Babe can I pleaseeeee request something in honor of Lu’s recent beefy appearance. Where his girl is obsessed, can’t get enough of how big and beefy he’s getting on his bulk. Like they’re fucking multiple times a day, they make eye contact and she’s pouncing on him 😩 bc me af aaaaa 😫😫
Bulking Season
a/n: omg this req is from luigi’s september appearance 😭 sorry guyssss
tw: nsfw smut, piv, oral, um idk this is literally porn w/o plot, 3 rounds
wc: 1.4k
tags: @iinfinitelimits, @mangobabygirl, @mangionesdaisy, @poohkie90, @mrs-cactus69, @bbyelle12, @bornresilient
———
You don’t even pretend to play it cool anymore.
Ever since Luigi started bulking, he’s been walking around the house looking like a man specifically engineered to ruin your self-control — thicker arms, broader chest, veins in places that should be illegal. And the worst part?
He has no idea what he looks like. He’ll just stretch or reach for something and your brain shuts off like a dying appliance.
Every time you make eye contact, it’s over. He’ll glance at you from across the room and you’re already crossing the floor, already tugging his shirt up, already climbing into his lap like your body acts first and informs you later.
At first he’s shocked, breath catching when you straddle him on the couch. Then he gets cocky.
“Again?” he murmurs, hands gripping your waist — one hand now enough to hold you exactly where he wants. “Didn’t I fuck you stupid two hours ago?”
“you got bigger,” you whisper, grinding down on him, shameless. “you look so good I can’t think.”
And God — that does something to him.
He flips you onto your back like you weigh nothing, settles between your thighs with that new bulk pressing into you everywhere, crowding you, owning the space.
“Yeah?” he says, voice lower than you’ve ever heard. “You want it that bad?”
You nod, desperate, pulling at his shoulders, needing him inside you more than you need air.
He laughs — soft, breathless, hungry — before kissing you hard.
“I swear,” he growls against your mouth, lining up, pushing in deep with one long, perfect thrust, “the bigger I get, the needier you get.”
You moan into his chest. He groans into your throat.
And he fucks you like he’s testing the limits of every new muscle he built — slow at first, then harder, deeper, using his thickness to hold you down when you arch away, making you take every inch.
By the time he’s done with you, you’re limp, trembling, ruined.
And of course — two hours later, he catches you staring at his biceps again.
He had just walked into the kitchen shirtless, hair messy from a post-workout shower, shoulders insanely wide, veins still raised on his arms?
Yeah. You don’t stand a chance.
You don’t even pretend to hide it.
You look at him for one second — one single second — and he gives you that slow, knowing smirk that tells you he’s already seen how your thighs pressed together.
“Come here,” he murmurs.
You don’t walk. You pounce.
He catches you easily, big hands gripping your waist like you weigh nothing, pulling you into a kiss that’s all teeth and hunger. His chest is hot and solid under your palms — thick, heavy muscle you can’t stop touching.
“Can’t get enough of me, huh?” he laughs against your mouth, squeezing your ass with both hands. “My girl’s obsessed.”
“Maybe I am,” you pant, burying your face in his neck. “You’re so big, Lu… I can’t think straight.”
He groans — a deep, wrecked sound — and spins you around, hands already moving you exactly where he wants you. Before you can breathe, your hips are pressed to the cold counter, his body crowding you from behind, stomach flush to your spine.
“Hands on the counter,” he says, voice low. “You wanna act hungry? I’ll feed you.”
Your fingers curl against the countertop as he drags your shorts down, the air hitting your skin just before his palm does — warm, wide, claiming.
“Look at this,” he murmurs, spreading you open with one big hand. “Dripping for me already. Just from looking at me.”
When he pushes into you, it’s with the confidence of a man who knows you’ve been needing this all day — slow only for the first inch, then deeper, then deeper, until you’re gasping and the counter is creaking beneath you.
“Fuck— you feel tighter when you’re desperate,” he groans into your shoulder, grabbing your hips, pulling you back onto him with every thrust. “Like your body knows I’m getting bigger… and wants to keep up.”
You choke out his name, your knees trembling as his hand slides up your spine to press between your shoulder blades, gently but firmly bending you lower against the counter.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, fucking you harder. “Let me hear you. Let all the neighbors know how much you need this.”
You moan so loud you surprise yourself.
He wraps one huge arm around your waist, lifting your hips into his rhythm, filling you so deep your vision blurs.
“Look at you,” he breathes, lips brushing your ear. “Can’t stop wanting me. Can’t stop taking me. My perfect little angel…”
The kitchen smells like simmering garlic and sweat and sex. He’s so warm against your back. So big around you. So deep inside you that you can barely stay upright.
And when he growls, “I’m not done with you… not even close,” you know the counter — and your body — are both going to remember this for days.
You barely get a breath before Luigi’s hands are on your hips again — big, warm, insistent — pulling you back against him like he can’t stand even a few inches of space.
“C’mere,” he murmurs, voice already dark with hunger.
You expect him to fuck you again right away, but instead he lifts you—easily, like you weigh nothing now that he’s bulked up—and sits you right on the kitchen counter. The cold marble shocks your thighs at the same moment his shoulders slot between them.
“Lu—” He looks up at you from between your legs, pupils blown, jaw tight.
“Spread,” he says softly. “Gonna eat you until you forget how to stand.”
You whimper, opening for him, and he immediately slides his hands beneath your thighs, dragging you to the edge like he’s starving. His mouth is on you before you can breathe — hot, slow, claiming licks that make your whole body jolt.
He groans against you, deep and hungry.
“Sweetest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever tasted,” he mutters, tongue circling your clit with lazy confidence. “Been thinkin’ about this all day.”
His grip is firm, keeping your thighs open even when they shake. He sucks, licks, eats you like he needs every drop, like this is his purpose on earth. And when you start to fall apart—when your fingers grip his hair and your hips grind against his face—he just moans, holding you still.
“Go on,” he growls, voice muffled. “Give me another one.”
You break. Loudly. Messily. His mouth never stops.
By the time he’s done with you, your legs are trembling so hard he has to carry you to the bedroom.
He lays you down gently, but there’s nothing gentle in the way he looks at you — pupils dark, chest rising fast, arms still pumped and veiny from holding you up against the counter.
“You ready for another?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.
You nod, dazed and needy. He gives a low chuckle.
“That’s my girl.”
He climbs over you, caging you in with those thick arms, the mattress dipping under his weight. When he kisses you, you taste yourself on his tongue — hot, slow, filthy.
Then he lines up, presses in slowly, deeply, all the way until your breath catches and his forehead drops to your shoulder with a groan.
“Fuck… you’re still so tight,” he whispers. “Gonna ruin this pretty pussy.”
He starts thrusting slowly at first, savoring how wrecked you already are, but every time he meets your eyes he gets hungrier. You grab his shoulders—broad, solid, bigger than ever from his bulk—and pull him closer.
That’s what does it.
He growls and snaps his hips harder, deeper, fucking you into the mattress, your back arching with every thrust. His hand slides under your knee, pushing your leg up to open you wider.
“You look so good taking me,” he pants. “So fuckin’ good—look at how you’re squeezin’ me, baby.”
Your nails rake down his back, and he shivers — shivers, this giant man reduced to trembling because of you.
He bends down, mouth on your neck.
“Want you to fall apart on my cock,” he whispers. “C’mon. Give me another.”
You do — violently, beautifully — clenching around him, crying his name, shaking in his hands. And he follows with a deep, broken moan, thrusting hard, burying himself as he cums, holding you exactly where he wants you.
When he collapses onto your chest, sweaty and breathless, he kisses your shoulder, your throat, your jaw.
“You’re gonna give me another,” he murmurs against your skin, “after a minute.”
You laugh weakly. “You’re insatiable.”
He kisses your cheek.
“You started it.”