#godfather fanfic

[chaosfae-writes]

𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐲 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫, 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐞

summary: sometimes love can only be felt from afar.

warnings: angst, one-sided pining, minor invasion of privacy, voyeurism, smut, possessive Michael.

pairing: Michael Corleone x poc!reader

a/n: For @melis-writes for inspiring me to write for the Godfather, this is for you babes! <3 the reader is half-poc, half Silcian, this is a little ooc from canon because I’m a woman of color, please let me just live my Michael Corleone dreams in peace. The word g*psy is mentioned, I don’t condone the slur, it’s used from an actual quote from The Godfather.

do not repost my works.

The pitter patters of little feet dash.

Small giggles echo throughout the Tahoe home, accompanied by heavier steps following behind.

Playful monster growls, fingers curled into makeshift claws, hunching over — Fredo runs after his three-year-old nephew, Sebastian.

Not too far from the boy, in case he needs to catch the child who is still learning how to walk.

The waddling toddler bounces on his little feet, arms in mid-air, instinctively running to the shared master bedroom of his parents. Cautious feet turn the corner of the hallway, akin to a penguin, Sebastian wobbles through the bedroom door.

“Sebastian, I’m going to get ya’!” Faux menacing growls causing the little one to squeal, as he crawls under the bed, not stifling his laughs all too well.

Chubby little fingers covering his mouth, his little gummy smile.

Fredo tries to tame his voice as his other little nephew, Vincenzo, is napping in his crib. An atomic bomb can fall from the sky and the infant would still be in his deep sleep.

Fredo follows the path his little nephew ran, slipping through the ajar open bedroom door, humming to himself mischievously, tapping his chin as if he’s deep in thought.

“Now where can little Sebastian be?” Childish giggles can be heard from underneath the bed.

“Oh where, oh where can Sebastian be?” Fredo dramatically announces, his arms extend wide as a theatrical jester.

Fredo walks to the closet, pretending to finally catch the little Coreleone, with an ‘ah ha!’, opening the closet doors wide open. Fredo’s hums with an impressed flair.

“Hmm, not in the closet.” Fredo twirls around at his feet, and stops mid-way, making sure his feet are seen at the hem of the quilt, by Sebastian, in the dead center of the bed.

Fredo hums again thoughtfully, tapping the toe of his shoe against the flooring — Fredo kneels down hastily, lifting the hem of the bed sheet.

“There you are!”

Sebastian squeals loudly, trying to worm away, but Fredo catches him with ease, playfully dragging him out from under the bed by his chubby little legs; but under Fredo’s nose, a clamor of an object is tousled.

It doesn’t register with his mind — he’s too enamored with Sebastian’s babbling.

As Fredo tickles his nephew, his mind wanders off into a train of thought. His finger ceases with the ticklish assault, a weight of self-deprecation settles upon his crown.

Fredo pauses for a moment, staring at his happily gurgling nephew —- a spitting image of his father, Michael’s twin in the flesh, jet black hair that curls at his ears, those wide rich brown eyes, and olive skin.

The mannerisms, and the precious furrowed brow, whenever Sebastian is deep in thought.

In his arms, Fredo holds his future successor, his reign was casted further below the familial tree, among the awaiting heirs when the boys were conceived.

Now another heir is to be born in six months, a third child you carry. The family hopes for another boy — the three sons, three little Michaels.

Sebastian grabs Fredo’s nose, bringing him back to reality. Fredo chuckles, kissing Sebastian’s forehead. Just as he fully brings his nephew up to his chest, something scatters by Fredo’s feet.

A black leather bound journal scattered across the flooring, finally catching Fredo’s eye. Cradling his nephew against his chest, he debates if he should even dare.

Curiously, he leans the balls of his feet, cautiously his hand hovers over it — debating if he should pry it open.

But the intrusiveness that weighs on his shoulders is becoming heavier and heavier until it cracks his spine. Snatching the journal from the floor, Fredo tucks it under his armpit, as he guides little Sebastian by the hand to his room for a nap.

-

August, 1957

Michael is returning home, and my soul can rest once more. The idea of letting Michael travel unsettles me, the hunger of our enemies is always ready in the shadows.

I’m terrified of losing him, that somehow an enemy manages to kill Michael. What would I do without him? A life without him would be nothing but grief —- the black veiled widow crouching in the farthest church’s pew, weeping for her lost love.

I refuse to become that; I will fight alongside my husband, even if he’s foaming at the mouth, raving that I shouldn’t put myself in harm’s way. To just be his lover, and the mother of his children —- his heirs to his throne.

No —- when I spoke my vows, it’s for better or worse. I grew up in this lifestyle — the family must stick together, and regardless of the misconception of the don being a lone wolf, he is not.

My Michael isn’t alone —- he has me.

But some nights, dark thoughts clutter my mind, moments of confusion, and despair —- what if Michael doesn’t need me as much as I need him? Michael isn’t invincible, he’s only human — what will become of my children and I?

Go back to Italy? My sons are far too young, barely walking —- would we even live in Tahoe still?

To lose Michael, is like losing a piece of me —- I wouldn’t know who I am.

Who am I?

How would I protect my children? Flee back to Italy? Hide away in my father’s villa home?

Fredo pauses, crouching over in his seat, alone in his guest room, neck deep in your personal entries. His fingertip tracing the loops of your elegant cursive, kissing the pages; kissing the dried tear droplets, and the smeared lipstick stains.

Inhaling the scent of your soft sun kissed perfume and woven stitched leather.

He can feel the ache of your lonely childhood, from the early entries of your proposed marriage that was once crafted by his father and yours, to loving Michael and how God arranged the fate in a peculiar fashion.

Fredo can recall the wedding — a spectacular Roman Catholic wedding, your bridal dress silky and long. How the lace veil fell upon your cherub face.

He nearly threw up, if he could he would’ve snatched you off the altar and drove off — never looking back.

To the worries of your marriage through each entry, Michael’s possessive nature, or maybe he won’t survive the next day; your poems entrance him.

It only makes his heart yearn for you more.

I would protect you.

-

The kids are down for a nap, little Vincenzo arose earlier, Fredo fed him a prepared bottle of milk you put away before leaving, played with the infant for a few hours, and then the little one slept again.

As Fredo sits alone, your journal is still in his grasp, reading, savoring every written word — faint gravel can be heard from outside.

Fredo’s head turns, through the transparent curtain, he can see the slick black vehicle coming towards the home.

In a sprint, Fredo closes your journal, putting it back in its original resting spot underneath the bed, and dashing down the stairs in a haste.

Fredo halt’s at a mirror in the hallway, his open palms slicking back his silky hair, and shuffling his shirt back in place — to look his best.

The car parks in the driveway. Fredo watches through the kitchen window, hiding behind the curtain. Peering shyly as if he dares to unveil himself more behind the curtain, he would be caught.

Caught admiring from afar, the way a man shouldn’t for a married woman.

One of Michael’s guards quickly opens the back door, holding your hand securely as your other palm is protectively around your bump.

As you try to gather more than one bag, the guard helps hold brown bags of groceries into the home; away from your grasp.

Fredo quickly dashes to the kitchen, opening the back door, hands frantic. His chest becomes excited to see your bubbly smile, as the driver trails behind you with both arms occupied.

The door swings open, Fredo boldly stands there, trying to compose his composure; a titter of a surprised giggle escapes your lips.

“Hi, Fredo.” Such a warm greeting.

Fredo quickly takes the brown bag from you, guiding you into the kitchen — even helping you take off your trench coat. The guard is not too far behind — ever so observant, ever so quiet.

“Thank you for watching the boys.”

Apologies for taking so long at the market slips from your lips, but Fredo doesn’t mind at all — just idly staring at your mouth. Fredo mumbles that it’s okay, he enjoyed his time with the boys. Shiny dark brown hair, brushed smoothly as the end of your hair is coiled into bouncy curls, soft pink painted lips, and your maternity dress hugging your body snug.

You always said in moments of frustration on some days, often calling yourself a parade float, hormones to blame, but to Fredo, you were perfect.

A motherly glow.

“No worries, we were playing all afternoon.”

Fredo joins you in putting away the groceries, a pleasant silence falls that doesn’t need to be filled with chatter. It’s comfortable. Your own personal bodyguard takes his place in the foyer, after you shush him off, telling him it’s okay to relax, and take a break.

Washing and putting away vegetables, along with cartons of milk, wrapped up meats and fish, canned juice, and fruits in the fridge; boxes of pasta are put away in the cabinets.

It’s comfortable — domestic, even.

Dusting your hands against each other, idly watching Fredo stack up the last of the boxed goods, a tender smile curls at your mouth.

“Would you like to join me for lunch?” You spoke sweetly, Fredo turned his face over his shoulder, with a toothy grin.

“I would love to.”

-

The sun has settled beyond the horizon, and the night has come to full bloom. Dinner has been served, the kids played around with Fredo, and yourself — as much as you could, with a swollen bump.

Played house games, and watched television with popcorn. The boys were bathed, swathed and loved till it was bedtime.

You sit in the master bedroom, cradling your bump, as you prepare to dress down to more comfortable sleep gown for the night.

Humming to yourself, digging inside your drawer for your silk nightie.

Faintly the front door opens and closes, it echoes dully against the stretched lavish home; you pause with baited breath. Hands frozen, as you await. Hushed chatter downstairs, you can make out the guard’s voice and his.

Dull footfalls crawl up the stairs, as you slowly turn your body away from the dresser. Out of an anxious habit, your hands caress your swelled bump, a shaky smile forms at your mouth. The sounds of feet come closer from the hallway — to a stop to the bedroom door.

A breath hitches at your throat, as the door knob slowly turns. A subtle creek of the opening door, as if time slowed down to a stand-still. Your ears heat up in anticipation.

He’s home.

Michael stands at the door, his hands in his pockets; under his watchful eyes, a tender smile curls. His cold eyes now soften, his shoulders relax.

Every fiber of your body yearns for him, and it makes your heart warm that Michael only shows his true self — in quiet moments, when the world disappears, Michael expresses his affections, comfort and vulnerability.

Only to you and his babies.

Michael walks to you, quietly, his eyes roaming your body, the changes of motherhood has bestowed you a glow, and more plumpness to the flesh of your curves. Your breasts swelled with milk for his children, your hips wider, thighs are more detectable.

Shyly you take small footsteps to him, both of you relishing the sacred shared space — finally, he’s back home.

His hands gently touch your cheeks, as if you were a precious jewel, his eyes are kinder, as he stares at you.

A soft kiss on your forehead, feathery to the touch, earning a hitched gasp in your throat; another to your cheek, his intoxicating breath fanning your touch starved skin.

And finally his plump pink lips hover just hairs over your mouth, his tongue daring to peek through the cages of his teeth — you’re desperate, a pant as you flick his parted mouth with yours.

Tantalizing, teasing one another, eyes never wavering from each other — relishing in radiating body heat.

Your fingers softly trace the bridge of his Roman nose, trailing to his cupid bow, to his pink full lips, Michael’s lips kiss gently. His eyes never waver from yours, his hands fondle your thighs, gliding upward the terrain of your waist, caressing the stretched skin of your ample bump.

The unspoken silence falls softly, now just inches apart from each other; as Michael’s fingertips graze your cheek, the warmth pacifies you, as he engulfs your jaw with his open palm.

His fingers glide the slope of your neck, caressing the nape of your neck, by his tender grip pulls you into a kiss. It’s passionate — desperate even, your arms wrap around his neck.

Michael’s arm wraps around your waist gently, not too firm to crush your growing belly — open mouth kisses, his warm wet tongue licks against yours, moaning into each other’s mouths. Your fingers roving messily in his inky black hair, soft tufts, and pulls.

Michael can feel your pulse under his thumb, thumping with a rush. The pang of lust hits your clit, as Michael suckles your bottom lip.

“I need you,” you whisper between kisses, “I need to feel you.” Whining, as your nails scratch his scalp — a deep low growl emits from Michael, “My sweet wife, I’ve neglected you for too long.” He spoke upon your wanting mouth.

His lips graze gently against your lips, hovering as his warm breath engulfs, sending tingles through the atoms of your flesh. The kisses are becoming erratic, more sloppy, as Michael’s teeth trail with open wet kisses, to the juncture of your jaw.

Nibbling and suckling, the curve of your neck, as your mound ignites hotly. Two bodies melting into each other, becoming one once more.

-

It’s late.

Fredo sits in isolated silence, with a glass of whiskey held by the tips of his fingers. Staring into the window view, memorized by the rippling night waters of Lake Tahoe.

Fredo often goes to bed with you on his mind, the only comfort that eases him amidst the chaos of his. When he needs to remind himself of the silver lining of living, he doesn’t get on his knees like his mother with a rosary woven between her fingers, head bowing in prayer — he thinks of your face.

But he should get on his knees, for God blessing a pathetic man as himself, that God let him know you, to have you in his family — even though you were married to Michael.

Instead of marrying a good woman like you, Fredo surrounded himself with easy women, bad partners who left bad taste in the mouths of his family.

American women with big breasts and big mouths to match, and thirsty livers. From getting two waitresses at a time to being married to a washed up broad who cheated on him, to then seeking hollow affections from showgirls, blur of alcohol bottles, bare breasts, and emptying himself inside their wombs with his seed — strings of raw fun nights to only end with the cold shoulder, and doctor Jules Segal’s speciality.

Often looked down upon for his reckless appetites, but making up for the slack of strength with charm, and burdened with insignificant family business deals, a tactic his father did to keep his middle child preoccupied for years.

Ridiculed for being the weakest link of three sons, the runt of the litter; for the lack of his father’s approval the more he weaned on his mother’s tit.

But it always begins at the mothers, this cycle of self-abuse, letting women inflict him; it always starts with the mothers.

His mother had this running joke, ‘You don’t belong to me. You were left on the doorstep by gypsies.’

A caricature of a man.

So easily dominated by women he places on a pedestal, only moments of tiresome rage does he assert himself — but it wasn’t enough to heal that fractured ego, and masculinity.

Starving people will eat the love they think they deserve — Fredo is starved, yet ill at the core.

Coddled by his own baby brother, from the outsider’s eye, it would seem that Michael was the older sibling, and Fredo being the youngest — a pang of spite strikes Fredo everytime. For years, when he’s alone, Fredo would stare at the ceiling, and ask God what is his purpose?

Was his existence just a spite towards his father? To be the stepping stool for his brothers?

Tears sheen his eyes, blinking back as droplets kiss his lashes, sniffling as he sits in his desolated state — you never pitied him. Always a shoulder for him to cry on, moments of conversations, your light humor on life is always refreshing.

You never spoke to him in a condescending manner, only spoke warmly to him. Your melodic voice trances him, fantasizing in his mind as he touches himself late at night.

Instinctive motherly doting, you’ve helped Fredo even in his most disgusting moments. Helped him sober up when he was a drunken mess, conversed with him on anything, never running out of interests.

Imagining you riding on top of him, legs split apart his torso, your warm cunt wound tight, clenching him for dear life — your delicate hands resting upon his chest, as his fingers dig into your bare cheeks, guiding your hips. Your sepia skin glistening with a sheen of dew.

Fredo scoffs, covering his hot face in shame, breathing heavily. He slams the glass on the table side desk, his chest heaving, as his length grows hard and wanton in his unbuckled pants. Wringing his chin by the fingers, he mentally berates himself for thinking such filthy thoughts of his sister-in-law.

These past few days have been a dream for him, while Michael was away in New York conducting business, Fredo and yourself were here with Sebastian, and Vincenzo.

Just the four of you, eating dinner together, boat riding round the lake, playing games around the house, late night conversations — being a family.

Playing house with a woman wedded to his brother, but he couldn’t help but delve into a fantasy of himself being your husband. That the wedding ring resting on your marital finger was the one he picked out for you, that this is your shared cabin home together, and Sebastain was his son.

A fantasy detached from reality to pacify him.

It made him think of his own son, wondering what has become of him, who’s taking care of him —- what would life have been if he had taken in his only child. Fredo knows he wouldn’t be able to take care of a kid, he’s only ever the uncle, never father material.

He can’t even take care of himself.

The swirling eels of envy crawl in his guts, hissing at Michael —- Michael is the don of the family, Michael got the beautiful perfect wife, the perfect children, the perfect home with a lake to match; and what does Fredo have?

A washed-up ex-wife, a string of meaningless affairs, self-depreciation, and a tainted reputation all under his belt.

A forgotten son — just as his lost heir, lost to the world.

Fredo shuts his eyes, his nose scrunches, as his eyes are wound tight, wrinkling in despair. Stinging droplets of tears cascade down his cheeks.

-

Skin against skin, limbs woven as one, sheets ruffle under thrusting hips; Michael’s huskily moans in your ear, making your thigh quiver.

His cheek against yours, his tongue finds its home once again in the crock of neck, as your hand is sloped around his waist, holding onto his tailbone, fingertips digging into his waist — guiding him harder inside you.

Your wet cunt sloshes, your ass jiggling against his pelvis, his cock deep to the hilt, as you’re split in half for him. Your leg is looped over his thigh, Michael ravishing you, as his arm is protectively over your belly.

Michael’s teeth nibble at the shell of your ear, whispering praises hotly, as your eyes roll to the back of your skull. Nearly squeaking when Michael’s thrust his wet cock at your g-spot — splitting your velvety mound, his balls softly hitting your swollen clit.

Soft growls emit from Michael’s throat, he needed this — needed your body for so long. Michael’s husky and warm breath hisses in your ear. Michael’s warm tongue licks the slope of your throat, suckling a wet open kiss, as his hips thrust without mercy — as if he was trying to impregnate you once more.

“You’re so beautiful like this, wet, and moaning just for me.” Michael’s whispers, “My little wife,” his fingers caress and stroke against your soaked cunt, his fingers scratching at the sensitive skin. “Mewling like a kitten, she’s purring just for me.”

“I’m going to cum–” You nearly shrill, as your gasps for air blow softly against the wisps of messy hair, scattered and tousled from Michael pulling on it earlier.

It’s painful yet so good, to feel his cock pistoning inside you; Michael snarling as he nears emptying his balls inside of you.

“Cum on my cock, let me feel you soak me.”

Airy moans, and gasps echo within the lavish bedroom, silk sheets wrinkled, and mangled as two bodies melt together — as a lone eye peeks through the cracked bedroom door.

Hiding away, peeking through the crack of the bedroom door, a lone teary eye watches one — Fredo nearly vomits, swallowing the bile down harshly.

It’s wrong to stare, but he can’t help but yearn to be in Michael’s position. Hearing your mewling is a symphony to his ears, his skin shivers.

His fingers itching to hold you — he looks away, silently stepping away, how disgusted he is of himself. Waves of shame fall upon him.

-

It’s been three days since Michael has returned home — and Fredo can’t stand it. As if his teeth gnawed on the thick tension of jealousy.

An itch of hurt swells in him, feeling abandoned by you, as you tend to Michael. Fredo knows deep down he can’t feel this resentment toward his brother, Michael is your husband, you haven’t seen him in so long.

As a loving wife, it’s within your right to be dutiful.

It drives him mad.

Fredo’s in the kitchen, pouring himself a drink, accompanying his glass is a pastry you bought from the market the other day.

Busy buzzing in his mind — too deep his thoughts — his brow etched in a frown, he didn’t hear a creak in the flooring, or timid steps nearing the kitchen. Slender fingers slither against his torso, tickling him in surprise, Fredo nearly yelps; a melodic giggle brings his heart back down.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself.” You chuckle, you awh at Fredo’s frizzled state, he resembles a spooked cat with spiky fur that aligns its arched spine. Fredo smiles, shaking his head, trying to restrain himself from your intoxicating touch.

“It’s okay.” Fredo hums, his cheeks a bit warm now. “Just getting a snack,” a glass of whiskey and a pastry —- the ideal late night snack.

“What are you doing up?” Fredo’s palms hold onto your forearms, “You should be in bed.” Fredo towers over you, as you lean against him comfortably, you breathe a chuckle.

“You and Michael are such mother hens,” you extend your chin at Fredo, playfully pouting at him, slightly stepping on your toes. “I’m alright, the baby hasn’t slowed me down just yet.”

Fredo admires the dim glow of the kitchen light gleaming on your brown skin — it shines with no blemishes, as his eyes lower to trace your heart-shaped lips.

Is this what a sin feels like? Deliciously, intoxicating, how Fredo wants to taste you right on the kitchen counter — shower your baby bump with kisses, suckle your heavy breasts into the cave of his mouth.

He’s burning up inside. You gingerly lay your head on his chest, hugging him, Fredo softly kisses your forehead, “Well, someone has to take care of you. Watch you like a hawk.” You hug Fredo in a bear embrace, you haven’t been able to spend time with him, or have a simple conversation.

For the past few days, your mind has been preoccupied with taking care of the children, and tending to Michael; or when you do see Fredo, he’s in Michael’s office — the both of them locked away discussing business that you weren’t privy to.

You adore Fredo, the sweetest brother you’ve had, you never had a brother — you always wished to have one as protective and caring as he is.

You mutter under your breath, as you hug Fredo “Well I’ve missed my hawk.” Fredo’s arms swallows you in his embrace, his cheek now resting on your dome.

You notice there's scattered playing cards on the dining room table, “What are you playing?” You point to the cards, and Fredo’s head moves from your head.

“I was just playing some solitaire, just to pass the time.”

“I love solitaire!”

“Would you like to play a game?” Fredo has a toothy smile, ready to snatch any chance to spend some time with you.

Your hands mindlessly rub your belly, humming, “I think I might be a boring player.” You chuckle, tucking your chin to your chest, scrunching your lips in embarrassment.

“Rummy is the only card game I know.” You say, shyly rubbing your belly, worried that your limited knowledge is boring for Fredo, knowing that he must have had more fun over the years at Vegas, but it doesn’t dim Fredo’s excitement.

“No, no, I love rummy!” He stammers, a toothy smile stretches on his face, holding the box of cards against his chest.

You tuck your chin, shyly nodding, “Okay, but I will warn you, I have a pretty good hand.” You tease, easing yourself into the seat, your hands protectively cupping your bump.

-

Four rounds in, and it’s finally a stand-still.

In your palm, you hold four variations of sevens, one jack of diamonds, a queen of diamonds and a ten of hearts. Just one more card, and you can win.

But so can he.

Playful eyes squint over your hand, as Fredo tries to play off a stoic poker face — purposely letting the stoic mask slip, with a dramatic pursed pout that successfully earns giggles from you.

He has a consistent string of club cards: 1234, along with a queen of hearts, a jack of hearts, a lone eight of spades.

Fredo suspects you have the card he needs, he’s trying to brainstorm a plan to get you to drop it to the pile of discarded cards.

Fredo hums, making the choice to pick up a card and drop the eight. With a swift pluck of the card, Fredo discards his spades, and picks up a nine of diamonds.

Your competitive side is itching, the tip of your polished nail taps against the back of your assorted cards. You have no choice but to pick up as well.

You pick up from the pile, and see a random 2 of spades. You huff, and put it down on the pile. Fredo’s brows furrowed in concentration, he doesn’t need the damn diamonds — what else can he do? Put the diamonds down, and pick up another.

Victory melts on your tongue with delight, chest alit — as Fredo’s diamonds finally touched the discarded pile, it was game over. With a swift pick up of the diamonds, replacing the ten of hearts. “I win!” You squeal, showcasing your full hand of cards.

Fredo guffaws playfully, “Rookie’s luck.”

-

The living room is quiet, and warm.

Sliver of moonlight gleamed through the ceiling high window, a flourish illuminated the lavish home decor.

The scattered playing cards are resting on the dining table, as Fredo and yourself are just resting on the couch. Just small talk, shoulder to shoulder, both comfortably on the cushions.

Fredo can feel your inviting body heat, it hugs him with that reassuring comfort that makes his body tingle. Adjusting himself so he can sink into you.

“Did you think of any names for the baby yet?”

You hum low, as your manicured fingers fiddle, “If it’s a boy, his name will be Anthony,” your head falls on the crock of Fredo’s shoulder, a shiver crawls up his spine at the contact, without any thought, lays his head on yours.

Your breath hitches excitedly, “But if it’s a girl, her name will be Rosalia.” Without any thought, your head caresses sweetly against Fredo’s shoulder, enjoying the shared warmth.

“Like the saint.”

You whisper a dreamy ‘yeah’ under your breath, you love your boys more than life itself, but you would be so happy to have a little girl too. The boys are their father’s twins, will the baby be your twin this time?

The boys are already spoiled and have their father wrapped around their little fingers, now imagine a daughter — poor Michael won’t survive it.

You take Fredo’s hand and cradle it against you, “Another baby to love, another baby for Michael to spoil.” Fredo’s fingers curl around the slopes of your fingers, not daring to let go.

A pregnant pause of comfort falls.

A heat surges through him, he can’t stop himself — an urge that feels so good, but so wrong.

Slowly, Fredo pulls your hand closer to himself — it’s a blur, a compulsive need that overrides his mind.

Wispy kisses on your knuckles, Fredo doesn’t think, just let his heart overcome any logical thinking —- a stunned silence falls.

He can feel you becoming stiff, not from disgust, just surprised, Fredo can hear your breathing picking up.

“Fredo?”

You don’t pull away your hand, worried that it would hurt his feelings. You stare into the darkness, as your skin flushes with an overwhelming heat at the cheeks.

“I love you.” It spills from his lips in a flurry, a hurried whisper.

“I love you,” He repeats. Fredo’s warm palms cradle your face, as you sniffle back tears, murmuring his name under your breath.

Fredo’s lips kiss your palm feverishly, murmuring against the knuckles. Closing your eyes, as your lashes become wet with droplets. Pleading with him to stop now, before it’s too late.

Fredo moves his body, his warm clammy hands grasp at the nape of your neck.

“I wish that you were my wife.” He kisses the tip of your nose, as fat tears cascade down his cheeks. Breathing in harsh breaths, caressing your face with his.

His beard tickles your skin, delicately your fingers grasp his hands, the pad of your thumbs stroking. “Fredo, please—” you don’t know what you’re pleading for; for him to stop, for him to say it’s just a joke.

Opening your eyes, gazing at his wet sheen eyes, and you see it’s no joke. “I hated my father for so long, for arranging Michael to marry you.” Fredo’s fingers thread further to the nape of your neck, pulling you into him.

“No, don’t say that,” your fingertips softly pat his mouth, “Don’t hate your father.” Fredo shakes his head, kissing nimbly on your fingers, more hurried, as if he couldn’t give enough kisses, as if you’ll slip away.

“Fredo, no —- I can’t, I’m sorry.” You choke back a sob, weakly trying to escape his hold. Trying to wiggle your face away, throat burning from restrained tears.

“I suffered for so long, seeing you and Michael together.” Fredo’s hush voice fans against your face, not daring to let you go. He won’t stop now, he’s in too deep.

“Why couldn’t I have you?”

He wants you to love him, to see the mess he is and still love him, that he’s worthy of love. For once, he can be the first choice.

Yearning — no, what he feels is much more destructive.

“Fredo, I love you — I do.” You suck in your lips, wet breathing, “But, I love you like a brother.” Fredo crumbles, forehead to forehead, your arms wrap around him in a hug, he holds onto you as if he never wants to let go.

“Please love me.” He mumbles, all you can do is speak his name in a loving manner, as he cries in the crook of your shoulder. Caressing his scalp, but what startles you is Fredo’s small wet kisses on your skin.

The most logical thing for a wedded woman is to push him off, but you can’t bring yourself to do so. He’s fragile, and too kind for any aggressive response — you know he means well, he’s a good man.

His thoughts are murky, desperate — to create any plan for you to see that you belong with him. He’s not thinking straight, he’s a broken man.

“He still thinks of Apollonia, he never stopped loving her.” Fredo spoke in a rushed tone, his skin cringing at the mention of Michael’s late wife, knowing it will sting you.

A pin can drop in the dead silence.

He can feel your body prickle, your breathing gets heavier, crumble underneath him, breaking apart like a duck egg, now just clinging onto Fredo as a life-line.

Shivering in his arms, he pulls you closer, as you practically sit in his lap now. In his arms, encasing you lovingly, as you nearly wept in his shoulder. Fredo’s fingers stroke the swollen stretched skin of your belly.

A call for your name beckons in the dark.

Michael’s voice breaks through the silence, his disembodied voice looming at the top of the stairs, calling out your name. The upstairs light turns on, giving a shadowed honey-dew.

Quickly, you wipe away your tears by trembling fingers, composing yourself, subtly clearing your tight throat, “I’m down here, Michael. Just talking with Fredo.”

Michael stayed quiet for a moment.

“Okay, it’s getting late — come to bed soon.” All you can say is ‘okay, darling’, you fix yourself, as well as fixing Fredo’s disheveled clothes, wiping away his tears.

Without any word, you stand up, even in the darkness you can see the gleam of Fredo’s tears. Stroking his bearded cheek, you lean down, kissing Fredo’s forehead, “Get some sleep.”

Leaving Fredo to himself, as you slowly trek upstairs, he can tell you’re beyond frazzled — what can he expect when he confessed his love to you so suddenly.

Fredo goes to bed alone that night but sleep never comes to him.

#chaosfae-writes #michael corleone x reader #fredo corleone #godfather fanfic

[melis-writes]

You're Still My Brother [Godfather Part II AU].

Read on AO3. | Fanfic Masterlist | Fic and Prompt Requests Info.

18+, explicit oneshot.

Death is clipping at Fredo Corleone's heels and there's only one way out of Havana tonight. With chaos ensuing from the rebels and the kiss of death sealing Fredo's fate from Michael, Fredo's heart gives in. Helpless, desperate and terrified of his brother, Michael manipulates his Fredo's good nature into trusting him and leaving Cuba together. Hyman Roth and Johnny Ola are dead, or so Michael has Fredo believe in but Michael has no intention of letting Fredo leave Cuba alive.

[WARNINGS]: Heavy angst / Character death / Strangulation / Fratricide / Hurt with no comfort.

[AUTHOR'S NOTE]: From one of my favourite, angsty scenes from The Godfather Part II, here comes an AU oneshot I came up with in one sitting tonight with Fredo actually leaving Havana with Michael…💔 I had always wondered what would have happened in Fredo got into that car with Michael, how he would be convinced, what Michael would say and what would come next. 🥺 Playing on emotionally manipulative strings and lies in this AU, I've made Michael seal Fredo's fate differently. This is my first Godfather oneshot/fic that isn't X Reader, romance or smut related!! 🤭💕 I definitely plan to write more as they come amidst updating my multi-chapter fics! Heavy, HEAVY angst in this oneshot with all tags/warnings applying, just a heads up!! 👀🫡

Panic. Mass confusion. Violence answers the questions of the innocent, the confused, and the helpless. Michael’s amongst them, but not one of them.

Aside from the rebels leaving nothing but destruction and the ensuing chaos in their wake around the vicinity, Michael remains to be among the very scattered few who neither fear nor react to the violence surrounding them.

Seemingly coordinated enough on New Year’s Eve, Michael’s more than well aware of the threat the rebels have been posing at all times.

It was enough to see rebels give their own lives in order to take one of the police officers in front of Michael’s eyes to convince him the rebels would take any opportunity to spill blood and fight back even if cornered regardless of the consequences.

Despite the ongoing panic, Michael knows he is in no true danger nor is he a target of the rebels just as he knows the party is over and he has outstayed his welcome as have all the guests at the president’s party.

Michael slipped through the packs of crowds rushing out onto the street and did so without attracting unnecessary attention, but the same couldn’t be said for his brother.

Fredo pushed through anyone and everyone who got in front of him the moment before the onset of the violence began.

Fredo was already running for his life with fear swelling in his heart because of Michael; the truth of his betrayal was never as clever as any lie Fredo could tell Michael or any way Fredo could pretend he didn’t cause an attempted assassination on Michael’s life.

The darkness in Michael’s heart confirmed the death wish he bestowed upon his brother by sealing the kiss of death over Fredo.

Now, no explanation, no apology, and no justification can exist in this world where Michael may exercise mercy or forgiveness over his own brother.

As death itself follows at Fredo’s heels, his only escape is to flee Havana but hiding elsewhere in Cuba will spare his life longer so as long as Fredo doesn’t return to where Michael has eyes and ears in the United States.

With tears stinging his eyes and whimpers of fear escaping his trembling lips, Fredo’s breath quivers as he sprints out of the presidential palace; taking as many twists and turns as he can.

But it’s only a matter of mere moments before the planned attack takes place at the same time; its sole benefit helping Fredo blend in with the rest of the outpouring crowd seconds later.

Michael’s chauffeur never strayed far from the presidential palace; parked just a few meters away from the side of the building with intentions to take Michael and Fredo to the airport to catch their private jet later on this evening.

Standing by the vehicle now, Michael keeps the passenger door open with one hand over its rim as he looks out for any signs of his brother amidst the terrified crowds.

Fredo has no choice but to slow down the steps of the presidential palace when he spots the rioting rebels, seeing no prying eyes over him.

Among dozens of other black and white suits, Fredo is almost impossible to spot—mirroring the same body language as other rushing guests.

The vehicles of the rebels arrived in a circle around the presidential palace, honking incessantly and powering the noise and hollering of its drivers and the other rebels.

Rebels armed with bats and clubs swing at the pillars of the presidential palace and the windows of nearby guest vehicles, only causing further alarm.

Swallowing hard, Fredo stumbles down one of the steps and frantically looks around him to find some route of escape—seeing some guests have already gotten into taxis and nearby vehicles.

 “Argh—” Fredo grunts out in surprise as a couple accidentally bumps into him—ramming their shoulders into his back.

Fredo almost trips down the next set of stairs before him, catching his balance before Michael’s eyes land on his brother just across from him in his line of sight now.

“Fredo!” Michael calls out from afar, shrouded in the darkness where he stands away from streetlights or any direction crowds run toward.

Fredo freezes in his tracks, feeling his muscles instantly tense up from nothing but utter horror at the sight of his brother; pure fear triggering Fredo’s fight or flight response.

Fredo’s fear of his own brother has intensified and tripled in a matter of moments back in the presidential palace to the point where Fredo trembles in Michael’s presence and practically feels nauseous being under his brother’s gaze.

Fredo’s eyes widen as his mouth runs dry, eyeing his brother’s body language for immediate resentment and hostility.

“Come on!” Michael gestures out with his hand towards him; only appearing as a concerned brother insistent on helping his brother and escaping together.

Nothing over Michael’s expression or tone of voice resembles the putrid hatred that promised death to Fredo minutes back at the presidential palace.

Refusing, Fredo begins to slowly turn around but keeps his eyes on his brother as his body screams for Fredo to move away.

“It’s the only way out of here tonight,” Michael hollers back, noticing Fredo beginning to pull away. “Roth is dead!”

Naturally, the fate Michael planned and anticipated for Hyman Roth has failed unbeknownst to him but with Fredo’s betrayal stemming from Hyman Roth and Johnny Ola, it appears to be very convincing and tempting.

Still, the fear Fredo feels towards his own brother is all the more overpowering and there’s not a shred of trust nor hope left in Fredo to believe in Michael’s words.

Michael extends out his hand, seeing his words having no effect on his brother. “FREDO!”

Fredo forces himself to keep moving—staggering through the remaining crowd down the steps but with his head still turned towards Michael as if Fredo expects him to follow or lunge after him.

“Fredo, come with me!” Michael raises his voice above the noise of the crowds; seeing his brother is about to run off entirely. “You’re still my brother!”

Fredo’s just begun to rush off again into the crowd but stops at Michael’s words—the most convincing above all, promising they’re still family.

“Fredo!” Michael takes a step further, beginning to move in Fredo’s direction and away from the vehicle. “FREDO!”

Sensing no harm or ill intention from Michael amongst danger and chaos, Fredo’s good nature does not lie to him but coaxes his heart to trust in Michael and escape out of Havana with his brother.

In Michael now, Fredo wants to see his brother’s emotional vulnerability; despite everything, family ties and bonds never break, despite everything, Michael would want no harm to come to Fredo and certainly not here.

“You’re still my brother!”

Fredo turns back around to Michael and swears to himself he can see a pleading look in Michael’s eyes, past the shadows that keep him almost completely concealed.

Tears spring from Fredo’s eyes as he runs toward his brother, unaware he’s accepting his damned fate but giving his trust, love, and belief in safety to Michael.

Michael steps aside to let Fredo into the passenger seat, moving to the other side of the vehicle to get in for himself.

Fredo scurries inside and slams the car door behind him; a pitiful state of worry and exhaustion over him compared to Michael who still remains composed and calm.

Michael does the same, needing to give no signal or word to his chauffeur who immediately begins to drive off in the opposite direction of the presidential palace.

For a moment as Michael’s preoccupied with looking towards the chauffeur and windshield to see what’s ahead of him, neither he nor Fredo say a word to each other nor make eye contact.

Fredo peeks out the window to see hoards of people pushing into the US Embassy and pleading with the guards by the gate for safety; everyone fending for themselves in desperate hopelessness.

Fredo even spots a private jet beginning to take off as others help their family onto nearby boats and ships eager to get off the dock.

As the vehicle continues to move and navigate around the rebels and crowds with ease, Fredo flinches at the sight of the rebels setting nearby garbage cans on fire and rushing into the presidential palace itself.

With all of this occurring in mere seconds as the violence worsens and fires spread to smashed-in vehicles and broken goods from inside the presidential palace, Michael’s eyes land on his brother inside the car once again.

Fredo catches Michael’s gaze, looking as pale as a ghost with worry crossing his eyes as the vehicle now begins to slow through crowds clamoring at every angle.

Michael’s chauffeur keeps his composure, honking again and again as he continues to drive.

Michael knits his brows, gazing out both windows and somewhat concerned himself not about the damage the rebels continue to do, but what can come from the panicking and desperate mobs of people surrounding the car.

“O-Oh my God,” Fredo shudders as the vehicle finally begins to pick up its speed and separate from the crowds.

In a split second, Michael makes eye contact with the chauffeur through the rearview mirror, signaling a change in the destination; one out of sight with no one to hear anyone’s helpless screams.

Fredo doesn’t notice, nervously sitting next to Michael and looking down to see his fingers trembling uncontrollably in his lap just from Michael’s presence.

“We’re almost out,” Michael finally speaks; his voice calm and soothing enough for Fredo to believe it.

Fredo keeps his eyes on the road, refusing to relax and snap out of his alarmed state until the car drives much further down the road and Fredo’s unable to hear the rebellion behind him.

“The plane—” Fredo stammers, swallowing. “Are we getting out of here?”

“We are,” Michael reaffirms as the chauffeur takes a different turn to drive upon the side of the road where Fredo’s door faces the ocean. “Fredo—” Michael looks at his brother, “it’s fine. It’s over now.”

Fredo gives a glum nod, attempting to relax in his seat. “I don’t know what to say, Mikey. I…”

Fredo’s voice trails off as the car comes to a slow halt by the ocean; the chauffeur avoids looking towards the rearview mirror or making eye contact with either Michael or Fredo.

“I d-don’t…” Fredo’s voice cracks as he attempts to speak again, looking helplessly at his brother.

Michael faces Fredo whose almost too emotional to even realize the car has stopped on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere.

“Mikey,” Fredo breathes out—his throat tightening as hot tears stream down his cheeks. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—”

“Fredo,” Michael turns his body towards his brother, watching Fredo weep softly and break down in front of him.

“You have to u-understand, Mikey,” Fredo pleads—emotion straining in his voice, “I w-was caught in the middle. I didn’t agree—I didn’t want any of this. I didn’t know it would end up like this—I didn’t know it was gonna be a hit or anything.”

As Michael stares into his brother’s eyes, his grow colder and Fredo’s words ring out to him with no meaning, no justification nor anything worth believing for the man in front of Michael is no longer his brother but a betrayer, a traitor and a stranger bearing the same last name.

Michael gives a small nod to Fredo as if he’s understanding of it all and figured as much for himself, but the chauffeur hits a small button over his door which immediately causes all of the doors to lock.

“Michael—” Fredo croaks, flinching from fear and looking towards his passenger door in alarm.

“Fredo, look at me. Look at me.” Michael detracts Fredo’s attention from reaching out to attempt to open his passenger door—facing his brother directly again. “Listen to me.”

“I d-don’t want anything to happen to you, Mikey,” Fredo blubbers, sobbing.

“Look at me,” Michael cups his brother’s face with both hands, feeling Fredo’s warm tears against his palm. “I know. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Never, ever,” Fredo gives his head a little shake, clutching onto the fabric of Michael’s trousers with a shaky hand. “Y-you’re my brother, my brother—”

“I know,” Michael repeats again, eerily calm compared to Fredo’s distraught state on the verge of a complete mental breakdown.

“I c-could never live it down,” Fredo hiccups, his knuckles turning white from how hard he grips Michael’s trousers.

“And you don’t have to,” Michael replies, wiping a stray tear away from Fredo’s cheek.

“I’m s-scared, Mikey, when you look at me like that—”

“I’m not going to hurt you, Fredo,” Michael lies, “you know that. Wouldn’t I leave you to your fate there if that’s what I wanted?”

“Y-yeah, I guess—” Fredo smiles weakly at Michael, comforted by his brother’s lies. “I love you, Mikey. I j-just want you to know that.”

Shallow, empty words with no meaning that register nothing to Michael. He chooses to ignore them, unshaken by what’s to come next.

“I know,” Michael kisses Fredo’s forehead, slowly moving his hands down to Fredo’s neck.

Fredo’s eyes snap open in terror as Michael wraps his hands around his throat firmly just moments after. “Mikey—"

“Goodbye, Fredo,” Michael immediately begins to exhort force over Fredo’s throat—crushing his esophagus.

Fredo wheezes and whimpers, but can get barely anything other than a whine out. He attempts to thrash out at Michael with his hands but Michael tilts his body back while pinning Fredo onto the car seat to avoid his grip.

Kicking at Michael in the twisted position his body is in doesn’t help nor does kicking at the chauffeur’s car seat who gazes out the window to watch the waves of the sea; completely ignoring the murder ongoing in the back seat.

Fredo’s lungs burn, begging for air as Michael squeezes and applies as much pressure and might as he can with his hands to Fredo’s throat—watching Fredo’s helpless movements slowly coming to a stop.

Wide-eyed and terrified as the life and strength choke out of him, Fredo stares at Michael who remains to be much more physically strong and fit than his brother.

The cold, lifeless expression on Michael’s face doesn’t change throughout as the color drains out of Fredo’s face as Michael continues to strangle him; his grip far too overbearing and tight to squirm out of.

Just a few moments in of helplessly trying to pry Michael’s fingers off his throat, Fredo feels his life slipping away and falls unconscious seconds after.

Michael doesn’t stop there. To ensure his brother’s death once and for all in front of his own eyes, he clutches Fredo’s head in his hands and with one sharp swerve of his hands and arms, snaps his brother's neck.

A sickening crack can be heard out before Michael lets go of Fredo’s lifeless body plopping back down onto the car seat.

Michael breathes in deeply, staring at the corpse of his brother next to him with no reaction; only the relief he’s felt and continues to feel upon having his enemies assassinated.

Not a shred of remorse, guilt, or regret clouds Michael’s judgment or chokes his thoughts.

Michael reaches towards Fredo’s passenger door as the chauffeur unlocks it without looking back; nothing goes through Michael’s mind as he pushes open the door to kick his brother’s corpse out.

Fredo’s body tumbles out of the vehicle and off the ledge leading straight into the ocean on this side of the road.

From the sound of loud traffic afar and waves crashing upon the shore, Michael doesn’t hear Fredo’s body drop into the water nor does he bother to watch it sink.

Instead, Michael sits back in the vehicle and shuts the door as his chauffeur begins driving again, pretending as if nothing happened.

In the chauffeur’s best interest, nothing did happen and he only picked up Michael from the presidential palace. The chauffeur never saw Fredo or even heard that name; the chauffeur isn’t even aware Mr. Corleone had a brother.

“To the airport, Mr. Corleone?” The chauffeur spoke for the first time since Michael got into the vehicle.

“Yes,” Michael confirms, “I have a private flight to catch to Lake Tahoe.”

#the godfather #the godfather part ii #godfather fanfic #michael corleone #michael corleone fanfic #fredo corleone #melis-writes #godfather fanfiction #godfather au

[lostloveletters]

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.”

#the godfather #michael corleone #michael corleone x reader #the godfather x reader #michael corleone imagine #michael corleone fanfic #the godfather imagine #the godfather fanfic

[my-castles-crumbling]

gift - @wolfstarmicrofic - word count: 393

"Hey, Moony!"

"Moo!"

Remus grinned as he walked through the door with Lily, the sound of Sirius and Harry's greetings making him chuckle.

But his chuckles quickly turned into an all-out fit of laughter when he got to the kitchen to take in the scene before him:

Harry and Sirius were at the table, which was covered with old issues of The Daily Prophet and had paints and brushes scattered across it. However, Sirius's admittedly-mature effort at keeping things clean must have gone horribly awry at some point, because both boys were covered in paints of every color, and there were smears of paint on the floor, counter, chairs, and- ceiling? How they managed that, Remus didn't want to know.

Luckily, Lily seemed to take it all in stride, because she walked in behind Remus and said, "Wow, you two! You've had some fun today, huh?"

Harry let out a squeal of approval and threw a paintbrush across the room.

"Harry painted you and Prongs!" Sirius declared proudly, gesturing to a painting that consisted entirely of lines and blotches. ("Maaaa Daaaa!")

"Well, he's certainly got abstract painting under control," Lily remarked with a grin, plucking Harry up from his infant chair. "Let's get you cleaned up, shall we?"

She disappeared up the stairs with a babbling Harry.

"Harry's going to be sad when Prongs gets back from his trip and you don't have to watch him every day anymore," Remus remarked lightly, grinning at Sirius, who was picking paint out of his hair.

But Sirius just laughed and gestured to another painting. "I made something for you. Could be worth millions someday," he said with a wink.

Remus looked at the paper. It was...unsophisticated. Two stick figures, one taller than the other. The shorter one had black hair and the taller one wore what could only be described as a ridiculous sweater with polka dots that Remus suspected were finger-painted on.

They were holding hands.

"It's us," Sirius shrugged, smiling softly.

Remus tried not to get too emotional over a silly little painting, but something about it tugged at his heartstrings. He swallowed the lump in his throat and laughed lightly. "You clearly have a gift, Pads."

"Wanker."

"I love you," Remus murmured, pulling Sirius into a hug.

"Love you more."

They hung the picture on their fridge when they got home.

#marauders #harry potter #marauders era #fanfic #marauders fandom #harry potter marauders #sirius black kinnie #wolfstar #soft sirius #soft bois #kid fic #sirius and harry #good godfather sirius black #harry james potter #sirius black #the marauders era #marauders fanfiction #marauders fic #the marauders #remus x sirius #sirius being sirius #sirius orion black #sirius x remus #remus lupin #remus loves sirius #lily and remus #remus john lupin

[chicaboom-chic]

More Than Business- Michael Corleone x Reader

PROMPT: The reader is from a different crime family and she thinks he’s only marrying her for connections but he actually loves her.

Thank you @21witnokidz for the prompt.

WARNINGS: None, other than pretty shitty writing. (My cousin and I wrote this when we were drunk. Seriously guys this story is disjointed and weird. Sorry)

WORD COUNT: 3967 

There’s a moment where it hits you again; there it is that feeling of unease and formidable tension. It resurfaces in the silence, as you stare at Michael from across the room. You’re in his father’s office with him, he had whisked you away from the hectic party for a moment alone, a moment of brief intimacy. 

It was ironic the party was being thrown for the both of you but between the questions from the nosy aunts, cousins, and uncles, you and Michael had barely seen each other. And now even with your absence the party still raged on outside. Lively chatter and laughter could be heard from behind the office door, it was accompanied by the slow strum of a guitar and the sweet serenade of Italian songs.

Michael’s family and your family had congregated at the Corleone house. They had come toghether for a celebration of great measure, an engagement party; your engagement. Michael had proposed to you three months ago but had only announced your engagement two weeks ago. So naturally, a party had been thrown. Nearly everyone who knew your family and the Corleone family had turned up.

Don Corleone's house was littered with family, friends, politicians, and those alike, all of whose faces were twisted into smiles of great elation. In the parlor, the women sat, forming a small mother’s club where they caught up on gossip and talked about their children.

 Outside by the courtyard, the men congregated laughing as they took swigs of alcohol, downing drinks that they would definitely feel in the morning. And the kids were everywhere, they absolutely swarmed the place; you could only imagine what the rest of the Corleone house looked like.

It was a day of great joy… it was supposed to be. However, you couldn’t bring yourself to smile or even share the same level of excitement everybody had. It was your engagement party but you had never felt more restless and miserable.

Since the party had commenced a feeling of worry had been toiling in your stomach, which expanded the already deep chasm of doubt, that had managed to grow in size over the passing weeks.

What had started out as a silly afterthought, had now become a horrifying idea.

Is Michael using me?

In the last few months, a slew of thoughts had slipped their way into your subconscious, thoughts that made you question the intentions Michael had for asking for your hand in marriage.

Is Michael using me?

You shot a glance at Michael from your seat, retreating from your thoughts temporarily. He was by his father’s cabinet pouring himself a glass of whiskey. He noticed your prying gaze and met your eyes, he smiled at you warmly.

You smiled back, however, the smile didn’t reach your eyes. Instead, when you looked at Michael a pang of sadness hit you.

You fought the urge to frown as you thought back to the hushed business conversation Michael frequently had with your father after you had gotten engaged, you remembered the look of appraisal in his father, Vito’s, eyes when you were introduced to him as Michael’s fiancee. You remembered how surprised Tom looked when he registered your last name.

It had been right in front of you, all the signs were glaringly red.

Oh, God!

You tore your eyes away from Michael and looked down at your lap. In your lap sat your hands which you fiddled with uncontrollably.

How could I be so stupid? You thought bitterly. It all makes sense now.

Being the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in new york sometimes meant that men took interest in you for the wrong reasons. You also weren’t privy to your father’s business, which often attracted certain types of men.

You knew the ins and outs of your father’s business, the connections he had; connections that a family like Corleone’s would need.

Connections that Michael might need.

No, this can't be. 

You swallowed the lump that had been forming in your throat, biting down on your trembling lip to stop the whimper escaping from your lip.

It can’t be…

It was a sickening thought really, that perhaps Michal wanted you for what you could offer and not who you were. Maybe the love between the both of you was synthetic on his part; a mere ruse to obtain financial and business opportunities.

That in itself was bad enough, however, the sting of being used didn’t hurt as much as the sting of not being loved. In your mind, if Michael did love you and was using you, you could tolerate it to some level because at least he loved you. But whether he loved was a question that hung in the air, like a foul stench.

Did Michael love you?

Did he not?

It was painful to think about. You never considered that you would have to think about Michael this way. When you began dating Michael, the idea had never crossed your mind. 

Michael had just back from the war and had ended a relationship with a school teacher by the name of Kay, at the time you didn’t know he belonged to the Corleone family, he was very distant about his family.

After dating for a small amount of time you had found yourself utterly taken with him, practically obsessed. He was everything you longed for in a man. He was kind, gentle, and compassionate, he was also highly attractive which helped greatly. When he asked you to marry him you didn’t hesitate to say yes.

Now looking back on it maybe you shouldn’t have been so hasty.

If I had known I was to be a trading piece I would have-

“Y/n, what’s wrong? You’ve been really quiet.” Michael asked suddenly, breaking the silence that had been lingering between the two of you. His voice drew you from your thoughts and you looked up.

He was leering at you from his behind the desk, his face was a mixture of concern and curiosity. By now he had noticed the unease plastered on your face as well as the detachment you had from him. You had been silent for too long.

You looked at him, questioning whether it was wise to lie. Michael was rather receptive when it came to your emotions, he could notice the subtle changes in your mood. He would easily know if you were lying.

“Oh, it’s nothing, Michael.” You said as you shook your head. You opted to lie, knowing he wouldn’t press the matter further unless you gave him a reason to.

You straightened your shoulders and gave him your most convincing smile. “I’m just tired that’s all.” You chalked it down to fatigue, a plausible excuse, after all, today you had been very busy.

Michael nodded, and his eyes dropped from you momentarily. He placed his glass of scotch down on the desk and unloosened his tie. “Are you enjoying yourself this evening?” He asked. As he did so, he released an exasperated sigh.

Your eyes dropped from him, and you looked up to the ceiling. “Ummm, yes.”

No, Michael, I’m not. Are you marrying me for my family’s connections?

The thought fired past the many ones just like it in your head. But you merely ignored it. You sighed and looked away from the ceiling, looking back at Michael.

“How about you?” You said, trying to squash any feelings of doubt.

“Yes, though I didn’t get to talk with a lot of people as I was wrapped up in some things.” Michael walked away from the desk and sat on a chair at the other end of the room.

“However, I actually did manage to talk to your aunts though, rather they found me. We had some interesting conversations.” Michael laughed as he thought back to how your aunts had grilled him about whether big noses are a sign of good endowment in Italian culture.

“The women in your family are quite some characters!”

Michael’s voice filled the room as he continued to talk, he was more talkative than usual. He went on about the party. But his words were met with no replies, you weren’t really listening, you just nodded absent-mindedly at his comments. The bombardment of thoughts had already made it hard for you to hear.

Does he love me?

He says it all the time, but now I’m not sure.

But what else did I expect?

Of course, he’s marrying me for my father’s connections, do you think a girl like me would ever have a chance with a man like Michael if I didn’t have something to offer?

Your thoughts were spiteful and bitter, they pricked at you like a needle. They hurt you greatly but you couldn’t help but conjure them. You couldn’t help but believe they were true.

Your doubts continued as did  Michael’s chatter, however unbeknownst to you, he had stopped talking a while ago. He had noticed that you were engorged by silence, this was the second time you had become unresponsive.

“Have you eaten?” Michael asked. 

The question went over your head, you were too trapped in your thoughts.

“Y/n?” Michael’s voice suddenly peaked, having to have raised his voice for you to hear.

You jolted suddenly. “Pardon?” You met his gaze again.

“Did you eat? You said you were tired.” Michael was frowning now; it was a frown of concern.

You swallow hard. The room has suddenly become unbearably small as if it’s shrinking. You begin to feel unpleasantly warm.

I’m making a scene. Oh my god. He’s going to notice.

“I umm, I-. Look, Michael. I think I’m going to go home.” You avert your eyes from him after making your request.

You cringe the moment the request slips out of your mouth. It’s crazy, you know it is, it’s your engagement party, leaving would not only seem strange but raise more questions than you care to answer. But you just wanted to go home. 

The environment of the party was suffocating, it was suffocating to be around Michael.

“Leave?” Michael questions. You don’t have to look up to know there's a look of confusion on his face, his tone says it all.

“I know it’s a bit early, but I really want to go home.” You say truthfully. “If that's fine with you, that is.” You add in a small whisper.

“No, no it’s fine.” Michael's face softens. “If you feel tired you should go home.” He sounds understanding, and its comforts you slightly.

“I’ll think of an excuse for your absence, but first let me get someone to drive you home, I would do it myself but we both can’t go missing.”

“What are you going to do by yourself?” You ask curiously as you rise from your chair preparing to leave. You feel partially guilty that you’re leaving Michael here alone, but you know it’s for the best until these feelings subside. You wonder if time apart will clear your head.

“I still have some people to talk to.” Michael stands up from his chair, he stretches before fixing his tie. Then he walks over to you, offering you his hand to help you up.

You smiled at him warmly and took his hand, uprooting yourself up from the chair. When you stood up he planted a small kiss on your cheek. It made your smile widen. It was your first genuine smile of the night.

You then looked at Michael, properly this time, taking in the features of his face. There were lines under his eyes, and his hair was a little ruffled. He was tired, very tired, and yet the smile on his face remained when he was around you, a smile of complete adoration. 

Surely a man who was using you wouldn’t look at you that way? Could he?

With that thought, you felt guilty. Perhaps you were overreacting, after all these thoughts had come from nowhere, how could you judge Michael purely based on thoughts?

Maybe I am overreacting?

Michael cleared his throat. “Besides I still have things to talk to your father about that are business related.” 

Upon hearing that the warmness of Michael’s previous gesture faded away, and the smile dropped from your face. You let go of Michael’s hand immediately. The thoughts came crashing in again at the mention of business and your father.

“You speak to my father a lot these days.” You said with a hint of irritation. The past feelings of sadness were replaced with those of slight anger. 

Michael hadn’t seemed to notice the sudden change in your tone. “I have to.” He shrugged. “We have a lot of business to discuss.” He tried to reach for your hand to hold it again. But you kept them firmly to your side.

Your brows furrowed into a glare. “Business, business, hmm.” You snapped. “It’s all my father and you ever talk about!” The last sentence was particularly icy.

This time Michael caught onto the increase of snark in your voice. He looked at you carefully, he was quiet as he assessed the sudden coldness emitting from you before choosing to speak again.

“I suppose so? Your family and mine are working together now, so it only makes sense…” Michael was sure to tread carefully with his words.

“And you know, after we get married it will only continue,” He added. 

Your eyes widened immediately, and your mouth fell open.

Oh no.

Michael’s words were practically an omission. In your mind, this was the nail in the coffin. The wave of sadness that hit you was immeasurable. Your worst fears had been confirmed. Michael was only marrying for your connections, he didn’t love you, and he never had. 

You didn’t feel the tears streaming down your face until the second one reached your chin. “So you don’t love me?” Your voice cracked.

“What?” The question caught Michael off guard, and so did the tears. He blinked. “Y/n?” This is something he clearly hadn’t anticipated.

You drew a quivering breath, clearing the air that had been trapped in the back of your throat, once it was released everything slipped out.

“How could I be so stupid?” You sobbed.

“I knew that this marriage was beneficial to your family, you have so much to benefit from this, but I never thought you would-!” You were crying at an abnormally loud level. Tears were streaming down your face as you got choked up on your words.

All the while Michael was in a state of shock. He froze momentarily, this fluctuation in emotions had been so random.

“I know what my father does for a living, I’m not stupid, I know his connections are desirable to many people, including you.” Your voice lowered suddenly. The sudden rush of hysteria you had was wearing off, now you were just filled with dejection, complete and utter dejection.

“I know you don’t feel the same I do.” You sniffed quietly. “How could you?”

“After all, I'm just a business venture, a contract… And yet.” You shook your head, stifling a laugh. “I still love you, even if I know you don’t love me.”

It was ironic, funny, almost tragic. You knew Michael wasn’t marrying you out of love or sincerity but you could never stop loving him.

You laughed again. “What am I even saying?” You felt as if you had been rambling incoherently, spewing utter nonsense for what felt like forever, but once you had started you couldn’t stop.

“I’m so sorry.” You whispered. You slumped back into the chair, burying your face into your hands.

Michael had been silent for most of your tirade, dropped to his knees beside you. The realization had hit him. The silence, the melancholy, the distance you had been putting between the both of you, and the reason behind it were all so clear now.

She thinks that I'm marrying her for her connections. 

He shook his head and exhaled. “Y/n.” He put his hand on your thigh, caressing it slowly. “I’m disappointed to hear that.” He said sadly.

“I’m sorry.” You sniffed.

“No, no, no.” Michael pinched the bridge of his nose with his other hand. “I’m not disappointed in you.”

The disappointment Michael felt was not aimed at you but at himself. A deep shame wallowed in his chest after hearing your confession. He was ashamed that you felt that way, ashamed that he made you feel that way, and ashamed that he had failed to notice.

She thinks of herself as a business venture. Michael swallowed bitterly. His heart ran cold. His guts tangled into a knot. He felt sick. Michael’s mouth went dry as he analyzed you silently. A minute passed before he finally said something.

“Y/n will you please look at me.” He asked softly.

You shook your head, refusing to honor his request. You didn’t move an inch. You were too afraid to look up, deathly afraid to look at his face and whatever expression he had on. You wish he would just leave you to sob in the confines of his father’s office but you could still feel his presence by your chair and you knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

Michael sighed. He removed his hand from your thigh and placed it on your cheek. You shivered at his touch, but you still refused to look up.

“Do you really believe that I'm marrying you because of your father’s business connections?” Michael’s voice was at a whisper now.

“That’s why you’ve been so distant lately hmm?” He began to caress circles on your cheek. “You believe that I’m doing this strictly for business purposes.”

“And do you really believe that I don’t love you?” He said bitterly.

You cringed, slouching into your chair even more, you wished you could sink into the chaie and disappear. He sounded angry. You began to worry that this would lead to an argument, perhaps it hadn’t been the best to break down at this very moment.

But the next words from Michae’s mouth weren’t ones of anger in fact they sounded quite regretful.

“I’m sorry.” He said. “I’m really sorry.” There was great despair in his voice. 

“I’ve made you feel as if you are nothing more than a trading piece.” Michael exhaled. He couldn’t remember a specific time or day he had behaved in a manner that made you feel less than, but he clearly had, and it had made you so insecure that you felt as if he didn’t love you.

“Y/n,” He said firmly. He knew he had to rectify the situation, he couldn’t have you believing that he didn’t love you. “My family business is important, but so are you.”

“I care about you.”

“I really do.”

He cares about me? You sniffed. 

The level of sincerity was enough to lull you out of your state, but not enough to entirely draw you out. You weren’t fully convinced. He cared about you but did he love you? Did he love you as you loved him? Or was he lying merely to appease you? 

Michael was a gentleman but being a businessman also meant he knew how to lie, and lie very well. You only hoped the latter was true. It had to be for your sake.

“You care about me?” You said slowly. Your face rose from your hands, you let out one final sniff, and exhaled, hoping to gain a bit of courage. “But do you love me?” You questioned. You had to know for sure.

“When we get married could you bring yourself to love me? And don’t lie to me.”

You felt your chest tighten as you looked at Michael who was still kneeling on the floor beside you. Your eyes met his, Michael’s eyes locked deeply into yours and you felt small under his gaze but you dared not to look away. Your breath hitched. You had never experienced a heart attack but you were sure this is what it felt like as you awaited his answer.

Michael examined you properly now as you sat up, you were still slightly hunched over in the chair and your hair was down, now ruffled and messy, it covered the right side of your face. Your eyes were puffy and red. The dim lighting of the room cast a shadow across you, heightening the expression of anticipation on your face and the look of worry, as well as dread.

Then Michael finally spoke. “Y/n, I don’t have to bring myself to love you, because I already do, connections be damned.”

“I’ve loved you for so long, even before I asked  your father for your hand in marriage.” Michael took your hands from your lap and bought them up to his lips. He planted a small kiss on them.

You looked at Michael as your hands sat stalely in his. Michael held his breath as he watched you look into his eyes, he prayed that you would what you were looking for, what had always been there.

At that moment there was a mutual silence between the two of you. You searched Michael’s eyes for any hint of deceit or duplicity, you prowled for any signs that indicated he was lying, but you couldn’t find it. 

In his eyes lay nothing but awe and adoration for you. The look on his face was one of passion and honesty. This wasn’t the face of a man who was lying, this was the face of a man who loved you.

"You really do care for me?' You said quietly. The way the words rolled off your tongue sounded as if you were trying to speak a foreign language. You sounded as if you still couldn’t believe it.

"I do." Michael nodded. "And, once again, I’m sorry that I made you doubt my feelings for you.” He apologized again.

“You want to marry me?” You perked up a little, the warmth was returning to your chest, and your heart rate had begun to still. “You really want to marry me?” You asked again as you squeezed Michael’s hand.

Michael smiled. “Do you think I am the kind of man who would make a commitment to a woman for the rest of my life if I didn’t feel anything for her?” He brushed the hair out of your face and placed it behind your ear.

“Y/n, my feelings for you extend past any business venture,” Michael stated as he leaned and kissed your forehead.

You couldn’t help but crack a small.

Michael loved you.

Michael loved you!

“Can you say that again?” You requested gingerly.

Michael stopped kneeling on the floor and stood up. “Say what?” He questioned, looking down at you.

“That you love me? Please?”

The verbal declaration of Michael’s love for you had washed away all your doubts and lingering worries. Hearing him say three simple words left you feeling euphoric, it felt exhilarating. You wanted to hear him say it again.

“I love you.” Said, Michael. “I’ll say it a thousand more times if you wish.” He smiled.

You nodded. “Yes, do it again.”

“I love you,”

“I love you,”

“I love you.”

Each time he said it, a different wave of joy hit you. You wiped what was left of the tears from your eyes and stood up. You leaned into Michael, burying your face into his chest. Michael wrapped his arms around you and held you tightly.

You felt safe in his arms, you felt happy, you felt loved. The feeling lasted all through the night, even when the both of you returned to the party and people asked why your eyes were so red. You didn’t really care though, Michael loved you, that’s all that mattered.

----------------

This story was an ungodly level of long and cringe.

Anyways hope you enjoyed it.

#michael corleone x reader #michael corleone x oc #michael corleone imagine #the godfather #the godfather imagine #the godfather fanfic #the godfather x reader #al pacino #al pacino x reader #al Pacino imagine

[bunny-is-cute]

Husk & Angel Dust: *return from hospital after birth of three kitten-spiders*

Lucifer: *shoves them out of the way*

Lucifer: *sees the kitten-spiders babies*

#Lucifer is the Godfather #hazbin hotel #fanfiction #fanfic #hazbits #lucifer #mpreg #hazbin angel dust #angel dust #husk was the pregnant one #husk #huskerdust #royalflush friendship #hazbin anthony #hazbin hotel husk #hazbin husk #Lucifer loves kitties #this is just a joke

[chicoca]

Did you know that i have your heart in the garden?

(Michael Corleone x Reader fanfic) (AO3)

Sicily brings new things for Michael, including your presence. However, he didn't count on the difficulties of hiding from his father's enemies and falling in love with a forbidden woman.

Michael's and reader's pov

Reader has a name

Canon divergence (I use some parts of the movie and the book, but I manipulate everything)

This fanfic is quite self-insert, and brings a perspective of Michael that I would like to deepen.

Be aware that this Michael is based after the death of Sollozo and McClusky, and before being the Don. Therefore his personality is far from the great Michael Corleone that we know. At least at the beginning.

Playlist

Warnings in each chapter

chapter one

chapter two

#the godfather #godfather #al pacino #michael corleone #michael corleone x reader #michael corleone x oc #michael corleone au #the godfather au #fanfic #michael corleone fanfic #fanfiction #fic #ao3 fanfic #chicoca

[sybill-the-seer]

A Bath or Two

Read on AO3

Summary: Bathtime at Number 4 Privet Drive in 1984 is very different to bathtime at Harry and Ginny's house in 2002. Harry plans to keep it that way.

Note: Thank you so much to @turanga4 for her incredible beta help, and to the TTB discord server for their wonderful wizarding bath toy ideas (all credit goes to @not-steve42 for the Grindylow idea)!

TW: Child abuse

Harry sat, stiff and cold in the tepid bath water, trying to cheer himself with the thought that his ordeal would soon be over. Aunt Petunia scrubbed his arm roughly, then let it splash back down into the now nearly opaque water. As she reached for the shampoo, Harry only just stopped himself groaning in despair.

“Please don’t let it get in my eyes this time!” he whinged, but he knew it was useless. Aunt Petunia never listened to him.

Sure enough, Aunt Petunia merely pursed her lips at his words, scooped up some water with the plastic cup she used for bathtime, and dumped it on his head unceremoniously, wetting the dark unruly strands in preparation for a scrub.

Harry screwed up his eyes as the water poured down his face, bracing himself for what he knew was coming next. Now he felt Aunt Petunia’s bony fingers on his scalp, rubbing the shampoo into his hair none too gently. Harry felt her fingers leave his head, heard the splash of the plastic cup in the water behind him, and reached up to cover his eyes, but it was too late. The soapy water cascaded down through his bangs, straight into his eyes before rushing down the rest of his face and dripping off his chin.

“Ow!” Harry cried, as the stinging began, his fingers flying to his eyes automatically. But rubbing only made it worse, and Harry began to cry as another waterfall of water and shampoo fell over his head.

Harry was crying in earnest now – he was blinded by the soap and the stinging, and Aunt Petunia’s dumping was only making things worse. Now he could taste the foul, bitter soap in his mouth.

“Stop!” Harry wailed, pushing Aunt Petunia’s hand away in an effort to make the water cease. It worked for a moment.

“Stop this nonsense, boy, I have to get the soap out of your hair!” she snapped, scooping up another cupful of water.

Still blinded by water and soap, Harry thrust out his hand again to block the water cup, but missed. At least, he didn’t feel his hand make contact with anything other than the slippery side of the bathtub. And yet he still heard Aunt Petunia screech at the same time as a splash – but the splash didn’t land on his head. He heard the thump of what he thought was a crouched Aunt Petunia losing her balance and hitting the floor before –

“What in heaven’s name do you mean by it, boy?!”

Harry tried to open his eyes to see what had happened, but he was too late. Aunt Petunia’s hand had grabbed his hair roughly, and now he was face down in the water.

He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t come up for air, the hand was holding him down and Harry tried to yell at her to let him go but only bubbles came out…

It was only a moment before his aunt’s grip loosened abruptly, though it felt like an eternity, and Harry sat up, gasping and spluttering, blinking the water out of his eyes in shock. He looked over to see Aunt Petunia staring at her hand with astonishment and horror, water splashed all down the front of her blouse, the plastic bath cup far away from the tub on the floor. He wanted to ask what had happened, but stopped himself, deciding it would be unwise in Aunt Petunia’s current state. Instead, he watched her warily until she seemed to come back to her brisk self, ordering him out of the bath and tossing him a faded towel. He thought he heard her mutter something about “unnaturalness,” and “abnormalities,” before he scurried back to his cupboard to change into his pajamas.

________________________

Almost a lifetime later, Harry sat near his own bathtub looking down at the small boy splashing happily in the water. He held up a rubber duck to show Harry (a gift from Ginny, who found Muggle children’s toys delightful), chattering away about the story he was creating with all his bath toys. As he did so, his hair turned exactly the same shade of yellow as the duck.

“- he’s just crashed into that ship, see, and now the ship’s sinking – uh oh –” Teddy reached for the small ship, snatching it up into his little hand just before it hit the bottom of the bathtub.

“Saved it!” he cried, now holding both the ship and the duck in the air victoriously.

“That’s good,” Harry replied, “because we’re nearly done, and I don’t think we’d want to end bathtime with a shipwreck.”

But Teddy had already turned away, his mind lost to his imaginings once more. Harry filled the bath cup with water, cupped his hand to Teddy’s forehead, and poured the warm water over his bright hair. Teddy hardly noticed, now muttering an imagined conversation between the rubber duck and some sailor figurines who were shaking their little fists furiously.

While once Harry’s unpracticed hands had moved tentatively and unsteadily, unsure of how to angle the cup and his hand to avoid Teddy’s eyes, afraid of somehow slipping up and making him cry, now they were well used to the bathtime routine. In fact, Harry quietly prided himself on the fact that bathtime was never protested whenever Teddy came to stay.

Harry reached for the shampoo now, poured it smoothly into his other hand, and began massaging it gently into Teddy’s vivid hair, which slowly changed from yellow to black as he relaxed at Harry’s touch. Bath toys momentarily forgotten, Teddy tilted his head as far back as it could go and grinned up at Harry, his hazel eyes sparkling.

“That feels good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And with a little hum of contentment Teddy rolled his head back, Harry’s hands following his movement as he continued to massage in the shampoo. Teddy then reached for his little enchanted grindylow figurine that had been swimming lazily through the bathwater. As his hand approached it, it darted quickly away, and the boy laughed.

“Ok, time for a rinse,” Harry said, reaching again for the bath cup. “And then we’re all done.”

“All done?” Teddy whinged. “But I’m not done yet!”

“I’m sure Ginny will be waiting for us though – she probably has a game for us to play before bedtime. And don’t you want to try the hot chocolate we made?”

“I forgot about hot chocolate!”

“I thought you might have,” Harry chuckled, as Teddy turned away, now waiting impatiently for him to finish rinsing his hair.

Soon, Teddy had been helped out of the bath, into a warm towel, and finally into his pajamas covered with tiny custard puffskeins.

“Ginny!” he cried, rushing into the sitting room where Ginny sat, curled up on the sofa with a cup of hot chocolate. “Where’s my hot chocolate?” he asked, looking intently at her mug.

“Hmm, are you sure I didn’t drink it all myself? You were in the bath a long time…”

She grinned over at Harry, who shrugged helplessly. He had never been good at getting Teddy out of the bath promptly – it always took more than one coaxing to get Teddy out of the tub when Harry was in charge, and Ginny knew it. He didn’t mind though, as long as Teddy was having fun.

“No you didn’t! That cup’s not big enough for it all! I’m going to go check.” Teddy turned to race into the kitchen, Ginny getting up off the sofa to chase after him.

“You’ll have to beat me to it!” she called, and Teddy squealed happily.

Harry grinned and followed after them into the kitchen.

Note: I have a feeling I might get questions about this, so I’m just going to address it now: Petunia was NOT trying to drown Harry! It was an act of both rage and fear after the first instance of accidental magic, and an attempt to startle him out of crying. Still a completely unacceptable thing to do, and blatant child abuse, but no, she was not intending to drown him and I can’t see her ever attempting to go that far.

#fanfic #tw child abuse #child abuse #dursleys #petunia dursley #harry james potter #teddy lupin #godfather!harry #ginny weasley #background hinny #harry and teddy

[seriouslysam8]

Brumous Early Update!

Chapter Sixty: Through the Cracks

Here's the chapter a day early! I was extremely anxious to share this chapter with you guys!

Please, don't forget to drop a review. They really do motivate me to keep writing and help me keep my posting schedule.

Who guessed correctly what happened to Harry??

Start from the beginning

Petrichor Series

Also on ff.net 

#seriouslysam #hinny #harry potter fanfiction #hinny fanfic #harry and ginny #sirius black #petrichor series #sirius lives au #harry x ginny #hinny fanfiction #harry and sirius #harry and marlene #blackinnon #sirius and marlene #good godfather sirius

[jamesunderwater]

Bring Your Kid to Work Day(s never end when your godfather is Sirius Black)

@goodgodfathersiriusblack fest day 11: bring your kid to work day - 2,007 words - shout out to @annabtg for beta reading <3 Dedicated to my own godfather, Steve, who actually would have killed someone for me, and always made me believe I was the best mechanic at the shop.

Harry loves the smell of gasoline, of engine fuel, of greasy metal scattered on dirty cement floors. His muscles relax when he thinks of them, an unconscious deep breath entering and exiting his lungs. With them come the sounds of tools clanking and voices echoing off tin walls, a radio in the corner crackling with rock music, muffled by the bins and boxes and other random objects hiding it from view. What should feel like chaos is a memory that brings him only peace. 

**

At first, the Dursleys refused to let him go. They always started off that way, with a firm no, as if naively hoping this might be the time they actually won a standoff with Sirius Black. When he wanted to take Harry to the coast for his seventh birthday, Uncle Vernon’s jowls shook with determined strength as he told the boy’s godfather he would be doing no such thing! “You think I’m letting you run off with him for days, so you can fill his head with more devilry to unleash on my family? I won’t have it!” 

Sirius always responded to Uncle Vernon in one of two ways: with terrifying malice, or unbothered amusement. Harry watched his godfather’s eyes twinkle from his view against the wall out of his uncle’s line of sight. “Oh, Dursley, Dursley, my good man, I have already given Harry all the knowledge I have on how to call down endless doom upon this dreadful home.” Sirius’s hands moved dramatically as he spoke, as if he might be casting a spell in that very moment. “A few days of playing in the water might actually put him – and myself – in such a good mood that we hold off on the doom a little longer.” Even though there was still a grin on Sirius’s face, Harry heard a hint of his ‘terrifying malice’ voice when he said, and myself. He glanced at his uncle to find the man’s face turning pink, his chin quivering in fearful frustration, the way it did by the end of all his conversations with Sirius. 

“Fine,” was all Uncle Vernon said. “I expect him back by the 3rd.”

**

Harry doesn’t actually remember their original conversation about Sirius taking him to the shop for Bring Your Kid to Work Day, only that Sirius always references it when Uncle Vernon tries to argue that Harry can’t go. He was only five then, so the only important memory from that day was the one of him entering Sirius’s autobody shop for the first time. 

Read the rest on AO3!

#GoodGodfatherSiriusBlackFest2024 #sirius black #good godfather sirius black #harry potter #bby boy #hp #harry and sirius #sirius and harry #sirius black fic #the marauders #marauder fanfic #marauders fic #my writing

[jlhynde-insanitybrilliance]

UDLTTOM DIALOGUE DRAFT #92

Harry (to Teddy): Wait you’re stealing sweets from your housemates to resell to other houses?

Teddy: Yeah. I duplicate and transfigure it first.

Harry: You can’t do that.

Teddy: Why?

Harry: Because it’s stealing!

Teddy: You steal. You both steal Professor Slughorn’s potion ingredients all the time.

Harry: That’s different.

Teddy: How?

Harry: Because you’re gonna get caught.

Teddy: So it’s okay as long as I don’t get caught?

Harry: No. It’s not okay at all.

Teddy: But Big Ted said we needed money.

Harry: That’s nothing you need to concern yourself with.

Theodore: How much are you making?

*Teddy rattles off some high numbers*

Theodore (impressed): Bloody hell, good job kid! I think you should let him keep doing it, Harry.

Harry: (to Theodore) You stay out of this. (to Teddy) You stop stealing. I mean it Teddy, shut it down.

Teddy: Fine! I’ll shut it down. Do I have to stop selling the O.W.L and N.E.W.T. answer booklets too?

Harry: The what—How did you get those?

Teddy: Did you forget I’m a metamorphmagus? I just walked into the staff room and they were sitting on the table.

Harry: Shut it all down. And I mean everything.

#udlttom #harry potter #tomarry #time travel au #tomarry fanfic #dialogue draft #theodore nott #teddy lupin #Teddy has an entrepreneural spirit #who said Hufflepuffs couldn’t be cunning too #it’s hard to discipline your kid if you do the same thing #Harry doing godfather things #is this how Sirius felt?

[melis-writes]

Request: as Catholics, Michael and Victoria don’t use contraception or use abortions, and when she ends up pregnant after James, as they obviously still can’t get enough of each other and insatiable for each other, they are happy to add to their family and even after that little Corleone, they end up welcoming a few babies after that, and many wonder how on earth but Michael and Victoria just knowingly look at each other and know that they have so many kids is because they are horny 24/7 for each other and have sex wherever and whenever they can… and they have more than enough money and space for them all too… and Michael can never say no to Victoria and both of them have breeding kinks…

Niccolo (St Niccolò Politi)

Verona (Province of Verona)

Vincent (St Vincent de Paul)

James (St James the Great)

Giuseppe (St Joseph the Hymnographer)

Xavier (Saint Francis Xavier)

Leoluca (St Leoluca of Corleone)

Valentia (Province of Vibo Valentia)

Michael & Victoria

Niccolò, Verona, Vincent & James

Giuseppe, Xavier, Leoluca & Valentia

OH WOWWW THAT IS A LOOOOT OF CORLEONE BABIES!! 😳😅 I see Michael and that breeding kink of his has definitely gone a long way. I guess in this AU prompt we can definitely say Victoria’s made up for her five year break as the twins were growing up since these two just want a bigger family lmfao 😂 (and can’t get off each other in bed, of course). Let’s see just how all those babies joined the family, starting with baby #5 being conceived in 1958! ❤

“I’m out, baby.” You let out a soft exhale, clutching the bathtowel wrapped around your body as you enter the bedroom. “Hiii.”

“Hi, darling.” Michael raises his head up from his book—laying down on the bed. “Feeling more refreshed?”

“Mhmm.” You smile back, letting the towel around your hair loosen over your shoulders. “Much, much better. Geez, what a day. Sorry I took a little longer than I thought.”

“You apologize for the most ridiculous things sometimes.” Michael chuckles quietly, setting his book down on the night table before eyeing the towel wrapped around your naked body. “All dry?”

“Not yet.” You pull off your hair towel, running your hands through your still moist hair. “Think I’m just going to have it air dry for tonight.”

“Not the towel I was referring to, baby.” Michael eyes the peek of cleavage showing from your bathtowel.

“Maybe.” You tease back, clutching onto your bath towel and squeezing your breasts together. “Why? You know I’m gonna get dressed in my nightgown and join you.”

“I want you to take it off.” Michael gazes at you. “No use walking around with that wrapped all over you. Strip.”

‘Fuck. Why does he have to say it like that?’ Blushing furiously, you unravel the bath towel and let it drop to your feet—remaining completely naked in front of Michael.

“Good.” Michael murmurs as his eyes greedily dart up and down your body—complete and utter perfection to him all over. “Were you able to check what we were talking about earlier?” Michael begins to rise from the bed to approach you.

“I did.” You bite down on the corner of your lip, rubbing up your arm.

“And?” Michael’s eyes fill with curiosity as he stands in front of you; dressed only in a white tank top and grey briefs himself.

“We can’t.” You shake your head as Michael places his hands over your hips, pulling you closer to his body.

“We can’t?” Michael repeats, raising a brow.

“I’m ovulating.” You blush, nodding. “I noticed already when I was in the shower.��

“So…” Michael’s curiosity only continues to grow as he and you both know you have condoms readily available—albeit barely use them to begin with, but the two of you have strictly avoided having sex on unsafe days unless you were both planning to have another baby Corleone.

“I don’t want to use those either.” You already know Michael’s referring to contraceptives. “’Cause if I have you, I want all of you.” You hook your fingers into the strap of Michael’s top, insistingly pulling.

“You’re going to have to give me a straight answer as to what you want, Victoria. I can’t read your mind.” Michael’s hand squeezes over your ass.

“Michael,” you whine, pressing your breasts up against Michael’s chest. “You had me strip down and get all hot and bothered for you so quickly—how long are you gonna tease me? Mm? Want me to beg for you to fuck me?”

“Don’t give me any ideas, sweetheart. We can always resort to that depending on my mood.” In an instant, Michael overpowers you by pinning you up against the bedroom wall—his hands tightly laced with yours and pressed up to the wall.

“Against the wall?” You breathe out, more than eager for Michael to take you right here, right now—anywhere, it doesn’t matter.

“You once told me—” Michael squeezes your face, wrapping your thighs around his waist. “Anywhere, anytime. Isn’t that right, baby?”

“Yes, please.” You groan as Michael lets his erect cock spring free from his briefs. “Please.”

“One year after James—you want to go again?” Michael taps his cock over your throbbing clit.

“S-so what?” You moan. “Fuck me and I’ll think of baby names while you make me cum.” “There’s other ways you can ask for me to knock you up again, darling.” Michael breathes hotly over your lips, beginning to rub his forefingers over your clit in a lazy motion. “Isn’t that right?”

Screaming out, “yes, Michael, yes!” thereafter isn’t the only time you’ll be doing so tonight.

Ten minutes into the heated fuck session against the bedroom wall, you can neither keep your moans quiet nor do you even try to as Michael pounds into your pussy—insistent on hitting your G-Spot.

“Fuck, yes!” Your voice shakes as you keep your thighs wrapped around Michael’s waist obediently.

Barely holding onto Michael’s shoulders for balance, you whimper and whine about watching his cock thrust in and out of your soaked pussy.

Both of you groan against each others lips, ensnared in a deep, hot kiss only eager to keep fucking in one spot with no intention to move over to the bed.

“Michael!” You squeal, digging your nails into his back—feeling your legs shake against him like jelly from the way Michael demands an orgasm out of you.

“Oh, baby,” Michael pants, watching as droplets of water drip off the tips of your hair and down to your breasts jiggling from Michael’s rough, rapid thrusting.

Michael and you both said your fifth child—a son whom you named after your father, Giuseppe—was not a surprise but a planned new addition to the family, citing that night to yourselves of course.

The only thing that you and Michael can say is a surprise alongside your family is how only eight months after your pregnancy with Giuseppe you somehow managed to conceive again as if you were trying to do so as soon as possible.

“Harder! More, please!” You let out a half whine, half moan being fucked roughly mid air.

In truth, you’d almost been certain it wasn’t an unsafe day for you, but it’d also be a lie if you said you cared anymore.

When was there ever a time you and Michael could get your hands off of each other, satiable with all that sexual desire?

Resting his chin over your shoulder and locking your body in a position so Michael has your legs raised up as far as they can go to your head midair, you helplessly watch his thick cock spreading your pussy with each thrust.

Your clit still drips with cum and spit from your last orgasm up to the point it begins to drip down on the bedroom carpet; still being bounced up and down on Michael’s cock as fast as he can possibly fuck you.

“What did I say, baby?” Michael grunts in your ear—his tousled hair beginning to stick to his forehead from sweating. “I’d make it up to you, didn’t I?”

“Y-yessssss!” You whimper, almost beginning to think to yourself you should keep an attitude more often to be fucked like this.

To you there isn’t a single sight that can match how sexy it is to see yourself giving into a sense of euphoria while being fucked in front of your bedroom mirror.

Michael’s hair hangs over his forehead—his eyes dark like onyx and fixated on keeping you in his grasp tightly while relentless ramming into your tight pussy.

“More!” Desperate for more and more, you even try to push and roll your hips back onto his—every thrust of his cock like water to an endless thirst inside of you.

“You fuck so good, baby,” Michael roughly tugs on your hair to get you to face him before he kisses you over your mouth, quick to replace his parting lips with his fingers still dewy with your cum.

“No wonder Verona keeps wondering when she’s going to have a baby sister.” Connie laughed as she sat next to you the day you returned from the hospital after yet again, giving birth to your sixth child—another son whom you and Michael named Xavier. “She knows neither of you are going to stop either, huh?”

“Oh, please.” You flush red out of embarrassment, gently holding your sleeping newborn son in your arms. “He was a complete surprise to us. An adorable, tiny little surprise—” you beam down at your son, giggling, “but a surprise nonetheless.”

“Victoria, honey.” Connie crosses his arms her arms, staring at you in disbelief. “Come on. How many more times are you going to say that? A surprise? Well, if you’re taking my brother to bed—”

“Connie!” You whine.

“—then how is this a surprise?!” She bursts out laughing. “I’m pretty sure you know what you’re doing just as you know what to expect from it.”

But perhaps the biggest surprise came to you and Michael in late 1960 when the jokes of “when is Victoria going to get pregnant again?” finally came to an end that you conceived with your second set of twins.

“Oh my Goddddd!” A filthy loud moan escaped your lips as your body twitched from your fourth orgasm washing over you.

“Fuck.” Michael hisses, pulling his cock out of you with one swift movement in the midst of his own orgasm.

You gasp out in surprise, flinching as the last two, thick spurts of Michael’s cum land over your face and neck with the rest practically gushing out of your pussy.

“M-Michael,” you whine, grabbing onto his arm weakly as you plop back down on the bed.

“This is a good look for you, baby.” Michael breathes heavily, spreading open your pussy to see a pool of cum oozing out slowly. “Covered and filled with my fucking cum.”

And to think you were just a little embarrassed seeing Doctor Katherine after a morning of nausea and vomiting only to realize a few months in that your baby bump had doubled in size, just like during your first pregnancy with the twins.

Not only were you and Michael escastic but so were your family, friends, and especially Niccolo and Verona who’d begun to bet how many siblings they’d have by now and if it would be more baby brothers.

A surprise until the very end, you gave birth to twins again in 1961 whom in the midst of crying happy tears holding your little crying babies in your arms—estatic to give Michael the news.

Perhaps out of everyone including you and Michael combined, Verona was the most overwhelmed with joy and excitement to welcome a one baby sister to the family named Valentia, and her twin brother Leoluca.

Having two more children than your own mother did with you and your brothers, the Corleone family if anything was bustling with you and Michael’s children and the two of you wouldn’t want it any other way.

Being able to see Vito beaming happily as he hugs onto eight of his grandchildren for a family photo was enough to make your heart swell with joy to begin with, but of course you and Michael have come to a unsaid decision that eight little Corleones running around in the compound is just enough!

#godfather au #Michael corleone #Michael corleone fanfic #moth to flame fic #michael corleone x reader #godfather x reader #godfather fanfic #michael corleone x reader smut #smut prompts

[asnarkyandironicusername]

Day 11 of @remadoramicrofics - That's Disgusting

Remus watched lovingly as Tonks prompted Teddy through the platform. He smiled as Teddy braced himself and set off for the wall before disappearing. Remus glanced around one last time before slipping through after them. As soon as he passed through, he was assaulted by a barrage of noise. Parents stood with their children – some fighting to get away and some clinging to their legs.

Teddy turned to him. “Do you take the train, Da?”

“No, I have to be there early – someone has to welcome you!” When Teddy had turned six, Minerva had arrived at the Lupins’ doorstep with a job offer, noting that Remus would no longer need to be a stay-at-home father.

Remus had politely refused, hoping to spare her the criticism Dumbledore had received following his hire. Minerva was insistent, though, and had roped Dora in on it. Eventually, he had agreed to return to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts on the condition that he could commute from Hogsmeade.

Teddy looked at his mother with wide eyes. “Do you think if I change my hair, the hat will let me pick my house?”

“Which house do you want?”

Teddy froze and Remus watched his hair dull from a vibrant teal to an icy blue. “I don’t know, which one do you think I should pick?”

“It doesn’t matter what house you’re in, Teddy,” Remus assured him with a hand on his shoulder. 

“You and Harry were in Gryffindor,” he pointed out.

Remus shrugged. “Yes, but your mother was a Hufflepuff and your Nan a Slytherin. Luna and Penelope were both Ravenclaws.”

“There’s no bad house,” Dora stressed.

Teddy nodded resolutely. “Alright.”

Tonks grinned. “Want us to walk you on the train?”

“No,” he said quickly and set off a few paces ahead of them, muttering, “how embarrassing.”

“Can you believe that our baby’s all grown up? I suppose that makes you a bit of an old man,” Dora teased.

Remus rolled his eyes. “He’s hardly all grown up.” He smiled at her. “Thinking of trading me in for a younger model?”

“Oh, you know I would never,” she smacked him playfully as they followed Teddy. It was getting a bit harder to keep up with him; he had pulled a hat over his head. As of late, his hair had been cycling through house colors while his eyes remained a steely gray. Dora had told Remus that the same happened to her the night before she left – she had been so overwhelmed she could control her morphs.

“Harry!” Remus said as he embraced his son’s Godfather. “Glad you could make it.”

“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss seeing my Godson off to Hogwarts.” Harry looked Teddy over. “A bit nervous, are we?”

Teddy shrugged. “Maybe.”

“He’s worried about the sorting,” Dora whispered.

“Oh, nothing to worry about there,” Harry said, “It doesn’t hurt a bit.”

Remus found himself chuckling at the joke. Harry had always looked like James, but lately Remus noticed he had begun to act a bit more like him, too. Sometimes, it was painfully hard to watch – especially the older Harry got, knowing his father had never reached that milestone.

He had felt that way the night he had come home from the battle – he was married, with a son he would raise, but he had spent the whole night wondering if he had deserved it. James and Sirius had never had such opportunities and they were far more deserving, could have been far better at it. When he had confessed these feelings to Nymphadora on a particularly sleepless night, he thought, for just a moment, that she was going to literally knock some sense into him.

She had simply pulled him close and insisted that everyone deserved to be happy and loved – it wasn’t something he had to earn – and that, really, his friends would only want the best for him. More surprisingly, though, she told him that she understood. That the ministry used to harp about survivor’s guilt after missions but that she had never really felt it until that night.

Remus was brought back to the conversation by Dora’s gentle hand on his arm. Teddy was rolling his eyes at something Harry had said and Harry was grinning at them. Remus, despite his usual hesitance at public displays of affection, pulled Dora into a quick kiss. “I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you more,” she said as she pulled him into another.

They broke apart at Teddy’s indignant protests. “Mum, Da, stop! That’s disgusting!”

Remus chuckled and ducked his head to hide his blush but Dora just laughed. “Oh, just you wait, your Nan used to give me a big kiss on the cheek right before she’d put me on the train.” 

She lunged for him, but Harry grabbed her. “Run, Teddy, I’ll hold her off!”

Teddy looked like he was considering it, but Remus caught a hold of his arm, “There will be no more embarrassing Teddy,” he declared, calling a truce between the three of them. “But you are required to give your mother and I a hug before you board.”

“A side hug,” he bartered.

“A real hug,” he insisted, “or I’ll let her kiss both your cheeks and sneak her into the sorting.”

“You wouldn’t,” Harry cried as Dora pulled out of his grip.

“Don’t test me,” he warned playfully.

“Fine,” Teddy reluctantly agreed, though he hugged his father tight.

“We’re so proud of you,” Remus whispered as he squeezed his son back, “And we always will be.”

Dora sniffled as she held him tight. “You better write to me or I’ll send a howler of me singing,” she threatened.

“I promise,” Teddy said.

“Want help with your things?” Harry asked.

“Sure,” Teddy said as he bounded for the train.

Dora turned to him, slack-jawed. “Can you believe him?”

Remus grinned at her. “Can you blame him; we’re old and embarrassing.”

“Speak for yourself,” she said as she pulled him into another kiss.

#remadora microfics #remadora fluff #Teddy goes to Hogwarts #supportive godfather Harry #First day jitters #remus lupin #nymphadora tonks #nymphadora lupin #teddy lupin #harry potter #Godfather Harry Potter #remus lupin fanfiction #nymphadora tonks fanfic #remus x nymphadora #remus x tonks #Parents are embarrassing even when they're a metmorhpagi and a werewolf and warheroes

[lostloveletters]

One of Those Nights (Sonny Corleone x Reader)

Summary: You’re Sonny and Sandra’s go-to babysitter, and when Sandra’s out of town for the weekend, Sonny needs all the help he can get.

Note: College-aged female reader, but no other descriptors are used. I listened to Donna Summer while writing this lol. Anyway, my first Godfather reader-insert fic! Do not interact if you're under 18, a terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 1.8k

Warnings: Implied age gap, power imbalance, cheating. Sexually explicit content involving unprotected sex and Sonny's canonically huge cock. A little bit of praise kink. Do not interact if you're under 18.

Your eyes fluttered open from your half-asleep stupor at the sound of the front door’s locks clicking. Sitting up on the couch, you quickly smoothed out your blouse and skirt. You just barely made it into the kitchen when Sonny got in.

“Sorry I’m back so late. I wanted to be home to put the kids to bed—“

You shook your head, smiling. “It’s fine, Mr. Corleone. Frank and the twins are already asleep. There’s some sausage with peppers and onions in the icebox if you haven’t eaten. I can heat it up quick on the stove for you.”

“Jesus, you’re already doin’ us a favor staying the weekend while Sandra’s outta town,” he said, shedding his tie and undoing the first few buttons of his shirt. “And how many times do I gotta tell you, you can call me Sonny.” He playfully pinched your cheek. “I’m not that old yet, am I?”

“No,” you giggled. “Sorry, Sonny.”

The kitchen's layout was almost second-nature to you at that point, having done plenty of cooking for Sonny and Sandra's sweet kids when you babysat them. You grabbed a frying pan, setting it on the stovetop and pouring in a few drops of olive oil before turning on the flame. By the time you got the plate you saved for Sonny out of the refrigerator, the oil was sizzling, and the scent of sweet peppers and onions filled the kitchen again when you’d scraped the contents of the plate into the pan. 

Sonny was quiet behind you, save for him tapping his freshly lit cigarette against the porcelain ashtray on the kitchen table. You knew the sound well. His gaze burned through your back to your rapidly beating heart as you became increasingly aware that you were alone with him, the man who you lusted after in quiet guilt, because he was married and you were his children’s babysitter, for Christsake. 

After a few minutes, the sausage with peppers and onions appeared thoroughly reheated, and you transferred the meal back onto the plate. You grabbed a nearby loaf of crusty bread, cutting a piece for him and placing it with the rest of the food.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Sonny said, grabbing the plate from the counter.

“Anytime.”

You returned to the living room, tuning the radio to the station that was broadcasting Lights Out, a late night horror show that always sucked you in no matter how hard you tried to remind yourself it was only a radio story. At least it’d get your mind off of Sonny, out of the gutter–or into a different one at least. You sat on the couch, fidgeting with your hands as you let yourself get lost in the host’s voice as he told the latest tale of terror.

You nearly screamed when Sonny appeared in the living room with his plate of food and asked, “You listen to this garbage?”

“It usually scares me into staying awake.”

He snickered to himself, taking the spot on the couch next to you. “For what?”

“My roommates and I play it in the dorm during finals to keep us up when coffee doesn’t cut it.”

“How’s college goin’ anyway? Straight As, right?”

“I made the dean’s list last semester.”

He shook his head. “Smart and beautiful, whatever lucky guy ends up with you is gonna have his hands full.” He glanced at your chest, his eyes lingering on your breasts for a moment before going back to his food. “Your cooking might be a little better than San’s. Don’t tell her I said that.”

You smiled, keening at his compliment. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“You didn’t have to stay up for me, you know.”

“I know, but I wanted to.”

“Why’s that?”

You faltered. “I just wanted to see you.”

He smiled, amused by your answer. “You’re sweet. Gonna give me a toothache if you keep that up.”

“Is that so bad?”

Sonny shook his head as he set his plate down on the coffee table. “‘Course not.” He got up to turn the radio off, the sound of his voice engulfing you in a warm haze, “Don’t get a chance to be alone with you enough.” He placed his hand on your knee when he sat back down, rubbing his thumb against your stocking-clad leg, the feeling frustratingly electric as the thin fabric was all that lay between the skin-on-skin contact you craved from him.

Your lips parted, trying to conjure up a response, but only managing a shaky breath and a weak nod of agreement. 

“We don’t gotta do anything you don’t wanna do, doll,” he whispered, his voice low.

“I want you, Sonny,” you assured him. 

He kissed you with a passion you swore only existed in movies, not the hesitant or sloppy handling you’d experienced from past boyfriends, but the certainty of a man who knew exactly what he wanted. Heat rushed over your skin at the confirmation that he wanted you, his hands on your body, sliding up your skirt as he grabbed your ass, pulling you closer to him so that you were practically straddling his lap. You steadied yourself on his biceps, giving them a squeeze, letting yourself feel him, acknowledge your desire for him that had been latent until then.

You moaned into his mouth, his tongue capturing the sound, claiming your expression of desire as his. And who else would it be for? You’d always found him handsome and charismatic, always were a bit too curious about what was behind each vaguely flirtatious comment or sly wink he’d send your way when no one else was looking. 

“Sonny, where–where should we–”

“We can do it out here, but you gotta be quiet. You can do that for me, right?”

You nodded eagerly.

Hunger glistened in his dark eyes as he smiled wolfishly. “Attagirl.”

A whimper escaped your lips at his praise, the way he made you feel naked with just his gaze. You unbuttoned your blouse, letting it slip from your arms and tossing it aside onto the floor. Sonny pulled you onto his lap, burying his face in the crook of your neck while he kneaded your breasts through your bra. Soon, that wasn’t enough, and he pulled them from the cups, his hands on your soft skin as he squeezed. His thumbs brushed over your nipples. You gasped. You wanted his hands on you like that all the time, had imagined–secretly hoped, even–that he’d do it one day while you were in the kitchen or in the narrow hallway to the bedrooms, that he’d grope you, kiss you, do something to make you stop feeling so crazy about him. In that moment you realized getting what you wished for only made you want him more.

His lips burned deliciously against your skin, and you groaned at the gentle bites he left on your neck and shoulders. You rocked your hips against his, feeling his hard cock straining through his pants, desperate for more friction against your pussy. 

“You feel that? You feel what you do to me?” he murmured against your tender skin.

“I need you,” you whined. “Please, Sonny.”

“Alright, doll. Lay back for me, alright?”

You did as he asked, shifting off of his lap to lie back on the couch. You watched intently, hungrily, as he unbuckled his belt, pulling his cock free from his pants, slowly pumping his length in his hand. You nearly choked. Sandra had made jokes about Sonny’s size before, ones that made your face heat up in embarrassment at her talking so crudely about him, but you’d always thought she was exaggerating. 

“Oh my god,” you breathed, silently wondering if he could even fit inside you, an almost morbid curiosity only further fueling your desire.

A tender concern spread across his face as he searched yours for any sign of hesitation. “You sure you’re alright with this?”

You nodded. “I’ve wanted you in a bad way for so long.”

“How bad?” he asked, his voice husky and low.

Your lips nearly touched his as you whispered your answer. “Shameful.”

He kissed you again, this time with an intensity that nearly knocked the wind out of you. His fingers dug into the waistband of your panties and stockings, pulling them down so you could kick them off, ending up with one leg hanging off of the couch, exposing your wet pussy for him. You buried your fingers into his hair, the kiss desperate and wanton, your mouth open for him in a soft gasp as his pushed his tip inside you. 

It wasn’t enough, the primal part of your brain screamed. You needed more. Digging your nails into his scalp, you lifted your hips, taking more of him in you.

“Don’t hold back, Sonny. I can take it,” you said.

He licked his lips, staring at you for a split second before determining you meant what you said. He filled you, your pussy clenching around his cock as he thrust into you, finding a rhythm that would’ve been painful if you weren’t already wet for him. 

“Y’know, I used to get off thinkin’ about this,” he grunted, “bending you over the kitchen counter or up against the bathroom door.”

“Sonny–I–”

“You know how long I’ve wanted you? Now I’ve got my pretty college girl coming apart for me.”

“Oh my god–fuck–Sonny–” Your heart was pounding in your ears, eyes struggling to stay open as his thrusts became deeper, more erratic. He was close, his cock twitching inside you, hitting that spot you’d only ever reached with your fingers before. No faking it, no having to do the heavy lifting yourself. 

He had to put his hand over your mouth when it hit you, white hot pleasure bursting in your brain, pulsing through your pussy as you grabbed at him, digging your fingers into his arms to ground yourself, feeling as though you’d lose control of your body otherwise. Your moans were muffled, incoherent nonsense as he fucked you through your climax to reach his. With another hard thrust, he came inside you. Overwhelmed by the sensation, your hips bucked and your pussy clenched hard around him, milking his cock as he came.

“Look at you, takin’ it all–fuck–” Sonny hissed out through gritted teeth, trying to maintain what little self-control he had as to not make too much noise. “So fuckin’ good for me–”

You whined at that, your overstimulated, fucked-out brain going into overdrive. You wanted to be good for him. You were good for him. 

You weren’t sure when it got so still, so quiet, but the only sound in the room was your and Sonny’s heavy breathing. He pulled out of you, your pussy feeling achingly empty. You looked at the ceiling, mildly aware of Sonny staring at you.

“How're you feeling? I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asked.

“I’ll be lucky if I can walk tomorrow,” you said breathlessly. “But that was great. Really I–I don’t know what else to say.”

He caressed your cheek, bringing your attention back to him. “I’m gonna get you a towel, alright, sweetheart?”

You nodded, smiling a bit when he kissed your forehead before disappearing down the hall to the bathroom. And there were still two whole days left before Sandra got back. You smiled wider.

#sonny corleone x reader #sonny corleone #the godfather #the godfather x reader #the godfather imagine #the godfather fanfic #sonny corleone imagine #sonny corleone fanfic

[my-castles-crumbling]

New people, spotting my 'Mischief Managed' tattoo: Oh, you like Harry Potter? Who's your favorite character? I definitely like Harry best.

Me: Oh, this is about to get so awkward....

#marauders #marauders era #harry potter #fanfic #sirius black kinnie #wolfstar #regulus black kinnie #jegulus #regulus black #harry potter marauders #have you ever heard of harry potter's dead gay dad's boyfriend #harry potter's dead gay godfather's brother

[mo0nchi-ld]

La Donna - Michael Corleone x Reader

Summary: Michael Corleone, was a man not to be forgotten. It's true he was the most feared, most notorious, and the most unsettling man to be around with. To Michael it was all business. Yet a certain woman would remind him of what's best for his family. A woman who would knock down the stone cold facade to bring back his humanity. Known as La Donna.

Chapter 1

The Corleone Family and the others received an invitation to Miss Constanzia Corleone's wedding on Saturday, August 1945. Her Father Don Vito Corleone, has not forgot his old friends. Even though he lives in a huge house on Long Island, he still hasn't forgot about them. The wedding took place in that house. The Japanese war has ended; there's no doubt one soldier will make it to the grand party.

On that day, Vito's friends went to him for favors. Each of them respecting The Godfather. Don Vito Corleone would do anything to help his friends; he would never let his promises be broken. There's only one way you can repay him, and that's his friendship and good manners.

Vito Corleone greeted all of his guests that he trusted. Anything that was cooked or bartended by those people were his friends. Heck, even the band that was playing were his good friends. No matter if you're rich or poor, he always showed equal love with all of his friends.

His Eldest son, Sonny Corleone, was a tall Italian with brown curly hair. His muscular features made him look handsome. He was a lady's man of course. Some of the bridesmaids couldn't keep their eyes off him. He was married man with three children but that didn't stop him from fooling around with the maid of honor, Lucy Mancini. The young girl was stalking him like an animal would for his prey. Sonny noticed and did nothing to stop it.

Don's second oldest son was Fredo. He was a loyal kind-hearted man. Sweet and gentle. He was always there for his father when it came to tuff business. He wasn't the handsome one out of the bunch but he charmed his way with women through his good manners. He didn't have the strength or persona for a leader of men, He didn't seem like the type of man to run the family business.

The third and youngest son was Michael. Unlike his brothers, Michael Corleone did not want to get involve with his fathers business. He sat at a table in a secluded corner of the garden. Michael was different from his brothers, He wasn't as tough looking, like his brother Sonny. No, instead he had straight, jet black hair with olive brown skin and eyes that would bore into your soul making you feel like you've known him for a long time. When World War Two broke he volunteered for the marine corps. His father wasn't exactly thrilled with idea of his son fighting for the nations 'freedom' or simple lack of take over. After the war he went to College. For the wedding, he wore his military suit. Next to him was the American Girl everyone had heard but not seen until that day. Kay Adams.

He introduced her to everyone in the wedding. His family weren't too impressed with her. She was too thin and fair. She was intelligently naive and always seemed nosy. Michael noticed but pretend to not care by amusing Kay with his Family stories. Michael also noticed how Kay was curiously looking at a group of men huddled together. To fill her curiosity he replied, "They're waiting to see my father in private. They have favors to ask."

By now the wedding was packed indicating that most of the guests had arrived except one hasn't fully arrived yet. Don noticed but hasn't said anything about it yet.

Elena watched the scene before her from the corner of the garden. Sitting next to her is her young cousin Alejandro. She hasn't gone out to greet anybody yet. Still waiting for The Godfather She hated socializing with people. She found it amusing that all of these people were happy and joyful, and full of glee, not realizing what the other half of the family was doing behind their backs.

Elena came from an Italian and Mexican family. Her Father from Mexico and her mother from Italy. She was born in Italy but mostly raised in Mexico. She never knew what happened to her parents. But she'll never forget the day when her parents dropped her off at her aunts doorstep at midnight, hugging her mother as she sobbed on her shoulder one last time before they entered their car only to be shot and killed while driving.

That's when her Great Aunt on her moms side would step in and help raise her. Her name was Malena Torres. She was a small woman who held a lot of character and attitude within her. Malena owned a bakery in a small Town of Mexico. Etzalan. She taught her young niece how to cook and do house chores, and even learn how to speak English since her uncle was half America and half Mexican. At the age of eight Elena and her Aunts family moved to America. She said it was a start to something new for the family. She wanted her niece to have a better future than anyone as well as the family to have better job opportunities.

Then Don Corleone came. A man who knew her father very well and personal. When he heard the news that the daughter of the Costíana family was coming to America he immediately made arrangements for them to stay in New York and be a near his family. He wanted them to feel welcomed and loved, just as her father did for him.

After staying there for a couple months Elena got the chance to know more about the other three brothers, Sonny, Fredo, and Michael. Along with Tom as well. She didn't see them as much except for only family gatherings. The brothers always considered her as a sister. Teasing her and always sticking up for her when it came bullying from other people.

That's another thing Elena dealt with when she got here. The poor girl got made fun of in school for her appearance. She wasn't exactly the prettiest of girls. Often times people would point out her hairy eyebrows or the light mustache she had.

Sometimes, Sonny and Fredo would point it out, just to tease her a bit but it still hurt Elena's feelings, and though Tom was always there to stick up for her Michael on the other hand was the only brother she could properly get a long with. He was quite but pleasant to be around with. He taught her English and American food. So far she likes Hotdogs.

Then once Michael turned 18 he went off to college leaving 13 year old Elena by herself. She didn't think of Michael as brother but more as a companion she could rely on. Yes, his looks would sometimes catch her off guard but she knew he'd never look at her that way. All she knows is that she feels different when she's around Michael. A lot different than the two other brothers.

Elena watched her aunt dance with her Uncle looking happy as ever. "Mama looks happy." Alejandro said. Elena looked at him then back at her aunt.

"Yeah she does."

The wedding was packed. People were dancing on the wooden platform, and others were sitting at tables. Connie and her groom, Carlo were also sitting at the table with the maid of honor and bridesmaids.

Don's lawyer Tom Hagen, was discussing business with the Don in his office. Sonny Corleone kept whispering to the maid of honors ear. Hagen cringed at the sight. He didn't want his step brother to be in more trouble than he already was with his family. Tom picked up a piece paper with a list of people who want to see Vito. "Leave Bonasera to the end." He said to Tom. "I want to see Michael and Elena first."

Don went outside to greet all of his guests. He embraced the baker he was long time friends with. He spotted Michael sitting at a table with a lovely young lady sitting next to him. "Michael!" The old man shouted.

Michael turned around and saw his father approaching him with wide warms. Michael got up from his chair and hugged his father.

"Michael I haven't seen you in awhile. You should've stopped by and say hello." Vito held his sons face in his hands "My son," he smiled widely.

Michael smiles back "Sorry pops. I was too caught up talking to Kay. Have you met her? Kay this my father I've been talking to you about. Dad this my girlfriend, Kay."

The two shook hands while Vito was studying Kay's appearance. "How do you do." He wasn't exactly impressed with what he saw. "Michael." He turned to his son, "I see you've met everyone here but there's someone I want you to see." He guided his son to the other side of the party with Kay following behind.

"Elena!" At the sound of Vito's voice calling her name, the young brunette turned around and saw Vito walking towards her. She noticed he wasn't alone. She stood up and fixed her light pink dress at a decent height above her knees. "Elena it's so good to see you again." Vito lightly kissed both of her cheeks. Elena greets him back with a shy smile, "It's good to see you too Apa."

After hearing Elena's name being called Michael assumed he was to be greeted with a young girl he saw last time but boy was he wrong. In front of him stood a young beautiful woman. Her hair looked longer. Her curves appeared slender under her pink dress. No longer the little skinny girl he saw before he left, he was shocked to see how grown and stunning Elena looked.

After Vito was done greeting her he went to go hug her Aunt and the rest of her small family. Elena finally noticed the young man behind Vito, and like Michael, she was left speechless by the sight of him. Elena always knew he was the handsome one out of the bunch but she never expected him to be even more striking after years of not seeing him, especially the green suit he displays. Elena noticed how big his eyes were and she always adored when he looked at her. It made her feel like she was the only person he solely focused on.

Michael took two steps forward and and stuck his hand out for her to take. Elena looked down at his hand then back up at him. He wore his green marine suit making him look even more handsome. She finally took his hand, expecting it to be a normal handshake only to have her breath be taken away by the touch of his lips on her hand.

Michael being slow yet gentle, looked up at the woman in front of him. "Buenos Días, Elena." He said in a soft voice.

Elena looked back at him with wide eyes. Her heart beat so fast just hearing him use her native language almost made her weak to the knees. "Buenos Días, Michael." She smiled back.

Michael definitely noticed her change of voice. With a lower pitch, sounding more like a woman, Michael would be lying if he said he didn't like the sound of his name coming out of her mouth.

After a few minutes of gazing each other, Elena noticed a woman standing behind Michael.

Michael noticed and turned around to greet women next to him. "Elena this is Kay Adams, my girlfriend. Kay this is Elena, a family friend of ours." He said.

"Hello." Kay smiled and nodded.

After the women were done greeting each other, Elena heard her Aunts voice calling for Michael."

"Mijo!?" The older woman gasped. Michael looked back at her and his smile instantly grew upon seeing the older woman who has been more like a second mother to him.

Before he could speak the older woman engulfed him in a big hug. She pulled back and held Michael's face in both of her hands just like his father did. "Look at you! So handsome." She said with a strong accent.

Michael looked down with a shy smile then laughed proving the older woman right. "Gracías Señora Malena." He said looking back up at the woman, "It's good to see you again."

Michael looked back at Elena to see her laughing at what his father said. His smile growing at the sight.

#michael corleone #michael corleone x reader #fanfic #fanfiction #michaelcorleonexoc #michaelcorleonefanfic #doncorleone #the godfather #mafia