#baby daddy luigi

[jealousjealousgurlll]

just a Lulu imagine

I imagine baby daddy Luigi is the ultimate girl dad to your daughter.

His house is filled with Barbies, baby dolls, nail polish, and anything your daughter likes. Her favorite activity to do with the both of you is to play Barbies. One night over at his house, the three of you play Barbies and mimic yourselves. Luigi has a male doll with curly hair, your daughter has a cute child doll and you have a doll with similar facial features to yourself. Your baby girl says "Whatever the Barbies do we do" Luigi mimics his doll to kiss your daughter's doll and he follows up by physically kissing her on the cheek. You do the same to your doll to your daughter and then kiss her on the opposite cheek. Luigi likes this concept and picks up your doll and his doll, kissing each other. "Okay Mommy, kiss Daddy," your daughter says, a part of you was annoyed about Luigi's actions but a "promise is a promise" right?. Luigi sat there with a smirk on his face, he crawled next to you, and without thinking you leaned in for a kiss. Fuck, it's been over three years since you kissed him. The kiss was more than magical, he slowly entered his tongue into your mouth causing you to giggle. Pulling away, the both of you smile. You would be a liar to say you did not enjoy the kiss. Your daughter was distracted with the dolls, Luigi pulled you in closer and whispered "My bed is often left cold and lonely, perhaps you can join me tonight if you like?". You laugh and whisper back "I just may take this offer".......

[viasdiary]

☆ jerk with benefits (luigi mangione x reader)

☆ word count: 1.8k

☆ warnings: unprotected sex, smut, hate-sex dynamic

☆ conceited frat luigi clashes with a stubborn main character, but they have insane sexual chemistry.

you’d been hooking up with luigi for a few weeks now, and honestly, the more time you spent with him, the more he got under your skin. his smug smirk, his stupid one-liners—everything about him was insufferable. you couldn’t stand luigi mangione. but, god, the sex? that was the only thing that made it even remotely worth it.

it had been one of those days. everyone was getting on your nerves, you had so much fucking work to do, and quite frankly you didnt have it in you to do much of anything.

even though you were at your wits end, you still found yourself outside luigi's chapter house, your hands tucked in the pockets of your navy blue sweats. if this was what it took to relieve your stress, then so be it.

you walk up to the door and knock a couple times.

luigi answers the door and the warm afternoon light highlights the curls in his dark hair. his broad chest is on display as he stands shirtless, his grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips, revealing the elastic band of his boxers.

a wide conceited grin spreads across his face as he studies you.

“just couldn't get enough of me, huh?” he teases.

“can i come in? it's fucking freezing.” you reply, unamused.

he moves out of your way as you push past him into the house.

the usual beer cans and pizza boxes are scattered in the kitchen. he walks behind you as you find your way to his room down the hall.

you enter luigi's room, the familiar scent of his cologne hitting your nose. without a word, you turn to face him, your eyes meeting his dark, intense gaze. the tension between you is palpable, a mix of contempt and visceral attraction.

luigi closes the door behind him as you take a seat on the bed, that infuriating smirk still plastered on his face. he sits next to you, placing his hand on your thigh.

"rough day?" he asks, his voice still as smug as ever.

you roll your eyes, not in the mood for his stupid small talk.

"shut up." you reply, grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him close.

his lips press into yours, hungry and demanding. your fingers tangle in his curls as his large hands roam your body, slipping under your sweater to caress your skin, feeling your bare waist.

the kiss deepens, and you feel the stress of the day melting away. you part your lips as you pull away and whisper

“y’know, you’re so nice when you’re not fucking talking.”

luigi chuckles against your lips, his breath hot on your skin.

"and you're so much nicer when you’re not complaining," he retorts, his hands sliding down to grip your hips firmly.

you bite back a moan as he trails kisses along your jawline, down to the sensitive spot on your neck. your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging slightly as he nips at your skin. you’d been craving this all day. as much as you couldn’t stand him, the feeling of his body against yours, your lips interlocked, it all just felt so right.

your hands roam over his broad shoulders and down his muscular back as luigi's lips continue their assault on your neck. you can feel the heat building between you, your body responding to his touch despite your best efforts to resist.

"god, i fuckin' hate you," you mutter, even as you tilt your head to give him better access.

luigi chuckles against your skin, the vibration sending shivers down your spine.

"feeling's mutual, sweetheart," he murmurs, his hands sliding under your sweater to caress your bare skin.

in one swift motion, he pulls your sweater over your head, tossing it carelessly to the floor. his eyes rake over your body, that cocky smirk still playing on his lips.

"but i gotta say, you look so good like this."

you roll your eyes, grabbing his face and pulling him in for another agressive kiss. your teeth clash as you kiss him roughly, pouring all your frustration and desire into it. luigi responds with equal fervor, his hands roaming your body, traveling between your shoulders and unhooking your bra, letting it fall onto the bed.

you push him down onto the bed, straddling his hips as you break the kiss. looking down at him, you can't help but admire how good he looks - his curls mussed, lips swollen, eyes dark with lust.

"shut up and fuck me already," you say impatiently, grinding down against him.

luigi's hands grip your waist tightly, his hips bucking up to meet yours.

"so demanding," he teases, but there's a strain in his voice that betrays his own need.

in one fluid motion, he flips you over, pinning you beneath him. his weight presses you into the mattress as

his lips crash into yours once more, hungry and insistent. his hands roam your body, caressing and teasing as he grinds against you. the friction sends waves of pleasure through you, making you arch into him.

luigi's mouth trails down your neck, nipping and sucking at your sensitive skin. you know he's leaving marks, but you're too far gone to care. his lips move lower, kissing along your collarbone and down to your breasts. when his mouth closes around your nipple, you can't hold back the moan that escapes you.

"fuck, luigi," you gasp, your fingers tangling in his curls.

you feel him smirk against your skin before he switches to your other breast, lavishing it with the same attention. his hand slides down your stomach, dipping beneath the waistband of your sweats. when his fingers brush against your sensitive core, you gasp and arch into his touch. luigi groans against your skin, feeling how ready you are for him.

"so wet for me already," he murmurs, his voice low and gentle. "and you say you hate me."

you tug sharply on his hair in retaliation, eliciting a groan from him.

"i already told you- just fuck me already," you demand breathlessly.

luigi doesn't need to be told twice. he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your sweats and underwear, pulling them down in one swift motion. as you kick them off, he begins to remove his own sweatpants, his erection springing free.

he settles back between your legs, teasing your wet cunt with the tip of his cock. you wrap your legs around his waist, trying to pull him closer, but he resists.

"tell me how much you fuckin' want me, how much you need me” luigi breathes against your ear, his voice husky with desire.

you groan in frustration, digging your nails into his back.

"fuck you," you spit out, even as your hips move upwards, seeking friction.

he chuckles darkly. "that's the idea, amore. but i wanna hear you say it."

his teasing is maddening, the tip of his cock sliding through your wet folds but never quite entering you. you're so wound up, so desperate for release, that you're willing to swallow your pride - just this once.

"fine," you sigh, your voice thick with need. "i want you. i need you inside me right fucking now. happy?"

luigi's smirk widens. "ecstatic," he taunts, and in one smooth thrust, he buries himself deep inside you.

you both groan at the sensation, your walls stretching to accommodate his size. he stills for a moment, allowing you to adjust, his forehead resting against yours. then he starts to move, setting a relentless pace that has you gasping and clawing at his muscular back.

the room fills with the lewd sound of skin slapping against skin, punctuated by your moans and luigi's grunts. he angles his hips, hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars. your legs tighten around his waist, pulling him deeper with each thrust.

"fuck, you feel so good baby," luigi groans against your neck, his breath hot on your skin. his pace quickens, each thrust driving you closer to the edge.

you're lost in the sensations - the fullness of him inside you, the friction of his body against yours, the intoxicating scent of his cologne mixed with sweat. as much as you hate to admit it, no one else has ever made you feel this good. him stretching you open like this is hard to manage.

“luigi, it‘s too much,” you whine, feeling him deep inside you. but even as you say it, your body betrays you, arching into him, craving more.

he exhales heavily, his lips brushing your ear.

"i don’t fuckin' care." his hips snap forward, driving into you harder. "i think you can take more, amore. i think you want more."

you bite back a moan, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. but god, he feels so good inside you, filling you completely. your nails dig into his back as you feel the tension building inside you, that familiar coil of pleasure tightening in your core.

luigi's hand snakes between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight circles. he has you gasping, your hips moving wildly against him as you cry out his name desperately.

"i thought you wanted this, baby. thought you needed me to fuck you."

his words, combined with the torturously slow drag of his cock inside you, make you whimper. you're so close, teetering on the edge of pleasure so intense it's almost painful.

"i do," you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders. "don't stop. please, luigi, i'm so close."

he continues relentlessly, picking up the pace once more, his fingers still roughly moving against your clit. the added stimulation has you arching off the bed, a cry of pleasure ripping from your throat.

"that's it," luigi encourages, his voice strained with his own approaching climax. "cum for me, amore. let me feel you."

his words push you over the edge. your orgasm crashes over you in waves of intense pleasure, your body shuddering beneath him as you cry out his name. your walls clench around him, pulling him deeper.

luigi groans, his hips moving erratically as your climax triggers his own. he buries himself to the hilt inside you, his cock pulsing as he finishes. you feel the warmth of his release filling you, prolonging your own pleasure.

for a moment, you both lie there, panting and intertwined. luigi's weight presses you into the mattress, his face buried in the crook of your neck. you can feel his heart racing against your chest, matching your own rapid heartbeat.

finally, luigi lifts his head, meeting your gaze with that stupid smirk of his.

"still hate me?"

[jjkbambi]

sorority car wash luigi mangione x reader (18+)

smut summary: your best friend’s brother luigi visits your sorority’s spring fundraiser

warnings: long ass argument, our frat boy #graduated, rough as usual, name-calling, p in dis v :3, is car sex public? car sex, implied cheating, jealous quickie, assume everything is unedited

the fundraiser had drawn out the worst of penn state: truck drivers, high school football coaches, republicans with obvious gambling addictions. despite the obvious discomfort around dancing around frat row in a bikini, there was an undeniable satisfaction in knowing every passing gaze was a dollar to your name.

well — not necessarily your name. it was a dollar to your sorority house, your sisters, your reputation. your public display was, in all, an investment for an impressive bullet point on your college resume. any level-headed businessman would’ve been able to see that.

unfortunately for you, luigi mangione majored in computer science.

your heart falls to the floor the second you see his car swerve into the street. your feet move quickly, running up to the side of his car before any of the girls could hound a dollar out of him. his window is down and you’re in it, both whispering and yelling, “what the hell are you doing here?”

“car wash,” the brunette boy says flatly, gesturing to the hastily painted cardboard signs wrapped around your sorority house.

“it’s for penn students only.” you say, trying to wave him off. the thought of him—or anyone else from back home—meeting your new fair-weather city friends is unbearable. it would take months to salvage your pride.

“it doesn’t say that anywhere.” luigi argues. “plus, i’m an alumni.”

interest washes over the crowd of busy rich cheerleaders as they begin to inch nearer to the scene. you’re frazzled and fucked. “mangione, please don’t embarrass me.”

“you’re embarrassing yourself,” luigi says. his eyes glance over your body, skin exposed and wet with the moisture and mess of the event, boobs perky underneath your strappy bra. “seriously, what the fuck are you wearing?”

you feel a rush of insecurity as you bring your arms up to cover yourself. “it’s sorority tradition—“

“we didn’t do any of this at my frat—”

“it was an engineering frat, you didn’t do anything—!” as your whining comes to a close, a pool of your sorority sisters begin to flood around you. your heart rate sparks.

“who’s this?” your roommate asks.

the italian boy is quick to smile at the new company, his earlier furrowed brows and fault-finding demeanor vanishing in an instant. “i’m luigi,” he says with a brief wave. “i’m with y/n.”

“he means we’re friends from back home,” you correct quickly, shooting a glare at him. “he actually went here. he was in phi psi.”

“aw,” your roommate coos. “those guys do my homework all the time.”

he reaches over to open the car door, the force pushing you aside as it swings open. “get in the car,” luigi says. you pause, confusion swirling around you. then, luigi glances at your crowd of sisters, acknowledging them with a slight nod. “i’m borrowing her for the day. is there some sort of curfew i need to know about?”

“no, but it’s karaoke night,” one of your sisters tell him. “you should come! it’ll be at zbt.”

luigi raises a brow. “the sports frat?”

“yeah,” your sister says, grinning. “y/n’s boyfriend is the president. he’s super nice—you’d like him.”

his eyes flick to you. “boyfriend?”

“luigi’s busy tonight,” you say, forcing a tight smile, desperate to change the subject. “besides, he’s probably super jet-lagged—he is supposed to be backpacking through asia right now, after all.”

“yeah, well,” luigi says, his voice cool but with an edge that stings, “i stopped by for my sister’s birthday this weekend.” his eyes narrow as he looks straight at you. “guess one of us had to remember.”

your shoulders stiffen under the weight of his words, heat rising to your face.

“aw, luigi, you’re so sweet!” one of your housemates chimes, completely oblivious to the tension brewing. your guilt crashes over you, hot and suffocating. it’s almost embarrassing, the sudden clarity of how far you’ve strayed, how horrible you’ve become. “y/n’s boyfriend does cute stuff like that too. he came all the way down this morning to get pictures of her in this new outfit.”

if you didn’t feel stupid and cold before, you most definitely do now.

luigi glances over his shoulder. “isn’t the zbt house just around the corner?”

your housemate, still oblivious, grins and adds, “yeah! he’s always doing cute stuff like that for her. like, he prints a bunch of pictures of her and made a wall in his room because he thought she’d think it was sweet.”

you had no intention of your best friend’s brother ever finding out about your flamboyant college romances, yet here he was, gossiping with your girls. “he took that down as soon as i asked him to,” you explain.

“yeah, and ever since then, he sends flowers like, everyday.” your sister hums, bright-eyed. “so thoughtful, right?”

luigi’s jaw clenches, and his shoulders tense. “yeah, cute,” he says, voice low and biting. “guess that’s what happens when you’ve got nothing better to do than play personal assistant.”

“luigi.” you say, a desperate attempt to draw the line.

“get in, now,” he beckons.

luigi’s dark eyes never leave you, boring into you with a relentless intensity that makes your stomach churn. the look isn’t anger—it’s something deeper, more personal, and it clings to you as you fumble into the passenger seat. each movement feels heavier than the last, his unyielding stare haunting you as you slip inside, shutting the door between you and the reality you can’t escape.

the car swerves sharply, pulling you from your thoughts as you put your head in your hands. “i totally forgot,” you mutter, voice barely audible.

“clearly, you had distractions,” luigi says, his tone colder than you expected, like a wall between you both.

you feel his disappointment radiating through the air, and it hits harder than you’d like to admit. “you know,” he continues, his voice laced with bitterness, “back when we were close, you never would’ve forgotten something like that. but i guess things are different now.”

you wince, knowing he’s right. you’ve been so caught up in college, in the chaos of sorority life, parties, and the constant buzz of new experiences, that you’ve lost touch with everything that once mattered. and now, forgetting his sister’s birthday feels like the final nail in the coffin.

the silence hangs heavily between you, suffocating and full of unspoken truths. you can’t even find an apology that would suit the sin.

he reaches over to the backseat, tossing his jacket over your cold body, his fingers brushing against your skin as he does. “you look stupid like this,” he mutters, his voice laced with something deeper than frustration.

“it’s fucking weird,” luigi continues. “i used to watch you, how effortlessly you picked things up, how eager and excited you were for everything.” he sighs, his gaze flickering to you for a moment, like he’s trying to see the version of you he once knew. “but now… now it’s like you’re someone else. all that potential, all that drive—it’s like you’ve buried it under all this nonsense. i don’t even recognize you anymore.”

“oh, come on, luigi,” you say, defensive. it felt weird to have him like this—so cruel, so suddenly. “i make one mistake and now you don’t recognize me?”

he tuts, then rolls his eyes. “don’t act fucking dense.”

“i’m sorry, okay?” you say, half-defeated. “you’re not exactly giving me a chance to explain.”

“an explanation isn’t good enough.”

“just because i forgot one day doesnt mean im not here,” you argue. “you’re the one left the fucking country!”

luigi almost laughs at the dead argument. “and you stayed and still couldn’t show up when it mattered. how’s that any better?”

“i didn’t forget on purpose!” you can feel your temperature rising. “i’ve just been swamped with everything, alright? it’s not like i don’t care.”

luigi’s hands grip the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles white. “so that’s your excuse?” he says, his voice sharp. “too busy to remember my sister’s birthday, but not too busy for that stupid fucking boyfriend of yours?” he laughs bitterly, shaking his head. “god, you even joined that sorority for him, didn’t you?”

your face goes white and he takes it as confirmation. “fucking knew it. that’s exactly what it is, isn’t it? you’re too busy trying to be a penn girl, pretending like you fit in, just because he’s part of it. you’re so caught up in his world that you can’t even bother to remember the people who actually care about you.”

you’re cold underneath his judgement, almost speechless. almost. “this is why i didn’t want you finding out about him,” you truth.

“i was in a frat, y/n. i’ve seen girls like you before. weekends spent doing dumb shit like car washes for the sorority, all glittered up for spirit week like it’s some huge fucking accomplishment.” his anger cuts into you like a blade. “you're too fucking good for that.”

your heart is pounding now, and you feel your face flush with anger, embarrassment, and something else—deep, gnawing ache in your chest. your fingers tighten around the door handle. you can’t stand sitting here, suffocating under his judgment. without thinking, you yank the door open, trying to escape the weight of his accusations.

but before you can move, luigi’s hand shoots out, slamming the door shut. “what the fuck are you doing?”

“i don’t want to talk about this anymore.” you say, trying to push down the panic rising in your chest. you don’t want to be here anymore. not in this car. not with him looking at you like you’re some stranger.

“you’re not getting out of this car, y/n.”

you don’t respond. instead, you unbuckle your seatbelt and shove the door open, stepping out of the car before he can stop you. it’s like your whole body is running on autopilot—everything inside you screaming to get away from the mess he’s created, from the mess inside you.

“y/n!” luigi’s voice cracks, rising in a panic as he stops the car and jumps out after you.

you are not turning around and getting into that car and letting him humiliate you. your hands shake as you pull out your phone, desperate for some relief, something to help you make sense of all this. the contact name lights up on your screen, and you hit call, needing your boyfriend now more than ever.

before you can even hear the first ring, a hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist and yanking your phone from your grasp. you whip your head around, heart pounding in your chest, only to find luigi, his jaw clenched tight and eyes burning with fury.

“what the hell are you doing?” you demand, your voice shaking with a mixture of anger and frustration. “give it back!”

but he doesn’t budge, holding your phone just out of reach. his voice is a low growl. “you’re fucking unbelievable. you’re seriously calling your boyfriend right now?” he’s glaring at you, his face hard with a mix of disbelief and something deeper you can’t quite place.

“you made your point, mangione!” you say. “clearly you already hate me, so i don’t see the point in sticking around for the ride. thanks for the reminder! see you around!”

“y/n, stop, i don’t hate you—“

“y/n? hello?” your boyfriend’s voice crackles through the phone, confused, a little worried.

luigi straightens, his hand tightening around the phone as he holds it to his mouth. “she’s busy.” he tosses the phone back into his car, cutting off the call with a finality that makes your heart race in frustration.

he opens his mouth for another lecture but your hard heart won’t let him in anymore. you’re beyond annoyed. he can keep the fucking phone, for all you care, you really just needed a second. you try to turn away, but he’s too fast. he grabs your wrist, pulling you back, and you’re caught off guard by the force in his touch. the heat between you is unbearable now, and the intensity of it makes your mind race.

“let go of me!”

“no,” luigi snaps, his voice harsh but laced with something you can’t quite place. “you don’t walk away from me.”

“i can do whatever i want!”

“you’re sure about that?”

without warning, he pulls you toward him, and before you can fully process what’s happening, his lips are on yours. it’s rough, unexpected, and it throws you off balance. your breath catches in your throat, and for a split second, you don’t know what to do.

your mind spins. this is worse than wrong. you shouldn’t be kissing him.

his grip on you is unyielding like the force of gravity, and you’re suffocating underneath the pressure, your confusion mixing with a strange, undeniable pull that makes your thoughts scatter. you pull away quickly, breathless and disoriented.

“luigi, no—stop,” you say, trying to regain your bearings, but your heart is still racing, your body still tingling from the kiss.

he doesn’t. he won’t.

his mouth is on yours again, aggressive and intent and so fucking mean. your balance is completely lost, your feet no longer sure of the ground beneath you. luigi doesn’t let up, his body pressing you into the side of his car and it’s like everything you knew about him is shifting, unraveling before your eyes.

when he pulls back, your chest heaves as if you’ve been starved for air. you try to summon another surge of pride, but luigi moves faster than your thoughts can catch. “lift up your legs,” he grumbles against your lips. you do. he carries you on him as he yanks open the door to the back seat, his hot breath hovering over your neck.

“you’re so fucking stupid,” luigi mutters into another sloppy kiss. “need me to teach you how to behave, yeah?”

desire and desperation muddle your better judgement. everytime you come up for air, you try to return to reason. “we shouldn’t—”

“let me,” he says. “i’m gonna take care of you.”

you shake your head as his warm hands grope and clutch at your cold nude. he was right—it was a stupid fucking outfit.

“relax,” luigi says, climbing over you, biting and sucking at your neck. you feel him between your legs, hardening. “you need me to teach you how to show you the ropes, don’t you? you need me, right, baby?”

“i have a boyfriend,” you whimper.

“doesn’t matter.” he says. “you belong to me.”

you’re in the corner of his car and there was no escape. luigi was all over you, grabbing, pulling, biting. “come on,” he beckons, coming in for another kiss. “make yourself useful, baby, i came all this way.” his fingers moving your bikini to the side and sliding his slender fingers into your aching clit. you quiver as he breaches your entrance.

“how often do you fuck him?” he asks, his two fingers digging into your core, storming your senses. the abruptness of the question made your nerves spike. there’s a certain amusement in his gaze, as if your misfortune is his greatest entertainment. “where? hm? hallways? dorms? in the shower, after his games, d’you spread your legs open to make him feel better about being a goddamn loser?” he’s intent on leaving your skin covered with evidence of him. he paints across your neck with his hot wet tongue, sucking and biting at your sensitive skin. you whimper at the sensation. “you’d make a perfect fuckin’ trophy wife.”

“i didn’t—“ you truth, shaky and red. “we never…”

“god,” he moans. “good fuckin’ girl, saving yourself for me.”

your mind is hazy, though not completely lost. “you’re jealous? of him?”

“why would i be?” luigi asks, smug. he knows he has every damn right he every right to be—he feels your slick drooling out of you, your body quivering underneath him. “i’m the only one who gets to have you like this.”

he reaches for his belt. you need this as much as he does. he can see the way your eyes flutter shut at the feeling of his shifty friction, and it sends heat rushing down his abdomen. no reason to be patient about this.

“someone’s gonna see,” you whine.

luigi laughs against your mouth. “go on then, show them what a perfect fuckin’ penn girl you are.”

you barely hear him. your lower lip is between your teeth as you work to free his cock from his boxers, and he hisses in pleasure as you pump him gently, smearing his precum down his shaft. he reaches between your legs to hook his finger around your panties, pulling the gusset to the side.

your cunt glistens. you’re soaked.

“you’re unbelievable,” he grunts. “acting out because you couldn’t get any good dick?”

“you’re so mean to me.”

“just missed you, is all,” he murmurs.

you’d never expected him to be so big. you brace yourself on his shoulder with your free hand, sinking down on him gradually. you’re so wet that it only takes a moment to adjust to his size before you’re rocking against him again, and he pulls you back in for another hungry kiss, guiding your hips with his hands. a grin etches at the edge of his lips when he feels your cunt tightening around him when he brings his fingertips to your clit. “what, already, babe?” luigi teases, pretending his own release isn’t just moments away. “c’mon, that’s gotta be a new record.” you try to laugh, but he pushes the pressure on your clit, and you arch your back as the coil in your belly tightens.

“you’re so big, luigi,” you choke out.

“i know, pretty girl, i know,” he tries to assure, though he’s too lost in his storm of pleasure to have the decency to slow down.

tears well up in your eyes as he buries his cock deeper into you. hot flashes of pain and pleasure overwhelm you; it’s a devastating spell of torment and sanctuary. “luigi,” you whine. “too much, i can’t—“

“you’re so fuckin’ tight.” luigi says. “fuckin’ perfect, you know that?”

“i can’t, lu,” you whine. “you’re too big—”

“be a good girl,” he says. his cock bullies into your sensitivity. you swear you hear yourself snap in half. “let me fill you up, princess, let me make you mine.”

you’re a mess underneath him, whimpering and crying at the unfamiliar pleasure. something in the background begins to hum over and over and over until luigi glances over his shoulder. “your boyfriend’s calling,” he says. “you should answer, show him what a perfect slut you’re being for me.”

you run your head back and forth. “no? you don’t wanna do that for me?” he questions, eyebrow raising. he raises your body—closer,deeper—just to slap his hand against your ass. you jolt at the pain, shivering. “thought you were being good.”

“luigi,” you cry. “it hurts.”

“fuck,” he moans. he can’t help but slap your ass again. “you gotta make it up to me, y/n. you gotta let me come inside you.”

“lu, wait—“ you begin weakly, tangling your fingers in his hair. he cuts you off by sucking harshly at the delicate skin of your throat, and instantly you feel the coil snap.

“jus’ like that, baby, all mine,” he growls into your skin. you feel him smile against your neck as he marks it up. “i should visit home more often, yeah?”

“lu, please,” you moan.

“tell me who you belong to.”

“you, luigi. i belong to you.” you cry out as you convulse around luigi’s cock, slumping forward onto his muscular chest with a shiver. the sensation of your walls clamping down on him like a vice makes luigi dig his fingers into your flesh as he pumps his own release into you, swearing raggedly as his hips buck.

aside from the sound of your breathing, the car falls into a complicated silence, the windows clouded, blurring the world outside like some unspoken secret. your heart races as you both sit there, dazed, caught between confusion and something deeper. the empty neighborhood feels almost dreamlike, a quiet refuge for a moment too fragile to face the world. silently, you’re grateful for the solitude, for the way it shields you both.

“relax,” luigi mutters, his voice cutting through the haze. “this whole street was bought up by some real estate asshole. prices went sky-high, and no one took the bait.”

you glance at him, startled by the sudden softness in his tone. “is that true?”

luigi doesn’t answer right away. instead, he reaches over to the passenger seat, grabbing your phone. the motion is deliberate, almost taunting, as if he’s enjoying how unsteady you’ve become.

he tosses the phone onto your lap, the thud startling in the heavy air. “penn daily did a piece on it” he says, his voice low but cutting. “you can look it up after you break up with your boyfriend.”

your eyes widen, and you grab the phone quickly, clutching it as if it could ground you. “god, can you stop bringing him up for two seconds?”

“why?” he retorts, leaning back against his seat with a knowing smirk. “you brought him into this when you started dating the guy who shows you off to frat row and makes you fake-smile your way through glitter car washes.”

“he wasn’t even at the car wash this time,” you mutter, frustration bubbling up.

“too busy setting up karaoke night? are we going to that?”

“no.”

“my sister would probably love it,” he points out playfully. “and i know you didn’t get her a present.”

you roll your eyes, trying to avoid the guilt that wells up. “don’t remind me.”

“don’t be a brat,” he retorts, his voice firm but not unkind.

“I’m not being a brat,” you snap back, but there’s a hint of defensiveness in your tone.

“yeah, you are,” he says, his voice softening just a little. “but we’ll deal with that later.”

he glances over at you, a hint of a smirk on his face. turning your gaze to the window, avoiding his eyes. god, how were you meant to recover from this? another silence encapthres you and the awful spell of awkwardness washes over you both. until—

“you know i could never hate you, right?”

“hm?”

“you said earlier i made up my mind about you,” he murmurs, his eyes holding yours in a way that makes it impossible to look away. “i have… but not in the way you think.”

your breath catches, his words pulling at something deep inside you. “then how?”

“i’ve always liked you,” he says softly, his voice steady but tinged with something deeper. “hated seeing you go. hated the idea of you at college with some asshole who doesn’t see you the way i do.”

your heart skips, his words unraveling every doubt you’ve ever had. “and how do you see me?” you ask, barely finding your voice.

he leans closer, his gaze unwavering. “as everything.”

[bberetd]

Been thinking about this tweet for a while now, and then this beautiful piece by the super talented @peaches2217 came along, so I got to work 😋

a father’s love trumps all

[taelophone]

Where Is He? ♱ ⋆˙⟡ — Luigi Mangione x Reader ⋆⭒˚｡⋆ TWs: BLASPHEMY. Corruption kink . Improper use of a Rosary . Loss of Virginity . Tech Bro-ish Luigi . Dumbification . Reader is naïve . Coercion . Dark "undertones" but not really . Biblical imagery (duh) . Animal/Flower symbolism . Choking . Luigi's a liiiiitle mean . my grammarly dyed while making this so there may be spelling errors

Let's all raise a glass to @cranberrydietcoke for this wonderful idea <3

Respect was something that was taught in your house day after day.

It’s something you were expected to give to those around you: your elders, family members, strangers, anyone. The words “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you” rang through your head for as long as you could remember.

Your friends always described you as expressive and generous, your kind and giving nature charmed the hearts of many. You were a sweetheart! A real angel.

The golden cross between your collarbones twinkled and glimmered under the sunlight, your white and blue sneakers scrunching and folding the crisp autumn leaves beneath you.

The sun beamed down on you, rays of warmth highlighting your skin as you made your way to pay your friend, Luigi, a visit. By now, he was probably locked up in the lab, pushing his spine to its natural limit as he folded over some laptop.

The plan was to give him some water, words of encouragement, and have a nice little chat before leaving to run some errands. And you were going to do just that!

You tugged your tote bag further up your shoulder, preventing the irritating strap from slipping further before pushing the double doors to Levine Hall open.

There was a loud clock-clock-clock as the soles of your sneakers tapped against the tile floors, the little charms and trinkets on your bag generating quiet clinking sounds as you walked.

You rounded the corner, making your way into the building's computer science and engineering part with a pep in your step. You waved at some of your passing acquaintances, offering warm smiles and good mornings to each familiar face.

“Luuu!” You called, approaching the table at the far back of the room. And there he was, strong and burly, as he whirled his head around to the familiar mellifluous hymn.

“Hey! What’s up!” He beamed, immediately scooting his chair back and tearing his focus away from the fat and boxy Dell computer in front of him.

“Hi!” You chirped, beaming brightly at Luigi, gravitating towards him immediately to give him a brief side hug. “I brought you some water and some chips!”

You pulled the two items out of your tote bag, handing them each to him gently with a soft smile.

“Thank you, that’s really sweet,” he beamed, graciously accepting your offerings and setting them down on his desk.

“How’s your day been?” He asked, cracking open his bottle of water with a small plastic crack, chugging it quickly as he crunched the water bottle in his hand.

“Well,” you began, pushing the image of his Adam’s apple bobbing as soon as he drank his water to the back of your head. “I started today with my daily bread, and then I got in the shower to try this new philosophy body wash I bought, had an abysmal breakfast, and then made my way here!”

He smiled, chuckling boyishly at your summarized morning. He nodded, typing up nonsense on his computer.

You leaned over his shoulder, your chin hovering just above his trapezius as you read over the code. 

“Interesting…” you murmured, your brows pinching together with confusion.

He chuckled, shaking his head subtly. “It’s ok I barely understand this shit either,” he said.

“But it’s your job…yeah, okay,” you chuckled, rolling your eyes with the ghost of a smirk present on your features.

“That doesn’t mean I get it, though,” he joked, taking his hands off the keyboard and crossing them over his chest. His biceps flexed, the subtle pull of his veins gracing your very eyes as you straightened your posture once again.

“Whatever, man. I have errands to run,” you giggled, checking the time on your phone before tucking it back in your back pocket. “You should stop by later! Tell me more about your robot stuff. I’ve got like…ice cream and graham crackers.”

He smiled, piecing together his thought process once again as he went back to work. “Yeah, sure. I’ll come by at like five, five-thirty,” he said, punctuating his acceptance with a light nod.

You beamed, returning his words with a quiet “Great!” before saying your goodbyes and toddling off to complete the rest of your morning.

You spent the next 4 hours outside, running across Philadelphia to do ridiculous amounts of favors and errands.

Helping at the local church to prep for Sunday service, fixing around at a community soup kitchen, paperwork at city hall, and a lot of window shopping as you shredded the streets with gentle hands.

You were tired, to say the least.

After hour 2 of listening to the old pastor drawl on about his plans and wisdom of the week, your eyes stung with feather-light fatigue.

You sat on the bench, your knees pressed to your chest as you stared half-heartedly into the man’s obsidian eyes. 

“Oh, my goodness!” He interrupted, getting a good look at the clock that lay tick-tick-tocking at the back of the room. “Look at the time! Thank you for helping me, young lady, but I gotta go and pick up my wife,” he said, wrapping his watch around his wrist.

You returned his smile, instantly unraveling your arms from around your knees. You went to leave, but you felt a gentle hand on your shoulder and a spark of what could only be described as an electric shock fizzling in your mind.

“The lord has asked me to tell you to be careful. Take care of yourself, baby,” He pleaded, a warm and sympathetic smile spreading across his bronze face, aged with the bitter salts of time and experience.

You stood still, time leaving you at once as your heart palpitated momentarily.

Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.

“I will. Thank you, Pastor Greene.” you nodded, ignoring the slight unease that engulfed your heart before exiting the church.

You stepped back into the warm white sunlight, the refreshing breeze rejuvenating your lungs as you took a deep breath. What was that even about?

You headed back home; quick to go pray away any negative energy and lay in your bed for the next 3 hours or so. And as soon as your feet planted on the wooden planks of your living room, you were eager to shower and face the Father once more.

You skipped to your bathroom, ridding yourself of the white turtleneck and baby-blue jeans. The shower fogged, condensation dribbling down the warmed glass.

The shower grew extremely blurred as thoughts poured down your mind, the scalding hot sin clouding your thoughts as you thought of his strong arms, the flex of his biceps, his God-given Adam’s Apple and the way it moved with his water—

You were getting sidetracked. It’s time to get out of the shower.

With a sigh, your eyes widened in shock at your own suddenly filthy mind. You tugged on your plush and grey bathrobe before scurrying away from the bathroom as quickly as you followed in.

You got your things situated on your vanity: your lotion, your bible, your skincare, and the little bread-shaped card holder that held little cards of your daily bread. 

Your soft and gentle hands slathered your tacky skin in the buttery soft lotion, vanilla innocence and almond milk painting your angelic skin.

The extra sheen of sparkle the lotion gave you before putting on your pajamas, a freshly washed matching black tank top, and black sleep shorts. You tugged on the white drawstring, tying it in a tight knot and securing it around your hips.

With your pajamas on, your skin hydrated, and your mind cleared, you kneeled at your bedside. You found your rosary on the edge of your bed frame, the light wooden beads dangling the silver cross as you wrapped the sacred pearls around your fingers.

Your hands intertwined in prayer as murmurs left your sweet lips with your eyes fluttered shut.

Everywhere I walk, let it be on your path. Everything I see, let it be through your eyes. Everything I do, let it be your will. For every hardship I face, let me place it in your hands.

The incantations left your mouth like second nature, light and positive love flowing through your veins as you kept your head up high to your Savior.

When you rose from your kneeled position, the first thing you did was pull your pink-covered and annotated Bible in your lap. You plucked the rose-tinted highlighter from between the pages, scanning over the scriptures in silent wonder.

You hummed to yourself, lying flat on your stomach and slipping out of this world and into the next. Peace was growing increasingly rare in the world, and you were lucky to find it in moments like these.

That is until your phone dinged loudly.

You sighed, picking up your phone and flipping the screen to reveal Luigi’s text. He was five minutes away.

You smiled, hearting the message before placing your highlighter in between the thin pages. You popped up from your bed, throwing on your house slippers.

You toddled downstairs, making your way to the kitchen just to set out a tub of ice cream from the arctic depths of your deep freezer, hoping it softened slightly before his arrival.

You sliced up some lemon to throw in your almost iced pitcher of water from the fridge, the fogged condensation dampening your knuckles as they brushed against the body while you held the handle.

You grabbed the box of scarcely touched graham crackers, setting them next to the tub of ice cream. With everything ready, you snapped a pic of the little spread, giggling quietly to yourself before sending the pic to Luigi.

The living room was perfectly tidy, with vibrant orange flames of Macintosh Spice burning to fill the room with comfort. You stared at the portrait of Father God on the wall, meeting His eyes with humility and love before the doorbell chimed.

“Lu!” You smiled, immediately swinging open the door to reveal Luigi in his tech-bro glory. Both arms wrapped around his larger torso, pulling him in a brief, but squeeze-y hug.

“Hey,” he chuckled, stepping into your cozy and…unsurprisingly pure home. He took in his surroundings at once; the cross above the door, the picture of god on the wall, the pink and fuzzy throw blanket, and the little display case of cute Funko pops.

“Oh, that's so cool!” He gasped, gravitating towards the glassy shelf and staring at the vinyl figures. Thumper, Bambi, Stitch, Chip, Winnie the Pooh, and many more cutesy displayed figures. “You collect these?”

“Sometimes,” you nodded, crouching down next to him. I like buying the cute ones just to display,” you explained, watching him smile and giggle at the Kirby POP, snickering at how he was just a pink blob with tiny hot pink nubs.

He stood back up, gathering himself once again before sighing. “How were your errands? You said you were gonna run some today right?” He asked, crashing down on your couch with a light plop.

“I did!” You said, fetching the ice cream and graham crackers from the kitchen, and sitting them down on the beige coffee table. “I helped out Pastor Greene at the church this morning, organized some of his paperwork, helped him pick an outfit, helped decorate for Sunday’s service, helped finish some of his unfinished paperwork…I did a lot actually…”

Luigi’s brows raised slightly with an unidentifiable emotion. In a way it resembled pity, but also cocky superiority as if you were doing something…wrong?

“That’s a lot of free labor,” He joked, shooting you a sly smirk as he ate a piece of graham cracker.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You chuckled. Breathy and forced with a raise of a brow as your mind tried to pick apart what he was getting at. Sure, you had your ways and blocks, but you weren’t stupid. “Don’t you do community service too?”

“I do,” he nodded. But I don’t think anything you did besides decorating for Sunday counts as community service. Pastor Greene's service, maybe, but it seems like you just helped him avoid doing the work he’s supposed to do as the pastor.”

You paused, replaying his words over again in your mind. Your spoon dragged through the slightly softened ice cream, the cold heaven deforming from its neat and perfect scoop.

“I don’t think so…” you said, tilting your head slightly. “I think it still counts as community service. Even if he is using me for personal gain, I’d still be helping someone in need, which is fine by me,” You justified.

“That’s cute,” he smiled, the sudden patronization and smug tone caught you a little off guard. He was normally a charming and polite man…but you were more than willing to look past it. After all, he was just concerned about your well-being. It was very thoughtful of him to take this level of care.

You nodded hesitantly, the confusion evident in your brows as they furrowed slightly. “Tell me about your robot thing! How’s it coming along?” You asked, eager to shake the festering feeling of doubt that began to gnaw at the back of your neck.

Luigi sat up a little more correctly this time, actually placing his feet on the ground and leaning back against the backrest of the couch. His hips came up a little, adjusting his position on the couch. An action that didn’t go unnoticed by you.

“It’s coming along great, actually,” he said, scanning over you closely. “I’ve been so stressed but I’m finally getting my shit together. Had to lock in.”

The pair of you chuckled together, chattering about different forms of data and computer science. He spoke in such a firm and confident tone. He wasn’t loud, but he wasn’t quiet. There was a thick layer of child-like wonder in his words as he mansplained robotics.

And you clung on to every single word he had to say. It was nice to see him light up, gesture wildly with his hands, and eagerly describe what was essentially a grueling process of inspiration to intellectual burnout over and over again. But he made it seem so fun!

You nodded, leaning back and adjusting your sitting before feeling a sharp pointed thing poke into the back of your leg.

“Ouch…” You whispered, furrowing your brows and pulling your rosary out of your shorts back pocket. “Oops…I forgot I had this,” you chuckled breathily, wrapping your rosary around your wrist and hoping you didn't throw him off from talking about his interests.

“That's pretty,” He said, staring at the prayer beads with a new glint in his eye as he reached out to examine the cross that dangled from your fingers. Sleek, shiny, and smooth wood met the pads of his fingers as you let him mindlessly fidget with the pearls of the Lord. He seemed fascinated by them like they were the most foreign thing he’d ever seen.

“I’ve never been Christian,” He started, slowly untangling the beads from your hands and placing the rosary on the coffee table. “It’s kind of a creepy concept when you think about it…believing in a made-up man with no evidence but word of mouth and a man-made book that's been translated over and over again.”

You scoffed, shaking your head at his statement before waving him off. 

“Science and theory are the exact same. Trusting the words of a bunch of men in coats because someone told you their ideas were right. At least with God, it’s way more simple” You said, poking at your ice cream with your spoon. 

“Oh, honey…”  He chuckled quietly. “Christianity is simple in a way that prevents you from living. Plus you can’t prove god is real. Science is complex because it's been proved by years of natural demonstration. You being alive to even preach the word of god is proof enough.”

Taken aback by his forward and patronizing tone, your head cocked back subtly before you gave Luigi a light chuckle. “My faith doesn’t prevent me from living…” You murmured, crossing your arms over your chest. 

In his eyes, you looked like a white lily; perfect petals and dainty little buds blossoming from the soul. Like freshly plucked notes of a harp, you sat in front of him an angel on earth. He wasn’t religious, after all, religion was a vastly misinterpreted and discredited term for people to justify impressing their wrongdoing upon others. A safe haven to “turn to” when man made a mistake, seeking refuge in the all-forgiving hands of Jesus Christ.

“Come here,” he prompted, gesturing his hands toward him loosely.

You paused, raising a brow at him in silent confusion. You crawled closer to him, still staying a comfortable distance away from him to leave some space for Christ.

“See?” he pointed out, his giddy words dripping with thick condensation. “You can’t even get close to me.”

“I can,” you corrected. “But I don’t like sitting particularly close to people because it invites room for lust. It’s not good for you” you recited, almost like the words were engraved on the base of your brain.

“Proving my point” He chuckled, giving you the most cocky and smug grin you’ve ever seen him don.

You sighed, quickly weighing out the pros and cons of getting closer to Luigi. He was a nice guy, for sure, and he’d never do anything without your explicit permission. After all, God is faithful and will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear.

“That wasn’t so bad, see? Be careful!” He joked, holding back boyish giggles. “God’s watching!”

You chuckled, albeit involuntarily as he not-so-subtly poked fun at your devotion. 

“Alright, not too much now” you snickered, trying to ignore how your mind and soul buzzed with a sudden unidentifiable thirst. His voice was low, an aura of deep temptation emitting from him in the form of bodily heat.

His sharp and wolfish eyes met yours, the warm and endless portals of black sucked you in within an inch of your life. Falling through the rabbit hole like a dumb bunny that didn’t look while they ran.

“What's wrong?”  He asked, noticing the way your lamb-like eyes widened ever so slightly. He placed a firm and heavy hand on your thigh, the skin-to-skin contact burning you alive as you fought for your sanity.

There was no way in the world he wasn’t messing with you. He had to be. You scanned his face, searching for any sign of malice or harmful intent, but all you came up with was his gorgeously sculpted features and head of wooly brown curls.

“I’m fine, yeah,” You nodded, clearing your throat as he slowly began to pull you in his lap. Slow and deliberate, like an apex sneaking up on their next feast. His hands gradually came to rest on the back of your thighs as he positioned both of your legs on top of his slowly.

“You sure? You seem tense,” he teased, his strong and firm hands now kneading the supple flesh on your legs. “It’s okay, your made-up god isn’t watching.”

He chuckled under you, staring at the framed photo of god on your wall. He indeed was watching the pair of you, their eyes interlocking for a moment.

In a sick and almost twisted way, Luigi felt like he was above a god at that exact moment. Reducing the religious memorabilia around the living room to nothing but decoration as he cooed condescending little comments in your ear.

“Poor thing…thinks her little god is more reliable than science,” he chuckled. “So naïve. So very naïve.”

His big hands caressed the underside of your thighs, his steadily rising erection pressing against the tight fabric of his cargo shorts.

You felt it directly between the concave between your thighs; angry and insistent as it twitched and hissed in an effort to communicate with your now achy and fervent womb.

They conversed in a rampant back and forth, twitches and beats of silence while you attempted to hang on to your fleeting sense of self-control. Greedy and gluttonous, you felt your lower abdomen flutter as you struggled to look Luigi in his eyes.

“See I’d help you out…but you’re Christian, remember? Fornication is off limits” he laughed, his head knocking back as he cooed at you like some sort of idiot animal.

Reduced to silence, twitching and pulsing you were sure he could feel, you whined at his unfortunately correct words.

Chaste, innocent, and virgin as Mother Mary. Your actions weren’t your own, you swear! It was the devil that allowed Luigi to coax your hips along his bulge, the thick and twitchy mound relieving a fraction of the achy tension between your legs.

“This is…really bad—“ you panted, brows pinching together in newfound euphoria. Waves of sweet, sinful pleasure washed over you. But yet the thirst persisted; parched with stinging tears of saltwater brimming in your eyes.

“Hmm?” He hummed, rocking your hips against his more intensely. “Let me know if you want me to stop…”

The envelope was on the table. All you had to do was take it. If you really wanted him to stop, a simple “No more” would have sufficed for him.

But the words never left your lips.

They died somewhere along the disconnect in your thought process compared to your morals. What did find their way to the surface, though, was high and breathy moans as you dry-humped one of your close friends.

How shameful. Blessed be the whore that gives into the temptation of the serpent, for she knows not that she is being deceived by the work of sin.

The ebb and flow of pleasure grew painful; it wasn’t enough for you as vestality chipped away from you, the cracks of pleasure generating a slick and damp feeling in the soft pink cotton fabric of your panties.

“More, please…” you croaked, squeezing your eyes shut as Luigi used your smaller frame like a toy for his own pleasure.

“Oh, you want more now?” He cooed, turning you around so your back was pressed to his chest. “But look who’s watching you, hmm?”

He pointed at the painting of Christ, his eyes unmoving as you stared at the portrait. You whined, clamping your eyes shut to help fight the feeling of shame.

Regret and remorse were only short-lived, as before you could even process your failure to uphold your morals, large and hot hands found their way down your shorts and to your drenched folds.

“It’s ok, my dear…he can watch me appreciate his creation,” he chuckled, pushing a large finger in you slowly. Much to his surprise, he found it a little more difficult than he had anticipated.

Walls of supple and sensitive flesh refused him with rapt denial, your very own body trying its hardest to deny him entry in favor of virtue. She cried, wetting him down to the knuckle in aroused melancholy as he slowly bullied his way through the previously locked temple.

You whined, the unfamiliar and slightly painful sensation blocking your path to common sense. It felt good, but it hurt, erotic fire burned at your core as your body made clockwork of adjusting to the stretch.

“There we go,” he said, slowly dragging his finger in and out of you as you began to calm down. His free hand wrapped around you, securing you in place while his middle finger worked on plucking the stamens from your flower.

“Isn’t this so much better than religious paranoia?” He cooed, gradually gaining speed as his ring finger began to press at your entrance as well. “Deep breath for me, baby.”

You sucked in a sharp breath, fighting the urge to scream as his ring finger pushed into you. It hurt like hell, but maybe that pain was the vengeance for disobeying the word of God.

“Fuckin…hurts!” You whined, leaning your head back into the crook of his neck.

“I know, I know, but you’ll get used to it…” he reassured, plunging his fingers in and out of you at a moderate face that had your cunt drooling into his palm.

You leaned back against him for some semblance of comfort, fisting the cotton of his shirt to self-soothe as the pain slowly began to fade away.

And when it did begin to fade, you were left with the most delicious fruit of pleasure you had ever bitten from in your life. Your eyes shot open with the intangible, over 20 years of unexplored sensations washed over you at once.

He borderline abused the spongy spot inside of you that had you seeing stars; thousands of cosmos you had never even thought about before.

He chuckled lowly the high and breathy moans that you rewarded him with, your nails digging into the sides of his wrists as he coaxed you into an intense orgasm.

“See, look at you…you love science, right? God wouldn’t allow you to have this, but man does…” he said, continuing to pump his fingers in and out of you at the same brutal pace, even after you painted his fingers glossy white.

And he watched with rapt attention as you cried and whined in his lap. The way you attempted to squeeze your legs shut to get the achy and electric sensation to go away, wriggling around on his lap in an effort to escape the pleasure he was giving you.

He didn’t let you run, not even a little. Instead, he took the arm he had wrapped around your body and scooped your legs up by the back of the thigh, pressing you further against his chest.

“Don’t run from it…you need this with how I’ll do you later,” he warned, a cocky and knowing smirk forming on his face as he listened to you pant and moan.

That’s when he began to feel you clench and spasm around him for a second time, your tears matching your release as you wept with overstimulation.

“Good job, so so good…you did so good for me,” he praised, punctuated with a feather-light kiss to your forehead before he pulled his drenched and opalescent fingers out of you, coaxing your jaw open with his opposite hand and shoving them to the back of your throat.

His rough and lecherous ways paralleled your own in a sick and depraved way; what you lacked in experience and knowledge he picked up with action and skill. His tainted and analytical mind brushed off on yours, using your pure and sinless brain to better his own.

“Good girl,” he mused as you quietly gagged on his fingers before obediently sucking them clean. He used that allotted time to pull down both of your shorts, his grapefruit-pink tip angrily shooting up and knocking against your cunt.

 You jumped, your eyes widening as you moved your head to look down, blinking away any tears that fogged your vision. 

He was huge. So huge you weren’t even sure how that was supposed to fit inside of you without something or someone breaking.

“Don’t panic,” he mumbled, pulling his fingers out your mouth with an almost grotesque pop. “We’ll make it fit.”

“C’mon, I’m makin’ you watch,” He stated, grabbing the back of your neck and pushing it down slightly so you had no other choice but to watch as the shiny beads of precum fizzled from his slit and rubbed against your cunt.

The sight was dizzying in itself. He swiped himself against you, two—three…four times before he grabbed himself at the base.

“Deep breath for me, hmm?” He said, lining himself up with you while pressing his other hand over your mouth. He pushed in slowly, after all, he wasn’t a psycho.

You watched as he slowly speared you open, slowly separating you from your vestal and celibate body as he speared you open. You cried out in alarm, a sound that was swallowed by his large palm over your mouth.

“You’re okay, relax, baby, relax..” he whispered, coaxing you down further along his agonizingly long cock. He removed his hand from over your mouth, a quiet string of profanities leaving his lips as you clenched down on him.

“Relax,” he stated, a little bit more firmly. “We’re not gonna get anywhere if you won’t let me in…”

You nodded, trying your best to ease up in his lap. Luigi took that as a sign to push in at once, earning a yelp from you in the process as you began to pant heavily.

“Luigi!” You scolded, pinching his leg disapprovingly as tears stung your waterline again.

“Better to rip the bandaid off than prolong the pain” he chuckled, resting his hands on your hips to rub gentle circles on your skin.

He let enough time go by until your chest stopped staggering up and down, letting you slowly ease in his arms again before he began to piston his hips up into you slowly.

You were so gone, convulsing and moaning on him like it was the last thing you’d ever do. He took a hand back off your hips and placed it over your neck again, driving your gaze towards the sinful display as he bucked into you like an angry goat.

“Poor thing…so sensitive…” He mocked, grinning at your fucked out expression as he buried himself in your ribs. “You feel alright?”

It was too much to attempt to talk. Your eyes had clamped shut somewhere in the process, giving him frantic and tired nods as he leaned forward presumably to cage you against him further.

But that’s when your senses picked up a familiar sound.

Your rosary.

“Start praying,” he commanded, fidgeting with the beads absentmindedly.

You gasped, trying to make out any sentence you could as he brutally abused your weeping cunt.

“Start praying or I’ll stop,” He said, slowing his hips down and causing you to chant out tiny whines of “Okay, I’m sorry.”

“God is…God is our—! Oh dear..” you began, mind fogging up as you tried to squeeze out Psalm 46. “God is our refuge…and strength…”

“An ever-present help—Ah! In trouble…Therefore we will not fear—!”

He wrapped the wooden beads of prayer around your throat, the words of the lord dying in your larynx as he tugged your head back with the fever of a madman.

He was all around you; watching your every move as if surveying you from above. How ironic, the sight. The petals of your lively and gentle buds being plucked piece by piece by the hands of science.

In this sinful and dishonorable scene before him, there was no sight of a god. Only man and need as you cried and moaned around his fingers. And just like a serpent of science, testing your faith with temptation, he sunk his teeth into the side of your neck.

When you began to clench and flutter around him again, he panted, animalistic and heavy groans of his own rushing forward as he, too, began to come undone.

“Tight—! Fuck fuck fuck fuck,” He whined, listening to your loud and feminine moans as your holy-white release covered him from tip to base. 

And with a few more rough and bruising thrusts straight to your cervix, he pulled out just in time to paint your stomach poltergeist-white.

You panted, whining loudly as he pulled your trembling form off of him and tossed your rosary somewhere on the couch.

“C’mon…let’s go shower”

[kelloggsenthusiast]

if you're reading this - luigi mangione x reader

just want to let you all know that all the accusations made against this and are just that- accusations

innocent until proven guilty beyond reasonable doubt

(not beta read)

he had been caught.

that's all you had been seeing all day. his pictures all over social media and the news, some demonising him and calling him a terrorist, others calling him a hero. you were just confused. three weeks ago, he just up and left your shared apartment without so much as an explanation. you wished you knew better but you couldn't explain it. you loved him and you thought he lived you right back. he was so sweet and doting and attentive to you, even if he hadn't been the same since the accident.

the accident... it had dimmed his light significantly. he couldn't hike or climb or do the things he once loved, being too financially and physically incapacitated to do it, and that's when you noticed his shift. you'd been seeing each other for some years, even talking about the idea of marriage before the accident happened. after it, though, it's like a switch flipped. he came to stay with you while he was covering his medical bills and you could see up close how it changed him. he became distant from you and obsessed with a lot of socialist literature, reading while he wasn't working. his parents and family called you several times because he had effectively stopped speaking to anyone since then. he was different and it was difficult for you to watch what had become of him now that...

you were on your way home from a long day at work, only made longer by seeing your boyfriends face everywhere. you had to turn off the radio because of all the news reports every few seconds. you couldn't believe it, but at the same time, you could. he had an implicitly calloused way of handling things that you'd always said would land him in prison. little did you know, it was literally landing him in prison. the health care system, after all, killed your childhood best friend and left him disabled and in debt. he was the one who just went to go and make his grievances known.

upon your arrival at your apartment, you headed straight for his desk and flipped through all the papers and manuscripts, reading through his detailed notes and excerpts from books and studies. then you saw it. a letter, starting with the words: if you're reading this, they got me. and I'm sorry.

your heart lurched when you saw those words and you didn't even realise that tears were running down your face. you continued reading thr note in his familiar messy handwriting, sharp and thin lettering you recognised as his.

I'm so sorry. I know I've been abandoning you and our relationship. I've been abandoning everyone. but I can't just deal with this pain any longer, and I can't bear to see you suffer because of something neither of us could have predicted. I've cleared the medical debts and paid for the apartment for the next three months. you're free now. and I want you to use that freedom to find happiness beyond me. I love you. but I know I won't be there for you much from jail. you've always been headstrong and intelligent, so I hope you'll understand why I chose to do what I did. I'm truly, truly sorry. I hope you can forgive me. and more importantly, I hope you can find happiness beyond me. I love you.

a short something for all of you. prayers for all of you in the states, I never knew it was this bad. if ceo's were popped as often as kids in school, gun control would be a thing. once again, free luigi. he didn't do anything wrong. - saïe

[italianbabydaddy]

Maybe it’s just me but the way I have not come across one single bad luigi x reader on here yet

[mangionebabymama]

IMPORTANT:

This is the primary blog for @italianbabydaddy. You can follow me here (and still continue to follow the secondary blog) to find my posts!

I made an entirely new primary blog to preserve italianbabydaddy, instead of deleting my former account in all its entirety.

Thank you for all of your support thus far 💚

[jealousjealousgurlll]

SOOOOO baby daddy luigi , ex boyfriend luigi and older brother best friend luigi coded

[viasdiary]

☆ i'm yours (luigi mangione x reader)

☆ word count: 2.4k

☆ warnings: slightly toxic, smut, unprotected sex, breeding kink, not really proofread

☆ after taking a break from each other, you decide you should make it permanent. you invite luigi over to break up with him but he's got something else in mind.

luigi was so wrong for you, but you couldn't get enough of him. even after you'd broken up and gotten back together time and time again, you'd always end up back with him. this time was different though. you'd found someone to take your mind off of luigi, someone who made you feel so good about yourself. you were finally ready to let him go.

sitting on the couch in your living room, you pick up your phone and call luigi. he picks up after the first ring.

“hey what’s up,” he says, aiming to sound nonchalant but miserably falling short. he sounded like he'd been longing to hear you so badly.

“hey lu,” you say, feeling a pang of intense guilt. he has absolutely no idea what’s coming next.

“i’ve been meaning to uh-” you begin to say, before realizing you just don't have the heart to break up with him over the phone.

"why don't you come over tonight?" you suggest, your voice softer now, as if you’re bracing yourself for the weight of the words. "there’s something i’ve been meaning to talk to you about”

“uh yeah, i can probably be over in about an hour”

you nod, even though he can't see you. your fingers grip the phone a little tighter, and you press your lips together, trying to steady your breathing.

"okay, yea. i'll be here," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

the call ends before you can say anything else, and the sudden silence in the room feels almost suffocating. you stare at the screen of your phone, the echo of luigi’s voice still lingering in your ears. an hour.

you sit there for a moment, trying to gather yourself. you fidget with the hem of your sweater anxiously. the weight of what you’re about to do presses down on you, and you wonder if you’re making a mistake. but deep down, you know this is the right thing. you’ve been holding on for too long, and it’s time to let go.

the clock on the wall ticks louder than usual as the minutes slip by, each one pulling you closer to the moment when you’ll have to look him in the eyes and finally say the words. the words you’ve been avoiding, the ones that will end everything.

you stand up, pacing the small space of your living room bathed in the amber glow of the sunset shining through your window. you're not sure what to do with your hands, or your mind for that matter. the thought of luigi showing up here, of seeing him and feeling that familiar pull, makes your stomach twist. it’s always been like this—he’s always been like this. he’ll look at you with those wide brown eyes, and you’ll almost forget why you need to let go.

but you can’t forget. not this time.

the doorbell rings, pulling you back to reality. your heart skips a beat as you take a deep breath, walking toward the door. you hesitate for a moment before pulling it open, the sight of him standing there in a navy sweater and baggy jeans, his dark curls slightly disheveled, still somehow perfect in his own way—makes everything inside you ache.

"hey," he says softly, his voice carrying that familiar warmth, but there's something different now. he doesn’t know it yet, but things are about to change forever.

you open the door wider, stepping aside to let him in. "come on in."

as he steps over the threshold, you brace yourself. this is it.

before you can open your mouth, his hand finds its way beneath your chin, slightly tilting your head upwards as he plants his lips onto yours. you melt into the kiss, placing your hands against his chest as he pulls you closer, and for a moment, you forget everything. the warmth of his touch, the familiar scent of his cologne, the way his body fits perfectly against yours—it all comes rushing back, threatening to sweep away your resolve.

but then you remember why he's here, why you called him over. with a sharp intake of breath, you pull away, gently pushing against his chest. luigi looks at you, confused.

"what's wrong?" he asks, his hand still lingering on your waist.

you step back, creating some distance between you. the space feels charged, heavy with unspoken words.

"lu, we need to talk," you say, your voice steadier than you feel.

his thick eyebrows furrow, and you can see the concern etched across his face. "okay," he says slowly, following you as you lead him to the couch.

you sit down, leaving a little space between the two of you, and you just let it all out.

“i don't think this is gonna work for us anymore. i’ve been talking to someone else and i've kinda just had some realizations about us and i think we've outgrown this.”

its impossible to read his face as you continue speaking.

“i care a lot about you and i'd love to stay friends, maybe even-”

before you can finish he interrupts you with a soft chuckle.

“you think you're gonna sit me down and kick me to the curb? yea, that’s just not how tonight's gonna go.”

you feel a chill run down your spine at his words, his tone shifting from the warmth you're used to into something colder. your heart begins to race as you realize this isn't going the way you planned.

"luigi, please," you start, but he cuts you off again.

"no, you listen to me," he says, leaning in closer. his eyes, usually so soft and inviting, now hold a glint that makes you want to shrink away. "we've been through this before. you think you want to leave, but you always come back. always."

you shake your head, trying to find your voice. "this time is different. i've changed, we’ve changed"

"changed?" luigi scoffs, his hand suddenly gripping your arm. "you haven't changed. you're still the same person who needs me, who loves me. you're just confused right now. you know you fucking love me.”

your gaze shifts to his lips, pressed into a hard line, and then to his strong jawline.

you want so badly to tell him he's wrong, but he's not. you still love him, and as he's sitting on your couch next to you and as you look at his handsome face, you know exactly why you chose him.

you feel your resolve weakening, your carefully planned words crumbling under the intensity of his gaze. luigi's grip on your arm loosens slightly, his thumb now tracing small circles on your skin. the familiar touch sends shivers through you.

"i..." you start, but the words catch in your throat. you want to tell him he's wrong, that you've moved on, but the lie won't come.

luigi leans in closer, his breath warm against your cheek. "tell me you don't love me," he whispers, his lips barely grazing your ear. "look me in the eyes and tell me you don't want this."

you turn to face him, your noses almost touching. his brown eyes are full of anger, hurt, and desire. you open your mouth to speak, to end this once and for all, but no sound comes out.

instead, you find yourself leaning into him, your lips meeting his in a desperate, passionate kiss. your hands tangle in his curls as he pulls you closer, erasing any remaining space between you. the familiar electricity of his touch ignites something within you, and for a moment, all your doubts and reservations melt away.

but as quickly as it began, reality comes crashing back. you break away, gasping for air, your mind reeling. "no," you whisper, more to yourself than to him. "no, we can't do this."

luigi's eyes flash with a mix of triumph and frustration. "we already are," he says, his voice low and intense. "you can't deny what's between us. you never could." 

he places his hand behind your neck and pulls you close again, his lips brushing yours. you melt into him. god, you missed him so much, his touch, his voice, his body. with every movement of his lips, every stroke of his hand, he was righting his wrongs. his hand trails up your thigh, pushing up your skirt. 

the way he touches you feels so nice, and your body responds against your will. his fingers trace patterns on your skin, sending shivers through you. as his hand snakes higher up your leg, you feel an aching need for him.

he breaks the kiss as he gently pulls you onto his lap, his hands planted firmly on your thighs as he places kisses along your jawline and down your neck.

“you’re so perfect for me.” he says, barely a whisper.

“and i know i’m perfect for you too,” he continues, his eyes scanning your face as he says it. he looks so beautiful like this. the golden light of the sunset bathing him in an amber glow, shining through his curls and making his dark brown eyes shimmer.

he finds the hem of your sweater and slowly slips underneath.  he runs his large hands across your bare skin skin.

as he begins to lift your sweater, the realization of what's happening hits you, and you place your hands on his chest, prepared to push away from him, but you can't. you hate that he feels so good. you hate that you want him so badly.

you lean forward and kiss him, hard. luigi moans against your lips, and you can feel his erection straining against his jeans.

you break the kiss and begin to lift his sweater, running your free hand over his abs, eager to feel his bare skin against yours. he helps you get his sweater off, and then reaches for your sweater. in one swift movement, he pulls it off, tossing it aside. he pauses, his gaze raking over your exposed skin, before leaning in and planting a kiss on your collarbone.

he cups your breast and starts sucking on it. you bite your lip, trying not to moan.

he stops and looks up at you, his eyes burning with desire. 

"god, i've missed this," he breathes.

"i missed you" you admit breathlessly.

you run your fingers through his soft, dark curls, the smell of his cologne intoxicating you as you move yourself back and forth slowly, rubbing yourself along his leg. the thin fabric of your underwear begins to dampen, and the friction only heightens your desire.

you lean in and kiss him, the taste of his tongue in your mouth making you shudder with pleasure. he wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer, the feel of his skin against yours is unreal.

luigi slides his hands up and down your thighs as his mouth finds the delicate skin on the side of your neck.

"look at you, so fucking impatient. riding my leg to get yourself off" he says against your skin.

"he's not fucking you right, is he?" he whispers, his hand creeping under your skirt and finding the wet spot in your panties.

"no," you admit.

"that's too bad," he says, sliding his fingers under the edge of your panties and brushing them against your clit.

you gasp at his touch, grinding yourself against him.

your hips buck at the contact, and you let out a small moan.

"you're fucking soaked for me," he breathes, slipping a finger inside of you.

"luigi, please," you beg, grinding against his hand.

he adds a second finger, and you moan, arching your back and pressing yourself against him.

"god, look at you," he whispers, his voice thick with lust.

"i know he doesn't make you fuckin' sound like this" he says, more intensely this time.

"please luigi, just fuck me."

"not yet." he says, continuing to finger you and using his thumb to rub circles on your clit.

"lu," you whine, squirming and bucking your hips.

"so fuckin' needy," he says, a smirk spreading across his face.

you whimper, biting your lip and grabbing his shoulder, desperately clinging to him.

he keeps working his fingers, and you can feel your orgasm building. you can barely breathe, the feeling of his fingers inside you is so intense.

"fuck, lu," you pant, your nails digging into his skin.

he speeds up his pace, and you can feel your orgasm approaching.

"lu, i'm so fucking close," you say, the words slightly catching in your throat as he sends you over the edge.

you cry out, the sensation overwhelming you. he holds you close, kissing you as you ride out the waves of pleasure.

you rest your head on his shoulder, panting and trying to catch your breath.

"i'm not fuckin' done with you yet." luigi says, gently pushing you off his lap and back onto the couch.

he stands up, and you watch as he unbuckles his belt, pulls off his jeans and boxers, freeing his thick cock. you lick your lips, taking in the sight of him.

he sits back down, and you crawl onto his lap, straddling him. he takes himself in his hand, stroking his length and guiding himself inside of you.

"oh god," you moan, feeling him stretch you.

"that's right," he breathes, his voice low and husky.

he begins to thrust into you, and the feeling is incredible. you wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in his hair and breathing in his scent.

"fuck," he groans, his hands gripping your hips as he pulls you onto him.

you feel the pressure building again, the heat in the pit of your stomach growing with each thrust.

"lu," you whimper, the sensation almost too much to bear.

"tell me," he says, his voice strained. "tell me how much you fucking miss this."

"i miss this so much," you say, your breath ragged.

"tell me," he pants, his rhythm getting faster and more erratic. "tell me you want this, tell me you need this."

"i need this, lu, fuck, i need you," you moan, the heat in your stomach growing.

"say it," he demands, his voice tight and strained.

"i'm yours, lu, i'm fucking yours," you cry, the pressure becoming unbearable.

he moves mercilessly, and with every thrust you feel him stretching you out, your slick spreading up and down his cock. he grabs your ass firmly with both hands, moving you up and down roughly, the lewd sound of skin on skin filling the room.

"where do you want it, baby?"

"fuck, please cum in me" you beg, your legs wrapping around his torso as he continues using you, roughly gripping your ass as he fucks you.

"good fuckin' girl. want me to fuck a baby into you, huh?" he says breathlessly. luigi groans deeply, his fingers digging into your hips as he thrusts up into you one final time. you feel him pulsing inside you as he finishes, filling you with his warmth. you come undone, the intensity of the orgasm tearing through you.

he buries his face in your neck, his breath hot on your skin as he releases inside you. you both sit there, breathing heavily, holding onto each other.

he lifts his head and gazes into your eyes, a smile playing at his lips.

"i guess this means i'm not getting rid of you, huh?"

[jjkbambi]

the best man! luigi mangione x reader

summary it’s your brother’s wedding this weekend. best man! luigi and you are in charge of finding something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue to gift your sister-in-law for the wedding!

no warnings! just fluff and vibes. slight enemies to lovers? he’s your brothers best friend, so naturally there’s a bit of a push and pull. comfort + slice of life . pls tell me if u like!

for the first and last time, your brother entrusts you with his shiny silver credit card.

the fancy card was shoved in the back of your scuffed clear phone case, and yet, you couldn’t help but feel a touch of pride swinging it around. it felt like everyone around you now knew about your exclusive access to mediocre airplane food and flight points no one ever knew how to use. of course, the real perk was priceless: this thing was doing a great job at stroking your ego.

“i’m sure we won’t find something borrowed at swarvoski, y/n.”

your brother’s last-minute plea to fulfill the wedding tradition of something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue came with two conditions: an unlimited budget and the unspoken punishment of spending the weekend with his best friend.

“luigi, all diamonds are borrowed,” you huff. “we didn’t find them under the mall or in america.”

luigi had dropped by your house far too early in the morning for you to be in a good mood. he hadn’t been fair, either, proudly announcing that he’d already fulfilled two out of four of the needed items on the list. something old: the beloved couples prom photo glossed over and re-framed, tossed at the back of his car for all those with eyes to see. and something blue: a pair of bright blue oval sunglasses the boys had found in tokyo. you tried to tell him that, objectively, the glasses were really fucking ugly and there was just no way anyone could give that to a woman on her wedding day. luigi wouldn’t listen. he tried to sell you on the idea that the foreign souvenir was sentimental, proof your brother had been thinking about her despite time and distance, but you were already settled on the idea that oval sunglasses hadn’t been a good idea since the nineties.

you stare down the case of rings intently. before you can find one that catches your eye, luigi interrupts again, “she’s already getting two rings.”

“she has two hands,” you argue.

“you have two shoulders; you don’t wear a bag on each everyday.”

“you don’t see me everyday.”

“right.” he agrees seemingly just to agree. the brunette boy leans over the counter, casting his masculine judgement over the case of brightly colored jewelry.

just as the quiet settles in, he comes with a grumble, “these are impractical.”

they’re supposed to be. they wear bold, unconventional jewels. to his point, their gallant design teetered on the edge of gaudy, yet there’s the one. the white idyllia cocktail ring: a mix of cut gemstones, with a delicate flower design at its heart. the petals were a collection of smooth yellow stones, curled in a way that almost looks like they’re caught mid-bloom, while the rhodium plating gives it a nice silver contrast. it’s sweet but striking, the kind of piece that demands attention without screaming for it.

“they’re cocktail rings,” you say, defensive.

luigi lifts one shoulder up to shrug. “they’re tacky.”

“you wear hybrid shorts and souvenir tees—“

“are you two alright over here?” the sales associate chirps, all bright eyes and perfect teeth.

“we are perfect,” you reply through a small, forced smile, your headache blooming like a bad omen.

she’s tall, polished, and dangerously cheerful for how early it is. “what’s the occasion?”

“a wedding—” you start.

“oh, wow, a wedding?” she gasps, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. “congratulations! you two make such a beautiful couple.”

the sheer horror of spending any more life tethered to luigi hits you like a truck. you open your mouth to deny it, but before you can, luigi nods with a polite, “thank you.”

he doesn’t even flinch, casually inspecting a display of bracelets while you’re left to choke on your indignation. you freeze, caught between correcting the mistake and just letting it slide. but before you can make up your mind, luigi leans in, casually gesturing to a row of silver tennis bracelets. “we’re actually just picking out something nice for her before the big night,” he says with a playful grin, his tone light and teasing.

the sales associate beams, clearly oblivious to the tension between you two. “how lovely!“ she sings. “you’re both so lucky to have each other.”

“so lucky,” you manage.

luigi, on the other hand, doesn’t miss a beat, turning to the associate with that effortless charm you’ve heard so much about but never actually seen in practice. “we were just talking about how much we prefer simpler jewelry, you know? nothing too flashy. like those rings over there, totally not our thing, right babe?” he grins, nudging you playfully before adding, “these thin bracelets look nice, though.”

“tennis bracelets,” you correct him, trying hard not to look annoyed.

“whatever you want, babe,” he says with a wink, clearly having way too much fun with this.

the sales woman says something chirpy before fluttering off to grab a tray of options, and luigi leans closer to you with a stupid playful smirk. “you know, it’s fun messing with people sometimes,” he tells you.

you rub your temples in attempt to soothe your storming headache. “you’re just being annoying,” you say, deflated. “i’m gonna go grab a coffee. please just don’t get an ugly color like yellow or green.”

he cocks his head to the side. “i like those colors?”

that doesn’t surprise you. “you’re one of a kind, mangione,” you hum, the words almost losing their bite as you slip the shiny silver card from your case, tapping it lightly against his chest. “have fun. just text me when you’re done.”

luigi opens his mouth to reply with something, perhaps incentive to stay to keep you between him and the sales associate, but before he can get it out, the winter chill finally gets the best of you. you make a sharp, purposeful exit, walking fast enough to look like you know where you’re going, but not so fast it’s obvious you’re trying to escape.

the cold air bites at your skin, but your instincts were right: espresso is the only thing that’ll fix your morning. you settle by the fountain, wrapping your hands around the warmth of your cup, grateful for the quiet. just as the steam from your drink begins to settle, you hear the rustle of gift bags. expensive gift bags.

you look up. luigi, brown-haired and a bit late. “you didn’t answer my texts,” he says.

you blink, then glance over at your phone.

from Luigi Mangione (Penn) Where are you

from Luigi Mangione (Penn) I hate this mall

Luigi Mangione (Penn) is now sharing his location with you! Would you like to share it back?

from Luigi Mangione (Penn) Fucking answer me

3 missed calls

“oh my god,” you say, eyes widening. “luigi, i swear i’d never do that on purpose.”

before he takes the chair beside you, he gives you a telling look. you would.

“pep,” you frown, the childhood nickname rolling off your tongue seemingly ticked him off more. “seriously, my mind hasn’t been working all day. i haven’t slept and—you know. everything’s just been weird.”

“alright,” he sighs, trying. “what’s bothering you?”

“you’d think it’s stupid,” you say, trying to dismiss the purpose of your sadness entirely. at the end of the day, you didn’t want to get into your dip in depression with your brother’s best friend. all your woes would just turn into an endless run of joke material at next year’s thanksgiving. “what’d you buy?”

“silver thing.” luigi answers, sliding the giftbag toward you. “shiny, impossible to hate. we’ll have to pull together something more interesting for something borrowed.”

you nod, flying through the clouds of gift wrap to get to the beautifully extravagant

yellow

box.

your lips pull into a straight line.

“they were out of the other color boxes. but the bracelets silver,” he tells you.

you touch the box gingerly and try to take the high road. there was no reason to end a bad week worse. “i’m sure it’s nice,” you manage.

luigi crosses his arms over his chest. “look in the other bag,” he says, slightly pushy. you brighten up, slightly at this—he was a smart guy, but was he wise and willing enough to invest in options?

you turn to the other bag with the other box, also mustard fucking yellow, but smaller and more delicate. pulling the top open, you reveal the white flower ring you’d been eyeing earlier—its petals a soft, intricate design that now seems even more beautiful in your hands.

“you kept looking at that ring,” luigi points out. “it’s yellow.”

you first look at him, then the ring. did he seriously buy this just to prove a fucking point?

“it’s white and gold.”

“says yellow on the receipt.”

you sigh, shutting the lid and dropping it back into it’s fancy gift bag. “i guess we’ll have to ask the bride.”

“we can go back and ask the sales associate for all i fuckin’ care,” he says, his tone firm. you laugh at how silly this is.

“you swiped my brother’s card for a ring, just so we could argue about it?” you say, rolling your eyes. “somehow, i’m the one everyone calls crazy?”

“no, i put that one on my card,” luigi corrects. “you can keep it.”

you freeze, looking up at him, confused. he wasn’t the type to indulge in unnecessary accessories. he hated consumerism. hell, he’d gone off about capitalism all the way over here. “what do you mean?”

“you liked it.” he shrugged. “it’d look good on you anyway, just keep it.”

you blink, momentarily thrown off. it sounds so silly, but as you look at him, you realize it’s the nicest thing that’s happened to you all week. you feel a warmth spread through you, unexpected but welcome. you lunge in for what was probably your first ever hug.

“aw, pep,” you say, tone soft and musical.

he pulls back, “no—we don’t have to—”

“no, seriously, you have no idea how awful this week has been for me,” you sigh into his neck. his warmth feels nice. warranted. he’d allow it. “thank you.”

“tell me,” luigi says into your hair. he hugs his arms around the small of your back, gentle, soft, barely there.

“hm?”

“tell me what happened.”

you try to mask the tension in your chest as you search for the least emotional way to explain your drop in enthusiasm. you pull away and start cautiously.

“well… my boyfriend pulled out of the wedding.”

“…oh.” he blinks, slow to a reaction. “is he okay?“

“we broke up,” you truth. the words feel foreign on your tongue, awkward in their simplicity. of all the people you expected to have this conversation with—gossiping over coffee about your ex—instagram user luigi.from.fiji was nowhere near the top of the list.

“oh,” luigi says. you feel him turning in, his gaze sharpening, studying you closely. you deliberately adjust your hair and look away, trying to escape the intensity of his attention.

“it’s whatever.”

“it’s not whatever. are you okay?” he asks, the concern in his voice making it clear he’s not going to let you off the hook that easily.

you put a hand on his wrist. “just don’t tell anyone. everyone in the family still really likes him.”

“y/n, i wouldn’t do that,” luigi swears. “and for the record, i never liked him.”

“you met him, what, once?”

“first impressions only take seven seconds,” luigi says, his tone shifting, a hint of a smile in his voice. “he wore a band tee to my parents’ country club. any reasonable person would’ve at least read the dress code before stepping in. it’s fuckin’ golf, not bowling.”

“luigi mangione, the fashion police,” you retort mockingly.

luigi relaxes into his seat, chocolate brown eyes searching yours. “so what happened? what’d he do?”

“everything just started to suck,” you admit, your voice softer now, like you’re still trying to make sense of it all. “he forgets what weekend the wedding is, forgets he has a trip planned with his boys. it’s like everything else comes first, and i’m just… somewhere in the background. i asked him if he knew when my birthday was — and he just stood there, silent.”

“so you broke up with him?”

“does that surprise you?” you ask, lifting an eyebrow.

he raises his hands in defense, a small laugh escaping him. “i was surprised you gave him a chance,” luigi argues, his gaze reuniting with yours, a different comfort in his gaze. “i’m not surprised you left him. surprised it took you so long, sure.”

“oh, fuck off,” you dispute, playful but sharp. “you don’t get to have an i told you so moment right now. you met him once then moved away!”

luigi scoffs. “it’s not rocket science, you know. i didn’t have to be across the street to see that you’re way too pretty to be wasting your time. honestly, i don’t know how anyone could ever forget someone like you.”

you hate that you flush at the compliment, quickly shaking your head back into reality. “you don’t have to be nice to me just ‘cause i had a shitty week, pep.”

he rolls his eyes. unbelievable. even your gentlest moments were shielded by your wall of contretemps. “i’m not being nice just because of that,” luigi says, his voice dropping a little lower. “i’m being nice because you deserve it. shitty week or not.”

you feel light-headed, like the ground beneath you is shifting with every word. the afternoon sun hasn’t even touched you yet, but it feels like you’ve been swept away by a storm. “thanks, i guess,” you say, suddenly shy and unlike yourself.

he leans forward — just a touch closer, his lips curling into something warmer, more certain. “you’re welcome,” he says, his gaze never leaving yours. it’s as if he’s trying to read the very contours of your soul, tracing each flicker of thought that dances across your face. his eyes move slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid to miss even the faintest shift in your expression, as though every moment with you holds something worth studying, something worth remembering. “and in case you didn’t know—if you ever need someone to make you feel special, i’m always around. not just ‘cause you deserve it, but because i’d be lucky to get the chance.”

your heart skips a beat, and for a moment, time seems to slow down. you can’t even really help the smile that tugs at your lips. “you really know how to make a girl feel special, don’t you?”

luigi chuckles softly, a hand brushing lightly against yours. “only when it’s you.”

[taelophone]

Friends Don't⋆˙⟡. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . Luigi Mangione x Reader TWs: Baby Trapping . Friends With Benefits . Dry Humping . Luigi doesn’t take his boxers off like once LOL . Gross imagery cuz I’m nasty . Penetration . Luigi is implied neurodivergent, specifically autism . Daddy Kink . Glasses Luigi . A/N: ngl this is v depraved as well🙂‍↕️

“No, hush, you don’t get it. It was like, a look…see, this is why I don’t tell y’all stuff!”

The sounds of crinkled and crunchy chip bags rustled, accompanied by the aggressive slam of Kota’s heavy hand placing down his cold bottle of beer on the coffee table.

Bubbles of carbonation fizzed, alcoholic foam bubbling to the neck before retreating into the amber glass. Bodies shuffled, voices murmured, television buzzed, and pages flipped as Luigi, your dearest friend, flipped through the pages of his planner.

“But like…” Lindsay began, popping a few primary-colored M&M’s in her mouth with a throw of her head. “You guys weren’t there, he was literally soul-searching me!”

“Lindsay, please stop being delusional,” Kota sighed, a pitying glint in his eyes to pair perfectly with his cynical smirk.

“I’ll hop up there and shove my foot down your throat, please don’t, Rykler” she sighed, a half-amused pout on her lips as she reached over the coffee table from her crisscrossed position on the floor to drop some popcorn in her mouth.

“Last name is crazy…” He chuckled.

“So wait, when are we all leaving? Next Saturday?” You asked, cutting through the pair’s banter with a subtle reminder to focus.

You crawled off of the floor, the cotton lycra of your leggings dragging against the ivory carpet. Your hands came to rest on the side of Luigi’s thigh, raising your head to peer over at the planner in his hands as he mapped out an itinerary for your trip to Athens, Greece.

You felt it for a moment— his quad muscles tensed under your hands for a moment, quick enough to go unnoticed, but slow enough to raise a flag of shock or fluster.

“Should be,” Luigi began, his middle finger adjusting the bridge of his reading glasses. “The flight should be like…eleven hours. So Lindsay, don't sit by me because I wanna get some sleep.”

“Wow, you’re so funny,” she chuckled, a sarcastic roll of her eyes and a surprisingly elegant flash of her middle finger.

“I know, it’s a curse” he fired back, quick with his tongue. It was like watching siblings go back and forth with each other, each little nitpicking jab aiming to push the other to call a truce or sink the pair into a vicious cycle of verbal blows. 

“Anyway, I’m gonna drive Kota home. I can see the glimmer in his eyes when he looks at his keys” Lindsay murmured, side-eying him with both care and annoyance before slowly sliding the black and silver fob into her coat pocket.

“Somebody get this man his keys,” Luigi joked, a boyish grin painting his face while he watched his frat-brother stand up and stretch. A few loud pops, cracks of age, and ease echoing from the tall boy's spine before he shakes himself free of insomnia.

“A’ight, we out. Text me when you get home, Pep. Oh, and,” he paused, picking up his beer from the table with a surprisingly sweet and genuine chuckle. “Don’t fuck it up. You got this bro, ALPHA!” He barked, enunciating his proclamation of Luigi’s leadership with a few hits to his chest.

Whatever that meant.

“I won’t, I promise,” Luigi chuckled, waving at the pair of them as they made their way out of your cozy apartment.

With the pair of them gone, the only company between you and Luigi transitioned into silence. His eyes scanned over the small book, filling the empty boxes of next weekend with blue-inked notes and E.T.A’s.

You watched his hands, now slowly bringing your chin to rest atop his thigh. His concentration was so heavy he almost didn’t notice the way you rested your head and arms on his much larger leg, your head tilted innocently to the side like a little doe, discovering man for the first time.

Almost.

“Why are you still on the floor?” He asked with a tiny smile, not once removing his gaze from the journal in front of him.

“It’s comfy” you shrugged, flicking your eyes up to his. The black frames of his browline glasses glimmered until the pale yellow light of the overhead lamp, little white highlights flashing every once in a while with a slight tilt of his head.

He hummed, dropping his pen in the inner hinge of his planner before closing it entirely. He sat it down on the table in front of him, stretching out his arms with a barely audible groan. 

“Come up here, I don’t want you to hurt your knees. You’ll get carpet burn…” he sighed, crossing his arms over his stomach as he peered into your eyes.

“But I’m comfortable” you sighed, propping your elbows up on his thigh.

“C’mon, your knees are gonna feel terrible,” he sighed, reaching over to scoop you up from under your shoulders just to set you next to him on the couch.

“I was comfortable on the floor, c’mon man…” you sighed, glaring at him through your peripheral. Your faux annoyance soon melted, bringing your temple to rest against his sturdy shoulder while he fidgeted with the silver chain around his neck.

“But you’ll be the first one to complain about knee pain later” he stated, shooting you an amused side-eye that mirrored your own.

“Yeah well I don’t get knee pain from sitting on the carpet—“ you teased, a bright and tongued smile on your face.

“Aht-! Behave yourself,” He mused, his brows shooting up as high as the muscles in his face would allow, a pinkish tint on the tip of his nose. Luigi was the last man to ever speak on the subject of behavior— after all, he was almost as ill-mannered and impatient as you.

You weren’t really sure where you stood with Luigi. The lines had long since blurred and distorted into a muddy and grotesque portrait— platonic wires plugging themselves into outlets of intimacy that deviated from the standard friendship.

You knew what his hair felt like between your interdigitals, the soft curls of cocoa brown finding their way into your palms every other night. It wasn’t a question of how it would happen next, it was only when.

It always started in similar ways. Two friends left alone for too long, searing seduction and sexual tension filling the empty space between the both of you.

It was almost pathetic the way you managed to tangle your limbs together every time you laid eyes on each other for too long. Hands gripping and grabbing at anything they could, like frustrated virgins relieving themselves of chastity.

“I’m so well-behaved,” you chuckled, rolling your eyes at him with a lopsided smile. Your head fell to the side, its refuge found on the blade of his shoulder.

“Stop it” he giggled, low and steady in his chest before he shifted to pick up his planner once more. “You guys are evil…making me plan the trip alone.”

“We’re not evil, we just suck at planning. Isn’t organizing and planning your thing?” You joked, your top row of teeth pulling in your bottom lip in sarcastic banter.

“Oh, okay,” he laughed, the silver bridge of his readers slipping down the slope of his nose slightly with the sudden movement of his head being thrown back. 

“It’s okay, we’re just keeping the nerd well-fed,” you said, watching him fill in the last few notes and details in the tiny black lines.

He paused, his brows pinching together with a slightly stretched smirk on his lips. He was confused, of course, but deeply amused by your words.

“I don’t think I’m a nerd,” he said, readjusting his glasses with the knuckle of his pointer finger.

You stared at him, looking him up and down in silent protest. The glasses, the annotated planner in his hand, his monochrome Adidas hoodie, and his dorky black basketball shorts as he faced you with a boyish smile.

“Okay, Luigi…whatever you say!” You nodded, a clear tone of disbelief dripping from your words.

He paused, a small pout on his lips as he leaned back further onto the couch. 

“Am I actually that nerdy…?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“But it’s ok you’re sexy, so you’re a hot nerd,” you said, fluffing the curls at the back of his head briefly.

“Wow. Thanks. I feel so much better. My heart is just overwhelmed with gratitude” he deadpanned, a subtle nod of his head really solidifying his joy.

 He nodded with an unenthusiastic smile, fiddling with the bow-tied drawstring on his black shorts, the cheap polyester bunching up slightly with his gentle tug on the knot.

You watched his hands, curiosity killing you slowly as you succumbed to the strange sensory captivation.

“You shouldn’t look at people’s dicks, it’s not polite” He murmured, letting a teasing chortle slip as his hands ceased their relentless stimming.

“Oh shut up,” you gasped, immediately lifting your head from his shoulder to land a playful blow on his chest. “I was watching you be an idiot with your shorts, actually.”

“Wow,” he drawled, carrying out the w sound for as long as he could while shaking his head slowly. “So you make me plan cuz I’m ’good at it’, AND make fun of me stimming? You’re two for two right now!”

“Oh my god I hate you” you sighed, scooting away from him.

“No, you love me,” he said, pulling you back towards him by the hem of your pink sweatpants. “My dick too, apparently.”

“Ew don’t be gross, Luigi,” you said, raising your eyebrows at his sudden forward attitude. He wasn’t normally handsy or forward, but this was a welcome change.

“We can do something gross,” he joked, a shy and almost childish giggle marking the end of his sentence as a reddish blush crept up to his cheeks.

“Luigi!” You scolded, sporting a shocked smile as he abandoned your gaze.

“Sorry, sorry, it’s the beer,” he sighed, throwing his hands up in faux defense.

You giggled, crossing your arms and sinking further into the couch, letting the tension melt away from your spine and shoulders.

“Imagine not being able to handle your liquor…” you teased, poking his chest with the manicured tip of your finger before spaying your hand over his chest, gently pushing him.

“I can handle my alcohol just fine,” he said, raising a brow at your hand as it slowly began to feel around his slightly firmed pec muscles.

“You know what else you can handle?” You mused, not even bothering the way you squished his pecs with giddy giggles.

“Oh, but I’m gross,” he laughed, his opposite eyebrow joining its twin in its raised shock. 

“Your boobs are big” you murmured, giving one final squish to both of his muscles before withdrawing your hands. To your surprise, Luigi grabbed your wrists, situating them on either of his shoulders as he pulled you into his lap by the dip of both of your hips.

“Actually, they’re called pectorals…not boobs,” he began, slowly diving into a lengthy rant on anatomy and how the male body differs from the female body. 

Your eyes began to glaze over, his hands holding the top of your hips with a firm, but docile grasp on your delicate skin. His deep and suave voice felt like fluttering feathers brushing across your soul, plucking your heartstrings with arousal.

“You have boobs, I don’t have boobs…I don’t think I do anyway, but I have been in the gym a lot more—“

He paused, a sudden wave of pleasure washing over him, a quiet and muffled grunt sounding from the depths of his throat as he was torn from his absent-minded rant. His eyes shot open, his pupils dilating and locking on your form.

Your head tilted forward, eyes gently closed in bliss, and tiny gusts of wind left your lips as you rocked your hips back and forth against his. His bottom lip curled over his bottom row of teeth, his tongue jetting out to brush against it.

“Oh wow…” he murmured, as quiet as distant waves on the salty shores— a reminder that good times were ahead the further along you rode. “That’s new.”

You smiled, your bottom lip coming between your teeth in lustful seduction. He held on to your hip bones, his breathing slowing down with the weight of each breath as he guided you back and forth.

“You’re rude, you weren’t even listening to my important anatomy lesson…I plan, cook, entertain you, organize for you, and help you get your rocks off and this is how you treat me?” He rasped, the front of his canines coming into view as he smiled while his tongue poked out between his teeth.

You whined breathily, his hands pressing you further against the large bulge in his shorts, angry and twitchy underneath the cheap synthetic fabric. He was big— intimidatingly girthy underneath you as it begged to be set free.

You wanted to go faster, your hips stuttering as you attempted to pick up the pace, but Luigi’s firm hold on your hips prevented you from grinding at your own pace. You huffed, glancing up at him with an annoyed glint in your eyes.

“Mmmh, not yet…you did this, not me. Finish what you started,” he mumbled, dragging your hips along his painfully slow. His head tilted back, the wall behind him smashing the top of his curls down as his eyes fluttered shut to concentrate on the feeling.

“Lu, c’mon, don’t be cruel…” you sighed, your face twisting in disappointment and arousal. The push and pull was enough to keep you tingly, the cotton on your panties soaking with each passing second, but not enough to really get you anywhere in under twenty minutes.

“Hm, am I? What have you been to me this whole time…” he chuckled, watching your expressions closely as annoyance and arousal fought for dominance on your face.

His hands were heavy, kneading the flesh at the back of your upper thighs possessively. Hot with fever— itching with lust, it was disgustingly intimate.

His hands traveled your body like it was normal, each depraved and desperate squeeze of his hands fueled by the hunger of a man starved. Your poor puffy and practically pulsing clot ached for action, anything to push you over the edge he kept you so far away from.

“Luigi…come on…” you whined, frantically rutting your hips against his. Much to your surprise, his hands didn’t restrict you from your fervent rocking, letting you capsize against him again and again like a creaky old boat seeking land in a storm.

Deep and sharp breaths filled his lungs, providing the necessary oxygen he needed to survive until his next ragged breath. He liked watching you lose your self-control on top of him— it was so beautiful.

He always had a habit of attempting to fix things, broken or not, and rebuilding them into something…better. What would look better to him, is if you were a babbling twitching mess on his lap.

“Is this too gross for you? Hmm?” He purred, his hands falling to his sides as he left you to do all the work yourself. He watched as you huffed and whined, rolling your hips against his painfully hard bulge again and again.

“Shut…shut up, please—“ you panted, hot and heavy breaths drying up your mouth as you focused your dwindling amounts of energy on riding each wave to euphoria.

“Aht, don’t be a brat,” he warned, popping you on the side of your thigh with a slight scrunch of his nose. “Say you’re sorry.”

By now your eyes burned with the same fire that nipped at your thighs; salty, sinful, seductive tears glossing your waterline better than Maybelline could ever hope to shine. Pulsing above him with quiet whines, your nails clawing into the muscles on his shoulders while his large hand rubbed the spot he slapped to soothe the sting.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, Daddy…” you winced, the simple motion enough to humble yourself. You’d never expect him to be a rough man at all, but Luigi was a man full of surprises.

He chuckled briefly, his face twitching with building pleasure as he watched you work your legs and hips to keep your rhythm. He listened to your whines grow louder, the way your rhythm began to falter sent almost sadistic sparks of giddy excitement coursing through his veins.

“Aw, it’s not enough for you? Do you need my help?” He teased, his large palms coming up to rest on your hips in a taunting manner.

“Yes…yes, please, my legs hurt—! Need help,” you panted, leaning forward to press wet and open-mouthed kisses to his neck and jaw in hopes of convincing him to give you some mercy.

“Poor baby,” he huffed, pulling your sweatpants down your hips. “You need me for everything…planning, company, an orgasm…”

He sighed, pulling his shorts down just enough to expose his boxers, not even bothering to take them off as he pulled his dick out of the fly of his boxers. He slid your cotton panties to the side, the pads of his fingers pressing into the supple flesh of your sides, skewering you down onto him.

You cried out, the stretch just as unfamiliar as it was every single time. He was big; massive even as he took sharp advantage of the slick that had glossed up and decorated your folds from failing to bring yourself to an orgasm moments prior.

“I can’t say no to you…it’s a fucking problem…” he whined, using your smaller body like his own toy as he pistoned you up and down his girthy dick.

You moshed, tears of pleasure and painful sensitivity dribbling down your face as fast as you could blink. Mascara coursed from your lashes, violating the pristine, crystal-like water that once held nothing but emotion.

Dirty like muddy water, tainted with a reminder of how your very own friend makes you feel almost daily. Never mind the years of careful boundary building and shared experiences— you’d always find yourself tangled within each other.

Again. 

And again.

And again.

Paff! Paff! Paff! Paff!

It was disgusting—, your mingled moans and sounds of sticky and hot fabric meeting in the space between you repeatedly. Soaked panties sticking to your lips, boxers caving in with the weight of dribbled precum and sticking to his lower abdomen.

He was a freak for not bothering to take his boxers off, fully aware of the consequences if he chose to keep them on. Luigi didn’t seem to care, however, he was overjoyed with the aspect of you ruining his perfectly new Calvin Kleins.

No amount of money could replace the memory of you dripping down his length and onto the soft material with a loud, helpless shout of his name.

“Close…” you shrieked, using up the last of your breath to warn him of your rapidly approaching climax.

But he already knew that. He knew from the moment you began to flutter and convulse around him that you were nearing your edge.

“I know, I know…” he purred, using your hazy, pleasure-driven state to suck on the side of your neck.

He left blue and purple bruises in his wake, high enough to be annoying to attempt to hide later. If you could give him attitude and mouth, he could give you hickeys.

You stilled, a loud cry leaving your lips as your hands clawed and scratched at his back and shoulders. Warm white flashed beyond your eyelids, your poor twitchy cunt convulsing around Luigi’s dick and painting him pearly.

He watched in awe, his eyes honed in on the scene before him as you shuddered against his chest. At that moment, only one thought crossed his mind as he pistoned you up and down on him.

“Sorry…!” He whined, your slow eyes widening in realization as his thrusts became more and more erratic.

Heavy and milky ropes of cum shot directly through you, pollinating the flowers of your cervix with a loud grunt. His hands slammed your hips down, holding you in place while giving him a loud whimper.

“Luigi, what the fuck!” You moaned, slowly regaining your consciousness as he lazily continued to pump up into you.

“Moment of weakness…” He murmured, the devilish smirk glued to his fanged features like the cat that ate the canary. Purring with pride, and stained with the sweet sweet nectar of his reward.

His grey boxers were now a deep, charcoal grey, fucking every drop of his load back into you slowly.

“It’s fine. I'll buy you a plan B…”

[scoutofmymind]

i just saw you reblogged an Anora post😍 would u ever be interested in writing a reader x Luigi prompt inspired by that movie? love your writing girl you are just so fantastic

Losing Dogs — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: NSFW - MNDI, sex work, rich as fuck Luigi, Dancer!Reader, p in v, come eating (whoooops), reader is addicted to uncertainty.

Wc: 7,158 (This is an unfinished work, I’m willing to continue if requests for it are substantial, but for the sake of keeping it on Tumblr and not posting it on Ao3, I had to stop where I did 💕)

Notes; Luigi Mangione, heir to a Sicilian real estate empire and alleged regular at underground poker clubs where he watches rather than plays, never expected to find himself falling for a dancer at Sapphire.

Click here for part 2

"It's actually funny," Luigi mumbles, more to himself than his companions, wedged between his two cousins fresh off the plane from Sicily.

Tony, the giant of the family, shares Luigi's sharp features but stretched larger, like someone had taken Luigi's face and expanded it to fit a bruiser's frame. Then there's Lorenzo — shorter but somehow taking up just as much space, his body a testament to long hours at his father's dockyard; the scar splitting his right eyebrow catches sunlight every time he smirks. “First time on American soil in what, five years? And this is where you had to come firs-“

The door is swung open, the facade is deceptively plain — just black marble and smoked glass, a discreet Sapphire etched in gold above the door marks this as their destination.

The bouncer, a mountain in a tailored suit, doesn't bark or posture like the ones on cheaper doors. He just stands there, radiating quiet competence, his earpiece gleaming. "IDs," he requests, somehow making the single word sound both polite and non-negotiable.

His eyes linger on the Italian passports, but his face betrays nothing.

Inside the antechamber, it's all dark wood and soft amber lighting and a woman in a pencil skirt recites the house rules with practiced efficiency: no phones on the floor, no photographs, minimum table service in VIP is $500, and — she pauses here, sliding elegant paperwork across the marble counter — there's the matter of the $200 per person convenience fee that will be withdrawn immediately.

Tony balks slightly at this. "Two hundred just to walk in?"

"It's to ensure our clientele maintains a certain standard," she explains, her smile professional but cooling several degrees. "The amount is credited toward your evening's entertainment, of course."

Lorenzo elbows Tony, muttering something in rapid Italian about American prices, but Luigi slides his card across, knowing this is how places like this filter out the tourists and trouble-makers.

Through the second set of doors, bass pulses like a heartbeat, but it's still muffled, promising rather than announcing, and the air smells of expensive perfume and aged whiskey, not beer and desperation.

The main floor unfolds before them like a fever dream in black marble. Sapphires reputation for being high end suddenly makes visceral sense — everything gleams with the kind of wealth that doesn't need to announce itself.

The lighting is precise, strategic; LEDs trace abstract patterns across coffered ceilings while hidden spots paint the stages in liquid gold. "Dio," breathes Tony, his complaints about the entrance fee forgotten.

Three circular stages dominate the space, each with its own constellation of private tables, but it's the architecture that catches Luigi's eye — the way the room seems to spiral inward like a nautilus shell, the tables far enough apart that conversations stay private, close enough to feel intimate with the performance space.

A hostess materializes — there's no other word for how smoothly she appears — in a black dress that costs more than most people's monthly rent. "Gentlemen, will you be joining us at the bar, or would you prefer a table?" Her eyes flick to Lorenzo's Rolex, Tony's Brunello Cucinelli jacket, making rapid calculations.

"Table," Lorenzo says before anyone else can speak. "Something close." His English is heavily accented but the universal language of status needs no translation.

She leads them through the crowd — if you can call it that. The usual press of bodies you'd expect in a club is absent here.

Instead, there's space, carefully crafted distance.

Men in suits that cost more than Beamers speak in low voices, and a tech billionaire Luigi recognizes from CNBC sits alone, staring into middle distance while a dancer performs with the kind of grace that suggests formal training.

They're led to a half-moon booth with a perfect view of the main stage. The leather is butter-soft, the table's surface black glass that seems to swallow light, with a subtle panel of buttons for service inlaid near the edge.

"Your server will be with you shortly," the hostess says, then hesitates. "And gentlemen? I'd recommend staying for the next set."

That's when Luigi notices the music tumbles into something that isn’t the typical club thunder — instead, it's something classical, deconstructed and woven through with electronic elements; Chopin's Nocturne in E-flat major, he realizes, but reimagined as something darker, more modern.

The server approaches with the same calculated grace as the hostess, but there's something different in her manner — a hint of genuine warmth. "Welcome to Sapphire. I'm Aria." She sets down crystal water glasses with practiced precision. "Our special tonight is the 1982 Macallan, though—“ her eyes drift meaningfully to Luigi, "We also make an exceptional Manhattan.”

Before anyone can order, the lights shift — subtle at first, then with purpose.

The deconstructed Chopin fades into silence, the main stage, empty moments ago, now holds a single figure in darkness, and the murmur of conversation around them dies without prompting.

A single cello note cuts through the quiet, followed by another, building a melody that feels both ancient and startlingly modern.

As the music swells, light bleeds onto the stage, revealing her.

Her whose movement matches the music's duality — classical technique fractured and reassembled into something hypnotic.

She doesn't dance around the pole so much as she seems to bend gravity to her will, each transition so fluid it looks like liquid mercury.

Luigi notices something else.

The crowd's reaction.

These men, who deal in billions and shape markets with a phone call, are completely still. It's not the typical attention of a gentleman's club — it’s the silence of an audience witnessing something they don't quite understand but can't look away from.

Both Tony and Lorenzo order bottles with the casual arrogance of men used to throwing money around, and Luigi can't tear his eyes away long enough to ask about their other cocktails.

He's never been much for bourbon, but right now he doesn't care — the performance has him in a trance that no spirit could match.

It's not long before he hears his cousins acting up, murmuring something to each other in their native tongue, that lyrical Italian that Luigi understands but rarely speaks, his own command of it lost somewhere between private schools and college lectures.

“Where's her tits?” Lorenzo mutters, Tony leaning in to complain right behind him, “I thought this was a strip club?”

Luigi furrows his brows, the spell broken.

He turns his broad chest toward them both, pausing only to acknowledge the two women who parade over their bottles of champagne with divine precision and grace, their movements a stark contrast to his cousins' crude commentary. "You buy a fuckin' room if you want tits," he growls, flicking his finger first in Tony's direction, then Lorenzo's, each gesture sharp as a warning shot. "Don't put a bad name on us, cugini — Papa has investments here."

The cousins exchange glances but settle back, chastened more by the mention of their uncle than Luigi's reprimand.

On stage, the music shifts again — something even darker now, all cello and static — and her routine evolves with it, the control is absolute, each movement deliberate yet somehow wild, like watching lightning decide where to strike.

The pole becomes less prop and more partner, an extension of her artistry rather than its center, and Luigi finds himself leaning forward, elbows on his knees, aware that he's staring but far past caring.

He notices details his cousins miss — the way her muscles tell stories of dedication, how her face reveals nothing and everything at once.

There's mathematics in her movement, philosophy in her form.

A sharp sound of crystal meeting crystal breaks his concentration — Lorenzo, already refilling his glass, the champagne sloshing slightly over the rim.

The cousin catches Luigi's glare and shrugs, muttering something that sounds like an apology but isn't while Tony's attention has already wandered to one of the cocktail waitresses, his earlier complaints forgotten in favor of more immediate distractions.

Reluctantly, the music fades and she descends from the stage with the same fluid grace that marked her performance, moving through the club like water finding its path, stopping at tables where regulars sit with their crystal glasses and dollar bills.

Luigi, needing air — or space— or both, makes his way to the bar, leaving his cousins to their champagne and their increasingly loud discussions about Italian soccer to a couple of women who couldn’t care less, but would open a ear to anything if it meant getting them in a private room.

"Sanpellegrino," he murmurs to a bartender, suddenly wanting clarity rather than clouds. The sparkling water arrives in a glass with lime, and that's when he sees her — the girl who was just on stage —materialized a few seats down, leaning across the bar to speak with the bartender.

Her right hand rests on the polished wood, and there, in delicate script across her inner wrist: "God is dead."

Before he can stop himself, the words leave his mouth, soft but clear: "And we have killed him.”

Your head turns, eyes finding his with an intensity that makes him forget the rest of Nietzsche's proclamation, and for a moment, the club, his cousins, everything else fades away.

You tilt your head slightly, a subtle smile playing at the corner of your mouth. "Most people just ask if it's about Satan," you grin, your voice carrying a hint of amusement. "Or they try to save my soul."

Luigi takes a slow sip of his sparkling water that tickles his nose, appreciating the irony. "Nietzsche would've had thoughts about both responses." He gestures to the empty seat between them. "Though I doubt he ever imagined his words would end up here.”

"Oh, I don't know," your voice becomes airy and light, sliding onto the stool next to him, closer than the one he'd indicated. "The death of God, the birth of tragedy, eternal recurrence — seems fitting for a club where people come to forget." You eye him, take inventory of his posture, what he’s wearing, and the sparkling water he’s drinking. "Besides, what better place to question values?"

Luigi finds himself leaning in slightly, aware that this conversation is rapidly becoming more intriguing than anything happening on stage, or back at the table with his cousins. "So, you studied philosophy?" he asks, though it's more statement than question.

"Columbia," you answer, then add with a knowing look, "Before you ask — yes, this is how I pay for it. And no, I'm not looking for rescue from this life of sin."

The directness catches him off guard, but he appreciates it. "NYU. Comp Sci.” he offers in return. "And I wouldn't presume to rescue anyone who quotes Nietzsche.”

"Let me guess," your eyes scan him with amused precision, "You were more Camus than Nietzsche?"

Luigi can't help but smile, caught between surprise and appreciation. "The Myth of Sisyphus was my thesis," he admits. "Though these days I'm pushing more rocks up hills than contemplating them."

A glance over his shoulder reminds him of his cousins' presence — they're still at the table, but their attention has shifted to their phones, probably already bored without the promised spectacle they came for, or having scared the girls enough to deny them private rooms.

He feels a shift in the air as one of the floor managers approaches — the kind of interruption that seems inevitable in a place like this, and you notice too, but instead of immediately pulling away, you reach for a cocktail napkin and a pen from behind the bar.

"Speaking of eternal recurrence," you scribble over the napkin, "I'm here Thursdays and Fridays. If you want to continue our discussion about the death of God, or-“ you slide it toward him, "the birth of tragedy."

•

Thursday.

Oh, Thursday, Thursday, Thursday.

"Happy thirsty Thursday, bitches!" Julia's voice rings through the dressing room as she weaves between vanity stations, balancing a bottle of Prosecco.

You're perched on the counter, nose nearly touching the mirror, wielding your liquid eyeliner with the precision of a surgeon — or at least attempting to.

"Honey," Julia pauses behind you, pressing a cool glass into your hand while gently easing you back from the mirror, which has begun to fog from your focused breathing. "Don't you make enough for some contacts? I swear you're going to give yourself a repetitive stress injury.”

You accept the prosecco without turning from your reflection, then the shot she presses into your other hand. The old rule echoes in your mind — drinking before shifts is bad business — but tonight feels different.

It wasn't any one thing that set this mood — but maybe it was the way your boots crunched through dirty ice on your trek from the subway, or how the wind cut right through that orange and brown balaclava your mother had knitted, sent from Santa Monic with a note saying "stay warm".

You sit by the bar, chin propped on your fist as you survey the crowd through half-lidded eyes.

The regulars hunch over their drinks like old friends, while first-timers betray themselves with darting glances and tentative sips. Music thrums through the floorboards —some nameless pop song stripped down and remixed until only the bassline remains, vibrating in your chest like a second heartbeat.

His "Hey" materializes beside you, soft enough that it nearly dissolves into the din. You don't need to look to know it's him — that particular shadow in charcoal grey wool.

He's shed the usual entourage of boisterous cousins, and there's something different in his approach — a hesitation in steps that usually claim every room they enter.

You turn, "Sanpellegrino?" A ghost of a smile plays at your lips as the glass catches the low light. His face is different tonight — something raw beneath the polished exterior, like fresh paint that hasn't quite dried.

"About last week," he begins, easing onto the barstool as if it might disappear beneath him. "The, uh — your number - it -"

"Let me guess." You slide his drink across the mahogany with practiced grace. "Either your suit met an untimely end at the cleaners with it still in the pocket, or one of those cousins of yours lifted it."

Breaking your cardinal rule — never give your number to a customer — only to have it vanish feels like the universe's personal punchline.

Seven digits sacrificed to whatever deity presides over dry cleaning.

Luigi's grimace tells you everything. "Dry cleaning," he confesses, shoulders dropping slightly. "My housekeeper has a scorched-earth policy with receipts. By the time I realized-“ He lifts the glass, ice clicking against crystal. "I spent the week with Camus instead. Came strapped with counterarguments about the fundamental absurdity of existence."

You find yourself fighting back a smile.

In five years of working here, you've had countless men try to continue conversations, usually with tired lines about destiny or missed connections, but none of them ever showed up having done philosophical homework.

"Well," you say, leaning against the bar, "you did make it on a Thursday. That's something Sisyphus would appreciate — the eternal return and all that." You glance at the clock, then back at him. "Let's hear your defense of absurdism.” You find yourself reaching for his hand, your usual pitch tumbling out like second nature. "We could continue this conversation somewhere more private?"

The words hang there for a moment, and you watch his expression shift from philosophical intensity to something more certain.

In the private room, you move sinuously to music that's now more vibration than sound, while he dissects existentialism with the intensity of a doctoral candidate defending his thesis.

Even as you straddle him, skin gleaming in the low light, he's animated — one hand conducting an invisible orchestra while the other remains fixed to the armrest like it's been superglued there. His voice never wavers as he explains how Sisyphus's comprehension of his eternal task is actually his triumph over the gods.

"— and if we examine the boulder as a metaphor for societal expectations—" He's still lecturing while you execute a move that's earned you countless thousands, your body folded into an artful display of flexibility, each movement a masterpiece of calculated seduction.

"Babe," you cut in, flowing back into his lap with liquid grace. You press your palm against his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath expensive wool. "Are you even into this?" Your voice carries equal parts amusement and genuine curiosity. For the first time tonight, he falls silent.

Luigi freezes mid-sentence, mouth still shaped around 'existentialism,' blinking like someone emerging from a trance. "What? Of course I'm- Why would you think-"

"Because I've been doing inverted crosses and Russian splits for fifteen minutes, and you're more invested in French philosophy than the fact that I'm practically naked in your lap."

Color floods his neck, creeping up like watercolor on wet paper. "I just- I thought- You seemed so engaged in our discussion last week, and I spent days researching, and-" He drags fingers through dark curls, leaving them charmingly disheveled. "I'm completely fucking this up, aren't I?"

You laugh, soft and genuine, settling deeper into his lap as your arms drape over his rigid shoulders. "Most guys in here pretend to be intellectuals to get closer to the dancers. You might be the first one pretending not to notice my body to prove you actually are one."

"I notice," he blurts, then looks like he wants to dissolve into the leather seat. "God- I mean, I'm extremely aware. I just thought if I-"

"Luigi," you interrupt, oddly moved by his fumbling sincerity, "you can appreciate both Camus and tits. The universe is absurd enough for both."

His laugh is nervous but genuine, shoulders finally releasing their tension beneath your touch. "I suppose that would be a false dichotomy." Then, after a pause where his eyes actually — finally —trace your silhouette, "Though I have to admit, I'm finding it considerably harder to focus on French existentialism now that I'm not actively trying to ignore-“

"My existence preceding my essence?" You smirk, rolling your hips in a way that makes his breath catch, his head resting on the crushed velvet back of the chair beneath him, his eyes stuck on yours in a narrow gaze.

"That's — uh - that's Sartre, not Camus," he manages, hands still firmly gripped on the armrests like they're keeping him anchored to reality.

"Look at you, still managing to be pedantic." You run a finger down the cable knit of his sweater — Hermès, you notice, because of course it is. "You can touch me, you know. Club rules allow it in private rooms, and I'm giving you permission. Unless you'd rather discuss Kierkegaard's views on anxiety?"

His hands finally leave the armrests, hovering uncertainly near your waist. "I actually did read some Kierkegaard this week too," he admits, and you can't help but laugh at his commitment to the bit. "But maybe,” his hands finally settle on your hips, warm through the thin fabric of your tiny, ruffed lace bottoms, "we could table the philosophical discussion for now?"

"There he is," you murmur, noting how his pupils have dilated, his cheeks having gone pink, his aura radiating like a halo around him in the soft neon light of the shared private room, another dancer nearby with a regular client. "Though I have to say, this is the first time I've had to actively encourage a client to be less respectful."

•

Three months in, and you're lounging by his infinity pool overlooking Central Park. The Upper East Side condo had been a surprise — you'd known he was wealthy from his clothes and manners, but this was old money, generations of it seeping from every handcrafted molding and imported marble tile.

You adjust the Van Cleef he gave you last week — "Just because," he'd said, as if dropping $50K on jewelry was as casual as picking up coffee, and you run your fingers over the spine of Thus Spoke Zarathustra, thinking about power dynamics and the eternal dance between giving and taking — every gift, every dinner, every weekend in the Hamptons — you catalog them mentally, like entries in a ledger.

Not because you're calculating, but because you've learned that everything has a price, even if it's not immediately apparent.

Luigi looks at you like you're an answer to a question he never knew to ask, and when he kisses you, it's reverent, like you're something precious. When he talks about the future, it's with a certainty that would be frightening if you let yourself think about it too deeply.

But you've spent years understanding the transactional nature of desire.

Even as you feel yourself falling into the gravity of his affection, there's a part of you that remains detached, analytical. You recognize his love — it's evident in every gesture, every thoughtful gift, every time he shows up at the club just to drive you home after your shift, never asking you to quit, never making demands.

Your own feelings are more complicated.

You care for him, deeply even, but there's always that voice in the back of your mind tallying the cost of everything, wondering when the bill will come due, because it always does.

It's not that you don't feel love — it's that you've learned to view love itself as another form of currency, something to be exchanged, measured, quantified.

You’re snapped out of your daze when Luigi emerges from the townhouses study nook, still clutching his Advanced Algorithms textbook at his side. He's in his final semester, juggling classes with the machine learning research project he's hoping will revolutionize his family's investment firm.

The place isn't his — it's his parents', who spend most of their time at their place in Puglia.

"My brain is absolutely fried," he groans, collapsing onto the lounge chair beside you, a loud sigh following. "If I have to debug one more recursive function or optimize another binary search tree, I might actually lose it."

You close your Beauvoir and look at him with amusement. "The heir apparent to the Mangione empire, defeated by code?"

"Don't," he mumbles into the cushion. "Papa’s already called twice today to remind me about graduation expectations. Apparently, anything less than building the next revolutionary trading algorithm would be an embarrassment to five generations of Mangione bankers."

You run your fingers through his hair, and he leans into your touch like a cat — for a moment, you see him as he really is, not the polished future tech innovator, not the philosophy-quoting client, but just a 24-year-old kid trying to live up to impossible expectations.

Moving from your own lounge chair to his, you settle into his lap with a practiced grace that blurs the line between habit and performance, your hands splayed across his chest, and you can feel his heartbeat quickening beneath your fingers.

"What would you think if -“ you lean down, pressing kisses along his collarbone, tasting the salty skin of spring and expensive cologne, "I were to treat you tonight?" Your voice carries the same silky tone you use at the club, but there's something else there too — something that makes you uncomfortable if you think about it too hard.

"Mm?" His voice is gentle, soft but frayed around the edges. You can hear the weight of those endless phone calls with his father in it — arguments about the family's ventures, about graduation expectations, about codes both computational and criminal that you don't yet know about. "How so?"

You kiss your way up his neck, buying time, wondering when exactly you started using intimacy as currency, even outside of work.

His hands settle on your hips, and they're trembling slightly — from exhaustion or desire or both.

"Let me take care of you," you murmur against his jaw. "No thinking about algorithms or binary trees or whatever your father wants-“ You feel him tense slightly at the mention of his father, but you continue, "Just us."

He draws back just enough to study your face, and there's something in his gaze that makes your breath catch — like he's reading between the lines of your carefully constructed script, past the glitter and practiced smiles to something you thought you'd buried deep enough that no one would find it.

His thumb ghosts across your lower lip, and you brace yourself — waiting for him to name the thing you both see; how you turn every genuine connection into a filed entry, every moment of vulnerability into a debt to be repaid.

Instead, his voice comes soft as a confession, “You don't have to earn your place here, you know."

The words land like a punch to the chest, stealing your breath mid-motion.

Because isn't that exactly what you've been doing all these years — keeping a running tally, maintaining equilibrium, treating your heart like a balance sheet?

Even here, you're performing mental arithmetic — calculating the precise exchange rate between vulnerability and safety, between affection given and security received.

You recover with the grace of long practice, muscle memory sliding you back into familiar patterns. "Maybe I just want to," you say, but there's a tremor in your voice that betrays you, a hairline crack in carefully maintained armor.

His hands come up to cradle your face like you're something precious, something breakable, and he's looking at you with that devastating combination of tenderness and insight that makes your flight instincts scream. "Tell me what you're thinking," he whispers into the space between you. "Really thinking."

And that's the problem, isn't it?

You're thinking about debt and worth and the price of everything. You're thinking about how many private club dances it would take to equal the necklace around your throat. You're thinking about the way his family's wealth feels like a weight even as it lifts you up.

You think about the way he watches you – not just your body moving through practiced routines, but the quick flash of your wit, the sharp edges of your mind. How he's never once suggested you quit, never tried to "save" you from choices that were always yours to make. How he handles your thoughts with the same reverence others reserve for your curves.

And somewhere beneath the ledgers and calculations, beneath the careful arithmetic of survival, something dangerous is blooming — something that tastes like truth and terrifies you more than any amount of nakedness ever could.

So instead of words, you answer with your mouth against his, and for once there's no performance in it, no mental tallying of what this kiss might be worth.

His fingers thread through your hair like he's memorizing you, and for one crystalline moment, you let the numbers fall away, let yourself exist in the simple miracle of being wanted exactly as you are.

"May I ask something?" Luigi whispers softly against your lips, his palms pressing into your back as if he could somehow draw you closer, make you more real.

"With those manners, you can do just about anything, Lu." you murmur, rolling your hips against his with an urgency that would never appear in your calculated club performances.

"Well," he clears his throat, and you can feel him stalling beneath you. His request had tumbled out rushed and nervous, like ripping off a bandaid, words escaping before he could think better of them. "My parents are coming back from Sicily soon — they do usually in spring." He looks at you sheepishly, sweat beading on his brow. "And we do this dinner-“

You lean up slowly from his neck where you'd been losing yourself in the essence of him, in this space where things are simple. Where there are no student loans crushing your shoulders, no club schedules dictating your nights, no complicated family dynamics lurking beneath perfectly polished surfaces.

"Mm, is that so?" you murmur, studying the way his throat moves when he swallows, the tension gathering in his jaw.

"It is," Luigi says, blinking up at you like he's emerging from deep water. His fingers find the strings of your bikini, twisting them absently — an unconscious tell, like he needs something physical to hold onto while his usually precise mind fumbles for words.

This is the same man who can explain market derivatives or quantum entanglement without breaking stride, but now his throat works visibly, precision failing him when it matters most.

"And- well," he swallows, those clever fingers still tangled in thin strings against your skin, "it wouldn't necessarily be about meeting them - you know- as much as it would be about - uh..."

You can't help the smile that spreads across your face, oddly touched by this glimpse of the infamous Luigi Mangione – who can debate quantum mechanics in three languages – tripping over a simple invitation. "Are you asking me to be your dinner date?"

Your mind immediately unfolds a scene worthy of Gatsby — crystal chandeliers refracting old money whispers, wines older than your grandmother, silverware that could pay off your student loans. You know whatever you're picturing probably falls short of the actual Mangione world, but you let yourself imagine anyway.

His hands are still at your hips, thumbs brushing against bare skin in that absent way of his, like touching you is as natural as breathing. "Not exactly," he admits, and there's something in his voice that makes your heart skip. "I'm asking you to be my date. Period."

The implication settles between you like morning dew — delicate but impossible to ignore.

"Luigi," you breathe, and for once, you're the one struggling for words. “I-“

He shifts beneath you, spine straightening as one arm anchors you against him. His other hand finds your cheek, and those eyes — amber-bright, search your face with an intensity that sends a shiver through you, despite the winter bleeding into a blazing spring.

"I'm asking you to let me introduce you to my family. Properly. As the woman I—" He stops, and you can see the gears turning, watch him weigh each syllable with the same meticulous protection he applies to his billion-dollar code. "I care so much for you."

The words hang between you, heavy with everything he's not quite saying, and you realize this might be the first time in his life Luigi Mangione has chosen imprecise language.

That "care" is a placeholder, a variable waiting to be defined by something larger, something neither of you are quite ready to name.

The words hover between you like smoke, dense with unspoken weight — family legacies, billion-dollar empires, carefully segregated worlds. You think about everything you've heard whispered at the club about the Mangione name, about old money and new power, about the precise way Luigi has always kept his family's orbit separate from your shared nights.

And yet here he is, offering to bridge the gap.

"What do they think of me?"

Something flickers across his face — subtle, but you've learned to read the micro-expressions that betray his thoughts. "My sister already likes you," he says, each word measured and deliberate, his fingers still tracing absent patterns on your skin. "She says you're different — real."

But you notice the careful omission. "And your parents?"

Luigi's jaw tightens just enough to catch the light differently. "My mother," he begins, then seems to reset. "She's traditional. Concerned about appearances. But she'll come around."

The weight of what he's not saying about his father fills the space between his words. "And your father?"

His eyes catch yours, something dark and protective flashing in them. "My father is calculating. He's had his goons look into you." Luigi's fingers press slightly harder into your hips, like he's trying to hold you in place against some unseen current. "He knows about the club. Your student loans. Everything."

"Of course he does," you murmur. You're not shocked about him knowing your connection to the club — given his investment portfolio, that was inevitable — but the thought of strangers dissecting your life still leaves you feeling raw. "And?"

"And he thinks you're either a liability, or an asset. He hasn't decided which yet." Luigi's honesty cuts clean and quick, but his thumbs trace gentle circles against your ribs like an apology. "That's part of why this dinner is important. He'll be watching how you handle yourself."

"A test?" The word tastes bitter.

"Everything's a test with him."

There's something in his voice — not quite resentment, not quite resignation, but somewhere in the territory between the two.

You wonder how many tests Luigi has passed, failed, or refused to take over the years.

You stare down at him, your hands settling over his where they anchor you at your hips. The world seems to quiet around you — just the whisper of leaves in the breeze and distant city sounds filtering through the moment like white noise.

He doesn't shy away from your scrutiny.

Instead, those eyes hold yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch — pleading, vulnerable in a way that seems almost impossible for someone born into his world of calculated moves and careful masks.

But you can't help but appreciate the absurdity of it all.

Your first real conversation had been about existentialism, of all things — you'd challenged his clinical view of human behavior as merely predictable patterns, and he'd been intrigued by your passionate defense of life's beautiful chaos.

Now here you are, living proof of his father's worst nightmare

An unpredictable variable in their carefully ordered world.

Luigi, heir of Marco Mangione, a rich, sophisticated in his own right, business mogul of some sort — important and wealthy enough, you know, for one of his three children to buy the club dancer he’s been seeing for three months a fifty thousand dollar piece of jewelry between an eggs Benedict breakfast and an Eleven Madison Park dinner.

But also Luigi — who showed up at 2 AM after your shift with mint chocolate chip ice cream melting in his Maserati's cup holder, because you'd texted about craving it.

Luigi, who got brain freeze from eating too fast while you both sat in his parked car, you still in your platform heels and him in his $5,000 suit, sharing a single spoon and laughing about nothing.

The duality strikes you; the man who moves billions through digital empires with a keystroke is the one who remembers how you take your coffee. The Mangione heir, and the boy who gets adorably flustered when you wear his dress shirts around.

Then, your mind drifts back to last week's conversation with Julia.

You'd been perched in your usual spot on the dressing room counter, legs swinging, while she sat at her vanity.

"Saw your boy at Paradiso," she'd said, casual in that deliberate way that meant it wasn't casual at all.

Your hands had stilled on your stockings.

Paradiso.

Not just a casino — the casino. Where million-dollar hands were dealt in back rooms and real business happened over whiskey and poker chips.

"He was with his father." Julia had turned then, arm draped over her chair back, dark eyes serious despite her light tone. "Spitting image, those two. But Luigi wasn't playing." She'd paused, checking to see if you were really listening. "He was doing that thing he does — you know, when his brain goes all Beautiful Mind? But he wasn't counting cards. He was watching. Patterns. Players. Money movement."

"His daddy kept introducing him around," Julia had added softly. "To men who looked like they buy countries.”

You realize that this uncertainty is something that fuels your curiosity further — and if you're honest with yourself, it's part of what draws you to him.

You'd seen that same distant look Julia described, but in softer moments; Luigi calculating the exact trajectory needed for a paper airplane to sail from your bedroom window to the fountain below, his hands moving through the air as he mapped invisible vectors.

Or the night he'd gotten excited explaining market microstructures, his brilliant mind spinning beautiful patterns from chaos.

But there's another side to those patterns now.

Its power flows, influence matrices, the invisible algorithms that govern his father's world — and Luigi reads them all like sheet music, even if he never talks about the song they're playing.

His hands tighten slightly on your hips, bringing you back to the present moment; to those brown eyes still watching you, waiting for an answer about a dinner that suddenly feels like more than just meeting the family.

You wonder if he's already mapped out all the variables of this moment.

The invitation isn't just about meeting his mother, enduring his father's scrutiny, or bearing his siblings judgment. It's about acknowledging what you've been carefully not discussing — that falling for Luigi Mangione means entering a world where dinner parties are strategic moves and casual observations can carry the weight of corporate empires.

You think about the way he looks at you sometimes, like you're a glorious aberration in his ordered universe.

"You're thinking too hard," he murmurs, and there's that smile — the real one, not the calculated curve he shows to his professors and business partners. "It's just dinner."

But you both know it's not.

You trace your fingers along his jaw, feeling the slight tension there. "Your father's going to hate me.” you say, but what you mean is: I see the patterns too, even if we don't talk about them.

His eyes darken with something between worry and pride. Because you do see — maybe not the complex mathematics of power and influence that he tracks, but you see him.

The brilliant mind that draws patterns out of mayhem, and the heart that chose disorder anyway.

•

You could spend forever like this with him, lost in the heat of morning light. Luigi's head falls back, eyes half-lidded and languid, looking at you like you're some Renaissance masterpiece come to life.

The months together have stripped away any need for performance, leaving only this raw, honest thing between you.

"You need—" Your words dissolve into a gasp as his hands map the contours of your skin with quiet worship, your hips working over him in gentle circles. "T-to help me pick out a dress."

He lets out a low sound from deep in his throat, his palms steady against your back as he guides you down. The world tilts, and suddenly, he’s above you — lean muscle and sun-warmed skin, haloed by the morning light streaming through the windows. “Mhmm,” Luigi groans, the gold chain around his neck swinging with each rhythmic thrust.

You grasp that same chain, pulling him closer, and he quickly obliges. “Tell me how good it feels,” you whisper against his lips. For a moment, his hips falter, an uncoordinated tempo, but he quickly regains his rhythm. “You’re too quiet today.”

Usually, Luigi would be breathless and chatty, his praise flowing like a devoted worshipper at the feet of a saint. But today, you can sense his anxiety, and it stirs your own.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he breathes, his spit-slicked kisses trailing over your chest, warm tongue tracing your nipples before moving to your neck. “You know you’re my-“ he’s cut off by another low moan, “my sweet girl.”

You’re not convinced, studying his features to find some sort of hidden answer there, but all you can assume is that he’s nervous about the party — about his parents, his grandparents, his siblings, distant relatives — and it does nothing to ease your own nerves.

He whimpers, truly whimpers, your body filled with warmth from the inside out, Luigi riding out the last of his orgasm for every bit it was worth and yet you’d gone rather ridged, shoving his chest down slowly between your legs. “Clean up your mess.” You murmur, more as a demand, which you’d learned rather quickly Luigi liked very much being told what to do.

He’s eager, always.

He first trails his tongue along your thighs, descending to the mess he left inside you, threatening to stain the sheets. “Good boy,” you whisper, running your fingers through his hair—this wouldn’t be the first time he’s tasted himself from you, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last if you had any say in it. “What’s with the radio silence?”

Despite the sight before you — the devotion, the raw intimacy — you can't help but ask.

“I-I’m just tired, I guess.” Luigi is lying, of course; a tired man doesn’t have sex for three hours. He stares at you, his eyes glossy and his mouth slick with his own pleasure, making it hard to take him seriously, yet he looks at you as if he has something to prove.

“Is it about the party?” you ask, gently wiping his mouth with your thumb. “Be honest, Lu.”

He blinks at you several times before allowing himself a slow nod, still lying there between your legs. In this moment, you're both stripped of your usual armor — him without his tailored suits and careful control, you without your practiced distance.

"Should I just-" You close your legs and sit up, leaving him there on sheets. Even now, part of you still wants to solve this for him, make it easier. "Not go? Would it just be easier if I didn't?"

"No." Luigi rises quickly to his knees, crawling across the vast expanse of his bed toward you. The California king makes your studio apartment mattress feel like a child's cot in comparison. "Baby— fuck," he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a gesture so uncharacteristically unpolished it makes your chest ache. He shakes his head, sighing. "I'm just — yeah, of course I'm nervous." His hands lift in frustration, fingers splayed like he's trying to grasp the right words from the air. "This is the first time I've ever done this."

You turn to look at him finally, having kept your gaze fixed on the Manhattan skyline outside his window. It's easier than seeing him like this — mouth still glistening, cheeks flushed, all his careful composure undone by pleasure and something deeper. "First time you've done what, Lu?"

There's a weighted silence between you, his eyes meeting yours before darting away like he can't quite hold your gaze. It reminds you of those first nights at the club, when he'd try to maintain that perfect Mangione composure while coming undone beneath your hands.

"I've never introduced anyone to my parents." The admission hangs heavy. Luigi's had his share of lovers — you both know this, have discussed the parade of socialites and models that graced his bed through high school and beyond.

But none of them made it past the velvet rope of family approval.

None of them earned a seat at the Mangione table.

You see it now in the slight tremor of his hands, the tension in his shoulders — he's not just afraid of his father's judgment or his mother's disapproval.

He's afraid of the worlds colliding; your straightforward honesty meeting his family's carefully orchestrated performance, the raw truth of what you share together being dissected under crystal chandelier light.

“Fuck.”

[bokunoheros]

ཐིཋྀ KINKTOBER - day 12 squirting : shouta aizawa/eraserhead

warnings : afab reader, reader and aizawa are married, y’all have a cat, pussy slapping (pun probably intended), this is doo-doo dog shit, like this actually sucks, doo doo fart ass, dookie, poo poo fart, smegma, this fic reads like what sharting yourself feels like, this fic smells like the family bathroom at walmart, we’re fucking twelve (not literally), don’t expect anything else genuinely, butt, pretend this was never posted, PLEASE, day 12 is NOT REAL, THEY HIT THE PENTAGON— MR PRESIDENT GET DOW— bill gates did it, bill cypher is canon, squirting, fingering idk, eating ass, butthole rimming, 2024 election, ellen digestive did 9/11, Trump x Biden, 9/11, hilary emails included, proof of aliens existence, video footage of the area 51 raid, UFOs, alien butt sex, wrong usage of condoms, anal probing, biological dna harboring, sickle cell anemia, KLANCE is canon, Steven universe, major character death, gem fusions, love children, feel like cinderella naega byeonhae, NETFLIX ORIGIONAL, only on Hulu, Elsa x Jackfrost smut, playdough, me x YOU, tiana x nanami au, your mom x me, sarcamouche x kazuha, xiao x venti, improper use of crack cocaine, making herion, mentions of drug mules, dead dove: do eat, improper use of magic, meth making, cocaine balloons bursting, Harry Potter x Snape, hermoine x the whomping willow, herobrine x steve, unfortunate uses of pixels, bakudeku slime, hnnng harder daddy, mmhppgh— yeah yeah right there, cum consumption, cumflation, feeder fetish, oh yeah, koolaid man x me, very improper use of koolaid packets, nickacaco avocado weight loss journey, apology videos (tears included), , banjos, jake paul dcead body in forest footage (NOT CLICKBAIT), live leak posts, webtoon origional, anal stretching, did you know the human anus can stretch to the size of a raccoon?, now you know that, and also, the sun will explode June 17th, 3028, character flaws, bodily anatomy, your balls will explode on october 21st at 7:99am, my gleeby deeby ass, futurama, Micheal Angelo, improper use of abortions, medical surgery on a grape, plastic surgery, baby killing, tampon usage, description of endangered animal poaching, Mario Kart, tuberculosis, ima get it donnnne oh aye oh aye oh, butt stuff, dazai x chuuya, atsushi x akutagawa, mpreg, mad cow disease, omegaverse, ranpo x me, Dream SMP, matpat x scott cowthan, michael afton x freddy fazbear, aggressive typing, bath salts, bath salt inhalation, whippets, galaxy gas, all might is a bottom, skinny men, carrington x shigaraki, anorexia anorexia anorexia, afo x nana shimura, BLOODY MARY, BLOODY MARY, BLOODY MARY, TW gun law debates, tenko x mon, Amazon delivery, school shootings, talk of gun laws, bad dragon toys, silicon, aoyama belly button leaking, lego ninjago r34, ninja turtles r34, bloody mary r34, kamala harris r34, tenya iida x tensei iida, jesus x judas, luigi x bowser, sonic and shadow makeout sesh, i fuck your dad, suck his dick reallll nice, penis sounding with dirty twig, orgasm denial, overstimulation, xenotransplants, oviposition, diaper Taco Bell, people die, revival, dark magic, ecoterrorism, global warming, chemical warfare, wanda x the winter soldier, haruhi x tamaki suoh, cosmo x wanda, comicon, bronies, pegasisters, mentions of twilight sparkle dying, twiilight sparkle x mordecai, air planes, shootings stars, night skies, NLE Choppa, we could really use a wish bro, TuPac is back, floppa carts: plompy haze, death of a platform known as tumblr, twitter referred to as X, elon musk creates sex robot that specializes in butthole sex, Tesla sex robot, androids that FUCK, necrophilia, android phone usage, pheromones, premonitions and words of Jesus, divine intution, potion making, heavenly visions, satan, satanic visions, the heavenly principles, celestia is above mondstadt, spiritual healing, veganism, white washing, canon hispanic hanta sero, futanari, blasian mina ashido, bovine spongiforms, Tenya Iida virginity loss, bakugo is a fucking faggot, handjobs, footjobs, peaceful protests, the government is controlling you through vaccines, asian fishing,

vaccines might cause autism, freshwater fishing, they will, xenophobia, hentai hucows, incest, usage of slurs, starbucks coffee, lizards run the world, obama might be a lizard, inappropriate use of baby oil, gojo x getou, day twelve never existed and it was all a lie.

word count : 420k words and 69 pages

🐙 note : we are not locked in we are as loose as a ran through sorority president

🦊 note : i am. i have no words. idek what happened. we ran out of time so we went with the option we thought might make people giggle (no we didnt we did this bullshit for ourselves)(your regularly scheduled content will resume tmr!)

🪲 note : i ain’t fucking sorry

you adored your husband—shouta aizawa—so much so, that you were his dedicated housewife. he made plenty of money as a pro hero and… enough… as a teacher, so that left you to take care of the house and your shared cat. though when he did come home he was way different than he was at work, usually at work he was all nonchalant and cold but at home he was sweet and caring, sometimes even a bit rough. his students would definitely describe him as laid back and uninterested, yet when you were around they were in awe of his personality shift.

[italianbabydaddy]

Luigi’s the type of white guy to tell a Black girl with a protective hairstyle “love the hair” but like, he means it genuinely and he is so mesmerized by such a hairstyle