arranged for her to be taken to safety in Sicily before telling his employer she was dead.

SHANE: That’s horrifying.

RYAN: What part? The part where she only survived by dumb luck, or the part where she hid under her mother’s body?

SHANE: Actually, I meant the bit where her hair got a little messy --- OF COURSE I MEAN HER HIDING UNDER HER MOTHER’S CORPSE, RYAN. What else would I possibly mean? Jesus.

RYAN: (wheeze) Yeah, that’s --- That’s obviously terrible. I mean, this story is horrifying for Helena Bertinelli no matter what theory is the truth. Even if none of them are the truth, it’s clearly a terrible situation for an eight year old to be in.

SHANE: Agreed.

RYAN, NARRATION: The final theory is perhaps the most tragic --- that Helena Bertinelli wasn’t spared at all. In this theory, Helena was killed alongside her family, and the woman using her name now is an imposter hoping to gain control of the Bertinelli fortune. 

RYAN: This might sound far-fetched ---

SHANE: --- Actually? I could see it.

RYAN: Really?

SHANE: Sure. I mean, a rich family happens to die and you bear enough of a passing resemblance to their eight year old to pass as her 20-something years later so you figure, why not give it a shot? It’s not like there are many people around to contest it.

RYAN: That’s true.

SHANE: I mean, what, the assassin who killed them is going to come forward now and say, ‘Hey, that’s not Helena Bertinelli! I know because I killed that kid!’

RYAN: (wheeze) Good point. I doubt the assassin is going to come in to disprove it. What about the, uh, the moral implications of posing as a dead eight year old to get her family’s dirty money?

SHANE: I mean… They’re not great? Obviously pretending to be a dead person for money isn’t awesome. 

RYAN: It is dirty money, though.

SHANE: Yeah, Ryan, but the eight year old didn’t have anything to do with that!

RYAN: Yeah, that’s true. It does feel pretty disrespectful.

SHANE: Hey, you know me --- I say let the dead be dead.

RYAN: Are you about to pick a fight about ghosts right now?

SHANE: Not unless you’re going to pull a ‘Helena Bertinelli is a ghost’ theory out of your ass.

RYAN: Well, now that you mention it…

SHANE: Uh uh. This episode is OVER, buddy. Save your bullshit for the Post Mortem.

RYAN: (wheeze)

RYAN, NARRATION: Who ordered the hits on the Bertinelli family? Why was their eight year old daughter spared? Was she spared? With the only potential witness to the crime itself a traumatized eight year old girl and the threat of retribution from the remaining members of Gotham’s Five Families preventing anyone from coming forward with more information, the truth behind this massacre will likely forever remain… unsolved.

WHAT UNSOLVED MYSTERY DO YOU WANT TO SEE NEXT?

[africanization101]

How important do you think the Kardashians are to Africanization?

I’m quite sure the Africanization process is not contingent on what the Kardashians are doing, but of course they’re excellent role models and I very much enjoy following their family tale.

The optics here are obviously great: a family clan of successful, wealthy and influential women who could have any man they want, and what’s their consistent choice? Men of color, often rappers or other musicians, Black cultural icons. The message is clear: when you’re free to do whatever you want, you’re going to want to date an edgy Black man.

Even Kourtney Kardashian, the last straggler who had an on-and-off relationship with a white man for years, eventually took the plunge and started dating Younes Bendjima to fit in with the rest of the family. She’s currently single and mingling again, but I would be surprised if her next beau was white again.

Not only are they dating Black men, they’re also shamelessly copying Black culture through their own looks. They’ve gotten a lot of flak for that, but honestly, it just looks great on them:

They’re also adopting consciously pro-Black attitudes and communicating them to their millions of fans. Kim in particular has gotten quite woke about raising her mixed children, stating the following in an interview:

“I’m very conscious of it. Kanye always has his family around and people who look like my daughter ― that’s important to me,” Kardashian said. “She’s obsessed with her curly hair, and if she finds someone who has the same hair, she runs to them and is like, ‘You have curly hair like me?’ And we get to talk about it.”

“We want to raise our kids to be really aware. I think that’s all you can do. The more you talk about things and keep them out in the open, the more they won’t be taboo,” Kardashian responded. “Kids are already so open. They say anything. So if you educate them, they feel like they have this knowledge and then they feel empowered.” 

Growing up, these Kardashian kids will become very aware of two things: that they are cultural icons thanks to their parents, and that they are Black and should be proud of that. That’s a potent mixture. I’m looking forward to it.

There’s another, deeper thing going on with the Kardashian phenomenon. As their last name implies, their family originated from Armenia; if you need a geography refresher, that’s a little country between Turkey and Iran. Just close enough to Europe that you could pass as white with some effort, but just far enough away that it would always be an effort.

Italian (specifically Sicilian and other southern Italian) immigrants to the United States faced a similar problem in the 19th century. Their choice was clear: try very hard to pass as white and adopt white cultural markers as signs of your social success. But by the time the Kardashians were rising through the social ranks in the latter half of the 20th century, whiteness had already become much less attractive. So they made a different choice.

Now that they’re on top, they’re not performing whiteness: they’re performing Blackness, and they keep doing it despite all the criticism and scolding because they know deep down that this is the aspiration of 21st-century, multiracial, browning America: to be successful and Black. By doing that, they’re also sending the message to all their fans that this is not just okay, it’s what you should be doing if you want to be in the same social class as the Kardashians. Many, many people want just that.

So all in all, the Kardashians really are a gift and I do hope they will keep on giving.

[hazelnmae]

Lies Travel Faster: Chapter Eight

Summary: Sophia Murphy’s life seems to be on the upswing when she takes a job with Birmingham’s notorious Shelby Company Ltd. But when she falls for her boss, CEO and ruthless gangster, Tommy Shelby, she finds herself wrapped up in a tangled web of danger and deceit. After all, lies travel faster than the truth.

Tags: Tommy Shelby x Original Female Character; Tommy/Assistant Trope (it’s a hill I’ll die on)

Warnings: angst; finally, a little smut for ya’ll; violence; language; rape/non-con; death

CHAPTER 8 (read Chapter 7 or start at the beginning with Chapter 1)

“You’re having nightmares?” Tommy asked, placing his newspaper back on the large table and turning to face Sophie.

Fuck, Frances must have let it slip, she thought.

Yes, she was having nightmares. In fact, she hadn’t found a solid night’s sleep since she’d been at Arrow House. The last day she remembered waking well-rested was the morning she woke in Tommy’s old bedroom on Watery Lane. Since then, she’d battled string after string of horrible nightmares. She desperately wanted things to return to normal. But even more, she wanted her new family to find happiness. She wanted Tommy to find peace.

After a long silence, Tommy replied, “I struggled to sleep after the war. I always dreamed of being back in the tunnels.”

“How did you get over it?” She asked. “How did you quiet your mind?”

“I didn’t. Just traded the tunnels for other nightmares–fucking Russians, or Italians,” he answered matter-of-factly.

For the first time since she met him, she’d found something Tommy couldn’t control–his own mind, full of demons, haunted him. Even when he really thought he was doing his best, he questioned it. Even when he thought things were on the upswing, the nightmares of what might go wrong plagued him.

And that was just one more thing they shared in common.

“You’re not dreaming of Changretta,” he said, somehow piecing together that the problem was different than he’d originally imagined.

Again, Sophie said nothing. She just felt a single tear fall down her cheek and watched as it hit the linen napkin in her lap and spread through the fibers.

No, it wasn’t Changretta. He scared her, no doubt, but he wasn’t what scared her most.

“What then?” He asked.

“You” she replied.

He didn’t even flinch. “What am I doing in this dream of yours?”

“Dying”

“Sometimes it’s different,” she continued, “but usually you’re standing in a dark hallway, gun drawn, pointing at someone I can’t see. Whoever it is gets their shot off before you and it hits you in the head. Right between those gorgeous blue eyes.” With that, Sophie let her head fall into her hands. One finger swept her own forehead, between her eyes, instinctively.

They sat in silence for a moment, before Sophie realized Tommy was waiting for her to tell him more.

“You fall to the ground and you’re just–you’re just gone.” She said. “Then I hear a loud, piercing noise.“

She looked up at him again but Tommy just stared back at her, unsure of what to say. He didn’t show any emotion, but she could sense his concern for her.

“I only wake up when I realize I’m screaming.”

_____________________

“Oh, dear,” Alfie said. “Brother, you’ve got fucking starlings, mate. You know that? That shit will rot your pipework.” Alfie took out his pistol and began searching the pipework above for the bird. “These bastards only understand one language.”

“It’s all right, Alfie,” Tommy said, placing a hand on Alfie’s shoulder to calm him. “There is no need. It’s all right, I’m getting a kestrel.”

They walked a little farther into Tommy’s makeshift distillery–a warehouse he’d “acquired” from a businessman who’s business had folded.

Alfie’s nephew, Goliath, followed them into the space, ducking to avoid a pipe as he entered–too tall for most spaces he was expected to inhabit.

Tommy had invited them to talk business–to discuss his new venture and the purse for Goliath’s upcoming fight. But Tommy really wanted to get a feel for Alfie’s loyalties–to suss out where he stood in the situation with the Italians. He knew Changretta had been to visit Alfie–that he had pressed Alfie to throw Tommy over. It was Alfie who offered to help Tommy best the Italian. Changretta had made an arrangement to export his rum if Alfie agreed to help.

Alfie had agreed. And had told Tommy as much.

But something had changed. Changretta came for Sophie for a reason–one that Tommy was still trying to understand.

“And what about the Italians, mate. You got a kestrel for them and all?” Alfie asked.

“Yes. I’ll have a kestrel for them, as well,” Tommy responded plainly.

He poured a small glass of gin and handed it toward Alfie. It was something he’d been working on for some time and was hoping to push into America. The recipe was the only thing of worth his father left them.

“I know you don’t touch it,” he said handing the glass to Alfie, “But you have a good nose.”

He sniffed the glass and tilted it back to admire the color. Alfie put one finger in the liquid, spread it a bit on the back of his hand and sniffed it. He placed the glass on the small table beside them. “The Americans want it sweeter.”

“What have you heard, Alfie?” Tommy asked now, moving onto the business at hand.

“I heard a copper got shot. Who shot him?”

“My kestrel,” Tommy answered.

“Right, I’ll up the stakes, very good.”

“Where are the Sicilians?”

“They’re still using Sabini for vehicles and for places to stay,” Alfie said.

Tommy lit a cigarette and took a seat at the small table. “And reinforcements?”

“Ah, no, they’re Sicilians, aren’t they, they don’t trust nobody who ain’t fucked a goat on the morning of their first pubic hair. They’ve got traditions.” Alfie now leaned against his cane.

“How many are here?” Tommy asked.

“Eleven. Enough to drop a man who wrapped his balls in an OBE till they fell off,” Alfie answered.

After a moment he asked his own question. “Tell me, does the assistant know about your little plan?”

“She knows.” Tommy nodded and leaned forward to ash his cigarette in the small crystal ashtray on the table. “But she’s proven a loyal ally.”

“I’m not sure why you’d trust a stranger, Tommy.”

“Well, the real question is, Alfie, which side are you playing for, eh?”

Alfie laughed. “Fucking hell. What kind of world is it to bring up children when your own mate can ask you that question, hey?”

Tommy just sat silently, trying to make out what it was Alfie stood to gain from any of this–an alliance with him or an alliance with Changretta.

“But the truth is, Tommy, you’re going to be fucking dead soon,” Alfie continued, as usual. “Yeah, and then, your starlings, right, they will peck out your blue eyes, won’t they, and the jackdaws, they will steal your gold and your medals, and pretty soon, it’ll be as if you’d never even fucking happened, right?”

Finn ran into the warehouse, a look of alarm on his face.

“Tommy, there are men approaching,” he said, out of breath.

“Yeah, let ‘em pass.”

“Right, you tell Darby Sabini from me, that if the Italians win, they’re not planning on leaving,” Tommy continued to Alfie. “After me, it’ll be him, then you, then the Titanic. They’re the fucking Mafia, Alfie. They’ve come here and can’t believe our coppers are unarmed. They can distill their liquor and it’s not against the law. They’ve come here and they like what they see. They’re coming and they’re here to stay.”

Alfie just watched him without saying a word.

That’s when Aberama Gold walked in, his son Bonnie following close behind.

Bonnie, was to be Goliath’s opponent in the upcoming event.

“Mr Shelby? We’ve come to talk purse for the fight,” Gold said.

“Your kestrel? Hm?” Alfie asked, “Tommy, when a pikey walks in with hair like that, you’ve got to ask yourself, ‘Have I made a mistake?’” He couldn’t help throwing jabs.

“Who the fuck are you?” Gold asked him.

“Who the fuck am I?”

“Who the fuck is this?” He now looked to Tommy who just shrugged in return, clearly enjoying the banter.

“I, my friend I am the uncle, the protector and the promoter of that fucking thing right there,” Alfie said, now pointing his cane at Goliath. “In whose shadow nothing good nor godly will ever fucking grow.”

Gold turned to look at the giant who’d sat quietly behind him until that moment. Bonnie, too, took in his image.

“That, there, right, is the Southern Counties Welterweight Champion. He is of mixed religion, therefore he is godless. He was adopted by Satan himself, before he was returned out of fear of his awkwardness, he is impossible to marry off, due to his lethal dimensions. His mother, terrified, she’s fucking abandoned him. And there he is, stood before you, like the first of some brand-new fucking species. Any man that you put before him, right, it’d be like entering a fucking threshing machine, mate,” Alfie rambled, moving closer to Gold now.

“Now will you offer your son?” he nodded toward Bonnie.

Gold’s eyes shifted from Alfie to his son, searching for confirmation.

Bonnie stepped forward, “Name the day, Mr. Shelby,” he said.

_____________________

Tommy insisted Sophie stay at Arrow House that day; had, in fact, made his entire family stay away from the Small Heath office for fear Changretta would strike there in the street instead of following him as planned.

She’d called Changretta from Arrow House the evening before to give Tommy up. Although he’d told her what to say, he left her in his office to actually have a bit of privacy on the call–she was rattled enough to call in the first place and didn’t need Tommy hovering over her while she did it.

“Do what do I owe this pleasure?” Changretta’s voice dripped with arrogance as he took up the receiver. “I suppose you’ve decided to take me up on my offer.”

Some offer. He hadn’t given her a choice. It’d been her life or Tommy’s.

“Tomorrow is the day, Mr. Changretta,” She began, trying to control the quiver in her voice. “He’ll be leaving work unprotected. His men will be moving gin for Alfie Solomons in the afternoon.”

“Ha. What does a fucking gypsy rag doll know about gin, eh?”

Sophie said nothing, afraid she may say the wrong thing if she didn’t stick exactly to the letter of the plan.

She could hear him breathing on the other end of the line and thought he might be content to sit there, silently holding the phone, just to goad her.

“Tomorrow,” he finally said.

“Yes,” she responded, trying to push down the lump rising in her throat.

“And I suppose I should believe you,” Changretta said, rather than asked.

“I don’t want to give him up, Mr. Changretta, but you’ve forced my hand.”

They’d spoken a few more minutes, just to work out the details. She tried not to ask too many questions, both because she didn’t want him to become suspicious and because she really didn’t want to know what he had planned–didn’t want it to become a regularly recurring nightmare in her already too long repertoire. But she’d asked what she needed to and relayed the pertinent information back to Tommy, handing him the noose he very well may hang by.

So that morning, as Sophie watched him leave for work, knowing he was willingly walking right into the hands of the enemy, her nightmares took control of her mind.

_______________________

“He’s back,” she heard Frances call from the kitchen. Sophie hit the hallway just as Tommy opened the front door, but even through the darkness she could see he hadn’t been injured. He hadn’t yet noticed her and turned away to remove his coat and hat. Sophie searched his profile for any show of emotion, wondering if he’d been successful in his plot that afternoon. As he turned toward the hall, Charlie ran out from behind Sophie and jumped into his arms.

He finally made eye contact with her, but Sophie didn’t say a word.

“I got three,” was all he said as he carried Charlie further into the hall.

In that moment, Sophie felt too many emotions to register. Pain. Tommy had been pulling away from her for weeks and she didn’t know why. She couldn’t help but think May Carlton had something to do with it. Jealousy. Tommy’s only mention of his plans were to insist that go along with the plan and pretend to turn on him. Anger. He’d clearly put himself at risk, and for what? He’d gotten three, but it was clear now Luca wasn’t one of them. Relief. She’d spent the last eight hours sure he was dead.

Tommy walked toward her, almost as if he could read the confusion in her eyes, Charlie reaching out for Sophie’s face from his arms.

“See Ms. Sophie, Daddy’s alright,” Charlie beamed.

Sophie just nodded, fighting back tears as she smiled sweetly at the boy.

“Ahh, was Ms. Sophie worried about me?” Tommy asked his son, a smug smile spreading across his face.

“That’s what Frances said. Said she’d worry herself to death. But she didn’t died-ed, did she Daddy?!”

“No–no she didn’t,” Tommy said, chuckling at his son’s misused word. He searched her face and added, “I think she may still be a bit worried. What do you think, boy?

“Let’s give her a hug!” Charlie shrieked.

She finally made eye contact with Tommy, regretting it instantly as his eyes left her feeling drunk.

Tommy reached his free hand out to her. When Sophie took it, he pulled her in quickly, for a tight embrace. She felt herself melt into him, despite not wanting to, letting the conflicting emotions wash away. Instead she just felt comforted that he was here and buried her face in his neck. His broad hand moved up her back. She pulled back at the gesture, but Tommy wouldn’t let her go completely, keeping her face close to his and staring at her mouth. That’s when he softly pressed his lips to hers

As soon as he felt her kiss back, Tommy reached around her waist and pulled her in tighter. Sophie tried to tilt her head away, but Tommy moved his forward in response, not letting her pull out of the kiss. He opened his mouth, running his tongue along her lower lip. Lust took hold of her and she opened her own in response. He tasted like tobacco and whiskey, so much like the scent he left behind every time he exited the room. She could no longer think, but could only feel as her hands slid down Tommy’s chest and clutched at his collar, seeking something to anchor her to the ground. Only then did she realize she was holding her breath.

Charlie let out a giggle prompting Tommy to pull away and look toward his son. He slowly sat him on the ground, mussed his hair, and sent him off to find Frances and get ready for bed. The realization of what had just happened hit them both as they watched the young boy bounce up the stairs.

Sophie, thankful to be looking away from him for a moment, tried to steady her breath. As she turned back to meet his gaze, she found herself wrapped in another embrace and another impossibly passionate kiss. She gave in and leaned against him. Tommy reached down her thigh, brushing her skirt along the way, and locked his hand behind her leg. Taking the cue, Sophie jumped into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist, all the while keeping their lips locked together. She felt him hard between her legs pushing against her core.

Tommy moved them into the office and kicked the door shut behind them. His mouth moved down her chin and explored her neck as he made way toward his desk. Sophie let her head fall back, happy to allow him a moment of exploration. His warm, wet breath was more than she could handle and she felt a familiar tightening in her gut. She knew this wasn’t rational–she should push him away, not let this happen. He was her boss, he was her friend, and she didn’t want to ruin those relationships. But god, was he alluring.  Her head told her to stop, but it had lost all control of her body and she gave into the primal urges he stirred in her.

He set her on the desk and began pulling at her clothing as his lips returned to hers. She could barely breathe, but she didn’t dare break from the kiss. Tommy found the hem of her skirt and dragged his fingers up both legs. He smiled against her lips when he found the revolver strapped to her thigh. His hands crept higher and she found herself grabbing at the longer hairs on the top of his head, grasping to hold tight as his touch threatened to send her floating away.

He found the seam of her underwear and ran his fingers under the lace on her hips. She let out a soft moan feeling his touch so close to her core which caused him to pause. He pressed his forehead to hers and shook his head softly. “Fuck,” he let out on bated breath. His eyes, with pupils blown by his desire, searched her own. He didn’t want to stop, but needed to know she was okay with where they were heading.

Unable to take his gaze for very long, Sophie grabbed his face in her hands and pressed her lips back to his. Tommy grabbed her ass to pull her forward more, pressing himself between her legs. But just as she began to rock her hips against him, a knock caused them to both stop suddenly.

“Mr. Shelby, Charlie insists on a bedtime story. Says you promised him one this morning,” Frances said through the heavy wooden door.

Fighting to find some composure, Sophie lowered herself off the desk into the space between them, slowly sliding down his strong and hard body as she did so. They were both panting for air, when Frances opened the door, prompting Sophie to turn and move away from him quickly.

“Mr. Shelby?” Frances said.

“I’m on my way, Frances. Thank you” Tommy responded rubbing a hand over his face.

He leaned over his desk, placing both his hands flat on its surface and hanging his head. Frances left the room as quickly as she’d entered it.

“Probably for the best, right? We do have a deal, you know,” Sophie said, reminding him of the conversation they’d had when he hired her.

Tommy didn’t look at her, choosing to focus on something on the desk instead. He just nodded.

“You promised me, Tommy. And we’d both do best to remember that agreement.” She could feel a new heat rising in her chest. One of frustration, not passion. She’d been serious about that deal and couldn’t believe they’d almost given into the temptation to break it.

“Right” was all Tommy could say, keeping his back turned as she left the room.

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Read Chapter 9

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