lil grad student and instructor lulu meet cute?? anyone want food?
It’s packed, as is always the case on a sunny morning like this one. It only gets worse as summer term draws to a close. Every faculty member and disheveled grad student within a 10-minute radius of the cafe tucked in the shadow of the massive university library seems to be here—sleep deprived, on the verge of being late to class, and looking to you, disheveled grad student yourself, for remedy.
You’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy it. After spending the majority of your days thinking too deeply about “what causes humans to suffer” and how you specifically can aid them in suffering less, the bustle and lack of emotionality offer a reprieve. Allowing yourself to relent on any one of your duties means suddenly the line is out the door and near impossible to alleviate until 11 a.m., putting you at risk of being tardy for your own class. That feels comparatively low stakes. As the cafe hums, you slip into something like a meditative state, letting your hands take charge for a change.
You’re deep in autopilot when you spring to man the suddenly empty register. Eyes locked on the screen, you beckon for the next customer absentmindedly, only to find yourself looking up at the gorgeous adjunct from the math department you thought disappeared. Your mouth drops open. The two of you spent all fall bantering, heating, but never managed to move it outside the cafe. You’d spent all of the next semester chastising yourself for not managing to get his number.
“Hey,” he nods, light brown eyes glinting.
The grin that follows genuinely makes your heart stutter. No wonder you spent months ignoring every other prospect, even when you feared you’d never see him again.
“Oh, hey!” you reply at far too high a volume.
“—it’s been a while—“ you chime on top of one another, awkward overlap bringing both of you to a halt.
Shit. You’re rusty.
“Yeah,” he chuckles, recovering quickly. He rubs the back of his neck. “Got pulled away on a fellowship thing and couldn’t teach spring semester.”
“Which means I actually have two weeks with nothing to do,” he continues, planting his hands on the register. You’ve never had a chance to look at them this closely before. His fingers are long, nearly engulfing the phone tucked beneath them. Your skin warms.
He leans in conspiratorially, a dark green cotton tee hugging his rounded pectorals. “Guess I just missed some parts of campus too much to stay away.”
He looks you in the eye meaningfully, capturing his lower lip between his teeth and cocking his head. A dare. You forgot how fun this was.
“Hmm,” You reply, feigning contemplation as you sweep your hair off your shoulder. Thank god yesterday was blowout day. “Be a shame if you didn’t find a way to fill that time.”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” he agrees. “But I’m so spent from course planning, I could really use some help coming up with ideas.”
“Have you ordered yet?”
Someone pushes in from behind, tearing you from your revery.
“Shit. Now I’m being rude,” he grimaces.
“Medium black coffee with room, right?” You remember, grabbing a paper cup. “Let me get that going for you.”
You sneak a glance over his shoulder. The line has already doubled since he arrived.
Fuck it, you think. No fixing that now.
You steal an extra minute, grabbing a napkin and scrawling down your number, punctuated with your name. Not letting yourself miss this one again.
You set the steaming drink in front of him with one hand, holding the napkin out for him with the other.
“Guess some parts of campus missed you, too.” You flash him your flirtiest, most sincere smile before herding your coworker up to finish the transaction. For a beat, he’s frozen, staring down at the napkin clutched in his hand.
“Looking forward to fixing that soon,” he says, collecting himself, as you wave over your shoulder.
Do you have a master list for your old fics? I can’t find one but maybe that’s a skill issue on my part lol
Lav!! not a skill issue, def I’m a disorganized mess issue 😅 I did archive one that was a little dark/dubcon-y but if that’s the one you’re thinking of I’m happy to unhide! and also thank you for asking because this will finally motivate me to make a masterlist and intro 🤍
Not sure this is appropriate so feel free to delete this ask but I came so hard to that edit I saw stars SOMEONE GET A PHONE INTO MDC ASAP AND SNAP US AN ILLEGAL PICTURE PLEASE
hahaha we thrive on nsfw here baby, always here to discuss
he’s so fucking daddy with that dark ass beard and the commanding look in his eyes like how could you not 🫦
⋆ summary: you're the junior paralegal hired to help luigi's defense team and keep things professional but luigi goes and makes that impossible.
⋆ content warning: bathroom sex, unprotected sex, creampie, some dubcon, breeding, choking with chain, slight obsessive behavior, pregnancy
⋆ a/n: hiiii! this is the first fic i'm posting since july omg!! but my semester is now over and i've been working on this for the last 2 weeks!! hope you all enjoy <3
.ᐟ.ᐟ PLEASE DON’T READ IF YOU DON'T LIKE THESE THEMES .ᐟ.ᐟ
You recall the day Karen hired you in pieces, like some movie scene you saw playing through a coffee shop in passing.
Her office smelled of coffee and fresh ink on paper, the wall behind her crowded with framed diplomas and certificates. She’d read your resume once, brows lifting just a little seeing how fresh out of college you were, and then said, matter of fact, “You’ll be working under my daughter, Sofia. As a junior paralegal. It’s a lot of work but if you keep up, you’ll learn more here in a year than you would anywhere else.”
You’d said yes before she’d even finished that sentence. Loans, rent, your first real job – there wasn’t much to think about.
Sofia had swept you out of Karen’s office, hands full of tabbed folders and highlighters, talking fast about motions calendars and discovery deadlines, and somewhere in the middle of that whirlwind she’d said, “We’re going to introduce you to the client. That’s… a whole thing. Try not to let the high profile freak you out, okay?”
You weren’t sure she was joking.
─
They took you to meet Luigi Mangione later that week.
The jail conference room was colder than you expected, all concrete, the table bolted to the floor. You’d straightened the collar of your blouse three separate times in the reflection of the glass before the guard brought him in.
He looked different than on TV.
His features sharper, somehow, in the beige, jaw a bit tight, hair a little too long in some places like he’d meant to get a haircut and never did. His eyes flicked over Karen and Sofia first – people he knew – before landing on you.
“This is our new junior,” Karen said, almost like you were just another doc being slid across the table. Her tone softened a fraction when she said your name “She’s here to help with the motions. Since things are…getting serious now.”
You forced your hand to stay steady when you reached out. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Mangione.”
The cuffs around his hands clinked when he shifted, but he still managed to curl his fingers around yours, warm and calloused. “Luigi’s fine,” he said. His voice was lower than you expected, quieter. “They brought you in to save us, huh?”
Sofia bumped your shoulder with hers, light and reassuring. “Told you he was dramatic,” she murmured. Louder, to him: “She’s here to make sure we don’t miss anything when the DA tries to bury us in paper. Be nice.”
The meeting itself was normal. Boring, even. Karen walked him through the schedule; Sofia spread out discovery; you sat with your notebook open, dutifully jotting down dates and to dos. When Luigi’s gaze landed on you, it was usually because Karen had something like, “She’ll handle the indexing,” and he’d look over with a simple, assessing nod.
By the time the guard came to take him back, your hand ached from writing. You gathered your papers, murmured another polite “Nice meeting you,” and watched him disappear behind the slam of a steel door.
You went home thinking about file folders and deadlines and how you were going to memorize all the names you’d heard tossed around the table.
You didn’t think much about Luigi at all.
─
Luigi doesn’t dream about lawyers.
He dreams about running sometimes, about empty streets and having to find somewhere to sleep again. He dreams about his family and friends’ pleas and wakes up angry. He does not dream about lawyers.
Or he didn’t, until that night.
In the dream, there’s no shackles., no cold cell, no slop for dinner. There’s just you and that blouse you wore, the pale line of your throat where the collar had slipped open, the way you’d looked at him when you said Nice to meet you like you hadn’t already seen his face all over the news.
He can’t remember most of it when he wakes up – just flashes:
Your back arching against his palms.
Your mouth open on pretty little sounds he’s sure he hasn’t ever actually heard you make.
His name breathed out wrong but so right at the same time.
He wakes up hard, breath short, the scratchy sheet twisted around his waist. For a long moment he just stares at the underside of the bunk above him, jaw clenched, willing the heat in his body to go away.
“What the fuck,” he mutters under his breath, more to himself than anyone. Out of all the things for his head to latch onto, it picked the baby paralegal with neat handwriting and too big tote bag.
He tells himself it’s just stress. Just the case, the walls, the way his brain just decided to chew on whatever new thing walks into his line of sight. It happens. It’ll pass.
Only it doesn't.
The next time he sees you, it’s worse.
You come in behind Sofia, juggling a laptop and two file folders, hair pulled back in a way that leaves a few strands loose around your face. You’re dressed almost exactly like the first time – soft blouse, neat slacks – but now his head fills in the gaps, overlays the dream on top of reality until he’s not sure which one came first.
“The new discovery,” you’re saying, breathless from the rush. “Sorry, the printer jammed.”
He should be looking at the files you set on the table. Instead his gaze catches on the way the fabric of your blouse stretches when you lean forward, the subtle swell of your breasts under it.
He notices the faint shine of lip balm on your mouth, the way the corners of your lips twitch when Karen makes some dry joke. He tracks your eyes as they move over the screen, quick and focused, lashes dipping when you blink.
He watches everything.
It’s not intentional at first. It’s just… habit. He’s always been pretty good at studying a room, at taking notice of the things that matter. Only now his brain is tagging the wrong things as important: the little line between your brows when you’re concentrating, the way your fingers tap twice on the spacebar when you’re typing, the soft mm sound you make under your breath when something in the file doesn’t add up.
Karen is talking strategy while Sofia is pointing out dates on the calendar. You are right there, close enough that he could reach out and curl his fingers around your wrist if it wasn’t insane to.
He keeps having to drag his gaze back to the paperwork before someone notices.
Later, back in his cell, those stolen details unwind behind his eyes whether he wants them to or not. They join together into something hotter and darker, into versions of you that lean in closer, laugh a little softer, look at him like he’s not a client but–
He doesn’t even get to finish the thought before sleep claims him.
The dream comes again, clearer this time.
Your hands on him first.
His on you.
The sound you make when he finally gets what he wants.
When he wakes, heart hammering, he knows two things with a miserable certainty:
One, this is gonna keep happening.
Two, the next time he sits across from you at the table, he’s going to have to pretend he hasn’t already had you a dozen times in his head – fucking you senseless in every way his imagination can conjure up – while you smile, all professional, and ask him to confirm dates he can’t even remember anymore.
─
He learns things about you in crumbs.
Not because you’re chatty – you’re really not. You’re actually very careful, reasonably so for someone this new and this close to a case like his. But when you’re in that concrete room enough times, when the guards are late and the printers are slow and Karen’s on the phone with someone who “just has one more question,” things slip.
He learns you still feel weird calling this your “job” and not an “internship.” That you commute in on two trains and a bus because “parking is a nightmare and also outrageously expensive, sir” (you’d flushed, realizing you’d called Luigi sir, and Karen’s mouth had twitched like she’d noticed too).
He learns you’ve got roommates who forget to take the trash out and a landlord who ignores almost every maintenance request. That you like your coffee sweet enough to count as dessert and that Sofia has banned you from drinking it after three because otherwise you’ll sit at your desk jittering through documents until midnight.
He catches you talking to Sofia once, before he’s fully seated, while the guard is still locking his cuffs.
“I can’t believe my first real case is this,” you’re saying, hands worrying the cap of your pen. “Everyone else from my program is doing slip and falls and wills, and I’m over here building timelines for homicide charges.”
“You’re doing fine,” Sofia says, not looking up from the laptop. “You’re organized, you ask smart questions, and you highlight like a maniac. What else could I ask for–”
He files that away too: first real case, organized, asks smart questions. The way your shoulders round just slightly when someone tells you you’re doing well, like you don’t quite know what to do with the praise.
Every tiny thing goes somewhere in his head, and none of it helps.
If anything, the opposite.
─
The dreams get rougher when he realizes you’re not as delicate as he thought.
It’s the way you stand your ground when Karen snaps about a deadline and you calmly say, “We’ll meet it,” even though your eyes are ringed with exhaustion. It’s the way you push your glasses up and argue gently but firmly with Sofia about where a certain incident belongs in the narrative, and then you’re right.
The next dream starts like the others – your hand in his, a soft bed room with a big, warm bed – but it escalates quickly.
In it, you’re not shying away. You’re bracing a hand on his shoulder, nails digging through thin fabric. Letting him back you up against something unsteady and not complaining when it knocks into the wall. You’re glancing up at him like you want him to push, to see how far you’ll go before you break.
It’s all heat from there.
The scrape of his teeth at your throat.
Your breath catching when he crowds you closer, when he uses his size the way some perverted part of him has wanted to since the second time he saw you. The way your laugh dissolves into something softer, wetter, when he murmurs something filthy against the shell of your ear and feels you shiver for him.
He doesn’t see much in the dream. It’s all sensation with your leg hitching higher around his hip, your fingers digging into his shoulders and enough that he knows he’ll be marked, the sound you make when he sets a hard rhythm and doesn’t let up, when he holds you exactly where he wants you and feels you come apart against him, You pant his name into his neck like it’s a secret or a plea, and he thinks, wildly, yeah, like that–say it like that again.
When he jerks awake, he’s sweating, breath coming in and out like he did a sprint. The cell is dark except for a thin strip of hallway light under the door, but it’s enough for him to see the damp line on the sheet, to feel the mess sticking uncomfortable to his skin.
He scrubs a hand over his face and stares at the ceiling.
This is getting out of hand.
He tells himself to knock it off, to stop letting his brain run laps over a woman who sits across from him with a legal pad and a neat stack of flagged discovery. A woman who doesn’t know he wakes up like this.
He tells himself a lot of things.
The next night, he dreams of your voice again.
─
By the time December rolls around – meaning suppression hearings – he’s wound so tight it hurts.
They bring him in late. The hallway outside the courtroom is filled with cameras and reporters while inside there are too many nervous people crammed into one place. He spots you before anyone else, bent over your bag on the bench, flipping through a tabbed binder, lips moving silently as you check off something in your notes.
Sofia is beside you, muttering about exhibits. Karen stands a little apart, chatting with Jacob, but also reviewing her outline with an expression nearly stone cold.
You look up when the deputies bring him past, and your face brightens just a fraction, professional but genuinely there. “Morning, Luigi,” you say softly, like it’s just another meeting in MDC. Like this next week or so isn’t going to decide whether the story the State wants to push will even stand.
“Morning,” he manages. His mouth is dry. He takes in the way your blazer fits around your figure, the tightness of your button up blouse over your chest, and the faint pink on your nose from the cold outside. He has to drag his eyes before he lingers too long.
The morning is slow and brutal.
It’s full of defense and prosecution pushing back and forth; cops testify; everyone tiptoes around words like warrant and probable cause. Luigi sits at the counsel table, hands folded, expression composed, while inside his head two tracks are running at once: the legalese he’s forcing himself to follow and the memory of your fingers brushing his wrist when you slid a pen toward him without looking.
Every time you lean in to whisper something to Sofia, he can’t help but watch out of the corner of his eye. Every time you furrow your brows at something Joel says, he can’t help but want to smooth out the crease.
It’s torture in ways no one in that room would ever guess.
Sometime around midday, the judge glances at the clock, sighs and raps his gavel once.
“Alright. We’ll break for lunch,” he says. “Back at two fifteen, counsel.”
─
The cafeteria everyone from the team goes to looks like every boring ass cafeteria you’ve ever seen, filled with beige walls, humming fluorescent lights, and food that tastes as tired as everyone eating it.
Karen manages to snag a corner table, dropping her things beside a plastic tray and immediately launching into low voiced strategy with Jacob, the co-counsel on the case. Marc sits across from them, picking at his lunch and scrolling through something on his phone, occasionally chiming in with, “That officer’s got prior complaints,” or, “The body cam timestamps are still off by two minutes.”
You end up squeezed on the end between Sofia and an extra chair the deputies have dragged over for Luigi. He’s hardly ever out of his beige clothing and concrete walls, so seeing him in this half normal setting feels strange, almost like he was cut and pasted into the wrong background.
He’s still cuffed, wrists locked together in front of him. The deputies station themselves a short distance away with their own coffees, eyes on the room but not hovering.
“You good?” Sofia murmurs when you just stare at your sandwich, appetite nowhere to be found.
“Yeah,” you lie. “Just…processing.”
She nudges your knee under the table. “Welcome to New York law. It’s always like this.”
Across from you, Luigi eats in quiet, big bites, shoulders slightly hunched. Every so often Karen or Marc will address him directly – “If this goes our way, the next step is–” or something else, and he’ll answer respectfully, eyes on whichever lawyer is speaking.
He doesn’t look at you much. When he does, it’s quick, like he catches himself before he stares too long.
You and Sofia fall into your own rhythm by double checking what exhibits to have at the ready when it’s time to go back in.
“If the judge lets in half of what the State wants, I’m going to die,” Sofia mutters.
“You’re not allowed,” you say, trying to lighten the mood. “I don’t know where anything is without you.”
She smiles at that, a bit tired but genuine. “You’re learning fast. My mom likes you, by the way.”
Your head jerks up. “She does?”
“Mm.” Sofia takes a sip of her drink. “She yelled at you less than she yelled at Jacob this morning. That’s high praise.”
Jacob, mid sentence with Karen, raises a hand without looking. “I heard that.”
It’s almost easy, for a few minutes, to pretend this is just… work. A stressful morning, a working lunch, a client who’s just another name on the docket and not someone whose case you’ve read so much about you could recite half the timeline in your sleep.
Eventually, Luigi sets his fork down and clears his throat softly.
“One of you gotta let me hit the bathroom,” he says. It’s addressed generally to the table, but his eyes flick to Karen.
She checks the time, then glances toward the deputies. “We’ve got a little while before we have to be back in court.” She looks at you. “Can you go with them? Make sure he gets where he’s going and back without getting lost.”
You nod, wiping your hands on a napkin even though they’re clean. “Of course.”
One of the deputies steps up, touches Luigi’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”
You fall into step beside them, heart thumping too fast at your ribs.
The hallway outside the cafeteria is quieter, only the echo of footsteps and the distant murmur of someone on the phone. The bathrooms are around the corner, past a row of vending machines and a bulletin board.
The deputy stops at the men’s restroom door, pushes it open with his shoulder, and jerks his chin. “Go ahead, Mangione.”
Luigi steps inside. The door swings halfway shut and the deputy walks back over to the vending machines and plants himself there, arms crossed, attention shifting down the hall.
You hover a few feet away, fiddling with the edge of your badge lanyard, trying not to think about anything at all.
A minute passes. Then two.
You’re just starting to wonder if you should knock when you hear his voice, low and rough from inside.
“Hey. Can you–” A pause. “Can you step in for a second?”
Your stomach drops.
You glance at the deputy automatically. He’s over there looking at his watch, bored, not paying any attention to the door.
“I–I shouldn’t,” you say, pitching your voice just loud enough for him to hear. “They said–”
“Please,” Luigi cuts in. There’s something in his tone that makes the hair on your arms stand up. Not that loud or angry, just… intent. “I need to talk to you. It’ll take a second.”
You stand there, debating on doing so or not.
If someone sees you, if the deputy turns and catches even a hint of you in the doorway, you could be in serious trouble. This is the kind of thing they warn you about in ethics lectures, in those uncomfortable first week trainings where they talk about boundaries and power and professional distance.
But there’s a tightness in his voice you haven’t heard before.
“Please,” he says again, quieter this time. “Just–come here.”
Your feet move before your brain catches up.
You slip inside and let the door fall mostly closed behind you, leaving just a narrow gap of light from the hallway. The bathroom is small with just two stalls, a sink, and the faint smell of disinfectant.
He’s standing by the far wall, away from the urinals, head bowed and cuffed hands hanging in front of him.
“Luigi?” you whisper. “What’s wrong? Did something–”
He ends up closing the distance in two strides.
One second he’s across the room; the next he’s right there, crowding you gently but firmly back until your shoulders hit cool tile. He doesn’t touch you anywhere else. He just lowers his head and buries his face in the crook of your neck, breath warm and shaky against your skin.
You freeze for a few seconds, not sure what to do.
“Hey,” you murmur, automatically lifting your hands. There’s nowhere else for them to go but his back so you splay your fingers there, feeling the tense muscle under the fabric of his clothes. “Luigi. Are you okay?”
He huffs out a sound that isn’t quite a laugh. “No.”
You rub small circles between his shoulder blades, the way your mom would do to soothe you when you were younger. It feels ridiculous and strangely natural at the same time.
“It’s just the hearing,” you say softly. “It’s a lot. Anyone would be–”
“I want you right here.”
You go absolutely still.
“I–” The word barely makes it out. “What?”
He lifts his head just enough that you can see his face. His eyes are dark, pupils blown, expression devoid of that careful composure he has at the table.
“Here,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Now. Before I have to go back to my cell later. I’m not gonna get another chance like this.”
Your mouth opens and closes a few times. Your brain leaps between ethics violation and fired and felony and something else you don’t want to name every time you look at him.
“Luigi, I can’t–” you start, but he shakes his head, stepping in that last inch so his chest is pressed to yours, the chain between his wrists brushing lightly against your belly.
“Please.” The word is rougher this time. “I keep seeing you every time I close my eyes. I can’t sleep sometimes. You look at me like I’m not a bad guy.” He swallows hard. “Just…let me feel you once. I swear–I swear I’ll look out for you if anything goes bad, I won’t let it fall on you.”
Your heart is pounding so loud he can probably hear. You should probably shove him away. Probably should call for the deputy, step back out into the hallway, and pretend this conversation never happened.
But he’s looking at you like you’re the only constant thing in his unpredictable reality, and some fragile, foolish part of you is flattered by the intensity of it, by the idea that he dreams about you, that he could want you that badly.
“I…I shouldn’t,” you whisper, fingers curling in the fabric at his back. “This is…this is really a bad idea, Luigi.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, humorless. “Yeah. I’m real familiar with bad ideas.”
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
“I just…want you,” he says softer now, forehead tipping to rest against yours. “Once. Please. We can move fast, nobody will ever know.”
There are a thousand reasons to say no. Your body finds one reason to say yes anyway: the way your stomach flips when he says want you. The way your pulse jumps any time he’s close, the way your own curiosity has been gnawing quietly at the edges of your professional guilt for weeks.
“O-okay,” you breathe, the word coming out tiny and shaky. “J-just this once.”
There’s a beat of silence and then Luigi kisses you.
It’s not sweet or careful. It’s hungry. Desperate. His mouth crashes into yours, lips parting against yours with a heat that steals the breath from your lungs. You let out a tiny gasp from the shock of it, but your body gives in just as fast – your arms wrapping instinctively around his broad shoulders, fingers gripping his top.
His cuffs clink between you as his hands fumble at your dress shirt, yanking at the fabric with an impatience that makes your knees weak. All you can do is kiss him back, mouth open, messy and eager, as he licks into you.
You moan when his tongue strokes yours, filthy and wet, your teeth knocking together when he groans against your mouth. Then he’s dragging his lips down to your jaw, nipping lightly before moving lower to your neck.
“God,” he breathes into your throat, “you smell so fucking good…open your shirt, lemme see your tits.”
You barely nod before your fingers are scrambling at the buttons, popping them open one by one with shaking hands. Thank God – you wore the black bra today. The one with the front clasp.
You click it open, and your tits fall free – plush and perky, nipples already tightening in the cool air.
Luigi groans like he’s in pain. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
He brings his cuffed hands up between you, not even hesitating. His palms cup your tits greedily, thumbing over the peaks, squeezing them together. The feel of his rough hands, calloused thumbs, and firm grip makes you squirm, and he watches your face for every reaction.
Then his mouth is on you. You stifle a gasp as his lips close around one nipple, tongue flicking softly before he sucks hard. You arch into him, a shaky whimper leaving your throat as his teeth graze ever so lightly.
“Luigi,” you whisper, breathless. “W-we don’t have time–”
“Yeah,” he pants, pulling off with a pop. “Yeah, you’re right. Come here.”
He grabs your wrist and tugs you over to the row of sinks, chain between his cuffs rattling with every movement. You follow without thinking, dazed from his mouth, your body still reeling from how fast all of this is happening.
You both move in tandem, him shoving his boxers and pants down past his thigh, you tugging your pants and panties down just enough. Your hands shake as you lean forward over the sink, catching your reflection, flushed and wide eyed. You’ve never looked like this before, never felt like this before.
Behind you, Luigi strokes himself with one hand, the metal cuff biting into his wrist as he works his thick length from base to tip.
And God, he’s big.
You watch him in the mirror with wide eyes, chest rising and falling fast as he steps closer. The blunt, heavy tip nudges between your thighs, slipping through your folds and–
“Ah–!” you jolt forward, hips twitching when the tip catches your clit.
Luigi groans under his breath, forehead lowering to catch a better look.
“Shit, baby,” he rasps. “You’re so wet. God–I haven’t had pussy this pretty in so long..”
His breathing changes the moment he finds your entrance. He steadies himself behind you, one cuffed hand gripping your hip, the other guiding his dick. You feel the hot tip nudge right where you’re softest…then press.
He’s not even inside yet, and your whole body goes rigid.
“Fuck…” he exhales, voice dropping into something ragged. He pushes, just the head, just enough for your pussy to part around him.
Your breath catches in your throat, your mouth falling open in a silent little O as your walls clamp down instinctively from the shock of the intrusion.
Luigi’s mouth falls open too, an empty, guttural moan ripped straight from his chest.
You whine, high and breathy, fingers gripping the sink so hard your knuckles go white. The stretch is unreal and your thighs tremble as you try to adjust around him.
“Luigi–” you gasp, voice cracking, “i-it’s–too–”
“I know, I know, baby,” he pants, leaning over your back, trying to breathe through the tight squeeze you’ve wrapped him in. “Big stretch…big fucking stretch, I know…”
You squeeze your eyes shut. “I-I’m a virgin,” you manage to whimper.
For half a second he freezes against you – but only for half a second.
Then he lets out a rough, shuddering groan. “Oh my god,” he breathes, voice shaking with pleasure. He swallows hard, hips already tilting forward again helplessly. “I’ll be gentle,” he promises. “I swear–just–just let me–”
He pushes deeper. Another inch. And another.
Your breath breaks into a small cry as he slides forward, slowly forcing his thick length through the tight resistance of your body. Every inch feels impossibly big.
“S’too much,” you whimper, thighs trembling uncontrollably.
“I know,” he grains, his voice almost a plea, “I know, baby–just–relax for me–fuck–let me in–”
He rocks his hips again and you’re panting by the time he bottoms out.
“Atta girl,” Luigi breathes against your spine, holding himself still for a moment, letting your tight little body adjust to his thick dick pulsing inside you. “You’re doing so fucking good, baby. It’s gonna start feeling good real soon, I promise.”
And then he starts to move.
Slowly at first. A steady, careful rhythm, rocking his hips into you with measured control. Each thrust works your cunt open just a little more, your walls gripping him desperately each tim he pulls back, then sinking deeper when he pushes in again.
Your soft moans echo in the bathroom, pitched higher every time the head of his cock kisses that spongey, tender spot inside you.
“Ohh–Luigi–” you whimper, fingers tight on the sink edge, ass pushed back to meet him on every stroke without realizing it.
“That’s it,” he groans. “That’s it, baby. You feel that?” Another slow, deep roll of his hips. “You’re taking me so well.”
The heat between your thighs builds fast, too fast, dizzying and slick and louder than it should be. The squelch of your pussy around him starts to echo with each thrust and your cheeks burn at the sound but it only makes Luigi groan louder.
“Fuck, you hear that?” he pants. “Listen to this pussy talking to me–so wet, baby, so fucking wet–”
You nod helplessly, eyes fluttering as the pleasure starts to edge out the pain. Your hips rock back into his on instinct, and you can feel the grin in his voice when he says, “There you go, sweet thing. That’s what I like.”
But then, without warning, he pulls back slightly, chest lifting off your back, and his cuffed hands rise.
Before you can even react, he wraps the length of the chain between them right around your throat.
You gasp as the cold metal tightens against your throat. “Luigi–” you squeal, and he just groans behind you.
“Ohh fuck, baby, you like that?” he rasps, picking up the pace now, rutting into you harder, rougher, his hips slapping into your ass with wet, filthy rhythm. “This what we both needed, huh? My fat dick in your tight cunt and these cuffs around your throat?”
Your eyes roll back.
He fucks you like he can’t stop, each thrust sharper now, deeper and even greedier. His control slipping with every bounce of your body under him. You see yourself in the mirror, face flushed, lips parted, your tits bouncing with every slam of his hips.
Luigi pulls the chain tighter. Enough to make your breath stutter and your moan crack open into something high and helpless.
“Luigi–” you choke out, hips jolting, “p-please–softer–j-just a little–”
He hears you but he just can’t bring himself to listen.
“Baby…” he growls, voice dark as his hips snap into you harder, “Don’t ask me to–n-no–feels too good–”
You whimper, the metal pressing into the delicate sides of your throat, your eyes going hazy in the mirror. Sweat beds along your temples.
He watches you, noting your expression twisting pleasure and overwhelm together, like a man starving.
“You like it,” he pants, hand tightening the chain just a little more, forcing your chin up so you have to look at yourself while he takes you. “You fucking love being helpless, huh? Love this chain on your throat–love knowing I could hurt you If I wanted.”
You let out a desperate, wavering moan – half fear, half arousal – your fingers slipping as your knees threaten to buckle.
Your pretty eyes flutter, and that sound, your moan, hits him like lightning.
“Yeah,” he breathes, voice shaky with how close he’s getting. “Yeah, look at you.”
He’s losing it. And he knows it.
Somewhere in the frenzy of thrusts, in the slick clench of your pussy sucking him in tighter than anything he’s ever felt, in the high, broken moans spilling from your mouth, somewhere in all that, a thought sinks into him:
I’m never gonna get this again.
Not after today, not after court, not for a looooong while at least.
But you – god, you’re the prettiest thing he’s seen in years. Maybe ever. And you’re wrapped around him, trembling for him, letting him fuck you in the way he has dreamed about for weeks.
He can’t let go of that.
He can’t lose the only softness he’s touched in months.
His thrusts turn frantic, sloppy, his breath hot against your ear as he leans over you, chain tight in his fists.
And then, like the words crawl out of the deepest, wildest part of him–
“H-have my baby.”
You freeze for a second, hips still moving but your breath catching hard.
“...w-what?” you whine, barely able to hear over your own moans.
“I-I’m gonna cum,” he grits out, voice breaking, hips jerking faster and faster, “i–fuck–I wanna leave a part of me with you.” And then he’s pulling you upright with his chest flush to your back, your legs shaking as he holds you there with the strength of his body alone.
The chain between his cuffs drags lower as he slips both hands over you to slip his rough fingers between your thighs, right where you’re soaked and stretched around him. His fingertips find your clit, already swollen and aching, and start to circle it, firm and fast, the slick sounds between your legs getting louder with every pump of his dick.
“Luigi–ohh–” you cry out, back arching as your head tips to the side, trying to breathe, trying to stay standing.
He takes full advantage of that, leaning in to kiss you hard, teeth clashing and desperate. You moan into his mouth as his tongue tangles with yours, your nails digging into the sink, your body melting under him.
“Cum for me, baby,” he pants between kisses, voice low and trembling with a sense of urgency. “Come on–let me feel it–we don’t have too much time–”
The pleasure hits you fast.
Your body clamps down on him, spasming tight around his cock. A high, broken moan escapes into his mouth as you jerk and writhe, thighs shaking, slicking gushing around him.
“F-fuck, that’s it,” he groans, losing all rhythm now as the heat overtakes him, “that’s it, baby–fuck–I’m gonna–”
He slams into you once – twice, then buries himself to the hilt with a hoarse, guttural grunt, spilling deep inside you. His hips shudder as he empties himself, breathing catching, eyes locked on your reflection in the mirror, on the blissed out look on your face.
His forehead drops to your shoulder, lips parted, panting as the last pulses of his orgasm roll through him.
─
By the time you pull yourself together, your legs barely work.
The stall door is still swinging slightly from when you ducked inside, heart hammering, trying to breathe normally while Luigi finished buttoning your shirt for you with clumsy, limited fingers…stealing soft, dizzying kisses between each one.
“Keep it,” he kept whispering against your mouth, low and rough, thumbs brushing your jaw. “If it sticks–keep it. Keep my baby.”
He only smiled at that – small, crooked and most of all sincere – and kissed you again, slower this time, like he wanted to savor you before he couldn’t for a long while.
Then there was a sharp rap on the door followed by the deputy’s annoyed voice. “Mangione. What’s the hold up? We gotta move.”
You nearly yelped, slamming the stall door shut and crouching on top of the toilet seat, covering your mouth. Your heart dropped into your stomach.
“Coming,” Luigi had called back, voice perfectly calm. “Just gotta wash my hands.”
You’d stayed frozen there, barely breathing, until the door clicked shut again.
Then came the cleanup.
You’d wiped yourself in frantic, trembling motions, praying you didn’t look as freshly fucked as you felt. Your panties felt ruined. Your thighs still sticky and your shirt only sort of straight. And Luigi had leaned in for one last kiss and whispered against your lips, “Thank you, pretty girl.”
You’d shoved him lightly in the chest, face burning, mouthing stop as he slipped past the door first.
─
Now you’re walking down the hallway alone, desperately trying to look normal.
Every step was torture. Your pulse hasn’t come down since he was inside you. You can still feel the warmth of him, the weight, the stretch, the chain, his breath in your ear.
You smooth your hair. Adjust your shirt. Swallow hard.
The cafeteria comes back into view just as the others start to stand and gather their things.
Karen notices you first. “There you are,” she says, tucking a file into her bag. “We were about to head back up. Everything alright?”
“Yeah! Sorry,” you say quickly, voice lighter than you feel. “I, um…I had to freshen up. In the bathroom. Lost track of time.”
Sofia gives you an amused look, nudging your arm. “Longest bathroom break in history. You okay?”
Your face heats but you smile, nodding. “Yeah. Fine. Just needed a moment.”
Jacob yawns and stretches while Marc lifts his coffee. “You ready for round two? Judge didn’t look too thrilled this morning.”
You swallow hard, “Yeah,” you manage. “I’m ready.”
You join the group with your heart racing and knees weak and follow them toward the elevator, trying to look like just a junior paralegal heading back to a suppression hearing.
And not like someone who just fucked her client in a courthouse bathroom.
─
A month and a half passes. The holidays blur into early January, and the case only grows heavier. You keep your head down and work. Pretending nothing happened.
Except your period never comes. One week late. Then two. Then the third. Then a test and another. Then the doctor's note, folded so tightly in your pocket it’s gone soft at the edges.
Now you’re here again, back in MDC with Karen, Sofia, and a stack of newly organized exhibits, and a heartbeat in your stomach that shouldn’t really exist.
Luigi’s brought in wearing his tan jail uniform paired with the same exhausted eyes, but when he sees you, something in his face flickers – hope? Hunger? Something he hides quickly.
Karen starts talking and Sofia starts sorting files. You go through the usual motions, sliding across the table one batch at a time.
And then quietly and casually, you slip one more page into the stack you pass to Luigi.
He flips through the first few pages automatically, listening to Karen outline the next steps – and then he hits it.
The doctor’s note, with your name and the words positive intrauterine pregnancy.
Luigi goes still.
The color drains from his face so fast it’s visible even under the shitty jail lighting. His fingertips grip the top edge of the paper, knuckles whitening against the steel cuff. His eyes lock on the words like he’s forgotten to breathe.
Sofia leans in too. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”
He doesn’t answer.
He just stares at the page, gripping it like a lifeline, his pulse thudding in his throat, his entire world narrowing to a single sentence you’ve already memorized by heart.
dividers by @/cursed-carmine | likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated 🩷
⋆ taglist: @soulsmangiones @palmersluvr @mangionesdaisy @iinfinitelimits @maplemangione @luigis-stellina @years--of--war @paperbacksinner @fligniuz @mangobabygirl @mayapapayaas @squeejs-bbg (lmk if you’d like to be added!)
summary: Luigi helps you relieve your anxiety (with his mouth and big ol’ dick)
cw: vaginal sex; dirty talk; oral; dom/sub dynamics; a touch of dumbification; size kink; indulgent, as per usual
an: his name ain’t “big eater” for nothing, baby, this boy is a munch. this one is for anyone that has struggled to get out of their head and into their body, with love to the people that help us make it happen
word count: 2.4k
You swear, he has a sixth sense for detecting when you’re stuck in your head and starting to spiral. What a lame superpower to have, you lament on his behalf.
He squints at you from his corner of the couch. “Something the matter, baby girl?”
You pull your blanket cocoon tighter, avoiding his gaze.
“I’m good.” You insist, nodding, shoulders creeping closer to your ears.
He scoots one seat over, just a foot away from you. “Oh, totally. You look extremely good. Not even a little ill at ease.”
He punctuates ease with a playful tug on the corner of the blanket, exposing a bare shoulder and pressing a kiss there.
You huff a sigh and he cocks his head. “Stressing? You?” His mouth falls open like he’s made some startling discovery.
Apparently his radar comes preloaded with the exact brand of teasing you can’t ignore when you’re like this. Only he can coax you out of both your literal and figurative shell.
You exhale shakily, angling toward him a little, rolling your eyes at your own tangled inner workings. “I got one mode, I guess.”
“Hmm,” he bites his lower lip, contemplative. “I know you to have all kinds of modes, actually. I can think of another one that might be a little better, even.”
That piques your interest.
He catches your chin lightly between a long thumb and forefinger, tilting your face up toward his. His eyes are hooded, pupils blown, watching you through dark lashes. He quirks a brow.
“Need me to take it from you for a bit, huh?” he murmurs, voice dropping low as his thumb traces your jaw, assessing.
He gently unwraps your fluffy shield, letting the blanket fall away and pool in soft folds around your bare legs. You feel suddenly, startlingly exposed. But it grounds you, somehow.
“Think you can relax for me?” he asks, voice low enough to curl around your spine. “Let me make you feel good?”
You tilt your head, offering him more of your neck. “I’m not sure,” you admit, half teasing, half revealing the truth still sitting heavy in your chest.
“Mmm, I got faith in both of us,” he assures, cocky and warm, easing you back with one hand firm on your ass and the other soft against your spine.
His expressive face flickers between fond appreciation and hunger as his deft hands trace your body. He pauses, tongue poking between his pink lips each time he reaches exposed skin: your hip peeking between your shirt and shorts, the swell of your breasts spilling just slightly out of their cups.
You note absently that he looks awfully similar sitting down at the dinner table, and bite back a grin. He does have his favorite meal laid out before him, after all.
You lift slightly, helping him pull your tank off, leaving you in your favorite cornflower blue lace bra and sleep shorts.
He actually licks his lips as he takes you in for a moment before fumbling with the clasp underneath you. His thick brows furrow together as he works, his usual swagger stuttering momentarily when it doesn’t cooperate.
A small laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, your shoulders shaking as you wriggle beneath him.
“First time taking off a bra, Mangione?”
He narrows his eyes at you and then at the offending clasp like it personally betrayed him. “Don’t you start,” he warns, though he’s already grinning.
You give another tiny wiggle—and feel the weight on your chest loosen. Unthawing.
“Hey,” he snaps playfully, flashing you a don’t test me look as he leans down to catch the lace between his teeth.
He tugs at it, snapping it lightly against your skin. “Take. That. Bra. Off,” he mutters, dragging his lower lip along the fabric, face pure mischief.
Still giggling, you shake your head and reach back to unhook it yourself.
He pulls it away, staring at your now-exposed breasts, grabbing a handful as he slots himself between your legs. He’s half-hard already. He presses against your heat, drawing a stifled moan from your throat.
He grabs your face, pushing hard against your core. “Nuh-uh. You don’t hold back with me. I wanna hear you.”
You ground yourself internally, trying to pull the rest of you back into your body. You exhale a shaky breath and nod.
He cocks a brow, rolls his hips once, then stills entirely.
“Yes,” you rush out. “Yes sir,” you add, desperate to get that friction back.
“Atta girl,” he murmurs, winking, capturing your lips and hooking one of your thighs over his hip so he can rut against you in earnest.
His growing hardness, trapped in his sweats against your clothed mound, is so delicious you wonder if you could come from just that.
You sink into it, throwing an arm over his shoulder and clutching him back as he continues. One thing about Luigi: he takes his time.
He kisses so damn sweet and soft and yet so passionately, it’s like he’s trying to memorize the way you taste. His tongue slides against yours, panting into your mouth before scraping his teeth lightly along your jaw, nipping and sucking his way down your throat. With each ministration, he watches for your reaction, all the while he’s rocking against you, hitting you right where you need him—so close, and yet still achingly, maddeningly far.
You keen, needy, and buck up beneath him. “Please—” you croak, desperate for more, for something, something you know he can give you.
“What do you need, my love?” His eyes flash, rolling his hips harder against you, fingers threading into the hair at the nape of your neck.
A last flicker of shyness tugs at you. You look up at him, clawing at the warm skin of his back, his bicep, anywhere you can grip. “You,” you beg, trying to translate the burning need coursing between the two of you into something tangible. “More.”
“I got you, baby,” he soothes, shifting lower as he drags your thin shorts down your legs. “I got you.”
He groans when you’re free of them, tossing them to the side before pushing his own sweats down.
“No panties?” He shakes his head, scolding, loving it. Tension rolls off him as he settles between your thighs again, up on his knees, rolling out his neck once.
You offer a sheepish little smile and squirm, thighs falling open in anticipation.
“You know I hate them, Igi.”
He laughs huskily, lowering until his mouth hovers just above your folds. “Naughty, naughty thing,” he whispers, the warm puff of his breath making you throb.
Crouched over you now, he cups your heat with one big hand, the other splayed across your waist, pinning you gently.
“What’s your job right now?” He quizzes, soft and commanding at the same time.
“Relax,” you breathe, head sinking heavy into the pillow, comforted enough by your usual check-in to let yourself heat up.
“That’s my girl,” he rumbles in approval. He eases down onto his belly between your legs—a sniper finding his perch—and strokes the tender spot where your thigh meets your hip. “Tap me if you need anything, okay?”
You can only mewl, undulating beneath him when he finally licks a slow, flat stripe up your clit, eyes locked on yours the entire time.
“Mmm,” he hums, lapping at you again hungrily, pressing one graceful digit at your entrance before dragging it up through your slick.
You cry out, thighs flying wider as he begins to really eat: tongue flicking fast against your clit, finger plunging deeper into your wetness, both hands gripping your ass and thighs like he’s starving for this.
“Yes,” he growls into you when you gasp, legs twitching, the coil in your belly winding tighter. And then it creeps in: that pesky, nervous thing, threatening to steal you away.
Is this actually good for him? Do I taste okay? Am I taking too long?
Clocking the shift, he squints up at you. Without missing a beat, he reaches up, threads his fingers through yours, and squeezes.
“I’m right where I wanna be, baby,” he reassures, lips brushing your clit as he speaks, all too familiar with your penchant for overthinking, especially when the focus is on you. “All the time in the world.”
He coaxes you back with gentle suction, melting away the last of your doubt.
“Okay,” you whisper, nodding in surrender, letting the pleasure crash back over you, reveling in how perfectly and intimately he knows your body. How much it belongs to him.
In response, he ups the pressure and pace, working you in precisely the way he knows makes you fall apart.
You writhe, overwhelmed, stiffening and going quiet for one brief moment before you explode: chanting his name, clutching at his curls, grinding into his mouth unabashedly in pure ecstasy.
He moans, face pinched with his own pent up need as he helps you ride it out, easing up but never taking his mouth off you.
Chest heaving, you blink down at him, confused that he’s still down there.
He smiles back smugly, planting a kiss on your sensitive clit and making you jerk.
“Not done with you yet, sweet thing,” he coos, already starting again. “Need you to come for me one more time if you’re going to take me from behind.”
Your eyes go wide at his words, the promise behind them. You thrash as he dives back in, relentless, switching to that ruthless rhythm he knows drags you straight past overstimulation and into oblivion.
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, hips stuttering. He pins you to the couch, hands splayed over your belly, undeterred. He sucks, tongue swirling, keeping pace so perfectly, strong arms flexing visibly as you shudder and fight not to cry out.
He shoots you a look, sharp, unmistakable: what did I say about holding back?
“Can’t—” you choke out, voice cracking, reaching up to grip the couch arm behind you. So overcome, you’re genuinely unsure your body is equipped to survive this much pleasure. “Don’t know if I can come again—”
“Oh yes you can,” he growls into you, his frenzied licks intensifying as he rubs contrasting soothing circles over your hip.
And because he wills it, your body obeys. The coil snaps harder, sharper, even more blisteringly than the first time. You gasp, chest heaving, so tensed up you practically seize as your second orgasm rips through you.
“Luigi!”
You half-sob, half-scream, back arching clear off the cushions as you come undone for him for what feels like an impossibly long time.
He stays with you through the entirety—whispering praise into your heated skin; caressing and kissing your swollen folds, your trembling thighs, the soft curve of your pubic mound, easing you back down to earth.
When your vision clears, he’s grinning proudly, practically gleeful. He shoves his boxer briefs down impatiently, cock springing free, heavy and leaking as it slaps against his abs with a filthy sound.
You stare up at him in a daze as he slides a warm hand under the small of your back, hoisting you up like you weigh nothing and settling you on all fours while your brain is still syrup.
He slicks lube over himself and you, leaning in, voice rough. “Tell me you’re ready for me.”
You pulse, legs quivering, your cunt realizing before you do how desperate you are to have him inside you.
“Yes—please—,” you whine, nodding emphatically, rolling your hips.
“Words, baby,” he demands, lining himself up, swirling against you, barely pressing in.
“Fuck me, Luigi. I want your cock, I need it,” you babble, shameless now, freed completely from your shell by how totally he’s taken you apart.
He slams home in one brutal thrust, balls slapping against you as he bottoms out.
You gasp, crying out, too full, always too full at first—and melt around him as he stills, letting you breathe.
“You’resobig—” you choke, clawing at the cushion, anchoring yourself.
“I know, baby,” he coos, stroking your spine. “Look at you taking all of it, so well.”
You squeeze around him deliberately and he hisses, hips snapping harder.
“So. Fucking. Tight.” He praises, each word punctuated by a thrust that drags over that spot inside you until you’re trembling, teetering on the edge once again.
He feels you twitch and groans. “That’s it,” he encourages, voice gravel. “Milk it out of me. Make me paint you.”
Hearing his raw desperation makes the fire in your belly burn at a fever pitch. You abide, unraveling, your pretty sounds filling the room as you convulse around his cock.
“Fuck, fuck—” his rhythm stutters. He pulls out swiftly, shocking you with the sudden emptiness. He pumps himself, hot stripes landing on your back and ass while he moans, grunting, falling apart himself.
You collapse, face-down, ass-up. Boneless. He pants behind you, grabbing onto the couch back to steady himself.
He pats an unsplattered spot on your bum appreciatively. “Good girl.”
He rises from the couch, wobbly, returning with a tissue box in hand. He leans down to kiss your face where you’re draped off the side of the couch, still regaining your breath.
“Better?” He asks, chuckling as he cleans you up.
“I’m in space,” you mumble into the couch arm. “I left earth.”
He shakes his head, eyes rolling, but you know how pleased he is.
He throws his boxers in the hamper in your room, tugging on his sweats and giving a little shimmy. “I see why you like this. It’s freeing.”
You laugh, opening the blanket you’re already snuggling back into for him.
“Now maybe I can focus on the movie,” you allow. He nestles in next to you, stroking your hair.
He kisses the tip of your nose. “You better. My Fitbit just logged a cardio session.”
seeing dada smiling and more at ease these past couple days got me in my feels and thinking about him helping put you at ease. are we tired of anxiety and soft dom Luigi? I have one mode myself, I guess. let me know if it’s worth continuing:
You swear, he has a sixth sense for detecting when you’re stuck in your head and starting to spiral. What a lame superpower to have, you lament on his behalf.
He squints at you from his corner of the couch. “Something the matter, baby girl?”
You pull your blanket cocoon tighter, avoiding his gaze.
“I’m good.” You insist, nodding, shoulders creeping closer to your ears.
He scoots one seat over, just a foot away from you. “Oh, totally. You look extremely good. Not even a little ill at ease.”
He punctuates ease with a playful tug on the corner of the blanket, exposing your bare shoulder and pressing a kiss there.
You huff a sigh and he cocks his head. “Stressing? You?” His mouth falls open like he’s made some startling discovery.
Apparently his radar comes preloaded with the exact brand of teasing you can’t ignore when you’re like this. Only he can coax you out of both your literal and figurative shell.
You exhale shakily, angling toward him a little, rolling your eyes at your own tangled inner workings. “I got one mode, I guess.”
“Hmm,” he bites his lower lip, contemplative. “I know you to have all kinds of modes, actually. I can think of another one that might be a little better, even.”
That piques your interest.
He catches your chin lightly between a long thumb and forefinger, tilting your face up toward his. His eyes are hooded, pupils blown, watching you through dark lashes. He quirks a brow.
“Need me to take it from you for a bit, huh?” he murmurs, voice dropping low as his thumb traces your jaw, assessing.
He gently unwraps your fluffy shield, letting the blanket fall away and pool in soft folds around your bare legs. You feel suddenly, startlingly exposed. But it grounds you, somehow.
“Think you can relax for me?” he asks, voice low enough to curl around your spine. “Let me make you feel good?”
You tilt your head, offering him more of your neck. “I’m not sure,” you admit, half teasing, half revealing the truth still sitting heavy in your chest.
“Mmm, I got faith in both of us,” he assures, cocky and warm, easing you back with one hand firm on your ass and the other soft against your spine.
summary: a lighthearted game inspires you and Luigi to explore lands yet untouched.
cw: anal sex, soft dom lulu, dirty talk, you know the drill
author’s note: first off, apologies I have not yet had the brain power to address prior requests. to be honest, I wasn’t really sure I’d come back to this, and all of my attempts to write anything else I’d discussed before had me nearly tearing out my hair. for whatever reason, the thing that finally yanked me from my grief cave and into a sexy enough mindset to write smut was… butt stuff. so! if that’s not your thing, this is not the fic for you. if it is! 🤭😏 hehehe
word count: 3.6k
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“I mean, I’ve always been intrigued. Just… only if the other party was, too,” you clarified, arching a brow. “Not your thing?”
You cast him a look from across the picnic table. He looked unfairly radiant, all lit up with the late afternoon sun playing in his chocolate curls. You chuckled lightly—he was holding the card tight to his chest like one of the screaming kids playing tag nearby might somehow decode “have you ever done anal?” from four feet away.
The brewery probably hadn’t realized what kind of game this was when they stuck it on the shelf next to Uno and dominoes.
He’d pulled down his Ray-Bans, squinting slightly, pinching his lower lip with that pointy incisor you adored.
“I think I’m on the same page,” he said after a beat, exhaling. “It’s not something I’ve been dying to do, so it just never happened… but. I’d be down.”
He flushed as he finished the last swig of his beer, glancing over at you. “Now that I think about it? Be hot to have a first time with you.”
“One pure part of me left for you to have,” you teased, winking as you plucked the card from his hand. He rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth turned upward as the two of you started scooping the rainbow of cards back into their cracked plastic container.
✨🍑✨🍑✨🍑
He was practically vibrating in the kitchen. Taut, contemplative, lips pressed together as he squinted down at the pan. He ran a hand along the back of his neck as he let the onions sweat—a dead giveaway. You always knew when that big brain of his was firing on multiple cylinders. It was like watching the air tense around a storm.
“Something on your mind, big guy?” you asked, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. You kissed the dip between his shoulder blades, resting your cheek against the solid warmth of his back.
He peeked at you over his shoulder, his fingers skimming gently along the forearm you had draped across his stomach.
“Remember that card game?” he asked, hesitant.
“The anal card?” you snorted, tracing lazy circles into the soft fabric of his t-shirt.
He huffed a quiet laugh, nodding as a flush crept into his cheeks.
You paused, sensing the shift. Peering up at him, your smile turned mischievous.
“You really are obsessed with my ass, huh, babe?” You squeezed his sides playfully for emphasis. He groaned, leaning into you, but your teasing cracked through his apprehension.
Turning around in your arms, he slid his palm down the small of your back.
“‘Kay, fine, pretend that’s news,” he said, voice soft, earnest. “I’m obsessed with you, alright? And… honestly? I want all of you.”
“Well, it just so happens—” you drew his chin down to yours, pressing a kiss at the corner of his mouth. “—I think about what that would feel like. Like… When I’m alone. Touching myself, thinking of you.”
His mouth dropped open, brows lifting. “Fuck,” he choked out, grabbing your chin in his hand.
He turned the dial on the stove off before backing you slowly against the wall across from the counter, moving his hand to wrap lightly but authoritatively around your neck.
“You think about me taking you like that, pretty girl?” He breathed, grazing his teeth along your lower lip.
“Yeah, baby,” you purred.
“Feels so good when you eat me,” you babbled. “Makes me want to feel it, feel that full of you.”
“Shit,” he groaned against your throat, your fingers threading through his hair. “Like, right now?”
He pawed at your breast, kicking one leg out to open you up, slotting himself between your hips. You were already warm, already buzzing.
“You’ll get me ready?” you asked him, voice smaller, but certain.
“It would be my honor,” he said, pressing a hand to his chest in mock theater.
Then softer, eyes locking with yours: “Seriously. I just want to make you feel good. We can stop anytime. I’d be thrilled just to spend time with you. Especially in or around your perfect ass,” he added, winking.
You laughed, wrapping your arm around his neck. Somehow, he understood. No hesitation. No panic. Just the kind of yes that blooms quietly in your chest when you feel safe.
“Okay,” you whispered, nodding against his forehead.
He exhaled like you’d handed him a gift he wasn’t sure he deserved.
Then, wordlessly, he scooped you up—one arm under your thighs, the other wrapped around your back, pressing you close to his chest. You clung to him, heart thudding, grinning into the warmth of his neck.
He carried you out of the kitchen, turned the corner into the bedroom, and kicked the door shut with his heel.
“Obviously, I’m big on setting the vibe, as well you know,” he said, peppering you with kisses before tossing you—gently but deliberately—onto the bed.
“While I get to work on that front,” he added, tugging on the hem of your shirt, “take that off for me?”
You propped yourself up on your elbows, watching as he pulled out his phone. A soft click of the screen and the lamps on either side of the bed dimmed to a warm, golden hue. The speaker on the dresser chimed to life, the low pulse of music filling the room.
He listened for a moment, then nodded in approval. “That’s better. Now I can focus on my girl.”
He pulled his shirt over his head, muscles flexing as the fabric dragged upward. His slightly crooked happy trail carved a line from his navel down. He was already half hard, and your mouth went dry just looking at him. Your thighs squeezed together instinctively.
He moved toward the bed with an easy kind of hunger, crouching over you just long enough to kiss your temple.
“You talk to me, yeah, baby?” he murmured, voice low as his fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts. “I need to know how you feel every second.”
He slid them down slowly, pressing his lips against your thighs as they were revealed inch by inch. He wasn’t in a rush. That was his way—especially in the bedroom. Every motion was measured.
“There she is,” he whispered against your belly, sighing. Then he licked a long stripe from your hole up through your slit.
You gasped, arching beneath him as his tongue got to work.
He half moaned, half mmm’ed, slashing his tongue back and forth over your clit with just the right pressure. His left hand stayed high, thumb circling your bud in sync with his mouth, while his right moved lower—rubbing soft, deliberate circles around your ass, teasing but patient.
He looked up at you through dark lashes, then plunged his tongue into your core. His thumb never left your clit as his other hand resumed its gentle, grounding rhythm below.
He groaned low in his throat as he pushed your legs up, presenting you. The sound vibrated against your skin. He began pressing soft kisses just below your entrance. Slinging one forearm over your thigh to keep his fingers on your clit, he worked with maddening patience—but his mouth shifted lower, breath hot against the tight circle of muscle.
His lips brushed against you.
He used both hands to part your cheeks, thumbs stroking lazy circles into your skin as his mouth lapped and sucked with slow, confident pressure.
You whimpered as he dipped the tip of one long finger inside, barely opening you.
“Yes,” you gasped, threading your fingers into his hair. You felt deliciously full. It made you wonder how it would feel to have a little bit of him in every hole you had.
“That’s it,” he groaned, voice thick as he pressed a kiss to your hip. Half a finger was inside you now. “God, you feel so fucking good already.”
He pulled back just far enough to reach for the bottle of lube on the nightstand. You watched him pump some onto his fingers, then rub them together—warming it, working it in. His expression was focused—tender, almost reverent.
“You’re doing perfect,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss your inner thigh as he brought his slick fingers back to your ass. “Tell me if anything feels off. We’ll take our time.”
You nodded, breath shaky, but your legs relaxed instinctively. You trusted him completely—there was no part of yourself you had to hide from him.
He resumed slowly—pressing the first finger in again, now slick and smooth, easing deeper with care. He didn’t rush. He worked in shallow, gentle strokes, stopping when your breath hitched and pulling back just enough to let you catch up.
“You’re opening up for me,” he whispered, nuzzling into your skin. “Just like that. That’s my good girl.”
You whimpered again, so loud you were almost embarrassed, as he worked you open a little more. He added more lube, circling your hole slowly before sliding in deeper.
His mouth found your clit again, and the combination sent heat curling low in your belly.
“Need more?” he asked against your mound, voice breathless but controlled.
“Yes,” you rasped. “Please.”
He moaned into you, grinding his hips against the bed. “Fuck. You don’t know what that does to me.”
Then he added a second finger—slower this time, stretching you just enough to make your back arch. His free hand cradled your hip, grounding you. His mouth stayed on you, lips working your clit like he wanted to undo you from the inside out.
“That’s it, baby girl,” he grunted, pumping two digits inside you in earnest now. “Almost ready to take me. Okay to keep going?”
He cocked his head, flashing that devilish half-smile of his. It made your nerves vanish and your pelvic floor flutter. You bit your lip, nodding.
“Use your words, baby,” he tutted, catching your clit between his lips and stilling his movements both there and behind. That tone always made your heart stutter, your body go weightless. Like you were floating right above your skin.
“Want more,” you breathed, squirming. “I can take it.”
At that he practically growled, deep in his chest, before reaching for the bottle again. You watched, breathless, as he pumped more lube onto his ring finger, rubbing it in with deliberate care.
“You sure?” he murmured, eyes locked on yours. “Gonna stretch you real slow, sweet thing. Want you to feel how ready you are.”
You nodded again, letting your mouth fall open. Needy and soft and completely his.
He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, then shifted, hand cupping your hip as the slick pads of his fingers circled your entrance once more. Then, with infinite patience, he began to push—two fingers already seated, the third easing in beside them.
You sucked in a breath, body going tense for half a second—until his other hand found yours, fingers lacing tight.
“Breathe for me,” he whispered. “That’s it. You’re doing so fucking good.”
Just like that, you opened for him.
An almost guttural moan punctuated by a sigh escaped his lips. Then you realized: the soft, rhythmic shudder of the bed wasn’t from you. It was him—rutting into the duvet, chasing relief like he couldn’t take one more second.
“Babe,” he gasped, voice breaking. “I’m dying to be inside you.”
Hearing him that desperate almost made you come on the spot—and the moan you let out in response was absolutely pornographic. “Please,” you panted, bucking into his fingers. “Please.”
He pulled all three digits from you, slow but urgent, making you gasp at the sudden emptiness. Then he was shoving down his shorts and briefs, cock springing free—pink tip flushed, leaking, beautifully hard.
“Oh! One sec,” he said suddenly, catching himself. His voice dropped into that commanding register you loved. “Touch that pretty clit for me. I wanna hear you from the hallway. Understood?”
You nodded, lips wrapping around two of your fingers before reaching down between your legs. He bolted from the room, heavy cock swinging obscenely, and your pussy pulsated in response. Oh, you could make noise for that boy.
“Lu—” you gasped, swirling slick fingers over your clit, “I need you—”
Your other hand found your breast, thumb teasing your nipple as you writhed on the sheets.
“Need you to take me,” you whispered, voice gravelly, trembling.
“Atta girl,” he said when he returned, tone thick. He crossed the room in a few quick strides, spreading a towel across the bed as his chest heaved.
“Roll over onto your side for me, love.”
You obeyed immediately—of course you did. You were his good girl.
He flopped down beside you, a small glass bottle of lube in one hand, already squirting it into his palm as he wrapped his fist around his dick.
“I’m gonna take you just like this,” he murmured, slotting himself behind you. “That okay, gorgeous? I read it’ll be more comfortable. And I can still see your face.”
Propped up on one elbow, he looked down at you—somehow soft and feral all at once. Then he brushed a strand of hair back from your cheek and kissed your temple, his voice barely a breath:
“We’ll go real slow. And we’ll stop whenever you need. You ready for me?”
Instead of answering, you reached down and grasped his thick length, guiding it between your cheeks, dragging it right where you wanted him.
“Oh,” he rasped, grabbing your top thigh beneath the knee to open you up. He nodded in understanding, pressing the flushed head of his cock to your entrance. His eyes never left yours as he began to ease in—so slowly.
Just the tip.
“Holyfuckingshit,” he panted, voice fraying as an inch or two slid inside. Your breath hitched, chest rising, overwhelmed in the best way.
“How’s that feel?” he murmured against your lips. “Want me to stay like this for a second?”
Your sweet boy. Always checking in.
“Move,” you whispered, “but don’t go deeper yet.” You dragged your tongue along his in an open-mouthed kiss—the filthy kind he loved when he was buried inside you.
He groaned, low and broken. “You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?”
He eased out slightly, then pressed back in—just enough to make you clutch the sheets.
Yes.
You tilted your head back, pressing your cheek to his, your neck exposed. He didn’t hesitate—his tongue ran along the tender spot below your ear, teeth grazing just enough to make you shudder.
Restraint was written all over him: jaw clenched, breath shallow, eyes wide. He looked beautiful like this—lips pink and plush, sweat beading at his temple, every muscle in his body focused on not giving you too much, too fast.
“More, baby,” you crooned, pulling at his hip. “Make me yours, Gi.”
His breath caught—sharp and audible. He tilted your head up by the base of your skull, and he continued sliding in, centimeters at a time.
“Mine,” he gritted out. “All mine.”
You barely stopped yourself from crying out, stretched full, the ache blooming and exquisite. He was inside you, and somehow not done yet.
You wrapped a hand around the column of his neck, grounding yourself. “How much to go?”
He looked down at where your bodies met, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest—affectionate, familiar. Then he gave you that look: one corner of his mouth tugging down, brow dipping just slightly. Not quite a smile, not quite a wink. Like a shared joke. He knew how big he was—and that you’d still take all of him.
“Half,” he murmured, mouth twitching. “Not even.”
You took a steadying breath. Met his gaze.
“All the way,” you said. “I want you to.”
“That’s my girl.” His face lit with something like pride, and something hungry. He wrapped his hand around your inner thigh, lifting, holding you open.
“Take a deep breath,” he guided. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”
His eyes never left yours as he pushed in deeper, slower than before.
You nodded, sucking in air as your whole body tensed. Your pussy and ass clenched together, trying to make sense of how full you were, how good it already felt.
And then he was seated fully inside you.
His hips nestled against yours, the coarse hairs on his thighs brushing the backs of yours. Holy. Fucking. Shit. You could barely breathe.
You weren’t sure where pain ended and pleasure began—the lines were so blurred, the sting in concert with the rapture. Your body was reeling, craving movement but not quite ready yet.
To steady yourself, you turned toward the hand cradling your head and slipped two of his long fingers into your mouth, sucking greedily, eyes fluttering closed.
He panted, mouth open, breath ragged. The sound alone made your body clench around him again.
“So fucking tight,” he groaned, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder, mouth slack—like he was trying to make sense of what he was feeling, trying not to come from just being inside you.
You could see him fighting it—struggling to stay still, to not lose it.
“I want to feel myself inside you,” he nearly begged, sliding a hand between your thighs.
“Yes, yes, yes,” you chanted, fingers still partly in your mouth, the rest of you already unraveling.
He let out a ragged moan, swirling two slick fingers over your clit before sliding them lower, inside. His eyes locked on your face, studying every twitch and gasp.
His other hand steadied you at your neck, grounding you. You could feel the press of his cock inside you as his fingers slid into your pussy, the dual sensation dizzying.
And from the look on his face—jaw slack, lashes fluttering—you knew he felt it too: the surreal, world altering awareness of being in you twice, surrounded by you completely.
“You belong to me,” he breathed, voice hoarse with awe and want.
His fingers moved idly between your legs, stroking your pussy even as he began to thrust in earnest—pulling almost all the way out of your taut hole before plunging back in, slowly, taking you apart piece by piece.
You fucked him back as best you could, hips rocking, your back arching, your hands trailing down the length of his muscled arm like you were trying to hang on.
“Just like that, baby,” he cooed, undone by your responsiveness. His thumb found your clit again and circled, steady and skilled.
“Oh, shit,” you cried out, every nerve on fire. You could hardly believe how good he made you feel—your body adjusting around him, the press against both sets of walls sending you spiraling.
“Lu—” you gasped, voice trembling, confusion blooming with arousal. “I think—”
He hissed against your neck. “I can’t hold off if you come, baby. You feel so fucking good.”
His hips were stuttering now, thrusts sloppier, more erratic—but he never let up on your clit. Kept working you. Kept chasing it.
“I want it,” you whined. “I want it, I want it—”
The coil inside you was pulling tight, too tight, with different nerve endings flaring, both familiar and not. Shimmering on the edge of something bright and impossible, like you didn’t know if you were going to come or shatter.
What finally sent you both over the edge was your own voice, nearly screamed aloud: “You own me—”
You felt him swell suddenly, impossibly—his cock pulsing inside you as he cried out, voice wrecked, face contorted in ecstatic agony. His brows drew together, eyes squeezed shut.
And at the same time, you bucked beneath him, vision blowing white, ass and pussy clenching down hard. Your whole body convulsed in a release so deep it made time feel slippery, like the moment stretched out around you.
Your arm twitched. Your head lilted back against him, mouth open, trembling.
“Jesus,” you finally managed, laughing breathlessly in disbelief.
“Not Jesus,” he murmured, nudging a knuckle under your chin. “Luigi.”
You shook your head, letting out a husky, giddy giggle just as he gently pulled out. Cum spilled from you, warm and slick, making you flinch, still sensitive.
Smart guy, bringing that towel.
“You okay?” he whispered, already rolling you toward him, foreheads brushing.
“I was half a virgin when I met you!” you responded dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest.
He groaned. “I’ll take that as a good thing, Regina.”
You both laughed genuinely as he kissed you, deep and sweet. “Love you, baby.”
“Love you, mister,” you replied, dragging a fingernail along his cheek. “And I’m honored to take your virginity—even if it is a bullshit construct designed to commodify women.”
He snorted. “The pleasure was mine, beautiful.” Then, raising a brow and tilting his head like he was offering candy: “Bath time?”
“Mmm. That sounds incredible,” you sighed, stretching. The bed shifted as he rose.
You heard the squeak of the faucet, followed by a wicked little giggle.
The speaker chirped to life again as the song changed. Lyrics washed over the room: Booty had me like… Luigi cackled from the bathroom, clearly proud of himself.
“Fucking frat boys,” you muttered under your breath.
“What’s that, princess?” he called out, voice sing-song. “Come say it to my face! In the tub!” He punctuated with a splash, smacking the water with excitement.
You groaned, hoisting yourself up from the bed—but you were melting. His.
luigi fic request: you cheated on lu at a party while being super drunk (as if that'd ever happen in real life pls who'd cheat on him 🙄, but its just for the plot) and he finds out, gets super mad. So he kidnaps you in like a random cabin in the forest, 'punishes' you by overstimulating your nipples and clit while you keep apologizing to him with tears streaming down your face but he just does not give a ff.
You all really made my day yesterday! Thank you for all the kind words. I was really nervous posting that, but you’ve made me excited to keep giving it a try :)
In the process of taking a stab at this request with some minor tweaks. Hope you’ll forgive me that she doesn’t actually cheat (but Luigi most certainly thinks she does). They’re at winter formal in the woods (is formal what those frat weekends away are called? Was not a frat rat in college lol)
A little taste of ropes and rumors below the fold :) Trigger warning, another character gets pretty pushy and corners her.
Usually when you black out at a party, you take it as a sign to sit the next weekend out. Half as punishment for the inevitable embarrassment (though who can really say what happened?), half to recover from the damage you surely did to your developing brain. A little reset after behaving badly.
You spend the weekend alone, or at least mostly alone. Journaling, meditating, reading. Sometimes, you even let Luigi join for parts of your reflective time, if he promises to be quiet and keep his hands to himself (he’s not always great at the latter). You grocery shop, cook, clean, get your apartment back in order. Cuddle up and watch movies. Stop paying attention to the movie entirely when more naked activities prove to be a better cure for your frazzled nerves.
But this weekend is the exception.
It’s winter formal, and despite the way your stomach pitched the whole ride up, despite still being wracked with hangxiety a full week after a few too many at Phi Psi, you’d never back out of a commitment you made to him.
Now, sipping Prosecco out of a red solo cup in the hot tub, snow falling gently as the other girlfriends gossip and laugh, you’re actually grateful your usual weekend reset had to be postponed. Sinking into a pure moment of girlhood always has that effect on you. It’s nice to be out here, convening with nature, under the stars—especially knowing Luigi still hasn’t seen you’re wearing the flowered bikini that drives him crazy.
Inside, Luigi is running the beer pong table with his partner, Ryan, when that jackass Tyler calls winner. Luigi throws Ryan an irritable look.
Normally, Luigi is about as chill and easygoing as they come. It was rare, if ever, that he had an issue with anyone, least of all one of his fraternity brothers.
But Tyler? Tyler gets under his skin.
It’s the way he looks at you—like you’re a piece of meat. The way he’s always finding excuses to put his hands on you—a graze of your arm, a half-hug, a too-playful shove. And he gets bolder when you’re drunk.
To Luigi, you were his vulnerable baby girl he’d protect at all costs, but you weren’t oblivious. You knew what Tyler was playing at, and you didn’t let it slide. The time he had the balls to crack a joke about how he’d “keep you up late that night”, you told him in no uncertain terms to fuck off—with enough heat to make him steer clear of you for a few peaceful weeks. Good thing Luigi wasn’t there for that exchange, or you surmise he would have gotten in the first fight of his life.
So, when Luigi hears Tyler’s idiot friend pumping him up across the table about how you finally made it back to his room last weekend—and that you were in there for over an hour—something inside him snaps.
His blood runs cold.
And for the first time in Luigi’s calculated, careful, methodical life—he doesn’t think at all.
He just acts.
In some kind of predatory haze, Luigi pushes back from the table, shoving past anyone unlucky enough to be in his way. He barely hears Ryan call after him about being in the middle of a game. He pulls on his coat, laces up his sneakers and steps out into the frigid cold, heading straight for the hot tub.
He hears you before he sees you—your warm giggle, the little squeak punctuating the end of it giving away how tipsy and light you’re feeling.
Any other time, he’d find it endearing.
But after finding out what you did? It makes his skin prickle with rage.
It fills him with hunger, need—a feral desire to take what’s his and crush all of the foul feelings bubbling up inside of him until they don’t exist anymore.
You think he’s joking when he plucks you out of the hot tub under the armpits, throws you over his shoulder, and storms down the side of the house like you weigh nothing. A cacophony of laughter, what the fuck?’s and oh my god, Mangione’s follow you as he strides into the woods.
“Luigi! It’s COLD!” You squeal, giggling and swatting against his back.
But Luigi isn’t laughing. Not at all.
Instead, he grips your wrists behind your back, voice raw and rough as he growls something about the party last week. About how he knows everything.
Your heart drops.
Foggy memories bubble up as you shiver over his shoulder, yelping when he smacks the back of your thigh, grabbing your flesh and squeezing hard.
Your prosecco-fuzzy brain fights to fill in the blanks.
Jello shots with Jenny and Rachel (far, far too many). Losing at rage cage, dancing under the galaxy light one of the brothers always brings out.
And then—Tyler.
Tyler pestering you. Like he always fucking does.
Tyler herding you into a room, cornering you. Even wasted, you shoved at him, slurring something about how you wanted Luigi, telling him to get the fuck out of your way.
But what did it look like from the outside?
Your stomach lurches.
Because now, you’re being dragged into the woods by the only man you’ve ever wanted—and he thinks you betrayed him.
summary: reader plays games with Luigi after missing him while he’s gone on a work trip. He reminds her who she belongs to.
cw: soft dom brat tamer lulu, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, fingering, dirty talk, orgasm control, edging, use of toys, established relationship, choking, he has a lot to say, you can bet he’s throwing reader around while he says it
author’s note: my first ever post on tumblr be nice to me I’m soft. longtime smut reader first time writer 🤗
When you finally caught his eye as your gaze slid down the dimly lit bar, you knew you were playing with fire. Seeing precisely the reaction you’d hoped for flash across his face ignited all your pent-up longing with a spark of glee: the sharp line of his jaw, shadowed lightly with second day stubble, twitched as he subtly lifted a brow and poked his tongue in his cheek. Nothing the baby-faced intern, still scratching his sparse mustache as they spoke, would ever notice. But for you, the message was unmistakeable: that’s enough.
Under normal circumstances, that would have been enough. You would have stopped brushing your coworker’s arm, found a polite way to bow out of whatever mindless small talk you were engaged in, and slinked back down the bar to his side, proving just how well-behaved you could be for him.
But the days spent apart and untended while he traveled to and from a work conference had made the throbbing between your legs unbearable. Desperate for a sliver of his attention, you knew you’d have to push him further to make him focus on you the way you’d been aching for all week.
You swept your long hair off your shoulder just how you knew he loved, pretending not to clock his reaction. Giggling sweetly at whatever comment your colleague made, you bit your lip lightly and smiled through your lashes over the rim of your martini. You weren’t even listening to what was being said anymore. The only thing that mattered was the game you’d just set in motion—and you knew if you showed your cards too soon, it’d be over before it had even begun.
You were still calculating how best to sneak another glance at him when suddenly, his broad frame loomed behind you, his large hand grazing the crepe fabric of your dress.
“Hey, baby,” he greeted lightly, his voice smooth, expression controlled—but the dark flash in his eyes betrayed him. He swept over to your coworker, offering a warm smile. “I don’t think we’ve met, have we?” Extending a hand, he continued, “I’m Luigi, y/n’s boyfriend.”
He punctuated boyfriend with a casual but deliberate dig of his knuckle into the small of your back, making you straighten on instinct, covering your sharp intake of breath by clearing your throat.
“Oh yeah, she’s mentioned you!” Mark—or was it Mike?—responded enthusiastically. “I’m Mike,” (oops). He reached out to grasp Luigi’s extended hand. “You’re an engineer, too, right?”
“I am,” Luigi smiled wide, his straight, white teeth and dimples on full display. “And I’d love to talk shop, Mike, but unfortunately traffic is picking up and y/n and I are now running a little late for our next engagement. Will you forgive me if I steal her?” He cast Mike an apologetic grimace.
“Hey man, no worries, yeah!” Mike responded, clearly confused by Luigi’s abrupt call to exit. He was already helping you into your coat as Mike trickled off, “Well, good talking to you, y/n.”
You threw back the last swig of your perfectly bruised martini, setting the glass on the bar and sending a questioning look toward him as you looped your purse onto your shoulder. But he didn’t acknowledge it, didn’t even look your way—just grabbed your hand, squeezing authoritatively as he angled for the door.
“We’ll catch up soon, yeah?” Luigi called over his shoulder, not bothering to wait for a response or look at you at all as he led you into the cool night air. The moment you reached the back of his black SUV, he was on you.
His long fingers clamped over the curve where your neck met your shoulder, steering you roughly toward the passenger side.
“Hope you understand what you’ve started, brat.” He murmured, a restrained smile flickering over his lips as he opened the door—no trace of that earlier warmth to be found.
“What do you mean, Lu?” You asked innocently, ignoring the dig. You hesitated, resting a hand on the dashboard. “I didn’t know we had other plans.”
His jaw flexed. “You and I both knew what was going to happen next when you went acting up like that in there.”
Before you could respond, he gripped your ass, hoisting you into the car as he held the door open. Now seated, he locked his hand around your neck, tilting your chin up until your forehead was almost pressed against his. Your breath hitched.
“You wanted my attention, yeah, y/n?” His voice was low, teasing—dangerous. “Let’s see how much you like it.”
With that, he pulled the seatbelt over you, clicked it into place, and slammed the door shut.
The second he was out of sight, you exhaled shakily, your chest heaving with the effort to appear composed. Squeezing your thighs together, you fought for relief against the building ache between your legs. As he slid into the driver’s seat, you forced your hands into your lap, smoothing your floral dress, schooling your expression into something demure.
You knew all too well—if he saw how much his reaction was affecting you, he’d make you suffer for it.
One hand on the steering wheel, he tugged at his collar with the other, his patterned button-down slightly wrinkled from the tension in his shoulders. He didn’t speak as he pulled onto the narrow one-way street toward his house.
The longer the silence stretched, the more your nerves prickled. His dark brows were drawn, jaw set.
Had you overshot?
You only wanted to tease him—just enough to get him to remind you who you belonged to. It was just a game. Right?
The car jerked to a stop outside his house. He threw it into park, finally turning to look at you.
His eyes burned with something almost feral.
“We’re both going inside.” His voice was calm, brutal. “You will go directly to the bedroom. Undress. On your back. Legs open. Keep still—or else.”
The words sent molten heat pooling between your thighs. You scrambled out of the car, practically tripping over yourself as you hurried into the house to make your way to his bed.
As soon as you were in his room, you hastily started stripping off your dress. Your fingers trembled, pulling at the fabric as anticipation thrummed through you. By the time you were on the bed, legs spread just as he’d ordered, you were soaked.
And then—nothing.
Minutes passed. You clenched your fists in his sheets, fighting the urge to touch yourself, your chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.
You didn’t even realize he’d been watching.
“That desperate already, huh, pretty girl?”
His voice made you jolt.
He was leaning against the doorframe, a wicked smirk playing on his lips, taking his time drinking in the sight of you.
“Y-yes,” you stuttered, any attempt at appearing unaffected crumbling under the weight of his stare.
Pushing off the wall, he approached the bed slowly, methodically. The way his muscles flexed beneath his button-down as he tugged it loose from his slacks was almost obscene. You barely caught yourself propping up on your elbows for a better look—
A mistake.
In an instant, he was over you, yanking your wrists into one hand, delivering a smack to your throbbing cunt. You moaned, hips twitching, desperate for more.
“What did I say about moving?”
Your lip quivered. His hands slid under your hips, yanking you down the bed, trapping you between his strong thighs.
“Seems like you need a reminder about who’s in charge, yeah, baby?” His voice was dark amusement as he continued to unbutton his shirt, inspecting you through hooded brown eyes.
His smirk turned predatory. “Well, all you had to do was ask.”
You barely had time to gasp before his fingers were between your legs, taunting—taking his time. The game wasn’t over.
Not by a long shot.
He slides one inside, crooking it just right, pressing it against that perfect spot as if to say, good luck.
You thrash beneath him, moaning, “yes, Luigi,” and just as quickly, he withdraws, leaving you clenching around nothing, the sudden loss making you keen with frustration.
“So fucking needy, aren’t you?” He taunts, licking his lips as he watches you squirm.
Locking you between his legs once again, Luigi takes his time, pulling off his shirt agonizingly slowly before moving lower, unbuckling his brown leather belt. His movements are deliberate, meant to draw your attention—and it works. Your breath stutters as the belt slides free from its loops, your eyes fixated on the thick outline of his cock, hard and straining beneath his slacks.
When he finally pulls the belt free, he wraps it firmly around your wrists, securing it with a satisfied smirk. He chuckles mildly at your whining response.
Digging through his bedside drawer, he extracts a bottle of lube and the navy blue vibrator—your favorite, usually. Tonight, it feels like a threat.
He pushes your bound wrists above your head, pinning them in place. A moment later, he drips the slick fluid onto your swollen clit, cool against your overheated skin. Your hips jerk instinctively, but his hand on your low belly holds you still.
Then—click, click, click, click. He brings the vibrator immediately to full intensity, its buzz unrelenting.
You gasp sharply, arching your back, but he’s not done. With two fingers, he spreads your hood up, exposing your delicate bud completely before pressing the vibrator directly against you as he crouches between your legs.
The shockwaves radiate through your entire body. You can’t hold still. It’s too much, and yet, not nearly enough.
The tension, the torment, the denial—it’s been building all night, and now you’re hurtling toward your climax at record speed.
And then—he yanks the vibrator away from your core, just as you’re about to unravel.
You all but wail in response, wrists jerking against the belt, hips rolling uselessly toward nothing.
“Look at you, baby,” he coos at you. “Thought I’d let you get off that easy?”
He strokes the soft skin of your trembling thighs with contrary sweetness to his biting remark.
“After toying with me like that at the bar, you’re going to have to prove to me you can behave if you want to come tonight.”
“Please,” you bear out through gritted teeth.
His eyes flash, predatory amusement flickering across his face. “Tell me how bad you need it.”
His taunts are relentless, but softened by the tender touch he continuously peppers you with: pressing kisses along your twitching thighs, fingertips caressing your cheeks as you gasp and shudder beneath him.
“More than anything,” you huff out, gritting your teeth.
Satisfied with your answer, the vibrator’s unforgiving buzz returns, rumbling against your overstimulated clit, a merciless, throbbing pulse. You’re so close again, so fucking close—
Just when he removes it from your heat once again.
You scream, almost sobbing, cursing and writhing against him.
“Shhh, I know, I know,” he murmurs, tracing soothing circles along your hips, but his grin is nothing short of smug.
“You’re so fucking dramatic, baby,” he shakes his head. “Shaking and falling apart. I haven’t even fucked you yet.”
You whimper, chest heaving, body trembling uncontrollably. Your skin is burning with frustration.
“Think you can behave now?” He taunts, running his knuckles over your soaked folds, teasing along your entrance but refusing to give you what you really need.
Your hips buck uselessly after his hand, chasing any kind of friction. “Yes, yes, please, I swear. I swear,” you sob.
“Mmm, I don’t know.” He glides his fingers between your sensitive folds, keeping you on the ledge. “You look so pretty like this—" he dips in, just the tips of his index and middle finger, before pulling away again. “Maybe I should keep you here a little longer.”
“Luigi, please,” you beg, gripping his forearm like a vice.
“Fuck, y/n,” he groans. His resistance begins to crack as he watches you tremble, the grit in his response showing you just how worked up he is for you. Then, with one smooth motion, he plunges two fingers into your desperate, dripping heat.
Your head snaps back, mouth falling open in a soundless cry as your entire body melts beneath him. The relief is so immediate, so overwhelming, you barely register the sharp curl of his fingers, dragging against that perfect spot inside you.
He keeps them there, pressing, stroking, working you open, watching with blown pupils as your thighs quiver and shake.
“There you go, baby,” he murmurs, leaning down to press an open-mouthed kiss to your stomach, dragging his teeth against your skin. “Taking what I give you, just like you should.”
He rolls your peaked nipple with one hand as his fingers keep moving inside you—deep, slow, deliberate—but you both know it’s not enough. You’re too strung out from all the denial, and even as your walls flutter around him, you know you need more.
Your hands jerk uselessly against the belt around your wrists, the leather biting into your skin as you try to grab him, pull him closer. “Need you,” you whimper. “Please, Luigi—please.”
His dark eyes flick up to yours, hot and unreadable for an instant before he smirks.
“Oh, now you need me?” He curls his fingers sharply, wrenching a sob from your throat. “Could’ve sworn you were doing just fine teasing me all night.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you rush out, the words spilling from your lips, messy, frantic. “I swear, I’ll be good, I just—fuck, I need you.”
His smirk deepens. “Mmm,” he sighs. “That’s better.”
He withdraws his fingers slowly, deliberately, watching your wrecked expression with admiration as he spreads your slick with his fingertips. “So fucking wet for me, amore.” He brings them to his mouth, sucking them clean, groaning softly at your taste. “Jesus. Should’ve made you wait even longer.”
You whimper, squirming, arching up toward him helplessly. “No, no, please—”
“Shhh, shhh—I’ve got you.”
He grabs your chin, tilting your face up, catching your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss that leaves you panting. He’s done teasing now—you can taste it in the way his tongue claims you, the way his grip tightens around your jaw.
Then, finally, finally, he sits back on his knees, pushing his slacks and fitted briefs down in one fell swoop. His cock springs free: thick, heavy, his tip dripping precum.
The sight of him alone makes you whimper, legs spreading wider on instinct.
He strokes himself lazily, teasing you with the sight, but you’re so far gone, your body writhing, begging, aching—you can’t handle another second.
“Please,” you sob. “Need to feel you. Please, Luigi—”
His gaze softens—just a flicker, just for a second, before he gives in.
“Yeah, baby?” He knits his dark brows together, mischief and lust playing behind his eyes. “Need me to take care of you?”
You nod furiously as he lines himself up, running the thick head of his cock against your clit before dipping into your dripping folds, pressing just the tip inside before stopping.
Your breath catches, every nerve on fire.
He leans down, forehead to yours, voice a low, dark whisper.
“Then take it,” he whispers, forcing his entire length into you in one fell stroke.
Your eyes flutter shut as you cry out, body instinctively clenching as he stretches you, slow and deliberate.
Now edging back toward sweetness after making you endure his punishment, he thrusts into you with measured control, making sure you feel every inch. His fingers thread through your hair, gently but firmly tilting your face toward him.
“Eyes on me,” he murmurs, voice dark with intent. “Look at me when I give you what you’ve been begging for.”
He starts slow, rolling his hips with each stroke, pressing deep, hitting that perfect spot over and over. The coil inside you tightens, heat pooling and spreading through every nerve.
“You want to come on this big cock, pretty girl?” he taunts, his breath hot against your skin. “Show me.”
You meet him halfway, rolling your hips up, urging him deeper. When your hands grip the back of his neck, he stills for just a second—then shifts, lifting your hips and sliding a pillow beneath you as he throws your legs over his shoulders, angling for more.
“That’s it,” he grunts, palm landing on your ass before his pace quickens, matching your urgency. When your thighs start twitching, his fingers find your clit, tracing tight, focused circles between you.
“Oh, baby—I know you’re close.” His voice is deep, reverent, his eyes locked on yours as he drives you closer to the edge. His movements grow frenzied, determined, his own restraint unraveling as he works to push you over.
“Let go for me,” he gasps, his rhythm breaking as he fights against his own release. “I need all of it.”
His name spills from your lips as you shatter beneath him, the pleasure hitting like a tidal wave. Your hands clutch at his arms, nails leaving half moons in his skin as your body clenches around him, lost to the euphoria he’s dragged you toward all night.
“There she is,” he praises, looking down at you with a mix of awe and need. “That’s my good fucking girl. So good for me.”
But he’s still not done with you yet, milking every bit of your orgasm out of you as he chases his own high. You spasm around him as his thrusts turn rougher, more urgent—grip tightening, breath ragged against your skin. His voice is raw, fraying as he loses control.
“Fuck, baby—squeezing me so tight—” A groan rumbles through his chest as he pounds into you, chasing that final push as you jolt underneath him, still reverberating from your own drawn-out high.
“You’re mine,” he grits out, forehead pressed against yours. “I need to show you how much, baby—need to fill you up—”
He has you nearly has you folded in half from the way he’s drilling into you. His fingers dig into your hips, holding you still as he thrusts deeper, sharper, his restraint slipping completely. “Take it—fuck, baby, I’m—“
His voice breaks, a strangled moan escaping as he shudders against you, buried deep, pulsating inside you as he gasps your name like a prayer.
He slumps against your legs, breath ragged, chest heaving. His weight presses into you, pinning you beneath him, and when he catches the strain flickering across your face, he shifts—easing out, rolling to the side, and turning toward you.
A lazy smirk tugs at his lips as he runs his thumb along yours. “You look especially beautiful when you’re wrecked like this.”
You roll your eyes at him lovingly, smiling slightly in your fucked out haze.
His fingers trace your face, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple before rising from the bed. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”
With effortless strength, he lifts you, carrying you bridal style before setting you on unsteady feet near the bathroom door. A hand glides down your back, and with a soft pat on your butt, he gently nudges you forward. “I’ll be right back,” he murmurs, swiping your water bottle on his way out.
Still breathless, you glance at the mirror and stifle a giggle at your reflection—mascara smudged, hair a wild mess.
“You laughing, pretty girl?” His voice rumbles as he steps back in, ice rattling against the sides of your bottle. He’s stripped down to just his black briefs, gaze warm, inviting. “C’mere,” he pats his thigh. “Tell me what’s so funny.”
Your legs tremble as you shuffle his way, and the moment you reach him, he pulls you into his lap, tucking you against his chest like you belong there.
He strokes your hair as his own laughter rumbles underneath you. “Your little stunt was cute, baby. Was all that attitude at the bar worth it?”
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