#michael corleone x reader

[idle-teen28]

Loving a fictional character is like marriage

You fall for the character, become obsessed with them to the point where you think that they're the only fictional character you've ever loved, like if they were real, you'd marry them in a heart beat

Then you fall for a new fictional character while still being obsessed with the current one, it feels like an affair, but you accidentally became too obsessed with the new one, so you start to ignore the current one slowly, until you completely ignore them, and start to focus on the new one, falling for them now, it's like divorce and remarriage

The cycle continues until you have at least 10 fictional characters

Then you remember your previous fictional crush that you were obsessed with 2 years ago, and then you fall for them again, and become obsessed with them like you used to, it's like falling in love and marrying your ex-spouse again

And then you break-up

And the cycle continues like this, FOREVER

[nemesis-writer]

POV- Writing for ____x reader fic

[baruque-ya]

Break-Up

Based on this prompt.

CW: Dramatic Break-Up, Michael with a slight pig spirit lol (he just doesn't cry and he has that stupid face he always has) love you al pacino, Angst, Word "you" used a lot, I have a love-hate relationship with the "y/n" thing, But I won't use it in this one, like in my last COD post.

Character: Michael Corleone from The Godfather I and II.

Fem!Reader.

A/N: (I hope you like it, remembering that English is not my first language, I'm Brazilian, so if it's too formal or some words don't make sense, I apologize. I always use The English that i learned and also the translator to see if there is something wrong or not, but the translator always translates into formal English, And does not always translate correctly and I also know a few slang words in English, Like, the other day I discovered that cherry pie in fanfics doesn't mean cherry pie 😟, I'm learning, one day I'll get there. But I hope you enjoy!)

“Do not touch me!”

The words shot through the quiet like glass shattering on marble. Your voice—cold, trembling, full of something jagged—rang louder than the slam of the door you’d just flung open.

Michael froze. His hand hovered midair, inches from your shoulder.

Everything in the room was still. Time slowed, as if even the air was afraid to breathe.

You stood by the window, backlit by the stormy sky outside, shoulders squared but fragile, like glass trying to be steel. Your dress fluttered with your shallow breaths. You looked like you were ready to run, but there was nowhere to go. Not really.

Michael let his hand fall. His mouth opened, then closed. Silence. He had nothing. Or maybe too much. The words choked each other on the way out.

You turned. Slowly. Like you didn’t want to see him—but had to. Your eyes, those eyes he used to know, were different now. Not colder. Just...further.

“I told myself I wouldn’t do this again,” you said, her voice thin but sharp. “I told myself last time was the last time.”

He blinked. “Mia bella—”

“No!” you snapped. Your hand lifted, a single command. Not now. Not yet.

Michael obeyed. He stood there, rigid and statue-still, the way he’d stood in front of senators and murderers, but this was different. This was worse. This was you.

You looked at him, and something inside you cracked.

“You don’t even see me anymore, do you? I’m just…background. Furniture. The mother of your children.” your lips trembled, but you bit it. “You don’t look at me unless you want something.”

“That’s not true.”

“Don’t lie to me!” Your voice climbed suddenly, wild and cutting. “I lived in your lies. I breathed them in every day until I didn’t know what was real anymore.”

Michael flinched. Not visibly. Just inside. Deep, in the places he didn’t let people touch.

“I tried,” he said, finally. “I gave you everything—”

“You gave me a prison.”

Those words landed like a punch.

You stepped closer, fury like firelight on Your skin.

“I married a man. A human man. Not…whatever this has become. You’re not Michael anymore. You're a shadow. You're a—I don't even know what you are anymore.” You laughed, bitter. “You think I don't notice when someone disappears? When your business calls at three in the morning? You think I don’t see the blood, even when you wash it off?”

Michael’s jaw clenched. He looked down. “You don’t understand.”

“I understand more than you think,” You whispered. “I stayed for the children. I stayed because I thought I could wait it out. That you’d come back to me. But you’re too far gone, Michael.”

He took a slow breath. The kind you take before jumping off something high. “You’re being dramatic.”

“No” you said. “I’m being honest.”

Another silence.

The rain started tapping at the windows, like a gentle audience to the explosion still echoing in the room.

Michael looked at you, really looked. And for a second—just a second—he saw the woman he married. The one who used to run barefoot through grass, Your laugh like wind chimes. The one who’d sit with him under trees, talking about nothing and everything, their hands tangled like roots.

And he’d done this. He’d broken that girl. He hadn’t even noticed when the light left your eyes.

You shook your head, as if you could hear his thoughts.

“You keep saying it’s all for the family. But you don’t see what you’ve done to it.”

“I protect this family.”

“No. You control it. That’s not the same.”

Michael’s fists curled. He hated this. He hated being seen so clearly. Hated that you could still make his chest feel tight and hollow at the same time.

“I loved you,” you said, softly now. “So much I forgot how to love myself.”

He swallowed, throat like sandpaper. “I never asked you to forget.”

“But you expected it.” You looked at him like he was a puzzle you’d finally finished—and didn’t like what you saw. “You don’t know how to love someone without owning them.”

That wasn’t true. Was it?

He stepped forward, just a little. “Bambi. Don’t leave.”

You gave a sad, crooked smile. “Don't call me that, and I already did. A long time ago. I’m just…saying it out loud now.”

And that broke him more than yelling ever could.

Michael had always been composed. Always calculated. But at this moment, his edges frayed.

He reached for you again—one last time. Just to touch. Just to feel something warm and real and yours.

That’s when you said it.

“Do not touch me!”

The second time. Even sharper than the first.

He stopped. His arm dropped like a weight.

“I don’t belong to you” you said. “Not anymore.”

He stared at you, breath shallow. “What about the children?”

“They’ll always be yours. But I won’t lie to them. I won’t teach them that love looks like fear.”

That hurt. But he couldn’t argue. Not honestly.

“You think you’re better off without me?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded, eyes glinting. “I know I am.”

He didn’t answer. What was there to say?

You walked past him, each step its own declaration of freedom. At the door, you paused. Turned just enough to see him from the corner of your eye.

“You can keep your empire, Michael,” you said. “But you’ll die in it alone.”

Then you left.

No slamming doors this time. Just a soft click that echoed louder than any gunshot.

And he stood there. Still. Staring at the place where you’d been.

Outside, thunder growled. The rain grew louder.

Michael stayed rooted. Unmoving. The silence was thick. Alive.

The walls of the house felt tighter than usual. The air staler. The ghosts louder.

He sat down, eventually. On the edge of the bed they used to share. His hands shook, but he didn’t notice.

A thousand memories flickered in his mind—half-laughs, stolen kisses, late-night whispers, laughter with the children. And all of them felt like they belonged to someone else. A different life. A different him.

But they were his.

He’d just lost them.

He didn’t cry. He never cried. But if he could’ve, he would’ve now.

He leaned back, head against the pillow, eyes closed.

Outside, the storm raged on.

Inside, he sat alone.

And for the first time in a very long time, Michael Corleone felt empty.

And he hated that feeling.

@baruque-ya

[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.”

[teddypickerry]

since fic requests are open and you like michael corleone... what do you think are the nicknames he gives to his wife (this time the reader sorry kay I love you) because I think it would be something like angel and that thought gets me going 🤭🤭

if anyone is ever going to ask me anything, it better be this. i think it’s completely dependent on the woman he marries. as a fic indulger, i want to say it’s something sooooooo beautifully romantic. but it’s also michael “who gets awkward when his girl says i love you” corleone we’re talking about. i most commonly use “bella” in my fics (n my mind). it’s simple but beautiful, just like him. i think “sweetheart” or “dear” is probably thrown around once or twice when he’s scolding in his office with his hands on his hips. “piccolo” is another one i can perfectly imagine intimately used. because, once again, he’d rather die than experience pda.

[old-congratzams]

I *must* a Michael Corleone plot where he has breeding kink plssssssssss

𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐰. 𝐦𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: unprotected sex, breeding kink

𝐍𝐎 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐃. This work is for adults only.

Michael thought about it often. He'd imagined you bent over the table while he pounded you merciless but he also thought he should be more careful with the future mother of his kids. All of his fantasies involved non-stop sex until he got you filled with his cum and high hopes of bringing the next Corleone generation to life.

But Michael was a patient man. He would never forget the way you smiled at children in a family party, humbly flashing to the parents the expensive engagement ring he gave to you, just confirming the suspicions that you had the exact characteristics of a mother. As patient as he was, he could wait until your wedding night to show you his true colors, to get you pregnant and make you his, finally.

He couldn't help but be a bit rough with you during your honeymoon. Michael waited for that moment for months before he could finally lay his hand on you. He quickly disposed of his clothes and yours too, the rushed and hungry behavior scaring you in the process as you weren't familiar with that side of his. The way he left love bites wherever fraction of skin still unclaimed gave you the impression your husband wanted to devour you whole.

Michael took his sweet time, using his tongue and thick fingers to draw multiple orgasms out of you; he needed you prepared because once his cock was in, he wouldn't go easy and slow. After coming so many times, you've grown impatient to consummate the union, even acting out of your submissive self to complain.

"Michael, I'm already sensitive... It hurts! Please, I need you--"

His thumb caressed your lips and once he was on top of you, seeing how intoxicated you looked, he couldn't help but push his cock into you, slowly at first. Craving your nails onto his shoulders, you had your lips parted and brows furrowed as your body tried to accommodate the very welcoming intrusion. Despite the burning feeling, once Michael was buried to the limits inside your pussy, the tip brushing against the spongy patch, you let out a relieved moan. Then Michael's dark eyes stared at yours, pupils full blown exhaling obstinacy.

"I'm going to breed you, hm?" he stated, raising his eyebrows just as asking you if you were following. "I'm going to fuck you so hard and fill you with my cum," his voice was now breathy, carried with lust, "you are going to carry my children, do you understand?"

You nodded, completely aware that children were expected of a marriage; but the way Michael spoke and got feral about it sent another wave of pleasure to your intimacy. You couldn't have imagined that his usually low and husky voice could get darker and darker such as his eyes.

The first thrust stole a carnal sob from you. A long forgotten burning sensation now came to you in a distinct manner, consuming your womb with fervor, drawing out of you sinful, desperate feelings that only Michael could extinguish — or even better, escalate.

He pounded into you with sharp thrusts, care long gone as his mind focused only on the idea of breeding you. His dark eyes studied the expressions you made in response to his ruthless pace but the focus soon became unbearable as his mind chose to lose itself into the thoughts of your breasts leaking with milk and the belly growing with his kid.

Michael's hand reached out for one of your breasts, kneading it the same way he would do if you were heavy with milk and couldn't relieve yourself, only to saciate his curiosity. His mouth sucked on your hardened nipple, his tongue circling the bud as his thrusts got more erratic. Yes, you were the perfect mother for his children. He could imagine the drops of milk coming out of your nipples and dripping onto the mattress, certain that you were gonna make a mess of yourself during pregnancy.

Michael let go of your chest with a heavy sigh, leaving a trail of saliva behind, the splashing sounds of his cock being shoved into your pussy only bringing the man closer to his limits.

All of the pent-up desire was worth that moment. He pushed himself even further inside you, hips jerking during his own climax while he released his cum in long spurts. A strong grip on your waist prevented you from moving too much and letting it all go to waste. You felt the warmth of his cum inside you even though your head spun in pleasure. While you both reached down your high, Michael did not leave you for a second.

"I am not done with you yet," he stated before grabbing you by the hips with a bruising grip and starting all over again. For every thrust, more of his cum would drip from your intimacy and Michael didn't pay much attention to it as he had all night to breed you repeated times until you were sore the next morning.

[iriashouse]

marriage is scary, what if he’s not Michael Corleone in Sicily with the bruise and his black suit bringing me a gold necklace???????????

[punkpist0ls]

as a 5'8 girl i would 10/10 peg 1970s al pacino 💯💯

[elyseesarchive]

born to be the mysterious hot black haired- red nail polish daughter of a famous mafia boss in new york that gets offered to Micheal Corleone as a part of a deal with the Corleones, forced to be a girl in 2024

[melis-writes]

Imagine late night/ early morning Michael Corleone in his pajamas with his hair un-styled, loose and fluffy...

Oh you mean something like this…? 🥴🥴🥴

Snuggled up under your warm duvet and blankets, you lay on your side with your hand underneath your pillow in complete peace and relaxation.

The faint sound of crickets chirping outside can be heard from your window—half open to let in cool evening air through your chiffon curtains.

Just a few feet away from you, your eyes land on Michael who sips a tall glass of cold water, taking his medication with it before getting ready for bed with you.

Barefoot in a pair of loose black slacks hanging off his hips, your husband wears a white beater top that hugs over his shoulder muscles.

With his gold watch set aside and only a wedding ring over his finger, Michael’s hair remains tousled, messy and fluffy rather than the smooth, sleek and slicked back style you’re used to seeing throughout the day.

There’s no sense of tension or coldness over Michael; nothing that accompanies him around colleagues and business partners in his work as he spends time with you now.

Your eyes peek over to Michael admiringly as you can hardly figure out where to gaze at first—unable to get enough of him even if you tried.

Michael’s eyes meet yours as he sets his empty glass down, raking a quick hand through his hair. “Still awake, sweetheart?”

“Mm.” You nod at him, gesturing out with your hand. “Come to bed, baby.”

Michael makes his way towards his side of the bed, kneeling over the mattress before laying down next to you and wrapping his arms lovingly over your hips.

“Much better.” Blushing, you snuggle your back up to Michael and place your hands underneath his in the duvet.

“Not tired yet?” Michael nuzzles you, planting a kiss over your shoulder.

“Decided I wasn’t going to be until I had you in here with me.” You hold back a yawn, tickled by the brush of Michael’s stubble against your skin.

“Goodnight, darling.” Michael gently tilts your face to peck a soft kiss over your lips. “Get some rest. We’ll be up early in the morning.”

You smile throughout the kiss as your eyes flutter shut. “Mmm… Goodnight, baby.”

[cassie48]

Imagine…

Michael Corleone x fem reader

The godfather 1

••••

Imagine..

Meeting Michael Corleone in your hometown in Sicily, while he was hiding from the mafia. He hadn’t planned on trying to meet any women here..but when he saw you, everything changed.

You had been walking out of mass with your younger cousin, holding her smaller hand in your own, turning to take the short cut home, that’s when you saw him. And by God, had he seen you too.

His face held one of shock and admiration as he stared at you, and you stared at him. He was the most gorgeous man you had ever seen, and you were the most beautiful women he had ever laid eyes on.

When he finally convinced your father to allow him to start courting you, he’d take you on walks, both of you trying to walk as far away as your chaperones as possible.

One time you had even fallen, as you were both running away, laughing as he dragged your arm. You had cut your small hand, not that it hurt much, but you remembered Michael pressing a soft kiss to the back of it anyway.

He would brush off any questions of what he did back in New York, and when you’d ask what his job was he’d simply answer “I work for the family business”

You remember the night he proposed. It had all happened so quick, not that you were complaining. Within weeks you were engaged to him. You loved him, in ways you weren’t aware a woman loved a man until you met him.

The day of the wedding you walked into the quiet village, dancing around the sitting circle of guests. You hadn’t known how to dance, and so he tried his best to teach you, which ended up in lots of laughter and teasing.

Most importantly, you remember your wedding night. The way he touched you, made you feel, taught you things you didn’t know, but most of all, the way he looked at you.

He looked at you like nothing else in the world mattered in that moment, like you were a delicate angel, and you were all his.

You wouldn’t have it any other way, when you’d wake up with him every morning, and eat breakfast together, and he’d kiss your cheek before going to meet with Don Tommassino.

The best however was the day he told you he wasn’t going back to New York, that he was going to stay in Sicily, so you could be with your family, the two of you there, together and always.

[nemesis-writer]

Tumblr girls-

When he's a red flag but you're ass is color-blind.

[charmingsoa]

Amore Della Mia Vita

Michael Corleone x OC

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

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

Coming soon.

[lostloveletters]

Something Borrowed (Michael Corleone x Reader)

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

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

Word count: 2.8k

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

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

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

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

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

“I feel like one,” she giggled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Clubmobile, right?”

“Did Connie tell you?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’d love to,” you said.

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

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

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

You furrowed your eyebrows. “Paris?”

“You were in France, weren’t you?”

“Not Paris.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here’s to that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To your relief, he agreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t come up here to drink.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wanna put it off for a day?”

“With what money, Michael?”

“I’ll give you a line of credit.”

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

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

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

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

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

You smiled. “Me too.”

[teddypickerry]

teddypickerry. welcome to troy’s blog! 𓆩♡𓆪

ridiculously accurate taurus. vintage fanatic. western lover. my pms/asks are always open. minors DNI please thirty years and loving it.

𝐠𝐢𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐬. 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐝𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫. 𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞’𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝. 𝐠𝐮𝐧𝐬 𝐧’ 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐬. 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐜.

𝙊𝙉𝙀𝙎𝙃𝙊𝙏𝙎.

teach me tonight ( jess mariano ) bubblegum fantasy ( sonny corleone ) parallel universe ( alex turner ) a taste for violence ( jess mariano ) murder in high-heels ( nikki sixx ) pretty metallica fan ( lorelai gilmore ) can i go where you go? ( jess mariano ) motley crue hcs ( motley crue ) antique store boy ( jess mariano ) out of my system ( nikki sixx ) safe route ( jess mariano ) africa ( steve harrington ) and i love her ( jess mariano ) nikki's girl ( nikki sixx ) cuddle freak ( steven hyde ) home with you ( jess mariano ) tell me we weren't just friends ( jess mariano ) don't take my sunshine ( tommy lee ) sixx's gone soft ( nikki sixx ) hogwarts halloween ( all harry potter boys )

𝙎𝙀𝙍𝙄𝙀𝙎.

dad jess one. ( single dad jess mariano ) dad jess two. ( single dad jess mariano ) dad jess three. ( single dad jess mariano )

MOODBOARDS.

thank you for being here! requests are open for fics + moodboards!

[daenysthedreamer101]

Wine-colored days warmed by the sun Deep velvet nights when we are one.

"Speak Softly Love" by Andy Williams - Love theme from "The Godfather" (1972)

Imagine if you were the wife of Michael Corleone