#the godfather imagine

[roccoparondi]

Something Borrowed (Michael Corleone x Reader)

Summary: Michael Corleone is the last person you expect to see at your best friend Connie’s wedding, and the last thing you expect to happen upon seeing him again after so many years is spending the night together. Maybe, it'll turn into something more.

Note: Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. No hate to Kay, she’s my girl, but wedding scene Michael drives me crazy🤭 She’s off living her best life elsewhere in this. Also, it was a lot of fun writing pre-everything Michael. Do not interact if you’re under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 2.8k

Warnings: Sexually explicit content involving unprotected sex. Light play fighting.

Champagne and giggles overflowed at Connie Corleone’s wedding to Carlo Rizzi. Plenty of red wine was passed around in pitchers for the old guard, of course. For you and the other women conscious of not staining the rainbow of cocktail dresses and flowing gowns that dotted the backyard, you opted for lighter fare in tall flutes that sparkled in the early autumn sun. 

Perhaps you were a bit too enthusiastic about the drink offerings, having already exchanged three empty champagne glasses for ones filled to the brim with glittering gold when the bride engulfed you in a hug. With a delighted laugh, you returned the gesture, kissing her cheek.

“I wanted to say thank you one more time for coming!” Connie exclaimed, her cheeks flushed pink from the excitement of the day. “God, it breaks my heart we couldn’t have gotten you a bridesmaid dress in time, but you look gorgeous.”

“Me? Connie, you look like a princess.”

“I feel like one,” she giggled.

“When you see your gift from me—I’m sorry it’s not more, I haven’t—”

“Stop it!” she scolded. “You came all the way from Europe just to be at my wedding. I couldn’t ask for a better friend.”

You didn’t bother correcting her. Her version of events sounded much nicer than you just got lucky with when the Red Cross put you on a boat home. “Anything for you.”

“I won’t keep you. This is probably the first time you’re eating real food in years. Mama, Sandra, and Theresa made most of it.”

Connie was right. You tried to savor your plate, packed with pasta drowned in homemade sauce, antipasto and crusty bread, and sandwiches that towered with fresh cold cuts. The Corleones knew a thing or two about good food, and had the means to pull the strings for the unfathomable ration books such a feast required.

A familiar yet unexpected voice startled you when your fork pierced a piece of mozzarella. “Is this seat taken?”

“Michael,” you practically gasped, taken aback by his even attending the wedding in the first place, but also how good he looked in his uniform. Cap tucked under his arm, medals and decorations on his chest, the photos you’d seen in the magazine didn’t do him justice. Finding yourself again, you gestured to the empty seat across from you. “Go ahead.”

“I can’t remember the last time I saw you, but you look great,” he said, his gaze fixed on you as he set his plate and glass down. He took you in, the girl he’d grown up seeing around the house and at school, now, without a doubt, a woman.

“You too, Captain,” you said, nodding toward the double bars on his uniform.

He snickered at your little joke, making you feel a bit more at ease in his presence. “I’m surprised you aren’t in the wedding party.”

“Honestly, I wasn’t even sure I was going to make it until a few days ago. I only just got back to New York on Thursday,” you said.

“You volunteered with the Red Cross, didn’t you?”

You nodded. “I was in England, and then France after the liberation.”

“Clubmobile, right?”

“Did Connie tell you?”

He shook his head, smiling the slightest bit. “All the pretty girls worked the Clubmobile.”

A mortifyingly girlish giggle escaped your lips. You quickly brought your glass to your mouth, though the champagne in it was likely the culprit of your embarrassing reaction to Michael’s compliment. Averting your eyes to the dancing guests, you tried to ignore the warmth that spread across your face.

You allowed yourself to look at him again a few moments later, relieved to find he was still sitting in front of you, amused, maybe even endeared, by you.

“You’re such a jerk, Michael,” you mumbled, only because he was your friend’s older brother, and when you were younger and starry-eyed and figuring out what it meant when your heart wouldn’t quite beat right around a boy, it was him who those tender emotions were kindled in secret toward—until you had your first real boyfriend.

He grinned at your remark, and the two of you ate and caught up in between his various family members stopping by the table to say hello. You weren’t sure what to make of his seeing you before any of them—flattered, a bit confused as well, but he laughed at your jokes and moved his seat closer to yours, so you must have been doing something right when he finally asked, “Do you want to dance?”

“I’d love to,” you said.

The chaos from Johnny Fontaine’s unexpected arrival and impromptu performance subsided when Michael led you out to dance. He held you close, the way soldiers had at the dances the Red Cross put on for servicemen, all to boost morale, or, as the war went on, to offer a break from reality. Among the many rules meant to be followed—and typically broken in one way or another in the haze of war—was to keep some emotional distance from the enlisted men, for your sake and their own, but with bodies so close together, tender touches and soft whispers over songs of twilight and moonbeams, it was tough not to be caught up in romance’s alluring snare.

Even then, with the war behind both of you, something about being in Michael’s arms made you truly understand why some girls risked their assignments for a man. There was something in how he looked at you, different from your childhood together, even from a few minutes prior. You felt breathless despite the slow song you swayed along to.

“Did you like Paris?” he asked quietly, throwing you for a loop.

You furrowed your eyebrows. “Paris?”

“You were in France, weren’t you?”

“Not Paris.”

“Where in France were you slinging doughnuts, then?”

“Little villages a few miles out from the front, mostly. More cows than people, but nice enough once the fighting stopped, and it was finally quiet—as quiet as it could get, anyway,” you said. “When Connie wrote you’d been wounded, I couldn’t help but think the worst. Plenty of guys out there—well, that article sure put me at ease. All the girls were jealous when I said I knew you.” You smiled. “I’m glad you’re alright, Michael.”

He glanced at your lips, and for an aching moment you were sure he was going to kiss you, but instead he gave you a smile, one that was real and made your heart flutter nevertheless, but left you disappointed.

“Where are you staying since you’ve been back?” he asked.

He seemed familiar with the hotel you were staying in when you mentioned it, offering to drive you back after the reception ended, and Connie and Carlo left for their honeymoon. 

“It’s only until I can find a boarding hotel that has space,” you said. “I mean, it doesn’t have to be the Barbizon, but I’m not moving back in with my parents.”

“Here’s to that.”

The rest of the day and into the evening, Michael hung around you, unless he was pulled away by members of his family, each instance an annoyance to him. You knew they weren’t exactly supportive of his enlisting, but the situation couldn’t have been that bad, not since he was home, safe and sound at his sister’s wedding.

The Corleones, though endlessly kind to you, always been an odd family, and you learned through your friendship with Connie not to ask too many questions.

But Genco Abbandando was dying, and Vito insisted Michael go with the rest of the Corleone men to pay his respects to the elder. When you offered to take a cab back to your hotel, Michael promised the visit wouldn’t be long, suggesting you wait at the house with his mother until he returned to drive you into the city.

Your foolish desire to spend more time with him led to your waiting in the Corleones’ kitchen for a little over an hour, when you likely would’ve been showered and in bed in your hotel room by the time he arrived back for you, in one hell of a hurry to get you into his car and presumably get away from his family.

“Do you ever think about leaving New York?” he asked when the house was out of view.

You laughed. “Michael, I only just got back.”

“That’s not what I mean. The war—it wasn’t going to be forever, but it let you see what life could be like away from all of this, didn’t it?”

“Of course it did. I’m honestly not sure what I’m going to do with myself now,” you said. “How about you? Are you going back to school? Dartmouth, I mean.”

He nodded. “I start again the spring semester.” At a red light, he glanced over at you. “New England’s nice. Better than French cow country.”

“And do you suppose I could study in the department of pouring coffee and serving doughnuts?”

“You’re smart. I think you have a real future,” he said, the sincerity in his voice startling you. “All of that back there, that’s not for us. It never has been.”

You were silent for a few moments. “I guess you’re right.”

The city lights twinkling in the distance took the place of the stars they blocked out from the sky, growing larger as Michael crossed the bridge into Manhattan, the center of the universe. You’d never tell a soul how you cried just a few days prior upon seeing it again for the first time in years.

Besides his talk of the future, Michael kept the conversation light, and you could’ve sworn he was flirting with you. Working the Clubmobile, you learned quickly how to pick up on it, some men laying it on thick while others were irresistibly smooth. Michael could’ve easily just been teasing you, the way a friend’s older brother would, but when he pulled up to your hotel, either your ego or curiosity prompted you to invite him up for a drink.

You sobered up on the drive into the city, enough to remember you didn’t have any drinks in your room. The two of you would have to go to the hotel bar for that, but then you and Michael wouldn’t be alone, not how you wanted, anyway.

To your relief, he agreed.

With Michael in uniform, few questions would be asked by hotel staff as to why you suddenly had a man with you when you checked in on your own. It would have been easy to lie, claim he was your fiance who had only just gotten back Stateside. But you supposed you and Michael already looked the part, walking arm-in-arm through the lobby without an issue.

Your confidence soared on the elevator ride up to your modest room, which you let Michael into, knowing he wouldn’t judge the state of your accommodations.

“Mind if I make myself comfortable?” You didn’t wait for his answer, pulling your blouse from where it’d been tucked in your skirt. Slipping out of your heels, you sighed softly in relief.

“It’s your place,” he said, setting his coat over the chair in the corner and loosening his tie.

You grabbed his cap from where he set it down and placed it on your head, tilting the brim over your face a bit and posing in front of him with a hand on your hip. “How do I look?”

He sat down on the edge of the bed, giving you a once over, “I swear I saw you pinned up in some guy’s tent looking just like that.”

You laughed, taking the cap off and flinging it aside. “Oh, I don’t even know why I invited you up here!” Your laughter faded as something in your stomach turned sour, the situation feeling achingly too good to be true. Alone in a hotel room with Michael, the two of you entirely capable of making your own mistakes on the off chance he wanted you too. “Or why you even agreed to come up.”

“I didn’t come up here to drink.”

“No, you did it to be nice, because we’ve known each other for so long…” You sighed, sitting next to him. “I always figured you thought of me as your kid sister’s annoying little friend or something.”

He shook his head, saying your name softly in either protest or reassurance. His hand cupped your face as he turned it toward him, his thumb rubbing soft circles in your cheek. “Not for a long time. Especially not tonight.”

You kissed him, hands gripping his shoulders, closing your eyes as you melted in his embrace. Your skin feverish at his touch, you shuddered when his hand slipped up your untucked blouse until his fingertips reached your bra.

To say you hadn’t fantasized about Michael would have been an unconvincing lie to anyone who dared ask, but even in your wildest dreams, it was never quite like this, so bold and irreverent in the face of the tradition the two of you had just spent the day celebrating.

“I came up here because you’re beautiful,” he confessed against your lips, “because you’re the only familiar face I saw at my sister’s wedding that didn’t make me wish I were somewhere else.”

Silencing him with another kiss, your fingers raked through his soft black hair as your body pressed flush against his, unsure if you could withstand hearing more of his tender words without falling to pieces. You couldn’t, not so early in the night, but his desire grew difficult to ignore when he pulled you onto his lap. The pressure against your pussy made you moan, and with a hasty desperation, you shimmied out of your panties as he unbuckled his belt, freeing his hard cock within a few moments.

You slipped a hand between the two of you, pumping his length, feeling the way it twitched at your touch and gasping when Michael’s hips bucked. His teeth grazed your bottom lip, a whisper of an intent to devour you.

“I need you, sweetheart,” he groaned. “Need to feel you.”

Lifting your hips, you whimpered upon feeling his head brush your clit as you positioned yourself, slowly lowering as he filled you, cock throbbing against your walls that clenched around him. He assuaged the pain of taking all of him with a gentle kiss and soft praises, urging you to take your time, that you had all night together.

All night. The promise he would stay, at least until the morning, sent a teasing wave of pleasure through you. Gripping his shoulders, you tried to keep a steady pace as you rode him, wanted to show him that staying would be worth his while. He’d been right in the car, you wouldn’t be a virginal, wedding white bride. The both of you had seen and experienced too much to be considered innocent any longer, but it was something you shared, that no one else from that day would have understood.

Your thighs ached as you neared your climax, desperately chasing it despite the exhaustion that was creeping up on you. Crying out in frustration, you buried your face in the crook of Michael’s neck.

“I’m close,” you whined. “Michael, I—”

“I’ve got you,” he assured you, his hands making their home on your hips. 

Your eyes fluttered shut as you let him guide your body, his thrusts doing most of the work while you rocked against him, seeking the friction against your clit that would bring you to release. It caught in your throat, a broken groan from your lips to his ears as you came, clenching around him, pleasure rolling through you, rattling your body like thunder. You barely caught your breath when he came, shuddering against you, practically cradling you against him as he filled you.

With a whimper, you lifted yourself off of him and rolled back onto the bed. Placing your hand on your chest, you felt your rapidly beating heart beneath your fingertips, focusing on it as it slowed the following minute or so and ignoring the stickiness between your legs, the evidence you slept with your best friend’s older brother. 

Michael leaned over, brushing back the hair that stuck to your face. “What are your plans tomorrow?”

“Looking through the classifieds for a job,” you said honestly.

“Wanna put it off for a day?”

“With what money, Michael?”

“I’ll give you a line of credit.”

You grabbed one of the pillows from behind you, throwing it at him with a laugh. “Jerk!”

He grinned, pushing it aside to grab for one of your arms. You put up a weak fight, your breathless laughter giving away his almost certain win.

Having pinned you down beneath him, he pressed you for an answer. “So?” He kissed you. “What do you say, sweetheart?”

You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “I guess I can clear my schedule for a dashing war hero like you.”

“Dashing, I like the sound of that,” he murmured, bringing his lips to yours again, softly, with a tenderness that promised more for tomorrow, and even the day after, if you’d have him. 

You smiled. “Me too.”

[charmingsoa]

Amore Della Mia Vita

Michael Corleone x OC

Grace Corleone married Michael because he was a down to earth man who fought for his country. Big brown eyes and smile that could rival Rudolph Valentino. Never in a million years did she think the man who made her heart dip into her stomach from excitement would cause her stomach to twist in fear and disgust.

Rated M: Be advised that this story will contain storylines depicting sex, verbal assault, physical assault, sexism, cursing, mentions of miscarriage, violence, murder, etc. Please do not read if these trigger you in any way. The story will follow parts of the trilogy. I do not own any characters/scenes created by Mario Puzzo or Francis Ford Coppola.

Coming soon.

[a-boca-do-inferno]

broken, part 1 (sonny corleone x reader) [request]

part 2

summary: “Fuck off.” Sonny waves his hand dismissively, his expression contorted in sheer contempt. “Ya always had champagne taste over a beer budget, sweetheart.”

warnings: angst, cheating (some tom hagen x reader implied just because), swearing (like, a lot), domestic/verbal abuse somewhat, mentions of murder (ya know...usual corleone stuff) and fluff-ish

words: 2.2k

notes: howdy! who asked for some angst??? gosh you guys dont know how much i love writing this type of stuff...please send more angst requests i beg you anyways hope you like it :D xx.

Silence.

It is all he can give you at this moment; after years of marriage, years of your devotion toward him. Unwavering. Unyielding. He had thrown it all away for a cheap settlement, two gladly open legs for the young lady who knew of his money and power. Forgotten immediately, there you stood, facing their unmade bed, smelling of sex and false promises you just knew Santino made her every night they spent together. Whilst you stayed home alone, surrounded by the coldness of tall walls and the crushing weight of his absence. You nearly let out a bitter chuckle, how stupid could you have been, right?

Oh, how they warned you. Everyone! Your friends, your parents, even your dear grandfather, despite the old man being deeply aware he was the one who would always benefit the most from the transaction that was your engagement to Sonny. Because that’s what it was, you had to face it now. Your love had been nothing but another heartless mafia deal to Santino, quite like the relationship your husband himself maintained with the poor girl in front of you, pathetically stumbling to get her clothes scattered on the floor as you eyed her motionless. There was not an ounce of animosity in your bones at this point. You simply did not have it in you to feel anything but pity at her state. Poor girl. Her reputation would be ruined, and for what? She was so young and helpless, almost like you had been once, albeit with the enormous difference that you would not have fucked a married man if he was made of gold. 

“What’s your name?” You order, though gently, still frozen in your spot watching her avoid your eyes at any cost.

“Maria”, she mumbles, adjusting her corset.

“Italian.” You reckon out loud, not really surprised. Having spent such a long time being scrutinised by every pure blood Sicilian who’s ever come into contact with the Corleone family somehow—as ironic as it may seem—prevented you from any type of disappointment at the notion of Santino silently damning you for your half breed background, too. So much so, he’d been searching for compensation elsewhere, on some random broad’s lap. But hey, she was Italian! “How long?” You manage to ask, your voice starting to strain. At the subtle hesitancy from her, you snap, your scream ripping through your throat before you can stop it, “how fucking long?!”

“One year”, comes the coy answer while the young woman shrinks in the corner of the room, her dark orbs filled with tears.

“One year.” You nod, finally letting out that incredulous laugh you had been holding back ever since you spotted the guards standing outside the apartment. That’s when you notice it. Her features weren’t so unfamiliar. Shaking your head softly, you murmur, “you’re the one who brought me the bouquet at my wedding, yes?”

She winces. “(y/n), I’m…”

“You’re a sad, sad excuse of a person.” You hiss, not allowing her to finish the false apology. That was confirmation enough. “I’m the one who feels sorry for you, because you’ll never have what I had, though I only had it for a few months.” Taking one step closer, you spit, looking down at her dishevelled self. “A family.”

You stormed off her bedroom without another word, only to find Santino leaning over the countertop of the kitchen, smoking a cigarette casually. His face spoke of some displeasure at the situation, albeit not nearly as much as you would have expected from him. He was known for making a spectacle out of everything, after all; but you guessed just not when it concerned his own ass. You took a deep breath and grabbed the purse you’d thrown at the brown sofa, spinning to give him one last glare. You had nothing to say to him, not really. Your suspicions about his cheating sprees at night had begun probably long before your husband would have decided to act on it. 

Tom helped you with following Sonny after the kids were asleep, staying with you in the car whilst you both waited for him to leave his—at the time alleged, because you could be fair—mistress’ building. And although the circumstances were less than appropriate or pleasant, you found yourself growing closer to your brother-in-law in the course of your private investigations. You now regretted not fucking Hagen just out of spite for the man staring back at you with disdain, yet your own morals would’ve never let you do such a thing, doesn’t matter if Santino had been sleeping with your own mother. You were not like him and no amount of hurt in the world could ever make you do something as cruel and as vile as this. You refused to sink to his level. 

“I’m taking the boys with me.” You blurt out, causing Sonny to raise his brows and snap out of his grumpy trance at last, lunging at you angrily. You flinch and hold up the pepper spray he’d bought you on another occasion, when you two had to visit a gritty part of town for his business. “Not another step or I’ll fucking blind you.”

“You’re not leaving me, ya hear?!” He growls, grabbing you by the shoulders, uncaring for your warnings. “They’re my kids too! You don’t have the right!”

“The law says differently.” Your tone remains controlled, contrasting with your trembling form under his touch. Your adrenaline must’ve been through the roof by now, and you were blinking rapidly to try and hold your angry tears inside your eyelids. “My grandfather made sure I would be protected in any case, especially if I wanted a divorce for adultery. Guess he was a visionary.” You scoff, hardening your jaw when Santino shrieks and pushes you against the wall. 

“That son of a bitch.” He hisses, pinning you with one arm over your neck. You struggle to breathe, coughing and fighting for air, but your husband’s not having it, pushing you even harder. “You’re not gonna do this to me, (y/n), or you’re fucking dead.”

“And so are you, or do you think my family will let you live?!” You shout, hoarsely, as you gasp for oxygen. He shoots daggers at you and then lets go begrudgingly, your body sliding down the flowery wallpaper while you regain your composure. “I’m sure you… don’t wanna leave the kids orphans either. From either side or both of them.” You finish, pulling the collar of your dress lightly to breathe better.

“You fucking whore.” He grunts, his hand going through his hair in a clear act of desperation. “You’re gonna pay for this.”

“I’m sure I will.” You sigh, your tone dry and full of resentment. Standing back up, you walk over to him, lowering your voice to a fairly vulnerable whisper, “I love you and you did this to me. Believe me, I wanna kill you too, but I have to think of my children first.”

You can swear you see a flicker of remorse passing through Santino’s orbs, but it is as feeble as it is ephemeral. “You wanna act all holy and mighty now, but ya know this was never real, doll. It’s all about money.”

“I always knew that’s all it was for you.” You nod, closing your eyes for a brief second. “I never fooled myself into believing you ever loved me like Vito or Carmela do.” You narrow your gaze faintly, wanting him to know this, as it is probably the last time you’ll speak with him directly. “I’m aware I was but a fun little adventure once, just like Maria is now, and then I became a chore. Something you had to come home to, boring, tiresome. ‘Naggy wifey’, ain’t that how you refer to me to your brothers?” You mock his thick New York accent, frowning deeper. Your talks with Tom often involved some gossip about how Sonny spoke of you behind your back, unknowing that his own brother disapproved of what he said. Well, you just felt like airing all the Corleone family’s dirty laundry tonight. It was as good a time as any.

“Ya been fucking Tom or something?” Santino snickers, however there’s no humour whatsoever in his demeanour. Only awkwardness and embarrassment, somewhat. Such a stark contrast to the man you came to love. He was never smaller in your eyes. 

“That’s what you deserve.” You turn your face away from him, holding your purse firmly against your chest. “But, no. He was the one who asked me about some jewellery you bought me, because the accountant needed to write it down. I’m not sure if he already knew and wanted me to know too or what, but I’m grateful for his character either way. Perks of not being a Corleone.” You snarl at the end, fully aware your words only served to sting his ego further. 

You were right. 

“You know what? That’s what I could never stand about you, your fucking arrogance.” 

“You really wanna pin this on me now, huh? C’mon, Santino, let it all out!” You raise your voice, clapping your hands dramatically. “Now it’s your time to tell me how you always felt so beneath me because you can’t read a fucking drug label without falling asleep or asking for Tom’s help, yet you still wanna be kingshit when Vito dies.”

“Shut the fuck up”, Sonny barks, pointing at your chest. “You wanna be so high and mighty when your parents practically sold you to me? Fuck off.” He waves his hand dismissively, his expression contorted in contempt. “Ya always had champagne taste over a beer budget, sweetheart. If it wasn’t for my family, that prick you call grandaddy woulda gone bankrupt.”

“You wanna act like you care about that now when all you ever wanted was to fuck me and get done with it, no matter the price you had to pay.” You shoot back even before he can close his mouth, crossing your arms defiantly. “And then you get caught cheating and wanna say it’s my fault, because what? I didn’t give you enough attention? You wanted me to baby you and tell you’re the smartest guy in the room when you’re a joke even to your own family?”

“Shut up.”

“Just think what Mikey is thinking of you now...”

“I said, shut the fuck up!” Santino grabs you by the shoulders again, pushing you to sit down on the couch. The noise is loud enough for Maria to burst out of the bedroom, fearful of what he might do. He tells her off with a deep growl and she cowers back inside, leaving you two alone. You try to get up only to be harshly pushed down by his body straddling yours, trapping you completely. You kick and scream under his assault, but Sonny takes your wrists aggressively with one hand, while his other holds your chin in place, squeezing your cheeks with all his force. “Look at me.” You have no choice but to oblige, hot tears streaming down your flushed features. “I’m sorry.” He says through gritted teeth, his own eyes glossy, his sharp inhales telling of the almost inhuman struggle to keep his emotions in check. “I’m sorry, ya hear me?! I fucking love you too.”

Your whole body shook violently, your soft sobs mixing in with his. You said nothing in response, what else could you say? Wouldn’t it be so much easier if it was just a matter of words on divorce papers, your signing and his to make it official and tangible? Yet it wasn’t. There were two sleeping little boys waiting for you both to come home, blissfully unaware of the fact their parents were pulling each other apart at the seams whilst a young girl cried silently in her secluded spot in the next room, drowning in her own remorse and regret. Right now there were mere broken pieces of whoever you three ever came to be one day, and some part of you—masochist, foolish, selfish—wanted to cling to Santino’s anguished confession of his love to you so badly, it hurt. Could it really be too late for him, for you, for your family together?

“Let’s go home.” You whimper after a moment, similar to a scared animal caught in the headlights. 

Sonny’s grip on your chin had long softened as he sobbed uncontrollably on your neck, soaking up your dress with warm tears. You snaked an arm around his waist and sighed, listening to his ragged breathing gradually calm down. Soon you were surrounded by quietness, just like you had been earlier when facing the two of them on that same brown sofa, half naked. The image remained branded into your brain, although less unfamiliar now than a few moments ago. You figured that’s what people meant when they said trust can never go back to its normal state once it’s broken. The cracks are always there, no matter the amount of glue you try to put on them or how unshakeable they may look after the repairs. 

Silence. 

“Yeah.” Santino coos, wiping his face sheepishly, unable to meet your desolate gaze. “Let’s go home.”

Silence.

[chicaboom-chic]

Come to Grandpa- Old! Vito Corleone x Reader. 18+

I’m sorry for anyone who read this, I cannot keep the monster inside me contained. 😥

The room smells of mothballs, whisky, and cigarettes. It’s not the worst thing you've ever smelled, but honestly, it dulls the romance in the atmosphere, romance that was already questionable, dry, and devoid of any life.

Speaking of which. You think as the door whips open with a creak, he here is. You can smell and hear him before you see him coming; labored breaths and a musty stench that mingles with the odd aroma already in the air. It makes the small office feel more danker than usual.

“Vito.” You turn around, greeting him with the brightest smile you can muster. He smiles back as he approaches your seat, flashing his yellowish teeth. It takes a while for him to approach you. When he does, you stand up intending to to help him to his seat but he swats your hands away gently, but not before kissing them. You wince. 

Always the gentlemen.

“You look beautiful,” He says as he settles on the other side of the desk. His old eyes rake over your form that is encased in a tight black dress. He licks his lips, dribbling a bit. 

Gross.

“Thank you.” You say out of obligation. Your stomach rolls in disgust. 

Why is it always the old ones?

You make small talk with him for a couple of minutes. You listen to him drone on and on about the grandchildren from his thuggish children. He even holds up a photo of his youngest, Michael, with his child. Now Michael seemed like an interesting man; a rich, attractive, interesting man. 

“How lovely,” You say sweetly. Inside You’re screaming.

Hurry up, old man. 

It takes a while but the Vito finally finishes his yap fest and beckons you over. You stand up instantly and make your way towards him. You sink to your knees in front of him. You unbutton his pants with swift hands and yank down the boxers beneath. You are mildly disappointed to find a half erected cock, it makes work so much harder, but you’ve dealt with worse.

You begin by jerking him off slowly, carefully; wouldn’t want his heart to give in so easily. Vito is soon grunting, and his breaths become even more labored. 

“My dear, please.” Vito coughs.

You roll your eyes, looking down at his hardened cock. Your displeasure and disgust increase tenfold as a wave of what smells like goat's cheese hits you, it is permeating near his withered-up groin, congregating near his wrinkly balls.  The waft hits you in the face. It almost makes you gag. You push down the feeling as your head is simultaneously being pushed towards the tip of his cock.

Oh, Well. Bottoms up.

You swallow his cock completely. The taste of sweat and dried urine floods your mouth.

It doesn’t take too long for Vito to finish, that’s the beauty of sucking off old guys; their stamina is bust. Vito pulls you off before he can finish, and his cum promptly splatters on my face, unpleasant but it’s better than swallowing a load of stringy-cheese sperm. Vito attempts to wipe it off my face but you pull away and wipe it off yourself. 

You allow him to help you up from the floor. He’s musing about how beautiful you are now. It is fueled by the afterglow of his climax and now he won’t shut up about spending a weekend with you in a resort or somewhere tropical. You play along as you open your purse. He places generous wads of cash into your purse. It is the only real joy you derive from this tryst.

 You close the purse with a slam and make an excuse. You practically rush to the door. The taste of sweat and urine lingers in your mouth but at least you’re six thousand dollars richer.

I love to ruin people’s days with my stories. Hehe, hope you enjoyed.

[savanir]

DP x DC prompt [3]

during one of the final psych evals at Arkham right before he gets to be released, the whole thing wrapped up so tidy, just a little relapse which involved a robbery. Getting sent back to Arkham, but he got to stay at the asylum so long that he no longer has to serve a prison sentence, score!

But during that eval his overseeing psychiatrist recommended him to have a change of scenery, some fresh non polluted air.

Riddler was rather convinced the guy was making this recommendation to everyone in Arkham in their own weird way to convince them to just leave Gotham and become someone else's problem. should he notify Batman about it somehow? nah, it’ll be more interesting to see how this is gonna turn out in the long run.

But can he leave the state? Can he even leave the city? he never really bothered to look into it, at least not legally, up until now if he felt he needed to leave for one of his plans he just did it.

Turns out he can, it’s a whole hassle and a half though, first a judge and then a probation officer and he’s pretty sure both were like “what the hell is this psychiatrist guy thinking!?” but at the same time, shrink probably knows what he’s doing (WRONG) so he’s allowed to go visit out of state family or whatever.

he had to wear this nice ankle monitor though, Wayne Enterprises™ tech, not overly bulky but still very present. real fancy, and a fun extra challenge heh.

now as for a good reason to leave New Jersey he’s going to need distant relatives, and he finds some, great grandpa walker also has a son, who had a son who had a daughter Madeline, who married some guy Jack Fenton, and she lives somewhere out in the boonies Illinois. great he’ll visit her.

far enough away in all sense of the word that there is no way she knows anything about him. it would be best to call her first though, be polite about it.

“hello, you have reached Fenton works, this is Maddie speaking” 

“Riddle me this-” ah whoops, habit, oh whatever, “we don’t share parents, but certainly a part of your life, from laughter to strife. Who am I?”

there is a pause …  he’s going to be a bit disappointed if she hangs up if he’s honest.

“cousins~” comes the cheery reply.

“correct! the name is Edward Nygma, we are distantly related you and I and well-”

“oh you simply must come visit!” 

well this was rather easy, perhaps a little too easy, but she lives in the midwest so maybe just going with whatever some guy says over the phone is normal there? stranger danger not really a thing in a small town where everyone knows everyone?

things start to make a little more sense once he gets there and he’s starting to think some things might run in the family. like a preference for the colour green and weird hyperfixations and genius bordering on insanity. Though that remains to be seen, Jack does not seem like a very bright light after his very enthusiastic welcome.

their kids however are observant and sharp. young Jasmine is wasting no time trying to psychoanalyze him. and the boy, Danny, he had not really meant to and he swears he’s sticking with calling the kid Danny so he wouldn’t seem overly familiar, but he might have called him little bird a couple times now.

but that’s all whatever, he’s playing nice here. and he doesn’t even have to worry about his eccentricities tripping him up because this place is insane.

There actually is a local teen vigilante active but he seems about as loved as he’s disliked. and the ghost boy’s enemies are basically all his own kind, which another crazy thing to now know about. ghost. they are real actually, how is Gotham not completely overrun? and how do they even work? and where do they keep coming from?

Edward might be getting a little sidetracked here. He had fully intended to sneakily get his next big game plan underway all the way out here, ankle monitor be damned. but he hasn’t made any progress at all.

Instead he’s been listening to Madeline and Jack to maybe figure out what the deal is with these ectoplasmic entities, he has to know, at this point he might go crazier if he doesn’t. 

He’s making Jasmine promise him not to get her doctorate in Gotham, he’s going back and forth with space riddles with Danny.

so yeah the whole thing kinda just became a vacation, maybe the psychiatrist had the right idea after all? hmm nah, probably not. but this is fun. He’s thinking about recommending this place to some of the others.

It's different enough to get the vacation feel, but enough crazy shit happens to make it all feel like home.

it is not until Maddie wants to talk with him about potentially switching the position of godfather of Danny to him rather than some weird rich friend of theirs that Edward realizes he might have lost the plot somewhere

Apparently the little bird basically begged them with a powerpoint presentation on how he likes Edward so much more than that Vladimir guy. 

And honestly, the fellow sounds like a Dracula Lutho so even if it’s kinda sad Edward can understand why he’d be considered a better option. Even if the guy has more money and a huge company that makes him said money. And it’s not like the Fentons know about his Riddler activities.

Thinking it over, Edward does think that Danny would like Gotham and Wayne has that space program thing right? The kid is definitely smart enough for that (Nygma certified), and yeah Edward does quite like their space themed back and forth. So, fuck it, why not, what is the worst that could happen?

He doubts Maddie and Jack are gonna kick it any time soon anyway out here in the boonies, it’s just a title thing, a stamp of approval or something.

he should have known he was going to eat those words later… he had this whole beautifully elaborate trap set up for the whole Batclan, and he was just getting to the good part when his phone went off.

Had to put the whole thing on pause cause that particular contact wasn’t gonna get ignored. He did promise to be available.

If the whole thing he had planned now went tits up he could at the very least laugh later at the reactions of the bats as he told them to “hold up one second, I have to take this.” while they were all in various perilous positions. 

Sadly he did have to go, he had a very distressed godson to pick up.

[tedwardremus]

Sirius and hand kiss

"Come on, Harry, please calm down. I know everything’s awful and wrong and I’m not James or Lily—but you have to sleep so I can sleep," Sirius begged as he paced the narrow floor of his flat, carrying the crying toddler in his arms.

The flat had never felt too small before. It was just enough space for a bed, a battered sofa, and a kitchenette. But now that Harry was here, Sirius couldn’t help noticing how cramped it suddenly seemed. Harry would outgrow his cot soon, and he’d probably need a real bedroom. That was a problem for another day, though. Right now, Sirius had one mission: coax Harry into sleeping.

Which, frankly, felt like a fool’s errand.

He’d begged him to sleep last night. And the night before that. Why should tonight be any different?

“One hippogriff went out to play… in a dragon’s den one day…” Sirius murmured into the top of Harry’s hair, aimlessly pacing under the pale light of the moon that spilled through the window. “It had such enormous fun… that it called for another hippogriff to come…”

To his surprise, Harry’s cries softened into a hiccup. Then—miraculously—a giggle.

“Oh,” Sirius blinked, startled. “You like that one, huh? Alright then…”

“Two hippogriffs went out to play…”

He gently tickled Harry’s tiny fingers, kissing each one as he counted aloud, letting the rhythm of the silly song carry them both. It reminded him, unexpectedly, of something his own mother used to do, back when he was still small enough to fit in her lap.

Harry gave a sleepy sigh and nestled his head against Sirius’s shoulder, eyes fluttering shut.

Sirius rocked him slowly, quieter now.

He brushed a kiss across Harry’s cheek. “Yeah,” he whispered. “We’ll be alright, won’t we, mate? Maybe not tonight. But eventually… we’ll be alright.”

[sparsilees]

it’s so very amusing how sirius hardly ever calls remus by his first name in the books, was described as a wizard wonderkid during his years at hogwarts, has a de haut en bas demeanour, is not only one of the tallest males in harry’s life but also one of the most attractive—embodying qualities that make him a striking presence—but some of you dislike him so intensely that in your quest to spite the books you strip away his most defining traits, resulting in a drastically altered version of sirius orion black.

a reimagined character who’s tragically dependent on remus, possessing little agency on his own. and instead of the impressive and haughty wizard he’s meant to be, this wannabe is so dramatic and whiny it’s a surprise walburga herself didn’t cast him out on his ear earlier; is a pantywaist who carries smelling salts and a step stool in his pocket; and needs someone to read his letters for him.

listen, here’s an idea: if you can’t tolerate canon sirius black’s chaotic complexity and have to reinvent and obscure the true essence of his character, maybe... maybe sod off to another book series or, better yet, write an original saga with original characters.

because their names are established in canon. the black family tree is canon. the black naming traditions are included in the same canon. the marauders’ nicknames and family names are also part of that canon. sirius’ role and capacity as harry’s godfather is canon. you want to reject canon so bad why retain these particular elements?

feel free to make up your own original merry band of angsty, dramatic, and doomed magical friends instead, complete with original lore and names. don’t resort to identity theft and masquerade a chinless wonder as sirius black. or james potter, for that matter. and don’t do charity by bestowing the best of sirius and his godfather role to remus, as if he couldn’t be arsed to keep in touch with harry post-poa or didn’t abandon his own son. he’s not ‘good parent’ material.

your bastardized sirius would’ve died a week into his stint at azkaban and his corpse gone unnoticed for a year, what a fucking loser.

[the-fyre-flie]

Child Prodigy Figure Skater Bruce Wayne AU for my soul

He's *so* aggressive on the ice that it's like legit concerning that anyone let him wear knife shoes. If you've seen Yuri On Ice, he's Yurio but much much MUCH worse. Less trash talk, more staging you up so hard he doesn't *need* to trash talk you to ruin your confidence and make you flub. He's an all black fit kinda guy, as clean as possible, with very little flashy-ness despite the sport. He's hypercompenative as a coping mechanism, and if he doesn't win gold, he often sulks. He ages out of the sport at like 22, 23, and just moves on. Forgets about it. Becomes Batman and does not bother engaging in the fact that he was a world champion at one point.

The batfam finds out and are like "dude why the hell did you hide this??" and he's like "I didn't? Not talking about it doesn't mean I'm hiding it."

Alfred still has all his old costumes and metals and even recordings of Bruce's competitions <3 he cherishes them deeply because that was probably the last healthy outlet Bruce had before becoming Batman.

[thewobblingraven]

"And then Uncle Harry said to him-"

"Shut the fuck up, Weaselby!"

"Draco said 'fuck'! Fuck! Fuck!"

"Stop saying 'fuck' in front of Teddy, Draco!"

"Anyway, he said: 'Pity you can't attach an extra arm to yours, Malfoy, then it could catch the Snitch for you.'"

"Slander! Hearsay! I will not tolerate you talking about me like this!"

"Ouch! Right in the eye! Was that stinging jinx really necessary, Ferret?"

"Maybe stop embarrassing me to my cousin!"

"Fuck!"

"Teddy, no!"

@drarrymicrofic "slander" {80 words}

[victorian-writez]

Would it be alright to ask for a Vito Corleone fic about giving birth to their first son? Please and thank you! ❤️

My my my here bae<3

Rockabye Baby

Vito Corleone x Wife/Mother!Reader x Sonny Corleone [M.S]

The cold night air sliced through the streets of New York, but inside the Corleone apartment, the world was aflame.

She screamed again—raw, primal—her voice bouncing off the walls like a warning to the gods. The midwife, sweat clinging to her brow, barked quick, steady instructions in Sicilian. Vito stood outside the door, fingers clasped so tightly they turned white.

He had faced men with guns, begged for scraps of dignity, stolen bread to survive—but nothing compared to this helplessness. He could not fight this. He could not protect her from this pain.

“Signore Corleone,” the midwife called suddenly. Her voice cracked like thunder.

He rushed in without hesitation.

There she was—his beloved wife—face pale, lips trembling, but eyes burning with a fierce kind of joy. And in her arms—

A boy.

His son.

The baby let out a cry, a tiny, defiant wail that seemed to challenge the world itself. Vito’s breath caught in his throat. His knees almost gave out.

The midwife gestured. “Would you like to hold him?”

He approached slowly, as if afraid he might shatter the fragile thing swaddled in cloth and miracle. When the child was placed into his arms, Vito stared down at the wrinkled face, the dark hair already thick, the scowl that somehow mirrored his own.

“He’s loud,” he whispered, in awe. “Like a lion.”

She chuckled weakly from the bed. “Takes after his father.”

“No,” he murmured, eyes still locked on his son. “He’ll be better than me. Stronger. I’ll make sure of it.”

The boy quieted, as if recognizing the man who would shape his future. Vito pressed his lips to the baby’s forehead, reverent.

“I name him Santino,” he said softly. “My sunshine. My fire.”

In that moment, something shifted in Vito. The orphan, the immigrant, the boy who ran from fear—died. In his place stood a man who would build an empire from blood and love, who would burn the world if it ever tried to take this child from him.

And outside, the city carried on, unaware that a king had just cradled his crown for the first time.

[roccoparondi]

Give Me Shelter, The Night Is Dark (Vampire!Michael Corleone x Reader)

Summary: Local superstition and a reclusive man offer you refuge when your parents grievously misstep in Sicily, putting your life in danger in more ways than one.

Note: Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. This incredibly self-indulgent gothic romance-esque idea came to me while I was half-asleep, and the time period is intentionally vague, but it’s not a modern setting (here's a little aesthetic tag for this fic). Do not interact if you’re under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 4.6k

Warnings: Major canon divergence. Canon-typical violence. Emotional manipulation. Vampirism, including non-consensual blood drinking and compulsion (in the context of it being an ability vampires possess and can use on humans). Sexually explicit content involving elements of bloodplay. Do not interact if you’re under 18.

You couldn’t remember what had brought your family to the village of Corleone, only that your father had promised you and your mother an extravagant Sicilian vacation. Three days of beachside paradise in Mondello, eating fresh seafood cooked to perfection and entertaining the antics of handsome men with scars that stood out like bolts of lightning against their tanned skin were hardly enough to sate your voracious appetite for the weeks of bliss you were promised. 

Despite your attempts at bargaining to stay in Palermo on your own, your mother refused, insisting she’d be better off throwing you into shark-infested waters than alone with the men who came calling to your hotel. Some days of travel through the breathtaking Sicilian countryside later, you and your parents arrived in Corleone, a village that appeared all but frozen in time, as if decades had passed it by with no one any the wiser. 

To your dismay, you found the selection of eligible men to spend your time with far more limited than in Palermo. The working young men were too tired from their labor in the fields or their trades to engage in foolish antics with a vacationing foreigner. The rest were mafiosi, as you gathered from the veiled comments and numerous euphemisms the older villagers used. 

These elderly became your companions during your stay in Corleone, talking wildly with their weathered hands over coffee or wine. Filomena, a woman of nearly eighty years and fluent in English, lived in the house next to the one your family was renting. Her husband Gianni only left the house if absolutely necessary, and she considered him a burdensome hermit. Each morning, she fetched you to accompany her into town. Some days, you’d do little else than sit outside of a cafe on the sleepy main street, eating and drinking and gossiping. 

Your Sicilian improved immensely in the near month you kept up with their chatter. Those women always had their ears to the ground, as far as knowing more about your father’s business in Corleone than you did. The vacation he promised you was little more than a gesture of confidence toward Don Manusco, a man notoriously difficult to meet directly with. That your father achieved this naturally generated interest in the village, as no one knew of him. When pressed for more information about your own family’s line of work, you answered what you knew, that your father invested, mostly in stocks, but occasionally in new business ventures. 

You were privy to little else, much to the disappointment of your companions, who moved onto other topics of discussion. One woman’s son sought work in Milan and within three months of getting hired at a factory, married a Northerner, much to her displeasure. In contrast, Filomena’s daughter was cloistered elsewhere in the countryside, preparing to take her vows and become a nun. 

Their superstitions, however, intrigued you most of all. A curse and blessing existed for nearly every conceivable situation. The most striking tale they spun regarded an abandoned villa about a mile past the rental house. Foreboding and hostile, its faded facade peeking out from thorny vines, it was once the envy of the village. At one point in time, though no one could agree quite when, the Don of another family lived there. He took in a strange young man, reclusive yet polite, wandering the countryside with two armed shepherds as bodyguards. He married a local girl, but the marriage ended tragically soon after the wedding. In a sudden blaze of fire and betrayal, she was killed. The strange man vanished not long after, and anyone associated with the villa—including the old Don Tomassino—were soon found dead or had disappeared altogether. Thus, no one dared approach it for fear of the curse surely cast upon the place.

Some of the gruesome murders in the vicinity of the villa could have been attributed to the tradition of violence Don Manusco carried on following Don Tomassino’s death. It didn’t explain the livestock dying of unusual causes, an older woman interjected. Even the land surrounding it was cursed, and the local shepherds knew better than to let their flocks graze nearby, explaining the abnormally tall grass and overgrown foliage that surrounded the villa.

Yet another woman claimed to have seen a demon or ghost in the form of a man wandering the villa’s grounds at night. Of course, she didn’t get close enough to take a good look, instead uttering Hail Marys as she ran into the local church to take refuge until her husband found her some time later.

Your mind drifted to the villa sometimes, this forbidden and mysterious monument to grief and superstition that seemed to cast a longer shadow over the village than the mafiosos who ran it. Like Don Manusco, who your parents were joining for dinner one evening, and Filomena insisted you join her and Gianni instead of eating alone.

The scent of stewing summer tomatoes with garlic and mouth-watering spices invited you inside the house, its windows open for hopes of cool breezes moving through. Gianni offered you wine and a simple antipasto spread of cheese and oranges to snack on while Filomena cooked dinner. Despite his reclusiveness, he somehow knew that your father’s dinner with Don Manusco involved more business than a friendly visit, the final chance for your father to seal what he hoped would be a lucrative deal with the mafia boss.

Two hours later, you sat across from Filomena at the small wooden table in their kitchen, filling your plate with the delicious meal she prepared. You ate silence while Filomena spoke, bickering with Gianni every now and then. As the sun set over Corleone, unease crept over you, though you chose to attribute it to the heat of the day and eating too quickly.

Until a commotion erupted up the street, almost deafening as it approached, finally arriving outside of Filomena’s house. Frantic Sicilian shouting mingled with rapid pounding on the front door startled you into dropping your fork. Filomena and Gianni shared a worried glance before both getting up from the table to answer. 

Wailing. 

Screaming. 

Arguing. 

All you found yourself able to do was sit in confused silence. When they returned to the kitchen with a few other locals, panic truly set in.

“You have to leave!” Filomena cried, pulling you out of your seat by your arm.

“What’s going on?” you asked.

“Your father’s a fool–”

Gianni shook his head. “A dead fool–”

“Your father should have never brought you here if he were going to try to cheat Don Manusco!” an older woman said.

Another cursed. “Selfish bastard!” 

“Go! As far from here as you can!” Filomena implored.

A hard push toward the back door was the extent of the help you’d receive from the villagers of Corleone. 

Blood pounded in your ears, your heart beating in time with your feet against the uneven dirt path that nearly tripped you up in your desperate rush to the rental home. You opened the door, scrambling upstairs in a frantic half-crawl to reach your room.

You shoved clothes and essentials into a bag, hardly paying attention to what exactly you were packing, just knowing you couldn’t flee empty-handed and hope to rely on the goodwill of strangers. 

In the kitchen, you grabbed what you could from the pantry and shoved everything into a wicker basket. With just that and your suitcase in hand, you clumsily ran across the uneven countryside roads, hoping to find somewhere to take shelter for the night. Every rustle of leaves and animal cry sent chills across your skin. Just when you felt hopeless for a place to hide, you saw the abandoned villa's high walls, overgrown with vines and bramble in the distance. Superstition be damned, it was better than dying at the hands of a mafioso.

The iron gate was closed, but not locked. You held your breath as you opened it, sending out silent thanks to the universe that it didn’t release some otherworldly screech and announce your presence. Hardly visible in the dead of night, the villa peeked out from beneath the plants that had overtaken it. Even from a distance, it appeared as if the building were hollowed out somehow. It remained your best bet. 

Superstition offered you refuge, as masculine voices drifted above the villa’s high walls, the structure still sturdy despite the general state of disrepair.

“Should we go in?”

“You sound as much of a fool as that old man. That place is cursed. Even if she were in there, she'd be dead anyway.”

Their heavy, rushed footsteps against the rocky terrain fell silent after a few moments. You sighed in relief, allowing yourself to relax just the slightest bit. Until you glanced back at the villa again, a new sense of dread making your stomach turn at the prospect of having to go inside the place. While you didn’t believe all of the rumors you’d been told over the previous few weeks, being in its presence unsettled you.

Then again, feeling unsettled in an abandoned villa was preferable to whatever would happen if Don Manusco’s men got his hands on you.

After a moment of hesitation, you approached the shadowy building, hoping your luck wouldn’t run out when you got inside. 

To your surprise, the interior wasn’t as poorly maintained as the exterior. The furniture betrayed the wealth of whoever lived there previously, though they’d seen better days. Dark wood scuffed or splintered. Dull fabrics that must have been rich violets or crimson upon their initial purchase. 

You walked into the living room, freezing upon seeing lit candles around. Someone was living there after all. 

“Hello? Is anyone–” you gasped upon seeing a man standing on the other side of the living room, partially obscured by shadows.

Even in the cover of darkness, his features rendered you speechless as he approached. Handsome seemed too pedestrian of a word to describe him. His raven hair fell across his forehead with a deceptive boyishness. Brown eyes, almost black as the night itself bore into your own. His skin wasn’t nearly as tan as the villagers you’d met, but you supposed someone who lived in such a place was wealthy enough to not have to partake in the grueling manual labor typical of the area, the strong Sicilian sun giving its residents a healthy glow which he lacked. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked quietly.

“The men who were outside before—I think they’re going to kill me,” you said, panic overtaking your senses as his face remained unmoved by your explanation. “Please, I didn’t know anyone lived here.”

“Why do they want to kill you?”

“I think my father tried to cheat Don Manusco. I don’t know all of the details, but if they don’t want to kill me, then they’ll probably—“ Your voice caught in your throat. 

“You can stay.”

“I’ll leave tomorrow and find a way to get back to Palermo.”

He shook his head. “You have a vendetta out against you now. Getting back to Palermo so soon will be nearly impossible, especially if Manusco has allies there.” He watched in unreadable silence as hopelessness ate away at your resolve. “You can stay,” he finally repeated. “Don’t leave the villa. Not during the day, and especially not at night. You’ll be safe.”

“Thank you. I owe you my life.” You offered him your name, as a courtesy and as collateral. More valuable than anything else you carried with you, he could use it to betray you for his own gain whenever he wished. You prayed it wouldn’t come to that.

“Michael Corleone,” he said.

“Like the village.”

He smiled the slightest bit, his dark eyes shining an almost betraying crimson in the moonlight. Ethereal. That was the right word for him. “Yes, like the village.”

Your host led you upstairs, helping you with your meager belongings despite your insistence you could handle your small suitcase and a basket of food, which you left on the console table in the foyer. The villa had certainly seen better days, its plaster walls cracked, crumbling in some places. You would’ve used caution going up the stairs if Michael hadn’t been so confident as he ascended them. 

He paused at the top of the stairs, glancing at each of the doors along the hallway. After a few moments, he seemed to settle on one, leading you to a dark bedroom, full of odd shadows that made you pause. It seemed otherwise better taken care of than the rest of the villa you’d seen up to that point.  

“It’s just me here. I’m afraid I’m not the best homemaker,” he half-joked in response to your hesitation to enter the room. 

“No, I’m sorry. It’s nice. I can’t thank you enough, Michael.”

He nodded. “I have insomnia, so you’ll see more of me at night than during the day. The cellar stays locked, but you can have the run of the place otherwise.”

You bid each other good night. 

When he shut the bedroom door behind you, you collapsed onto the bed and cried into your pillow, both from heartbreak and exhaustion, until you fell asleep. 

The following morning, you awoke to fresh bug bites on your arm–inflamed and itchy, though perfectly in line with each other, oddly enough. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, and you supposed you’d rather deal with mosquito bites than whatever Don Manusco and his soldiers had in mind for you. 

True to his word, Michael was nowhere to be found when you went downstairs to eat a breakfast of bread and hard salami. Again, not ideal, but you’d make do with what you brought with you. For the rest of the day, you explored the villa, acquainting yourself with your new albeit temporary home.

You found yourself with little to do to pass the time. Venturing out onto the surrounding grounds of the villa was hardly an option, most of it so overgrown you couldn’t take a proper walk. There were a few books in the house, but often you found your mind drifting to your parents, what their fate looked like and what could await you if Don Manusco found out where you were hiding. By the time you’d finally see Michael around in the evenings, you’d force yourself to stay up as long as you could to be in his company. Soon, your schedule nearly matched his nocturnal one.

Over the following weeks, you got to know Michael. At times, you couldn’t help but stare at him, but sometimes it felt as though you couldn’t do much else if you tried. He was a gracious host for how you imposed on him, showing concern for the bug bites you tried to hide from him. A good thing he noticed, as he brought you a cup of tea, a deep maroon color that he explained was a natural remedy from the village for the discomfort you were experiencing. A common occurrence that you’d been fortunate enough to avoid since arriving in Corleone.

“You’re not from around here either,” you said one night. “I can tell from your accent.”

“I’m from New York, but my father was born here,” he explained. “My last name is a mistake from when he immigrated.”

“Do you miss it?”

He was silent for some time, lost in thought before answering with a soft, “Terribly.”

“But you can’t go back.”

“No, I’m very sick. I wouldn’t survive the trip.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, your curiosity getting the better of you when you asked, “What do you have?”

“What I have is incredibly rare, there’s no word for it. Sunlight puts me in excruciating pain, and my appetite is abnormal.”

“How long have you been sick for?”

“Years. More than you’d believe.”

“You know, everyone in the village thinks this place is cursed. If you just talked to them, then they’d understand what was going on and maybe be able to help.”

“I can’t be around people. It’s not safe for them.”

“I don’t understand,” you said. “Are you contagious?”

He hesitated. “Not how you’d think.”

“No matter what you have, it’s not good to be alone,” you argued.

“You’re here now.”

“Only until it’s safe for me to go to Palermo and leave Sicily.”

He shook his head. “You won’t be able to leave. Not when a man like Don Manusco has a vendetta out against you,” he said, his intense gaze boring into you. Your chest grew tighter as he spoke. “This villa is the only place you’ll ever be safe.”

“Michael, you’re scaring me.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I just know what he did to your parents…he and men like him have done to many others on this island, too.” Your silence perturbed him. He grabbed your shoulders, squeezing them gently, though his eyes seemed to blaze with fury. “I’m keeping you safe here, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice nearly catching in your throat.

“Then what’s there to be afraid of?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s right, as long as you stay here.”

“I can’t stay forever.”

He hummed dismissively, not bothering to acknowledge your statement. You soon excused yourself to go to sleep, a sudden uneasiness settling in your stomach.

You awoke late into the afternoon the following day, judging by the amber sunlight that streamed through the broken shutters. Still, your limbs felt heavy, and your head pounded as if you’d hardly slept at all. A quick glance at your arm revealed twin bug bites on your wrist again, this time darker than the previous ones, leaving your skin tender to the touch. 

Dizziness turned the room over when you sat up from the bed, and you nearly considered going back to sleep, if it weren’t for the hunger that ached in your bones. 

You ventured down into the kitchen, relieved to find a pot of tea sitting out. You didn’t even bother reheating it, though the consistency was odd, thicker in its room temperature state. The texture didn’t deter you, as the more you drank, the better you felt, your dizziness and aches gone as the tea overflowed from the corners of your mouth and dripped down your chin, insatiable until there was nothing left. Wiping off your face, you went back up to your room and fell back asleep.

A knock on the door woke you up in the pitch black some hours later. You lit the candle on your bedside table before getting up to answer. You knew it was Michael, concerned about why you hadn’t joined him yet. 

Just as you got up to answer, he opened the door, letting himself into your room–except it wasn’t your room. It was his, and you supposed he could enter whenever he wanted. 

Frozen in place by his gaze alone, you stood still and silent as he approached, demeanor darker and more intense as his presence filled the room, as if his essence somehow intermixed with each breath you took. A citrusy sweetness with a bloodcurdling undercurrent of violence filled your lungs. Despite this, you felt no fear, but rather anticipation when he finally reached out and caressed your cheek, his hand freezing against your warm skin.

“Michael,” you whispered.

“Don’t fight me, sweetheart.”

And you couldn’t. Not even if you tried. His eyes took in your face with a softness that betrayed his fondness for you. His lips pressed against yours, a chaste kiss to start, but it proved to be insufficient for him, as he claimed your mouth with the fervor of a man long starved for affection. His desire for you tangible as you kissed him back, allowing his hands to roam your body above your nightgown until his fingers brushed your thighs, pushing the hem up to your hips. 

He laid you back on the bed, ridding you of your panties and slipping his fingers between your folds. “Tell me how it feels,” he said, his lips against your skin. “Tell me everything.”

Before then, you would have died rather than admit it to him, but at his urging, the dam broke. Of course your thoughts of him weren’t always innocent. Some nights, when you were sure he was elsewhere, you touched yourself to the thought of him. The confession slipped from your mouth so quickly that shame couldn’t catch you, not when Michael pushed his fingers inside you, the heel of his palm rubbing against your clit, denying you any sensation but absolute pleasure. 

“I’ve wanted you since I first saw you,” he whispered, pressing desperate kisses into your neck. “You have no idea how hard it’s been for me not to–”

Your whine interrupted his train of thought, and a knife-sharp pain jolted through you when he sunk his teeth into your throat, breaking the fragile skin. His fingers curled inside you, a moan clawing its way out of you as you came, ecstasy pulsing through your limbs in waves that threatened to drown you in it. Spots clouded your vision and breath evaded you, the poignant scent of copper mixed with your sex made your head spin. 

“Michael, I–” You passed out, though you awoke later, curled up next to him, your body sore and more fatigued than ever. You winced when you tried to move your head, a dull ache coming from your neck. “What did you do?” you mumbled.

“Sweetheart?”

“To my neck.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, petting your hair. “I got carried away. I haven’t felt this way in a long time.”

“Me either,” you admitted. 

He smiled, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. From then on, he was ravenous, and like a woman possessed, you gave in to him every time. Nights with him blurred together as thoughts of escaping Sicily and the danger that waited for you outside of the villa walls were almost nonexistent. 

Some time later, though you’d largely stopped keeping track of the days by then, you realized your food supply was running low. Michael would go out at night and get some for you if you asked, though he never revealed where exactly he went. Still unsure of your safety from Don Manusco, you figured the farm up the road would be a good place to swipe some fruit from the orchard and anything else they might have lying around and not exactly miss.

The sun felt especially harsh when you went outside. Each step brought about unimaginable fatigue that made your bones ache. You hardly made it halfway to the farm before you had to rest beneath a large tree’s shade to rest your tired limbs and eyes. 

“Excuse me, miss? Are you okay?” 

You jolted awake, surrounded by a handful of elderly villagers from around the countryside. You recognized at least one of the older women as one of your old cafe companions in Corleone.

“I’m fine.”

The woman in question squinted at you. “Where do I know you from?”

“We’ve never met before,” you said, voice tight with panic. “I have to go. Goodbye.” You forced yourself up, using what little strength you had to return to the villa, ignoring their calls for you to wait. Exhaustion swept over you by the time you made it inside, promptly collapsing in the foyer. They had recognized you, and surely they had seen you retreat into the villa and were on their way to let Don Manusco know of your whereabouts. They’d be foolish not to with the price on your head.

Michael was nowhere to be found, and you worried that by the time you finally saw him that night, it’d be too late to tell him what transpired. Tears rolled down your cheeks as fear and guilt crept up on you. Your carelessness had put Michael in danger, too.

With no way of knowing how long it’d be until word got back to Manusco, you considered the layout of the villa, which you knew like the back of your hand, and the best place to hide if he or his men intruded in search of you.

In hindsight, the kitchen cupboard was a more obvious choice for a hiding spot, but it was the most your fatigued brain could come up with while you were panicked. 

Your instincts had been right, though. The inevitable intrusion did come.

The voices that echoed through the foyer were the same ones from the night you first arrived in the villa. You kept a hand over your mouth, the other with an iron grip around the kitchen knife. 

“Come on, Don Manusco isn’t angry with you. He just wants to talk,” one of the men called out.

“It’s a misunderstanding,” the other added. “He knows you didn’t have anything to do with your father’s schemes.”

You couldn’t take a chance on whether or not they were telling the truth. 

Footsteps approached, growing louder with each passing second. You readied yourself for attack, until you heard a blood-curdling scream rip through the night and you dropped the knife in shock. 

With all of the foolishness of your father, you opened the cupboard door. Blood pooled around the man’s head, a look of terror etched into his face, betraying his final thoughts. Your gaze lifted, and you stumbled backward, unable to comprehend the gruesome sight before you. If you hadn’t been watching Michael with your own eyes, you would have assumed an animal attack was responsible for the carnage at your feet. What more, after the initial shock wore off, an almost physical pull drew you to the spilled blood.

The villagers had been right. It wasn’t mere superstition, but reality, one more horrific than any of them could have fathomed. The unexplained murders, the livestock deaths, all by his hand. His illness a fabrication to conceal the true nature of his being, something unnatural that existed in the worlds between life and death with a hunger to match. He’d been feeding from you for weeks, allowing you to carry on believing lies. Of course you felt awful, constantly fatigued. You could only hazard a guess as to what was really in the tea you’d been drinking like a fiend.

You wished you could scream at yourself for your naivete, as if he’d help you out of the kindness of his heart and not expect something in return. Your willful ignorance of his odd behavior in exchange for refuge in the one place where you’d be safe from who you thought were the only men who wanted to harm you. But he saved you from Don Manusco and his men. He kept you alive. He could gain little from drawing out your death for so long. Unless…your eyes widened, and you looked at him in horror.

Michael spoke your name softly. “Do you understand now?”

“You–You’ve been making me like you.”

“I should have done it sooner. It’s the best way to keep you safe.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Would you have believed me?”

“I guess not.”

He cupped your face in his hands, “Things won’t be that different. We’ll be together. No one will be able to hurt you.” 

“How–How much longer until I’m–”

“As soon as tonight, if you’ll let me.” Sensing your hesitation, he pressed a bloody kiss to your forehead. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. You trust me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you whispered, overwhelmed by the urge to trust him, to commit to an eternity of all-consuming, reclusive violence with him. “I want to be with you. I want to be like you.”

His hands drifted down to your neck, his fingers digging into your pulse as he leaned in, his teeth grazing the half-healed wound he’d inflicted all those nights before. “I knew you’d make the right choice.”

[urdeftonesgrrrl]

my favorite yearners:

[a-boca-do-inferno]

broken, part 2 (sonny corleone x reader) [request]

part 1

summary: What is there left, when the trust is gone?

warnings: angst, swearing

words: 0.7k

notes: turns out im not dead after all. listen to over by tove lo.

Soft rain dripped down the glass on the windows, the clouds heavy and dark, such as the feeling in the pit of your stomach when the lawyers left the room for a moment. You looked back at the man who was once the object of your affection, your love, your ultimate devotion, sitting in front of you with his arms crossed. The sensation in your belly suddenly turned into disgust and a striking urge to vomit, yet you held back and just took a deep breath, trying to calm down. You weren’t giving him the satisfaction of seeing you in such a vulnerable state, let alone caused by his presence.

Santino’s eyes narrow at your direction and he leans in closer, grabbing your face. “Listen up, ‘cause I’mma only say this once”, he growls, his tone menacing. “You think you can just walk away from me after everything we’ve been through? After I fucking worshipped the ground you walked on, you ungrateful bitch?” His grip on your chin tightens, fingers digging into the smooth skin of your cheeks. “I made one fucking mistake, (y/n). One.”

“For a goddamn year!” You retort, your eyes widening with anger and disbelief at his foolish insistence on making this work. People passing the hallway shoot your curious looks, whispering to each other as they walk, but you don’t care who sees anymore. You’re done with this. It was your third session to try and settle the divorce, but Sonny’s been relentless. He’s determined to leave you with nothing, not even your children. With a scoff, you add, “you got some nerve demanding anything from me. You destroyed our family.”

Something akin to remorse passes through his brown irises, although it disappears as soon as you catch it. “You know I never meant to hurt you like this”, he snarls, despite the gentleness of his words. He lets go of his painful hold on you, huffing and running his hand over his face in a hopeless gesture. “I can’t lose you. I won’t lose you. We can fix this.”

Memories from that terrible night still haunt you like a ghost. You couldn’t think of anything else whenever you saw his handsome features, and it’d been months. You were separated ever since that day, sleeping in different rooms and avoiding each other like the plague; that, of course, changed completely when you actually filed for divorce. Perhaps Santino somehow underestimated your decision to leave him. It seemed as though he was holding it up, waiting for the moment when you’d finally give in and take him back, but you just couldn’t. There’s nothing in a marriage without trust. And when he realized it was really over, no matter his best efforts and uncommon patience, the strong man you once knew cracked in front of your eyes everyday. 

“I ain’t gonna let you take my kids away from me, (y/n)”, Santino says after a moment of silence, eyeing you seriously and shaking his head. “And if you keep going with this, I’ll fight you every step of the goddamn way, ya hear me? And I’ll fucking win.” He glares, pointing a finger at you. 

“Did you think of them while you slept with Maria, too?” You murmur, your words dripping with venom. Sonny winces and throws a hand up, letting out a curse. “That’s what I thought. Fucking fight me and you’ll get what you deserve, Santino. I’m warning you.” 

“Are you threatening me?!” He laughs, albeit he’s not amused in the least. No, he’s livid. You’ve never treated him this away, after all; ever playing the sweet, soft spoken housewife in all the time you’d been married. It was a heavy blow to his masculinity. “Don’t you talk to me this way.”

“Or what?!” You raise your voice once again. 

“I’ll show you, you fucking cunt!” Sonny roars, slamming his fist on the table and standing up abruptly, his chair falling on the floor. 

The sound echoed through the walls, startling the lawyers in the next room and onlookers alike. You jumped  slightly at his reaction, but stood your ground, not leaving your spot. Your lawyer rushed back inside the office and murmured something in your ear, urging you to finish the session for the day. Without a last look at your soon-to-be former husband, you walked away to the angry screams from Santino in the background. As the door closed behind you, he kicked over a chair and cursed loudly, pulling at his hair in sheer frustration. 

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” 

[drc00l4tt4]

Godfather Twitter Memes that are probably OOC but I like to have fun so I don't care <33

[ Continuation ]

[aslyran]

Hogwarts letter

[sammyquarius]

MASTERLIST

SINNERS

Smoke

Beneath the Mississippi part 2 part 3

Being Smoke and Stacks Baby Sister Would Include

Imagine Being Smoke and Stacks Baby Sister

Imagine being Smokes Sugar Baby and Smoke catching feelings first

Stack

Ghost at the window

You’ll Come ‘Round

When the City Sleeps

Found Family

Echoes in the Dark

The Aftermath

Stack in love with you would include

Being Smoke and Stacks Baby Sister Would Include

Imagine Being Smoke and Stacks Baby Sister

A New Beginning

Imagine being Friends with Benefits with Toxic! Stack

Sammie

Don't you Touch her

Remmick

Imagine Remmick in love with you Smoke and Stacks Little Sister

Imagine Remmick being obsessed with you. You try to escape and he hunts you down.

Imagine bearing a striking resemblance to Remmick’s lost love from before his turning and him being obsessed with you

DEVILS ADVOCATE

RIGHTEOUS GEMSTONES

THE BOYS

Solider boy

She looks just like her

ALITA BATTLE ANGEL

Zapan

Dating Zapan

THE WALKING DEAD

THE LAST OF US

THE HUNGER GAMES

THE STRAIN

THE GODFATHER

BETTER CALL SAUL

Gus Fring

Imagine working at Los pollos Hermanos

Salamanca Family

Imagine being Hector Salamancas Health aid

BREAKING BAD

THE GENTLEMAN

SOPRANOS

THE PENGUIN 2024

THE BATMAN

CASINO

GOODFELLAS

POWER

STRANGER THINGS

SQUID GAME

MONEY HEIST: KOREA

HEAVENLY EVER AFTER

THE GLORY

ALL OF US ARE DEAD

DISNEY VILLANS

THE PUNISHER

DAREDEVIL

MCU

X -MEN

DC

JOHN WICK

IT