the first time you meet luigi, you’re fumbling with peach’s leash outside your apartment when the door beside yours opens.
he steps out—tall, tan-brown hair tousled just enough to look effortless, eyes sharp and hazel. he doesn’t look much older than you—maybe late twenties, but there’s a quiet maturity in the way he carries himself, like someone who’s taken care of himself, both body and mind.
“you’re the one with the dog,” he says, voice low, no smile, just the barest tilt of his head.
“yeah,” you say, suddenly aware of how much you’re holding the leash like a lifeline. “her name is peach.”
he shifts the weight of the kid on his hip and watches as the toddler stares at peach, unafraid.
“i’m luigi,” he adds. “and this is marco.”
your dog wags her tail, but she’s quieter now, like she senses the change in the air.
“you live here?” he asks, stepping a little closer than you expect, hazel eyes never leaving yours.
“just moved back for school,” you answer, trying to keep your voice steady.
“undergrad?” he asks.
“master’s,” you correct.
he nods slowly. “i’ve seen you around.”
there’s no warmth in the words—just a quiet, measured observation that makes you a bit nervous.
you swallow, suddenly aware of the heat creeping into your cheeks and how intensely you’d been staring. “well. hi, luigi.” you say. “i’m y/n.”
he holds your gaze longer than you’re comfortable with, like he’s weighing you up,
“peach really seems to like your son,” you say, hoping to lighten the moment.
“good,” he replies, voice tightening just a fraction. “he’s not going anywhere.”
you don’t pay much attention to the neighbors, but over time you’ve learned things here and there, bits and pieces caught without meaning to. luigi’s alarm blares sharp and insistent at 5:30 every morning—the kind of sound that cuts through both of your sleep schedules like a battle axe. by 7, he’s usually gone, quiet footsteps down the hallway, a low murmur from the apartment next door signaling marco’s wakeup.
sometimes, if you time it right, you catch him jogging down the corridor shirtless just after dropping off the kid at daycare: the faint sheen of sweat on his sun-kissed sicilian skin, muscles flexing with each stride, hair tousled from the early run.
today, returning from peach’s determined thirty minutes of exploring every leaf and crack in the pavement, you spot luigi emerging into the hallway, but he’s not alone.
a woman walks beside him, lean and striking, her dark hair pulled back tightly. her features are sharp and unmistakably italian, her expression unreadable as she balances a couple of worn leather bags in one hand. the way luigi’s shoulder subtly shifts toward her, the ease between them, is something you’ve never seen before. you weren’t sure exactly when luigi moved in, but he’d always been a quiet presence, mostly solitary, with no obvious other half in his routine.
the moment hangs for just a beat before they disappear down the stairs, leaving the faint scent of her perfume lingering behind—something warm and earthy.
ugh. you really thought you’d grown out of being so nosy.
you’re in the laundry room on the first floor, folding towels that still smell like lavender detergent and city water, when the door swings open behind you. you glance over your shoulder, expecting a stranger.
but it’s luigi.
he steps inside without hesitation, marco tucked under one arm like it’s nothing. the kid’s sleepy but still a bit giddy, cheek pressed to luigi’s collarbone, eyes wide and curious.
he sets a laundry basket on the machine beside yours.
his brown eyes set on you. “you’re always on time.”
you blink. “for laundry?”
“routine says a lot about a person,” he says. you wonder if he’s noticed you studying his. the toddler frees himself from his grip, stumbling around the marble floor. luigi begins pulling clothes out of the basket without another look. you’re not as disciplined. your gaze lingers a bit, just enough.
he seems lighter today. not exactly talkative, but looser. a little more open. maybe his girlfriend straightened him out. gave him a bit more personality.
you pause mid-fold, curious. “and what’s mine say?”
“still figuring that out,” he says. then glances at you, his expression unreadable. “but peach seems to like it. you know, growing up, my dog used to lose his mind when the sink turned on.”
you nodded. “aggressive reaction to plumbing.”
he huffs a laugh. low, barely there. but there.
you steal another glance at him. plain black t-shirt, sleeves pushed up, features sharp even in the bad fluorescent light. eyes focused on the clothes but still clearly aware of you.
you clear your throat.
“is your whole family italian?”
very subtle. he’ll never notice.
“what gave it away?”
“the name,” you say. “and… the woman from the other day. she looked italian.”
his folding slows. not much. but you notice. his hands still for half a second. then resume. deliberate.
“she is,” luigi says, voice flat. “but we’re not together. haven’t been in a long time.”
you reel back, offended at how quickly you were caught. “i didn’t assume—”
“yeah, you did,” he says. not unkindly. there’s a lift to his tone. almost amused. “but that’s fine.”
you keep folding, not sure what to say to that, so instead you go with the thing that’s been sitting in your throat since the first time he looked at you too long.
“you know, you’re kind of intimidating.” it slips out quieter than you expect. no drama, no irony. just a small, true thing.
this time, he does look at you. “why?”
you shrug, eyes fixed on the towel in your hands. “you’re serious. and quiet. and you notice things. that combination kind of scrambles me.”
he watches you a beat longer, then says, “you don’t come off like someone who gets scrambled.”
“i don’t usually,” you think out loud.
“i’d argue that’s far more intimidating.”
you laugh, surprised. “so now we’re both scared of each other?”
“no,” he says, a little too quickly. amusement clearer this time. “i’m not scared of you.”
“then what?”
you meet his eyes. it lingers this time. longer, warmer, closer.
“still figuring that out.”
neither of you moves. the dryer buzzes behind you, ignored. peach shifts at your feet. marco babbles in the distance.
finally, luigi looks away first. folds another shirt.
but his voice is low when he says:
“you’ll get used to me.”
the third time you talk to luigi, it feels like a dreaded step back into awkward acquaintanceship.
it’s late, and you’re just about to close your apartment door when you hear footsteps behind you. luigi’s standing there, the curly-haired toddler sleeping against his chest, eyes steady on you and the guy you’ve been talking to—someone from a recent class, nothing serious, just another midnight delay. the guy steps back and away, giving you space without a word.
you clear your throat, suddenly aware of how terrible you looked.
“luigi,” you say, trying to sound casual.
luigi raises an eyebrow at you. “who was that?”
you glance back at the figure disappearing down the hall. despite your barely budding friendship, you felt caught. like you were keeping secrets he was entitled to.
you were terrible at lying on the spot. “what do you mean?”
“what do i mean?” he repeats, expected.
you try to laugh it off, but the sound feels hollow. the guy leaves the hallway without so much as a goodbye. you chew the inside of your lip, wholly aware of how this looks. “my friend just dropped something off.”
luigi’s tired brown eyes wash over your face. he doesn’t believe you for a second. “at four in the morning?”
“when you put it like that, it does sound bad.”
“isn’t it?”
for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you: his steady presence, the quiet hum of his breathing, the way his eyes soften ever so slightly.
you swallow hard, heart thudding in a way that might have nothing to do with embarrassment.
“look,” he says after a pause, voice gentler now, carefully folding his intensity into something almost tender, “i’m not here to judge you. just…don’t let it become a habit. you have early mornings.”
“alright, dad,” you say, mock-saluting, your tone laced with just enough sarcasm to keep things light. “i’ll be on my best behavior.”
the door shuts behind him, and that’s the last you see of luigi for a while. your plan is simple and flawless: no more embarrassing encounters with the hot neighbor. none. zero.
with any luck, the next time you see him will be a year from now, in the mailroom or something, and he’ll smile politely like you’re just another face in the building. clean slate. no lingering awkwardness. no weird tension. because honestly, the last thing you need is to fumble your way through a close-proximity crush when you’re barely holding it together in your master’s program.
still, you hear him.
luigi’s alarm still goes off at 5:30. he’s out the door by 7. and you know—you know—he hears your blender screaming through the wall when you make your frozen fruit smoothies. once, you swear you hear him laugh, low and muffled, but it could’ve been the pipes. your mornings follow a different rhythm: up by 6, protein within 30 minutes, walk peach the second luigi’s car disappears down the block, slap on makeup, and bolt to your 8 a.m, fruit smoothie in hand. you’re always a few minutes late, but your one-night stand turned note-taker never misses a lecture. it’s a system.
with lectures cancelled, you’re thrown a bit off beat. you’re halfway through your coffee, tucked into the corner of the café with your earbuds in but no music playing—the universal signal for leave me alone. and honestly, you’d hoped it’d work.
but then you feel it: the weight of someone standing too close. the static of their presence.
you look up.
it’s luigi.
gray hoodie. scruff. iced green tea in hand. same unreadable look in his eyes.
“hey,” luigi says, not bothering to ask if he can sit. just does.
you blink.
“thought you were a smoothie-for-breakfast kind of girl,” he adds, casual.
you shoot him a look. "thought you were a mind-your-own-business kind of guy."
his lips twitch into a half-smile. “i pay attention. can’t help it.”
“there’s a difference between paying attention and being creepy,” you say, only half-joking. you’ve caught him watching you before—sometimes on your walk home from class, you see his silhouette leaning against his car, all casual and cool like he just happened to be there. you had to focus hard on not looking back. on pretending you didn’t feel his eyes on you the whole way down the block.
he blows out a breath. “creepy’s a strong word.”
“you’re skating close.”
“guilty. but at least i can be honest about it.”
you roll your eyes but can’t stop the small smile.
“so,” he says, taking another sip of his drink, “how’s michael from stats?”
you nearly go into anaphylactic shock; your lashes flutter. caught. your laptop’s still open—too open—and sure enough, the last message on screen is a deeply unhinged text thread between you and said michael. you snap it shut.
“don’t start.”
he looks good. he always does, unfortunately. that olive skin, the warm brown hair that never seems to sit still, the sleeves of his shirt pushed up just to brag. you’re not sure if it’s the eyes, or the voice, or the fact that he somehow smells like bergamot and sandalwood and the beach.
he raises an eyebrow, all innocent. “what? just trying to keep things… neighborly.”
sure. friends. white flag. truce.
you shrug, being honest. “we’re not talking.”
“looked like you were talking a lot,” he says, grinning.
you narrow your eyes. “you’re enjoying this way too much.”
he leans in slightly. “maybe. but come on—you’ve been avoiding me for two weeks.”
“that’s not true,” you say, lying in his face. “i’ve just been busy.”
“you’ve been avoiding me,” he says again, tone final.
“hardly.” you say. “you’ve been lurking.”
“i live here.”
“you timed your afternoon walks to mine.”
“you changed your route.”
“you changed yours.”
he smiles—sharp, a little smug. “you noticed.”
you ignore that. “maybe i just didn’t feel like making awkward small talk with my hot neighbor who forgets how to blink.”
the word hot slips out before you can stop it. his eyebrows shoot up. you instantly feel the crash of your own dignity sinking somewhere near your stomach.
“you think i’m hot?”
you roll your eyes and turn your head away. “not the point.”
he leans forward slightly, elbows on the table, voice lower now. “so what is the point? that you’d rather talk to michael from stats?”
you frown.
“you left your screen open,” he continues, light. “i figured you wanted an opinion.”
“okay, fine.” you sigh. “what’s your opinion?”
he leans in just slightly—close enough that you feel it, the shift in air. “i’d say michael’s not your type.”
you open your mouth to say something sarcastic, anything to cut through it, but luigi moves before you can. he grabs your chair with one hand—casual, like you’ve done this a million times before—and pulls you close. the other brushes your jaw, a soft, sure touch. his thumb pauses near your cheekbone. there’s heat in his gaze, something reckless and unreadable.
“tell me to back off,” luigi says, voice low.
you don’t.
his hand slides from your wrist to the side of your face, thumb grazing your jaw, and for a second he just looks at you. searching. waiting.
“this is a bad idea,” you whisper.
“the worst,” he says.
and then he kisses you.
it’s not sweet. it’s not practiced. it’s heat and frustration and something like longing, poured into one breathless, unguarded second. his mouth moves against yours with slow urgency, like he’s been thinking about this since day one and can’t hold it back anymore. needy, but firm. like he’d been holding it back without even knowing it. your fingers curl into his shirt, anchoring yourself, and when he deepens the kiss, you let him. his mouth is warm and certain, and for a second, your brain short-circuits: you’re in the middle of a crowded café and luigi, your maybe-jealous, maybe-unhinged neighbor, is kissing you like he’s claiming something.
when he pulls back—just barely—his thumb brushes your cheek. you’re both breathing hard.
you’re the first to speak. “we shouldn’t have done that.”
his thumb brushes your jaw, slow. “you say that like we’re not gonna do it again.”
you swallow. “we barely know each other.”
he huffs a quiet laugh, gaze still fixed on your mouth. “i know enough.”
you raise a brow. “yeah?”
he leans in, mouth close to your ear now. his voice drops—low, certain, dangerous in that way that makes your knees threaten to give out.
“i know i’ve wanted to do that since we met in the hallway.”
you almost smile.
almost.
but you’re still too breathless for it. too wired. too wrecked by how good that felt.
you look up at him, steady. “so now what?”
“now,” he starts. “i think you should get into my car.”
you’re making out with him in the backseat like horny teenagers within five minutes. he nudges aside the delicate lace of your panties, his fingertips pressing against the slick heat between your legs. a gasp hitches in your throat.
his fingers crooked to hit that perfect spot that makes you feel like you might cry if he rubbed it too much. you noises sound much louder now, jagged and pitchy.
"you’re such a tease," luigi murmurs, his motions not slowing. "keeping me from this. keeping all your pretty noises to yourself."
and, as if he'll know what it'll do, he stretches his hand, veins bulging in his forearm, and plants his thumb on your clit. you jolt against the new stimulation, another desperate gasp escapes you, and luigi moans against your neck.
his hand keeps moving, fingers still plunging into your soaking cunt, thumb rubbing tight, small circles on your clit. you cling to him, hips rolling to meet his strokes, the heat in you storming, suddenly desperately fast. your breathing comes out heavy and if it's not a moan, it's his name.
"feelin' good? ‘m i making my girl feel good?" luigi says, voice hot and raspy against your throat. he starts on his marks, leaving a trail of sloppy hot kisses on your neck.
he lets out a low groan, leaning down to suck another sloppy hickey against your shoulder. he’s insiatiable.
you buck against his hand, crying out, and then pant like a little puppy when he starts to slow it down after several long moments. you truly can’t move a muscle, you’re completely at his mercy and he loves it. you’re shaking, fumbling at his belt, really not getting anything done, and he smiles against your jaw.
"don’t know how to unbuckle a belt?"
“luigi,” you whine. “please—i need you now.”
“i know, baby,” he murmurs, low. your faces were inches apart, your lips parted as you watched him reach between your bodies and grab his cock, slowly giving it a few pumps before he aligned himself with your core.
"fuck," he groans, the feeling of your wet core overwhelming his senses. you stretched around him so perfect, taking him so well he couldn't help himself. “i’ve needed you for weeks.”
your body contorts under his harsh pace. your limbs are reduced to jelly.
"so pretty," he cooed, cupping your face. "all for me, right?"
“yes,” you whisper, barely breathing. “all your’s.”
he brings his hand up to your chin, moving your mouth open. he’s so cocky, so smug. his eyes glimmer as he spits in your mouth.
"that's it, c'mon princess, cum for me, cum all over this cock like the good little girl you—“
the phone rings. his pace stutters.
you whimper, squeezing your thighs around his hips, your heels digging into his back as he reaches for his cellphone and frowns down at the caller id. there’s a flicker in his eyes, a something you’re not quite sure of.
“luigi—” you start.
"shh... quiet princess, unless you want someone to hear," he murmurs, before swiping up and pressing the phone to his ear.
your eyes widen, but before you could argue, luigi rocks his hips down deep into yours and has to press his palm over your mouth to muffle your squeak.
“good morning, sweetheart,” he says, voice sarcastic as he throws you a wink. you’re already too fucked out to respond. was it his ex? “i’ll come by and get him right after practice….i haven’t forgotten, no….”
you don’t hear half of the conversation and can’t bring yourself to. you still haven’t comprehended how huge he feels. it hurts it hurts it hurts. as if the insides of your body have been set alight, limbs writhing uselessly. a stormy, bubbling heat deep in your belly. you can’t even gasp at the sensation. not when you’ve felt fuller than you ever have in your life.
"huh? no nothing—just uh—” luigi raises an eyebrow down at you, moving his hips, the feel of his cock dragging inside you nearly makes your eyes roll back. fucking tease.
your walls clench down around him desperately, biting down hard on your own lips to keep from making noise. a part of you is flared with jealousy, but the majority of you is too wrapped up in lust to do anything more than a glare. he smirks, resting his free hand on your hip to hold you still as he tugs back for a particularly hard thrust.
“doin' some maintenance work," luigi says, chuckling darkly.
"some of these screws are in a bit tight," he winks, pulling back and thrusting forward once more, "y'know how things get when they're not... worked out properly once in a while.”
you squeeze your eyes shut, feeling the coil tighten inside you with every dreadfully slow movement of his hips. the tip of the length nudges up against your g-spot, you’re biting so hard on your lip, you’re sure it bleeds. you scrabble underneath him, trying desperately to give him a warning tug as he laughs at something his ex says.
"i get it, i’ll be on time,” luigi says, leaning down to kiss your jaw. “this won’t take long.”
he clicks off without a goodbye and throws his phone into the front seat.
"f-fuck luigi, th-that's not funn—” you try to force out a coherent sentence, but luigi only coos as he reaches down between you to slap your clit. immediately, your mouth falls open, and you jerk up against him. he chuckles.
“such a good girl for me,” he says, kissing you sweetly. you gave him your tongue, which he accepted with a grin. “so fuckin’ well behaved. i could take you anywhere, huh?”
you’re so close. “mhmm,” you whimper. “yes daddy.”
you felt yourself heat up. your cheeks red hot as you realised your blunder, and you started to scrabbled together some apology. but luigi wasn't surprised. not in the slightest. he just chuckled, effectively cutting you off and making you even wetter with humiliation.
"alright, baby,” he says. “take it for daddy."
and just like that, you're his perfect little toy.
"god fuck—fuck—you're so tight, pretty girl—y'hear how wet you are for me?" luigi asks. breathless, your body only allows for a small, desperate nod of your head as he hoists your leg up to fuck you deeper. “he didn’t fuck you properly, did he? didn’t know how to fuck you like daddy does?”
you lost control of yourself. luigi’s eyes darken as you whimper underneath him, slamming his mouth back onto yours to drink in every moan.
“good fuckin’ girl,” he growls as you cum around him. letting out a sharp hot hiss of his own as he slams his hips into you, palm squeezing your tits so hard you think you're about to burst.
he doesn’t wait. he shoots his load into you with a choked whine and he doesn't pull out—doesn't want to abandon the tight warmth of your hole hugging his cock like the world’s prettiest little fleshlight. he simply fucks back into you with a blissful groan.
"look what you did to me, baby," he mutters, almost dazed, like he really couldn't believe it. his cock stayed buried inside you, slow and purposeful, dragging out every last drop.
“luigi,” you whine. “sensitive.”
“‘m sorry, principessa,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. more smug than sorry, you catch it in his smile.
the car creaks slightly as he leans back, pulling his pants up with one hand while the other lingers on your thigh, like he’s not ready to let go just yet. you exhale, trying to will your pulse into something normal. normal finally comes—and your sound, sober mind is wondering what the hell you’re just thrown yourself into.
you adjust your sweater, fix your skirt, open the door without another word.
“hey,” he says, confused. “what are you—”
you’re already stepping out onto the pavement, the night air sharp against your flushed skin.
“where are you going?” he calls after you, his voice still casual—but under it, a flicker of something else. something real.
you just walk, fast, shoes clacking against the quiet lot, the adrenaline in your body now shifting from want to regret. from heat to clarity. the car door swings open behind you. he calls again, louder this time. “get back in the car.”
you keep going.
“baby, come on.”
you turn your head just enough to look at him. “i dont know if you should be calling me that.”
he’s standing by the car now, shirt half-buttoned, sleeves rolled. wind in his hair. too handsome for someone who just ruined your sense of stability in the span of twenty minutes.
“what do you mean?” he asks.
you cross your arms. “this was a bad idea.”
he raises a brow. “you didn’t seem to think that ten minutes ago.”
you exhale hard. “you answered your ex’s call mid-sex, luigi.”
“you want me to ignore the person keeping my four-year-old today today?”
you open your mouth, then shut it. okay, fair. annoying, but fair.
“still,” you mutter.
“i knew it was about him. and you—” he tilts his head, watching you. “you didn’t stop either.”
you look down at your shoes.
he takes a step toward you. “what are you really freaking out about?”
you hesitate. “i don’t… do stuff like this.”
“what, parking lot sex or catching feelings?”
you shoot him a look.
luigi grins, slow and lopsided. “you didn’t hate it.”
you shake your head, staring out at the street, begging your senses to unnerve, your face to cool off. “you’ve got issues.”
and then you look at him—really look—and the smugness is still there, sure, but but beneath it something tightens—a flash of doubt, sharp and raw. not quite vulnerability, but a heavy weight you weren’t ready for. like if you walked away, it wouldn’t just hurt. it would pierce.
“get back in the car,” he says again, quieter this time. “it’s cold. i still wanna look at you.”
your chest tightens.
you hesitate for another beat.
then you sigh, roll your eyes a little and walk back.
he doesn’t smile like he’s won. just opens the door for you. waits until you’re in. shuts it gently behind you.
⋆ 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!)
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
stormborns
