#The Godfather novel

[untamellama]

Just a Disclaimer: I have only seen the first 2 Godfather movies and read the book a long time ago (I don't clearly remember the details in the book). So whatever I have written is based on that.

Kay Adams aborting the baby was a brilliant creative choice. In the movie, there aren't many women who are important to the story. Even Kay is just a mafia wife for most of it. She essentially is a tool to show Michael how crazy he's gotten. How he's lived long enough to be the villain.

He does all that he does in the name of protecting his family. A family that is broken and dying - Carmela is dying, Michael intends to kill Fredo, Sonny is killed, Vito is dead, Connie lives a rather unsatisfying life (but then again idk, is moving from lover to lover satisfying or a coping mechanism) and that remained, a meaningful home for Michael was Kay and the children.

So once his family that remains (Kay and the children) is broken, all the violence he does is pointless. It's business for business' sake, a seeking out of power itself.

Michael can be made to realize this in any way - Kay can kill herself after writing a note on how meaningless all this is, Kay and the children die as collateral damage, maybe one of the children can ask some question and bam! Michael gets realization, etc etc - it could be some act of self-destruction and victimization or something very passive like the chance question.

But no, Kay does not stand by and turn a blind eye. She doesn't lie down and let shit happen to her. She says enough is enough! She plays an active role, she makes a conscious decision. She exercises her liberty in whatever way she can against The Godfather. She decides she is no longer going to be complicit in his madness and won't let another human being into this terrible fate. She'd seen the man she loved, who tried to renounce his family's *heritage* and live differently, inevitably pulled back and forced into the violence, which he finally embraced. Kay doesn't wish this upon her children or any more she could bring into earth. Sure, it's an ugly choice, but it also shows that the violence Michael takes upon himself - the silent look and scary demeanor, doesn't stay only with him. It seeps into those around him, who he so dearly loves, and causes them to carry out horrific acts of violence themselves.

It's all so beautiful (not the violence, but the underlying themes, ig).

[angevinyaoiz]

reading through the og Godfather novel and it's SO fun to do so as a Medievalhead because it's of course very modern And pulpy but also a lot of passages end up feeling to me like medieval style or mediev inspired epic poetry inspired fantasy kinda. Puzo writes about Sicilians like fantasy authors do about an Cool Fantasy Race. Also ofc like Coppola pointed out it's an archetypical "Once there was a King with Three Sons" story but amusingly medieval to me in that it has that structure, especially in ch 14 where it goes into Vito's history, of like "the great emperor conquered and subdued the neighboring dissenting clans," and then lists the different groups in detail with tangential references to their Great Deeds and notable characteristics. It even mixes a little with Real History by incorporating the Capones, tho in a derisive way. (Also amusing that it follows that kind of story structure of "our great kingdom expands and flourishes.......until the TURKS pulled some BULLSHIT" )

When Vito calls the 5 families it does more of that kind of epic poem style where it sits down and lists everyone and names everyone super specifically and their loyalties and (racial) epithets, and then after the debate he makes his Cool Poetic Speech about protecting Michael which feels like to me welling out of some ancient space. This feels like it should be in some kind of verse:

This and the way Sonny is described in the Vito chapters and leading up to his death has a very epic epithets quality to it as well like ah yes, he of the Big Penis, named for devotion, witness of the First Death, wielder of the Anglo-Saxon Gun, taker of the mantle, in cold honorable rage went forth and was slain

[randomgodfatherthoughts]

"Some mornings when he woke, the face of Don Corleone would be imprinted on his brain in that first conscious moment and he would feel safe."

Tom Hagen in The Godfather novel by Mario Puzo.

[xxrrisxx]

Behind every successful fortune, there is a crime.

Mario Puzo

[thesmokinpossum]

Also I just realized that when they're at the morgue, Tom pointedly looks at anything but Sonny's body like he cannot get himself to look at him and now I am unwell

[cto10121]

It’s the same name. Hamnet is just an alternative spelling because the Elizabethans did not have standardized spelling.

Shakespeare’s son was literally named Hamlet.

[testure-1988]

All of this recent love for Little Nemo & Winsor McCay is unreal. I’m so very happy.

[books-apples-socks]

me on my quest not to rag on francis ford coppola and get pelted in the face/put in the stocks for it part 8348329239: captain's log it's not going well

[graphicpolicy]

My Fairy Godfather is a solid read about fighting bigotry and finding family

My Fairy Godfather is a solid read about fighting bigotry and finding family #comics #comicbooks #graphicnovel

Reeling from the death of her parents in a car crash, teenage Billie travels over the rainbow and under tangled concrete overpasses, from her native Austin, Texas to the improbably named Liberal, Kansas. Her plan is to live with her godfather, Adam, “a lonely, gay, film geek stuck inside a jock’s body – a jock’s world.” His partner Steven run the Starlite, a movie theater and safe haven for their…

[emperorsfoot]

I was today years old when I realized that Jor-El is The Godfather

(both rolls are played by Marlon Brando)

[thatwritererinoriordan]

In Search of Gil Scott-Heron Hardcover – August 22, 2023

[untamellama]

Have been feeling for the godfather since morning.

[angevinyaoiz]

“Make yourself the only person in the world that he truly desires not to kill him. He has only that one fear, not of death, but that you may be the one to kill him. He is yours then”

Some first pass at a Richard/Mercadier concept….

[randomgodfatherthoughts]

The Don got up from his leather armchair. The other men rose with him and Clemenza and Tessio embraced him again. Hagen held the Door open for The Don, who paused to look at him for a moment. Then the Don put his hand on Hagen's cheek, embraced him quickly and said in Italian, "You've been a good son. You comfort me."

From The Godfather Novel by Mario Puzo

[xxrrisxx]

Revenge is a dish that tastes best when served cold.

Mario Puzo

[p0orbaby]

Forgive Me, Father, for I Have Sinned

summary: two horny idiots risking eternal damnation for a quickie

warnings: SMUT 18+, sex in a church, yup, you read that right

a/n: loosely based on this request

word count: 2.6k

-

“This is so wrong,” you breathe, the words practically dissolving into Leah’s mouth as she presses you against the back wall of the church hall. The stone feels frigid through your dress, even in the sweltering summer heat; it’s that old kind of cold that sticks around in centuries-old buildings, regardless of what’s happening outside. The whole place smells faintly of damp wood and incense, a mix of candle wax and lingering prayers that seems completely at odds with what’s going on right now.

“Yeah?” Leah murmurs, with that infuriatingly calm tone, as though you’re having a conversation about the weather instead of whatever this is. Her hands are already hiking your dress up higher, bunching the fabric around your hips, her fingers deftly working with the same quiet confidence she shows in on the pitch—calculated, precise. “Seems like you’re coping just fine”

You catch yourself almost laughing, but it comes out as a choked breath instead. Somewhere in the background, the distant murmur of the christening service continues, the priest’s voice droning on in a sort of meditative monotone that feels strangely far away. It’s all “bless this child” and “holy sacrament,” while you’re up against the cold stone, your knickers soon to be halfway down your thighs. You think about how the acoustics in churches are supposed to be excellent, but all you can hear is the maddening thud of your pulse in your ears and the occasional scrape of Leah’s teeth grazing your neck.

It occurs to you that maybe you should care more about the fact that you’re technically still within earshot of Leah’s great-uncle reading from the New Testament, or that her mum is seated just a few rows away with her eyes shut in reverent concentration, her face an expression of serene grace. Leah’s brother is the godfather, you think, or at least, you’re pretty sure that’s what she said in the car on the way here, when you were barely listening because you’d just spotted a stray thread hanging from the cuff of her shirt and were fixated on the way it danced back and forth as she gestured.

Leah’s fingers hook under your jaw, pulling you back to her with just the right amount of force—gentle, but insistent, like she’s read your mind and knows you’re distracted. “You’re thinking,” she says, her voice barely a murmur against your lips. “Stop doing that”

You glance around, a half-hearted attempt at convincing yourself that no one’s actually going to walk in, that the ancient, creaking door isn’t about to swing open and reveal this scene to some poor, unsuspecting churchgoer who’d only stepped out for a breath of fresh air. The kind of person who’d probably drop dead on the spot just from the shock, like a character in one of those Victorian novels who faints whenever someone mentions anything vaguely improper. You almost want to giggle at the thought, but Leah’s hand slips lower and that faint urge is replaced by a much more urgent kind of distraction.

“I’m serious,” you whisper, though you’re not even sure why. It’s not like Leah doesn’t know the situation is mental—she’s the one who pulled you into this alcove in the first place, after all. You’re not entirely convinced it wasn’t premeditated, either. There’s a flicker of memory—Leah’s hand on your thigh during the ceremony, her fingers tracing idle patterns just above your knee as if to say, this isn’t the place, but let’s see how far we can push it. The way she’d glanced at you, eyes gleaming with a glint of amusement that suggested she was already considering how scandalised everyone would be if you just vanished for a few minutes.

“This is your cousin’s christening,” you hiss, as if stating the obvious is going to somehow ground the situation in reality. But Leah’s lips are on yours again, and you’re suddenly very aware of the way her hand slides down your back, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your knickers in a way that makes your knees wobble.

“Distant cousin,” she corrects, voice muffled against your neck. “Barely know him”

“It’s a baby,” you shoot back, though you’re already arching into her touch, your voice catching on the last word as her fingers find their mark. “Not sure how well anyone knows him”

“Exactly,” she says, like that settles it, as if committing some vaguely sacrilegious act in the back of a church is completely justified because the baby in question probably won’t remember this day beyond the dozens of poorly framed photos on the mantelpiece twenty years from now.

Your head falls back against the stone wall with a dull thud, the kind of sound that suggests ancient masonry, the type of historical significance that’s more suited to solemn reflection than whatever obscene thoughts are currently racing through your mind. You find yourself half-listening to the priest’s voice drifting in from the main hall, the rhythmic lilt of, “We commend this child to your care,” and you think about how ironic it would be if God really was watching right now. There’s a brief flash of Catholic guilt that flares up somewhere in your chest, though you aren’t even Catholic, and it’s quickly extinguished by the scrape of Leah’s teeth against your earlobe.

“Thought you didn’t believe in all that,” she whispers, her breath warm against your ear.

“I don’t,” you manage to reply, though your voice is strangled and you’re not entirely sure if you believe yourself. “It’s just… bad form, isn’t it?”

Leah lets out a quiet, breathy laugh—so close you can feel the vibration against your skin. “Well, you’ve never been big on good form,” she says, and it’s impossible to argue because she’s right and you both know it.

She’s always known how to push your buttons, ever since the night you first met—a benefit gala, of all places. You remember standing there in some ridiculously overpriced dress, holding a glass of champagne you didn’t really want, staring at a painting you didn’t really understand while Leah’s voice, smooth and confident, drifted over your shoulder with some cutting remark about modern art. “I’m pretty sure my dead nan could’ve done better than that,” she’d said, and you’d laughed, not because it was particularly funny, but because there was something about her nonchalance, the way she didn’t even pretend to be impressed, that made you feel instantly at ease.

The ease didn’t last, of course. There was that night in Paris—somewhere between the hotel bar and the Eiffel Tower, where you’d argued over directions and ended up wandering aimlessly along the Seine, half-drunk and clutching onto each other for warmth. You’d made up in a dark alleyway, pressed against a café’s shuttered doors, and you remember thinking then, as you do now, that Leah had a knack for getting you into situations that were entirely inappropriate and yet felt ridiculously right at the time.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter under your breath now, half in frustration, half in something else entirely, your fingers curling into the fabric of Leah’s half open shirt, tugging it harder as she shifts closer.

“That’s the spirit,” she murmurs back, and there’s that smirk again, the one that makes you want to throttle her and kiss her in equal measure.

For a split second, you wonder if anyone’s noticed your absence. The baby’s mother—Leah’s aunt, or second cousin, or something equally convoluted—had been so preoccupied making sure the godparents were holding the child correctly that you doubt she even noticed the two of you slip out. The priest’s voice carries on, something about being welcomed into the flock, and you’re almost tempted to peek around the corner to see if Leah’s mum has adopted that expression she gets when she’s half-listening to anything vaguely religious—eyes closed, hands clasped together in front of her, the picture of devout piety. You’ve only ever seen her like that at weddings, christenings, and funerals, and you briefly wonder if she’s ever actually questioned any of it, or if it’s just habit by now.

“What would your mum say if she knew?” you ask, though your voice is breathless, barely more than a murmur.

“Probably something about needing to go to confession,” Leah replies, her lips brushing the shell of your ear, her fingers tightening around your thigh. “Or at least light a candle”

The laugh that escapes you is entirely involuntary, echoing faintly against the high ceiling, and you quickly slap a hand over your mouth, your eyes wide as though you’ve just been caught breaking some sacred vow. Leah’s grin widens as she leans in, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, and you feel the warmth of her breath against your skin, as though she’s branding you with it.

It’s insane, really. The whole situation is insane. There’s a plaque on the wall above you, some inscription dedicated to a saint you’ve never heard of, and you wonder if people are meant to kneel here to pray or if this spot is usually reserved for flower arrangements during weddings. You picture the church bustling with activity—weddings, funerals, christenings—the whole spectrum of life’s milestones, and here you are, using it as a makeshift boudoir. It’s enough to make you think about eternity and sin and all the other things people pretend not to care about but secretly obsess over in the middle of the night. You imagine explaining this to someone—anyone, really—and the look on their face. “We couldn’t help ourselves,” you’d say, as though that’s a reasonable excuse for dry-humping your girlfriend in the shadow of a marble saint.

Leah’s hand slips under the hem of your skirt, her touch gentle and yet completely assured, fingers tracing the line of your thigh with maddening deliberateness. Her fingertips are cool against your heated skin, and the contrast sends a jolt through you—a reminder that this is happening here, now, in a church where every whisper echoes like a confession. Her fingers slide higher, brushing against the damp lace of your knickers, and the way she smirks as she feels how wet you are only makes the whole thing more obscene.

The distant hum of the priest’s voice is a low murmur, as if he’s conducting a prayer in the background of your own private, silent worship. Leah’s touch is reverent in a different way—her fingers slipping beneath the fabric, tracing slow, teasing circles that make your hips twitch involuntarily. It’s a game she plays sometimes, just to see how far she can push you before you break; her thumb grazing over your clit with just enough pressure to make you gasp, but not nearly enough to satisfy.

You bite down on your lip, trying to stifle the soft whimper that escapes you as her fingers dip lower, stroking along your slick folds with an infuriating patience. She leans in closer, her breath hot against your neck as she whispers, “We could get caught, you know.” There’s a wicked glint in her eye, like she’s daring you to care, like she wants you to make her stop just so she can ignore you and do it anyway.

The idea of someone stumbling across you both in this state—your skirt hiked up, knickers pulled aside, Leah’s fingers deep inside you—is scandalous in a way that only makes you wetter. You can’t help but glance towards the arched door, half-expecting to hear it creak open at any moment. But no one’s there, just the faint rustle of hymn books and the distant shuffle of feet, the sound of polite society carrying on obliviously while you’re being shamelessly fingered behind an ancient stone pillar.

Leah’s free hand grips your waist, pulling your hips towards her with a firmness that makes your breath hitch, as if she’s grounding you in this very moment—her fingers curling inside you, her thumb finally pressing against your clit in a rhythm that’s far too sinful for this setting. “Look at you,” she breathes, her voice a soft tease, as though she’s amused by just how quickly you’ve unravelled. “Anyone would think you’ve got no self-control”

You would glare at her if you weren’t already clutching her shoulders to steady yourself, your head tilting back against the wall as a quiet moan escapes you. The pressure builds with each deliberate thrust of her fingers, the slick heat pooling between your thighs making it impossible to think about anything but the lewd wet sounds of her hand working you over. There’s a heat spreading through your chest, a kind of wild desperation that feels almost holy in its intensity. It’s like being on the edge of a fever dream, where nothing exists but the maddening insistence of her touch and the electric pull of release just out of reach.

“Shh,” Leah whispers, though her voice is laced with a kind of arrogant amusement, as if she knows full well you’re not capable of being quiet right now. “You’re going to give us away”

Your nails dig into the fabric of her dress as her thumb keeps circling your clit with a precise, unyielding pressure, and you swear you hear the creak of a pew somewhere in the background, the faint shift of footsteps as someone else moves within the church. The thought that anyone could be wandering towards the back at this very moment only makes your pulse quicken, your body tightening around Leah’s fingers as she pushes deeper, curling them in a way that makes your whole world collapse inward.

“Fuck—” The word slips out before you can stop it, and you’re not sure if it’s a prayer or a curse. Probably both. Your hips grind against her hand, chasing the friction, desperate to come undone in a way that feels almost defiant in this sacred space. Leah’s lips curve into a slow, smug grin against your skin, her breath hot and ragged as she watches you unravel beneath her touch.

“You’re close,” she murmurs, her voice low and throaty. “Aren’t you?”

You nod—there’s no point in pretending otherwise—your hands sliding up to bury themselves in her hair, tugging her closer until her lips are a breath away from yours. You kiss her then, hard and hungry, swallowing the sounds you can’t keep contained, your thighs trembling as she drives you closer to the edge. The faint taste of her lip balm lingers on your tongue, that familiar cherry sweetness that always reminds you of her bedroom, and the first time you kissed her, with one hand in her hair and the other fumbling with the hem of her shirt.

The climax hits you suddenly, like the shuddering crash of a hymn’s last note echoing through the church. Your whole body goes taut, your breath catching in your throat as Leah’s fingers work you through the wave of pleasure, coaxing out every last tremor as you gasp into her mouth. For a second, the world is nothing but a blur of sensation—hot and electric and thoroughly blasphemous.

Leah’s hand slows, her fingers slipping out of you with a final, lingering caress that feels like both an ending and a promise. You’re still catching your breath when she leans in close again, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, her lips curved in that maddeningly smug way.

“Still think this is wrong?” she asks, and there’s a softness in her eyes, an intimacy that lingers despite the scandal of it all.

You let out a shaky laugh, your hands still tangled in her hair as you look up at her. “Completely,” you murmur, your voice breathless but certain, and you know she’s right when she smiles at you like that, because this might be wrong, but it’s the kind of wrong that feels so damn right.