#trying to teach myself backgrounds | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sxytwker · 13 days ago

Text

Husband Luigi

Summary: You and your husband are cooking, and you’re trying to teach him how to make real food. But all he wants is to take you to the bed and make you feel good. It leads to him ruining you after dinner.

Part one

Smut • MDNI

⠂⠁⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂ ⠂⠁⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂ ⠂⠁ ⠂

The apartment smelled like rosemary, garlic, and her perfume — the one that always lingered on his pillows long after she’d gotten up. Something warm, a little sweet, like vanilla and sunlight and whatever the hell made him go insane for her.

Luigi kicked off his sneakers, dumped his bag by the front door, and called out, “Tesoro?”

“In the kitchen,” she sang back.

God, she was always in the kitchen. And he’d never once seen her look off. Hair soft and glossy over her shoulders, jeans hanging low on her hips, that little gold chain dipping just above the dip of her waist. A sliver of her stomach showed when she turned, spoon in hand.

He grinned. “You makin’ the one with the mushrooms?”

“Mmhmm. You always ask that like you don’t know.” She smiled as she stirred something thick and simmering in the pan, steam curling around her wrist. “I told you I’d teach you tonight.”

“I’d rather you teach me how to make you scream, amore mio.” He stalked up behind her, arms snaking around her shoulders, face burying into the crook of her neck.

She giggled. “Luigi…”

“What?” he muttered against her skin, lips warm, scruff rough and addictive. “I worked all fuckin’ day. I deserve a little—merda, what’s the word—ricompensa. A little reward.”

His hands slid lower, playful but definitely not innocent, pressing her gently back into him. She swatted his hip with the wooden spoon.

“Stop. You’re going to burn yourself.”

“I’d gladly burn myself for a taste of you.” He grinned and kissed behind her ear. “Fuck this sauce. Let’s go do something better. Like… naked better. Loud better.”

“No,” she said, elbowing him with zero real force. “You’re learning. Come wash your hands.”

“I’m not built for this chef shit,” he groaned, but he peeled himself off her and obeyed anyway, rolling his sleeves up dramatically. “You know how many goddamn coding hours I survived this week?”

“And you still don’t know how to chop a mushroom.”

“I can chop it,” he muttered, drying his hands on the towel she handed him. “I just do it in a…chaotic, creative way.”

“‘Creative’ means ugly.”

“You wound me.”

She slid him the cutting board and kissed his cheek. “Just focus. Mushrooms. Small slices.”

He picked up the knife like it had personally offended him. “Can’t believe you’re making me do this instead of riding me into the fuckin’ floor like a good wife.”

She snorted. “I am a good wife. That’s why I’m teaching you to cook instead of letting you survive off breakfast sandwiches.”

“I like breakfast sandwiches.”

“You’d marry one if you could.”

He raised an eyebrow and leaned in close. “Only if you were the egg.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It’s romantic. Shut up.”

She smiled and looked at him, really looked at him — his curls still messy from the train, freckles brighter from the spring sun, lips soft and pink from biting them while pretending to be annoyed. He was a menace. He was her menace.

“I love you,” she said simply.

He looked up from butchering a mushroom. “Che cazzo, don’t say it like that. I’ll get distracted.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because you saying you love me makes me want to throw you on this fucking counter and ruin dinner.”

She laughed, light and effortless. “You always want to ruin dinner.”

“I always want you,” he said, a little quieter now. “Like, every fucking day.”

And despite the heat of the pan, the soft jazz playing in the background, the smell of rosemary and garlic… it was that that made her knees just barely weaken.

“You better not drop that knife,” she warned, trying not to melt.

“Teach me the sauce,” he said suddenly, softer now, stepping closer again, “so I can make it for you one night when you’re tired. And I’ll rub your feet and you can sit there lookin’ all pretty and smug and golden and mine. Just teach me. Then we can fuck.”

She blinked, surprised — a little flushed. But she nodded, handing him the spoon. “Deal.”

He stood behind her again, arms sliding around her waist like it was the only place they were ever meant to be. His hands rested on her stomach, low and firm, fingers brushing the gold chain that dipped under the hem of her tank top.

“Alright, bella,” he murmured, chin on her shoulder, breath warm against her cheek. “So I chopped your stupid mushrooms. I’m in this. I’m listening.”

She raised an eyebrow, amused, not turning to face him. “You better. I’m only showing you this once.”

“That’s a lie. You love showing me things. Like how to move my fingers just right…” he trailed off with a wicked grin, his voice dipping.

She exhaled a laugh, shaking her head as she stirred the sauce, letting the mushrooms soften in the butter and garlic. “Focus.”

“I am focused. I’m focused on how hot you look when you’re bossing me around.” His hands skimmed higher, slow. “You know what I’m gonna do after dinner?”

She hummed, eyes on the pan. “What’s that?”

“I’m gonna take this little top off you with my teeth,” he said like a promise, voice low and slow. “Then I’m gonna lay you down, face-down, ass up—wearing nothin’ but those fuckin’ gold earrings you never take off. And I’m gonna make you scream my name into our goddamn sheets so loud the neighbors file a fuckin’ noise complaint.”

She giggled, shoulders shaking, but kept stirring. “Luigi—”

“I’m not done,” he smirked, curling one arm up around her collarbone, palm flat against her chest now. “Then I’m gonna pull your legs around me and fuck you like I haven’t seen you in months. You’re gonna be so full of me, you’ll forget what the hell a mushroom is.”

She tilted her head toward him, biting her lip, still stirring. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

“I do.” She leaned back into him, that calm little smile playing on her lips. “But if you want dessert tonight, the sauce better come out right.”

“I’ll make the best fucking sauce you’ve ever tasted,” he swore, stepping beside her like he was preparing for a championship. “Tell me what to do.”

She nodded, turning toward the second pan. “Okay. Tomatoes go in now. Then basil. Then low heat. Stir gently.”

“Like this?” he asked, making a slow circle with the spoon, flexing just enough when he saw her glance at his arm.

She gave him a dry look. “You’re not slick.”

He grinned. “You looked.”

“You flexed.”

“You looked.” He grinned, stepping close again, one hand resting on her hip. “Might flex again.”

“Keep it up,” she teased, “and you’ll be flexing alone tonight.”

He paused. “That was cold, tesoro.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, amused, tapping the spoon against the side of the pan. “Now taste the sauce.”

He dipped a spoon in and tried it. Blinked.

“…holy shit.”

She smiled. “Right?”

“You just—how the fuck do you do that?”

She shrugged. “Natural sciences, remember? I understand heat, chemistry, emulsification—”

“You understand how to ruin my fuckin’ life with food and earrings,” he muttered, kissing the corner of her mouth before she could dodge him.

“You like being ruined,” she murmured, wiping sauce from his lip.

He stared at her for a second. “I love you so much it’s stupid.”

She smiled, resting her hand on his jaw. “I know. Now let’s finish this so you can keep your other promises.”

He groaned. “Finally.”

The pasta was perfect.

Sauce silky, mushrooms buttery, the basil fresh and bright. The kind of meal that clung to the plate and smelled like home.

They sat across from each other at their little marble dining table, wine glasses half full, jazz playing low from the speaker she always forgot to turn off. She ate slowly, content, legs crossed and hair tucked behind one ear. Luigi, though—he was squirming.

He nudged her calf under the table. Once. Then again.

She didn’t look up.

Another nudge. This time, deliberate. Firm.

She finally glanced up. “Do you need something?”

He was grinning like a kid who got caught sneaking cookies before dinner. “Nope.”

“You’re acting like you didn’t just say five different filthy things to me while I was cooking.”

“I didn’t just say them. That was a whole twenty minutes ago. I’m a new man now.” He nudged her again. “Clean slate.”

She raised a brow. “Is that why you’re playing footsie like you’re thirteen?”

He giggled. Giggled. A red flush climbed his cheekbones. “Maybe.”

She smiled, shook her head, twirled more pasta onto her fork. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m in love,” he said, matter-of-fact, stuffing the last of his food into his mouth with a speed that was aggressive. “And I’m not here for dessert.”

She blinked. “You just said you love this dish.”

“I do. But I love you more. Like, naked you. Whispering my name and scratching my back like I’m your fuckin’ prize. So yeah—fuck dessert.” He stood, plate empty, stretching dramatically. “I’m cashing in on my promises.”

“You didn’t even finish your wine,” she said, sipping hers slowly, lips still curled in a smirk.

“Don’t need it.”

“You’re so impatient.”

“You’re so cruel.”

“I haven’t even done anything yet.”

“That’s exactly the problem.”

She stood up slowly, finishing her glass and setting it down with delicate precision. Her gold rings glinted under the warm pendant light. Her hips swayed when she walked past him — on purpose. She was always like this. Calm. Deliciously slow. And he was already done for.

“I was going to let you undress me,” she said casually, stepping into the bedroom, “but now I’m wondering if you can even handle that much responsibility.”

Luigi followed like a man possessed, voice low and wrecked: “You’ve got about three seconds before I throw you on that bed and remind you I can handle every fucking part of you.”

She turned, halfway to the bed, tilting her head. “Three seconds?”

He didn’t wait.

She let out a yelp and a laugh as he grabbed her waist and tossed her gently down on the mattress, following instantly, bracing himself with his forearms on either side of her.

“Dinner was amazing,” he whispered against her neck, voice suddenly serious again, lips brushing her skin. “So are you. And I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

“You say that every night,” she breathed, fingers sliding under his shirt.

“Because it’s true every night.”

Then he kissed her — deep, hungry, no patience left. And when her hands tugged at the hem of his shirt and he helped her peel off her own, it was clear no dessert would be needed.

Because she was the only thing he’d ever crave after dinner.

The way he touched her tonight — it was different.

Still firm, still familiar, still him. But slower. Like he needed to feel it all. Like the pasta and the teasing and the years together had all boiled into this moment where he just had to love her with everything he had.

He kissed her shoulder, then her spine, then lower, hands smoothing down her back. She was face-down now, just like he’d promised — cheek pressed to the pillow, body stretched out, bare skin glowing in the golden lamplight.

“Guarda te… Cristo,” he murmured, running his hand up the back of her thigh, spreading her gently with reverence in his fingertips. “How the fuck are you mine?”

She laughed softly into the pillow. “You literally threw me on the bed.”

“Yeah, because I couldn’t fuckin’ wait anymore. And you love it.”

She didn’t answer — just sighed as his palm pressed into the small of her back, anchoring her.

“I wanna ruin you slow tonight, amore mio.” His voice was ragged, thick with want. “Make you feel me in your stomach. Not just my cock — me.”

Her legs shifted instinctively, thighs squeezing together. He smacked her ass, not hard, just enough to make her jolt and laugh.

“Keep ‘em open for me, bella. Just like that. Good fuckin’ girl.”

His hands wandered, up her waist, over her ribs, fingers brushing under her chest like he needed to memorize every inch.

“I think about this all day,” he muttered. “Your body. Your smell. Your fuckin’ moans when I hit the right spot. I’d give up my job, my code, all that shit—if it meant I could spend every day between your thighs.”

She turned her head slightly to speak, but he leaned in close, lips against her ear.

“Shh. Just take it. That’s all I want. Just you, taking it slow. Let me love you right.”

He slid into her like he already belonged there — like it was home, like it was worship. And his hips didn’t slam, didn’t rush. They rolled. Deep, slow. One hand on her hip. The other pressing between her shoulder blades to keep her down just enough. The angle made her breath hitch.

“Porca miseria,” he groaned. “You feel so fuckin’ good like this.”

And he wouldn’t stop talking. Couldn’t.

“You’re everything to me. You know that?” he murmured, punctuating each word with a slow thrust. “I want all your kids. I want our house. Our cute little dog. I want you with my baby. You’d look so fuckin’ pretty—glowing and hormonal and mine.”

Her fingers curled into the sheets, overwhelmed.

“I’ll take care of you,” he whispered. “Forever. I’ll make the sauce. I’ll rub your feet. I’ll put you on your side and eat you out when you’re too tired to fuck.”

She gasped, close. But he held her hips firm.

“Not yet,” he said gently. “You’re not done being loved.”

And he kept going — slow, deep, loving her like she was everything. Because to him, she was.

Her moans were getting louder — breathier, closer to something broken.

Luigi felt her tightening around him, the way her thighs quivered, the way her fists twisted in the sheets. He knew her body like he knew his code — every shift, every reaction. And right now, she was unraveling fast.

He gritted his teeth, pushing deeper, rougher now. The love was still there, thick in his chest, but it was being pulled through something more primal. More desperate. The creak of the bed under them only made it worse — made him feel the weight of every thrust, the heat of her under him, how insane it was that he got to have this every night.

“Fuck,” he hissed, grabbing a fistful of her hair, gently but firmly pushing her head deeper into the pillow. “You’re gonna get us a goddamn complaint.”

She let out a muffled, choked moan, trembling under his grip.

“Good girl,” he groaned. “Take it. Let me make you shake.”

The rhythm picked up — not frantic, but definitely harder. His hips slammed into her now, low and deep, and the bed frame didn’t stand a chance. It creaked louder with each thrust. He chuckled darkly into her shoulder.

“Look what you do to me,” he panted. “Fuckin’ creakin’ like we just got married yesterday.”

She whimpered again, back arching despite his weight on her. He could tell she was right at the edge.

“Let go, baby,” he whispered, kissing her shoulder blade. “Come for me. I’ve got you.”

And she did — gasping into the pillow, whole body shaking beneath him, her moans turning to soft sobs of pleasure. That pushed him right over.

He buried himself one last time, hips locked tight, mouth open against her back as he came hard, deep inside her, groaning her name like a prayer.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Just the heavy sound of their breath and the faint whir of the city outside their window.

Then she turned her head, just barely, voice thick but teasing: “You came in me?”

He was still inside her, still catching his breath. “Yeah.”

She gave a scandalized little laugh, eyes wide, lips parted. “Luigi—”

“I blacked out,” he said, grinning. “You were so fuckin’ hot I forgot about everything except staying alive.”

She smacked his arm, but she was laughing. “You’re insane.”

He kissed the top of her spine, still breathless. “I love you.”

“You’re so much trouble.”

“You love me.”

“I do,” she whispered, turning her head just enough to kiss him. Slow. Sweet. Real. “I really do.”

And with that, he finally slipped out of her, pulling her gently into his chest, arms wrapped tight around her waist.

“I’ll buy the morning-after pill,” he mumbled into her hair. “But, like… if it did happen—”

She turned to look at him.

He shrugged with a grin. “Just sayin’. I’d be a hot dad.”

She rolled her eyes. “We’d have the filthiest baby on Earth.”

He pulled her close, smug and blissed-out. “With great hair.”

They were tangled in the sheets, her cheek resting on his chest, both of them still catching their breath. The room smelled like sex, skin, and the rosemary that still lingered faintly from dinner. Outside, NYC buzzed softly beneath their window, but up here, time had slowed.

Luigi brushed her hair off her forehead, kissed it, then murmured:

“So… round two?”

She groaned. “Luigi…”

“C’mon,” he whined gently, lips brushing her temple. “I’ll do all the work. You just lay there and let me worship you like you deserve.”

“I can’t even feel my legs.”

“Good,” he grinned. “That means I did a great job. But medically speaking…”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t start.”

He lifted his head, suddenly full of that nerdy little spark she always found impossible to resist. “No, seriously. Did you know that multiple orgasms have real physiological benefits? Like lower cortisol levels, better sleep, reduced cramps, improved circulation—”

She laughed, pressing her face into his chest. “You’re literally citing benefits to get me to fuck you again?”

“I’m a man of science,” he said proudly. “Computer science, but still. I care about your health. I care about your serotonin levels. I care about your—”

“You just want me to moan again.”

“Yes,” he said without shame. “But also? I just want you to feel good. Like really, really good. No pressure, no performance. I just want to take my time with you, okay? Not for me. For you.”

She looked up at him, brow raised. “That’s your pitch?”

He leaned in, nose brushing hers. “Also… your tits look amazing right now.”

She burst out laughing. “God, you’re a freak.”

“But you like that.”

She sighed like it pained her to admit it. “Mmhm.”

“Is that a yes?”

She didn’t answer. Just laid back, stretching like a lazy cat, hair fanned out over the pillows, eyes fluttering shut.

“Yes,” she whispered, “but you better make it worth it.”

He was already moving between her legs, grinning like a kid with a new toy.

“Oh, bella,” he murmured, kissing the inside of her thigh, “I’m about to make you forget how to spell your own name.”

He kissed up the inside of her thigh like he was on some slow, holy pilgrimage — mouth soft, tongue barely there, dragging along her skin like it deserved to be worshipped.

“Did you know,” he murmured, voice low, “that clitoral stimulation activates over 8,000 nerve endings?”

She was already tugging at his curls.

“Eight thousand,” he repeated, glancing up at her from between her legs, curls falling into his eyes. “That’s more than double the amount of nerves on a dick. Just saying. Scientifically speaking, youshould be the one begging every night.”

She whimpered, thighs twitching around his shoulders.

“I read this paper,” he said, dragging his tongue up slowly. “Said consistent orgasms can even improve memory retention. So technically, I’m just helping you study for life.”

“Luigi—” she gasped, voice already fraying.

“Shh,” he breathed. “Let me help your brain, baby.”

Then he buried his mouth in her.

And this time? He wasn’t being shy about it.

He moaned as he tasted her, tongue dragging with long, filthy strokes, just to hear the slick, obscene sound of it. Then again, slower — louder. Wet, messy, intentional. He didn’t care. He wanted her to hear it. He wanted her to drown in it.

“You hear that?” he groaned, voice muffled by her. “That’s all you. Fucking perfect.”

She was panting now, one hand on his head, the other gripping the pillow, hips rolling gently as he sucked on her clit, then flattened his tongue again, wide and slow.

“Luigi—shit—oh my god,” she whined.

“Don’t talk,” he whispered, kissing the inside of her thigh again before diving back in. “Just feel. Let me make it loud.”

He flicked his tongue now, fast and precise, circling her sweet spot with a rhythm that made her buck under him.

“You taste so good, tesoro,” he groaned. “You always fuckin’ do. This is my favorite thing in the world.”

And he kept going — alternating pressure, angle, teasing and devouring. Each moan he pulled from her made him hungrier, deeper in it, more addicted. He was soaked from his chin down, hair tangled in her fingers, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t want to stop.

He wanted her to fall apart under his mouth.

He wanted her to remember this in the middle of the day tomorrow, thighs clenched in a lab meeting, trying to focus while flashes of his mouth haunted her.

Because this? This was his favorite version of her — lost, ruined, whimpering his name while her legs shook around his shoulders.

And he hadn’t even used his fingers yet.

He paused, pulling back just a little, lips glossy, breathing hard — fucking glowing with smugness. His chin was slick, curls a mess from her hands, and the look he gave her?

Trouble. Pure trouble.

“You know…” he panted, brushing his thumb over her inner thigh like he wasn’t about to destroy her again, “the average vagina is about three to four inches deep at rest… but it expands when aroused.”

She blinked down at him, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling. “Why are you like this?”

“Because,” he said, like it was obvious, sliding two fingers slowly between her folds, “I know exactly how much space I need to fill.”

She rolled her eyes — or tried to — but the moan that came out when he curled his fingers just rightmade them flutter back instead.

“Jesus, Luigi—”

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice thick, eyes locked on hers as he moved those fingers in slow, precise strokes. “You’re fuckin’ soaked. You’re taking me so easy. Fuck, I could lose my mind down here.”

And then he dove back in.

His mouth met her clit again like it was his last meal, and this time it was filthy — his fingers sliding in and out of her slow but deep, tongue flicking fast, then flattening again in sync. Each wet sound echoed through the room, and she couldn’t do anything but take it, fists twisted in the sheets now, head thrown back.

He moaned against her, and the vibration sent her hips jolting.

“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he growled. “So warm, so tight. God, I could live in you. I wanna see you cum all over my face, bella. Give it to me.”

She was whining now — high, helpless sounds, eyes fluttering shut.

“Look at me,” he ordered, voice ragged. “Eyes on me while I ruin you.”

She tried. She really did. But when he curled his fingers again — that perfect come-here motion — and sucked on her clit all at once, her eyes rolled straight back.

Her thighs snapped around his head, and he loved it.

“There she is,” he breathed, not slowing down for a second. “That’s my fuckin’ girl.”

And the way she cried out, trembling, breath hitched in her throat as she finally fell over the edge — he swore it was the best thing he’d ever seen. Felt. Heard.

She came hard, back arching, whole body shaking against his mouth. And he didn’t let up, not until she was pushing weakly at his head, panting his name in broken little pieces.

When he finally pulled away, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning like he just hacked the world’s best-kept secret.

“Round two,” he whispered, kissing the inside of her knee. “Successfully completed.”

She looked at him, ruined and glowing and breathless.

“I married a pervert.”

He kissed her thigh. “You married a very thorough man.”

She was still catching her breath, sprawled across the pillows, thighs still twitching every so often when he touched her just right. And yet… there he was.

Crawling up the bed like a man starved, curls a mess, cheeks flushed, and giving her the saddest eyes she’d ever seen.

“Please,” he whispered, flopping next to her with a dramatic sigh. “Please. You can’t leave me like this. I’m dying.”

“You’re fine,” she said, smirking as she turned toward him, one eyebrow raised.

“I’m suffering.” He curled up against her like a needy little puppy, wrapping his arms around her middle. “You just came and left your poor husband here… lonely… hard… neglected.”

She laughed, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “You’re such a baby.”

“You love this baby.”

“I do,” she said, sighing, “but you’re such a whiny baby.”

He looked up at her, full pout, voice even softer now. “Just a little help? You love the taste. You’ve said it. I heard you.”

Her smirk deepened. “Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t.”

“You do.” He tugged her hand toward the waistband of his boxers like he was making a deal with the devil. “And I promise I won’t say any nerdy shit.”

She blinked at him, skeptical.

He hesitated. “Okay. Maybe just one fact.”

“No.”

“Please. It’s part of the experience.”

She rolled her eyes, shifting onto her knees beside him, hands dragging down his chest slowly. “You are so lucky I love you.”

“I know.”

“And I’m not giving you any nerdy foreplay facts.”

“That’s okay. I’ve got my own.”

She shot him a look.

He grinned. “Did you know,” he started, voice already breathy as she reached for the waistband of his boxers, “that ejaculation involves muscle contractions at roughly 0.8-second intervals?”

She tugged them down with one smooth motion, and he whined — actual, shameless sound from the back of his throat, hips twitching up toward her hand.

“Oh my god,” she muttered, biting back a smile. “You started talking science and now you’re whining.”

He was already panting, watching her like she was about to answer all his prayers. “It’s because you look so hot when you’re in control,” he whispered. “And I know you’re about to ruin me.”

“You deserve it.”

“I do. Ruin me, baby. I’ll be so good. No more facts—unless you want them.”

She leaned down slowly, dragging her tongue along his length, and he gasped, bucked his hips just slightly, then dropped his head back onto the pillows with a broken, desperate sound.

“Fuck— okay, maybe one more fact—”

She didn’t let him finish.

She licked a slow stripe up the underside of him, and his whole body twitched. Hands gripping the sheets, mouth falling open in a moan that melted into something close to a whimper.

She smirked, lips wrapping around him, warm and slow. A teasing pace. Just enough to make him squirm.

“Fuck,” he breathed, curling his fingers into the sheets. “You’re gonna kill me. This is how I die.”

“You’re so dramatic,” she murmured, dragging her mouth off him with a wet pop.

“I mean it. This is a mercy killing.”

She laughed softly, flicking her tongue over the tip again, then letting it swirl.

He hissed. “Okay—okay wait—wait, listen. I know you said no facts—”

She raised a brow without lifting her mouth.

“But just one,” he panted. “There’s a pressure point—on the underside—just behind the head. Stimulating that with suction and a twist of the wrist—fuck, please—”

She pulled off, slow and evil, and gave him the driest look. “You’re giving me a technique breakdownmid-blowjob?”

He nodded, wide-eyed, hair messy, chest heaving. “I’m giving you science.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine.”

She did exactly what he said — hand twisting gently as her mouth sank down again, tongue dragging over that spot just under the tip, suction pulling harder now, matching the rhythm of her hand.

His whole body jolted.

“Holy shit—” he choked out, eyes snapping shut, hips bucking just slightly before he grabbed the headboard to hold himself back. “Okay okay okay, that—fuck, that’s it, you’re—God, I’m gonna–”

She didn’t stop.

She stayed right there — pressure, twist, suction — and watched him fall apart. His voice breaking on every exhale, stomach tensing, thighs shaking under her hands. He was right on the edge.

“You are so—fuck, that mouth—tesoro, you’re gonna make me—” He cut off with a loud, wrecked moan, head thrown back, body arched.

She backed off just slightly — just enough to keep him hovering, not tipping over yet.

He whimpered.

“You gonna finish, or you want to give me another lecture first?” she teased, breath hot against him.

“Just—don’t stop,” he begged. “Please. You’re gonna make me fuckin’ lose it.”

And he meant it.

Because he knew exactly what she was doing.

And she was doing it perfectly.

She kept him right there — hovering. Just on the edge. Her lips warm and soft, hand working in rhythm, but she wouldn’t quite finish him. Not yet.

Luigi’s chest was rising like he’d just run five miles, curls sticking to his forehead, mouth open, eyes pleading.

“Baby,” he begged, voice cracking. “Please, please, don’t be mean—”

She giggled, slow and smug. “You said you wanted to be ruined.”

“I did! I do! Just—fucking finish me, please—”

Her eyes met his, lashes low, lips swollen, mouth already wrapping around him again. But this time?

This time, she didn’t hold back.

She slid down. Slow, steady, until she took all of him — her nose brushing against the soft skin at the base, his tip hitting the back of her throat.

Luigi made a sound somewhere between a shout and a sob.

“Holy SHIT—” he gasped, body jerking like he’d just touched a live wire. “Ohmygodohmygodohmy—”

And then he was gone.

He came hard, hips bucking once before he caught himself, voice loud and helpless as he spilled into her mouth.

“Fuck— I’m—I’m—oh my god—” His head dropped back against the headboard, eyes wide, face red, and then—

He giggled.

A real one. Soft, boyish, completely overwhelmed.

“That was so much,” he panted, hand over his eyes. “You’re a fuckin’… fuckin’ perfect.”

She swallowed, slow and casual, then licked her lips like she hadn’t just brought her husband to his knees.

“You’re welcome,” she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

He peeked at her through his fingers, cheeks still flushed. “I didn’t know the human body could do that.”

“You literally gave me the instructions.”

“Yeah, but executing it was like watching code compile on the first try.” He let out another breathless laugh. “Clean. Efficient. Life-changing.”

She crawled up beside him, settling into his chest, grinning. “That’s the nerdiest thing anyone has ever said to me post-orgasm.”

“I’m so proud,” he whispered, kissing her hair. “Also, I think I blacked out. Did I giggle?”

She looked up at him. “Like a middle schooler who just got his first kiss.”

He laughed again, wrapping both arms around her tight. “I love you.”

“I know. Even when you’re being a nerd.”

“Especially then.”

They laid there tangled up, skin warm and lips sore, laughing quietly every few minutes as the glow lingered.

And somewhere between the aftershocks and soft kisses, Luigi whispered, “I’m gonna write a research paper on how perfect your mouth is.”

She smacked his chest lightly.

“I’m publishing it, baby.”

The water was warm, steam curling around them as they stepped into the shower, skin sticky, muscles spent, laughter still catching between their lips.

Luigi reached for the body wash, only for her to swat his hand away. “Sit. I’ve got you.”

He gave a mock-gasp. “You’re pampering me?”

“You’re lucky I’m not filing a noise complaint myself. Sit.”

Their shower had one of those tiled corner ledges — just wide enough to sit side by side, knees up, heads close. They both dropped onto it like their legs might never work again.

Luigi groaned dramatically. “My spine is off the grid. I’m not even in the cloud anymore.”

“You are so dumb,” she said through a laugh, reaching for the shampoo. She lathered it between her fingers, then gently combed through his curls, massaging his scalp with practiced, slow pressure.

He leaned into it instantly, eyes fluttering shut. “Okay, no joke? I’d leave you for this exact version of you.”

“This is still me,” she said, kissing his temple. “You’d just come crawling back for head anyway.”

He cracked up, tilting his head back slightly. “Especially with that new technique? Jesus Christ.”

“Oh, that one?” she said, smirking. “The scientifically engineered nutbuster?”

“I’ve never felt closer to God.”

She laughed so hard she almost dropped the shampoo bottle.

Luigi peeked over at her through wet lashes, water dripping down his face. “No, but for real—you’re incredible. Smart and a freak? I hit the damn jackpot.”

“You’re so weird.”

“You love it.”

She kissed his cheek, then reached for the conditioner, smoothing it into his curls. “You’re cute when you’re like this. All sleepy and soft.”

He gave a half-smile, leaning his head on her shoulder for a second. “You’re cute always.”

“Wrong,” she said, tracing his jaw with her thumb. “I’m cute and hot. And wise.”

“Wise, huh?”

“Wiser than you.”

“Not possible,” he said, eyes closed again. “You married a genius. Who just got destroyed. By his genius wife.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the spray of the water muffling the city noise outside, both of them wrapped in warmth and ridiculous, lingering affection.

Then Luigi grinned. “You wanna go again?”

She groaned. “Luigi.”

“Kidding,” he said quickly. “My dick’s on cooldown. I need a firmware update.”

“Unbelievable.”

“Don’t act like you’re not already planning round four tomorrow.”

“…maybe.”

He bumped her knee with his. “Amore, I’ll bring wine.”

She leaned into his shoulder. “And I’ll bring the facts.”

They both started laughing again — wet hair, bare skin, and love overflowing like the steam rising around them.

They stepped out of the shower, warm and flushed, wrapped in fluffy towels that smelled faintly of lavender and laundry detergent.

Luigi’s towel was barely hanging on his hips — mostly because he couldn’t stop giggling.

“I’m just saying,” he said, eyes shining, “if you ever wanted to sit on my face while brushing your teeth—”

She cut him off with a snort. “Luigi.”

“I’m just spitballing ideas! Creative time-saving methods!”

“An hour ago you were preaching nerdy facts mid-orgasm,” she said, drying her legs with slow, amused movements. “Now you’re pitching multitasking smut.”

He grinned. “Efficiency is sexy.”

She rolled her eyes and tossed her towel onto the hamper, pulling on a pair of soft, high-cut cotton panties and an oversized hoodie — one of his, of course. The hem barely covered the curve of her thighs.

Luigi stood there for a moment, towel now discarded, pulling on his favorite gray boxers, the waistband sitting low on his hips. He didn’t bother with anything else. Just rubbed a towel through his curls and watched her like she was a dream he still couldn’t believe was real.

“I don’t deserve you,” he said dramatically.

“You don’t,” she replied, brushing past him toward the sink with a smirk.

They stood side by side at the mirror, brushing their teeth — her calm and focused, him… not so much.

He kept catching her eye in the mirror, giggling like a kid at a sleepover.

She narrowed her eyes at him, toothbrush still in her mouth. “What.”

“Nothin’,” he mumbled, mouth full of foam. “Jus’… yer sho cute.”

“You sound like a toddler,” she said, trying not to laugh.

“I’b in lub wif you,” he whispered around the toothpaste, then snorted trying to hold in another laugh.

“You’re such a dork,” she managed, bending over the sink to spit and rinse before she choked.

He finally spit his out too, rinsing and gasping dramatically. “I almost died from how pretty you are.”

“Sure,” she said, patting his cheek. “Death by Crest.”

He caught her hand, kissed it. “Death by you, actually. That’s how I wanna go.”

She rolled her eyes again, but her smile betrayed her. “Come on, honey. Let’s go collapse on the couch.”

“Only if I get to cuddle your thigh like it’s my emotional support pillow.”

“You already do.”

“Then I’m already winning at life.”

“Okay,” Luigi announced proudly, flopping onto the couch in his boxers like he owned the world, “cake secured.”

She padded out of the kitchen with two forks and a smug look. “And tiramisu. Because I know you. You always want both.”

“I married you for your brain, your mouth, and your dessert instincts,” he said, pulling her into his lap without warning. “Not in that order.”

“Obviously.”

They settled under the big, worn-in blanket — one they’d stolen from her parents’ place during winter break and never returned. She nestled into his side, hoodie sleeves covering her hands, legs pulled up and resting on the couch. He clicked through their watchlist and put on one of his favorites — some nostalgic, chaotic movie from when he was a teenager that he’d seen a hundred times.

She wasn’t really watching the screen though.

She was watching him.

The way his eyebrows twitched with every scene. The way he mouthed all the lines under his breath, lips moving just a second before the characters spoke. His whole face lit up with it, focused and boyish and just a little dramatic. Completely locked in.

God, she loved watching him like this.

But of course… he didn’t sit still for long.

About fifteen minutes in, his hand snuck under the blanket. At first, innocent. Just his palm on her thigh. Casual. Comforting.

Then it started moving.

Fingertips drifting higher. Resting too long. Slowly stroking the inside of her leg like he wasn’t doing it on purpose.

“Luigi…” she warned without looking away from the screen.

“Hmm?” he said innocently, mouth full of tiramisu.

She gave him a side glance. “Hands.”

“They’re warm,” he said through a fake little whine, leaning his head on her shoulder. “You’re warm.”

“Behave.”

“I am.” He placed a single kiss to her jaw. “I’m appreciating you. Sensually.”

“You’re appreciating my thighs, sensually.”

He just grinned, kept rubbing slow circles into her skin with his thumb.

She sighed, biting back a smile. “You can’t go five minutes without touching me, can you?”

“Correct,” he said proudly. “Touch-starved. Clinically.”

“You came twice in the past three hours.”

“And yet,” he whispered, slipping his hand higher just an inch, “I’m still starving.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But you love it,” he whispered, leaning in, cake fork in one hand, the other sliding gently under the hem of her panties now. “You love it when I start something under the blanket.”

“Luigi…”

He kissed her cheek, mouth sticky with cake and sugar and shamelessness. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll let you finish the movie.”

She rolled her eyes — but shifted just slightly closer, just enough to let him keep going.

About halfway through the movie, Luigi’s attention started to drift.

He tried. He really did. But the cake was gone, the sugar high had faded, and his beautiful, warm wife was sitting next to him in nothing but that hoodie and her underwear, legs all soft and perfect in his lap.

So naturally… the movie lost.

He stood up without warning, took their dessert plates to the kitchen, and practically sprinted back like he was afraid she might disappear in the thirty seconds he was gone.

Then: flop.

Right back onto the couch, legs spread, blanket kicked off. Arms wide.

“Come here.”

She didn’t even look away from the screen. “I am here.”

“No, like here here.” He patted his lap dramatically. “You’re being emotionally distant.”

“You’re such a brat.”

He just pouted, arms still open.

With a sigh and a smile, she climbed into his lap, straddling him, hoodie slipping off one shoulder. He immediately wrapped his arms around her waist, locking her in like a human seatbelt.

“Better,” he murmured, face already buried against her neck. “Much better.”

And then — slow, warm kisses.

Up her shoulder. Her throat. Just under her jaw.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty,” he whispered between kisses, voice low and thick. “You know that?”

She giggled, tilting her head back a little. “You say that every time I sit in your lap.”

“I mean it every time. You’re just so—” he kissed under her ear “—soft and perfect and fuck, you smell like heaven.”

She laughed, running her fingers through his damp curls. “You’re obsessed.”

“Obviously.” Another kiss. Slower now. “You’re everything.”

She shook her head, smiling. “Why did I marry the clingiest man alive?”

“Because the clingiest man alive gives the best head, knows your food order by heart, and makes you laugh every night even when you say you’re tired.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That… is actually solid reasoning.”

“I’m basically your emotional support himbo,” he muttered into her neck. “A clingy, curly-haired, tech-savvy lapdog.”

“Don’t forget horny.”

“Always.”

They both laughed, her hands slipping to the back of his neck, his grip around her waist tightening just enough.

“I’m never getting off this couch,” he mumbled.

“Good,” she whispered, resting her forehead against his. “Neither am I.”

She didn’t mean to start kissing him.

One minute she was laughing into his neck, arms loosely looped around his shoulders, and the next — he turned his head just slightly, lips brushing hers, and it was over.

It started soft.

A lazy press of lips. Just warmth and closeness, the kind of kiss that said I like you. I live for you. I’m not going anywhere.

But Luigi? He never stayed soft for long.

His hand cupped the back of her neck, pulling her in tighter. His lips parted. And then his tongue was in her mouth — slow and smooth, claiming space like he owned it.

She made a little sound, half-surprised, but didn’t pull away.

He kissed like he lived — all in, no hesitation. Messy. Devoted. A little too eager, a little too good at it. Like he was trying to make her forget her own name just by the way he tilted his head and groaned quietly into her mouth.

Her fingers curled into his hair, tugging gently. He smiled into the kiss like he knew.

“Still mad you married the clingiest man alive?” he whispered, lips brushing hers.

“Only when he forgets to breathe while kissing me.”

He leaned in again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against hers like he’d been waiting all day for this exact moment.

“Breathing’s overrated,” he murmured. “Kissing you’s better.”

She kissed him again just to shut him up — mouths slow but needy, like they had nowhere to be and all night to waste. The kind of kissing that left her flushed, left him breathless. The kind that blurred the line between cuddling and something more.

But they didn’t push it.

Not this time.

Just messy, unhurried kisses under the soft light of their living room, tangled in each other’s arms with the forgotten movie still playing in the background. His hands roamed a little, but never rushed. Her hips shifted just enough to stay close, to stay there, with him.

And when they finally pulled back — lips swollen, eyes dazed — Luigi smiled.

“Yeah,” he whispered, “this is my favorite part of being married.”

She touched his jaw, thumb brushing his cheekbone. “What, making out like teenagers in your underwear?”

“Exactly,” he said. “Forever.”

Luigi wasn’t done.

Even after twenty minutes of slow kisses, even after she’d already melted into his lap with her arms around his neck, he was still chasing more.

He slid his tongue back into her mouth with no warning, hand slipping under her hoodie again, gripping her waist like she might vanish if he didn’t anchor her there.

She smiled mid-kiss, then giggled — and that did it. She pulled back just enough to stop him.

“No,” she whispered, biting her lip.

“Why?” he pouted, forehead dropping against hers, still out of breath. “We were just getting started.”

“We’re always just getting started,” she said, brushing his curls back from his face. “But if we don’t move to the bed, you’re gonna fall asleep with your head on my chest again and snore in my cleavage.”

“Hot.”

She swatted his arm.

“Fine,” he groaned, sliding his hands reluctantly off her. “But only if you promise to cuddle me. Like full wraparound cuddle. I need your arms. I’m clingy. It’s science.”

“You and your science,” she teased, standing up and offering him her hand.

They made their way to the bed, both barefoot and dazed, the hoodie riding up her thighs, his boxers barely hanging on. The second he flopped into the mattress, Luigi grabbed a pillow and wrapped himself around it like a koala.

“I’m not okay until your arms are around me,” he said into the pillow.

She rolled her eyes, crawling in beside him and pulling the blanket over both of them. “You’re so dramatic.”

He reached for her blindly. “Come here, pretty. I need to feel your warmth.”

She laughed, wrapping her arms around him from behind, spooning him with all the over-the-top affection he was begging for.

“God, these muscles,” she said dramatically, dragging her hand up his chest, giving his bicep a little squeeze. “So big. So strong. It’s like I’m married to a Roman statue. A very clingy, nerdy statue.”

“I’m gonna cry,” he said, voice muffled by the pillow. “I feel so loved.”

“You are loved.”

“I also feel objectified.”

“You like it.”

He turned slightly just enough to kiss her hand, which still rested over his heart.

“I really do,” he whispered.

She kissed his shoulder. “I know.”

The room settled into silence. Their breathing slowed. The city kept buzzing outside their windows, but inside, under warm blankets and sarcastic praise, it was all peace.

And somewhere between her arms tightening around his chest and his fingers gently playing with hers, Luigi finally sighed.

“I hope we do this for the rest of our lives.”

“We will.”

And with that — warm, wrapped in each other, their mouths still tasting faintly of cake and laughter — they both fell asleep.

They were still half-asleep, tangled in sheets and each other, when both their phones exploded.

Buzz. Buzz. Pingpingpingping.

Luigi groaned first. “What the fuck—did I forget a group project or something?”

She reached for her phone, blinking at the screen. “Nope. Just our chaos crew blowing up the group chat.”

He rolled onto his stomach, face still in the pillow. “Too early for extroverts.”

She laughed, scrolling. “Breakfast. They’re all meeting at that cafe near campus. Thirty minutes.”

Luigi grunted. “Tell them I’m dead.”

“They said you’d say that.”

“Tell them to suck my—”

“Luigi.”

He lifted his head. His curls were flattened on one side and sticking out wildly on the other, eyes still heavy with sleep. “Fine. Let’s go. But I’m not putting effort into looking good.”

She was already out of bed, pulling on a pair of low-rise jeans and a cream spaghetti strap blouse that hugged her curves just enough, layered gold jewelry catching the morning light.

“You never put effort into looking cute,” she called from the closet, slipping on her Birkenstocks. “You’re lucky you’re hot by default.”

He sat up and scratched his stomach, already reaching for his favorite linen shirt — the soft beige one she loved — and tossed it on unbuttoned.

“Two buttons,” she warned. “Not three.”

He grinned and buttoned just two, collar wide and cocky. “Gotta show a little chest. For the brand.”

“What brand?”

“Hot nerd with a clinginess problem.”

She crossed the room and stood in front of him, fingers instantly brushing into his curls, taming the wild side. He watched her the whole time, smiling softly, letting her fix him like he was her own little project.

“You’re so damn pretty,” she murmured, brushing his curls down and kissing his forehead.

“You’re pretty,” he whispered back. “Too pretty to leave the house looking like this.”

Before she could step away, he dipped his head down, lips brushing her collarbone — and then, he bit.

Not hard. Just enough.

She gasped. “Luigi!”

He pulled back with the most smug grin. “A little souvenir. So your friends know who you belong to.”

She looked down at the forming love bite — warm and definitely visible above the line of her blouse.

“You’re such a menace.”

“Hot menace,” he corrected, grabbing his wallet and keys.

She threw a hoodie over her shoulder. “Now I need to decide whether I’m going to lie or proudly tell everyone what you did.”

He opened the door for her with a wink. “Either way, I win.”

And with that, they stepped out into the spring morning — her looking put together as ever, gold glinting, lips glossed. Him in his open shirt and lazy charm, walking just close enough to brush her hip with his hand.

Love bite glowing. Curls bouncing.

And the whole walk to brunch, he couldn’t stop looking at her like she was the best decision he ever made.

They walked into the café like they hadn’t just had the filthiest night of their lives.

Sunlight poured through the tall windows. People were already sipping iced coffees and laughing over plates of pancakes and avocado toast. Their table — full of mutual friends from classes, clubs, and chaos — was posted up in the corner, already halfway through their drinks and way too loud for 10:30 a.m.

“Finally,” someone called out. “The married ones decided to grace us with their presence.”

Luigi threw his arms wide like a royal arrival. “You’re welcome. We brought married energy. We’re disgusting.”

“I believe it,” another friend muttered under their breath.

They slid into the booth — she took the inside, Luigi on the outside next to her, one arm slung over the back of the bench before he was even settled. He immediately reached for her rings, spinning one of them around her finger absentmindedly while his other hand drifted a little too low under the table, resting dangerously close to the waistband of her jeans.

“Hands,” she whispered sharply, smiling like nothing was happening.

“I’m just appreciating the woman who makes my life worth living.”

“You’re appreciating my ass, Luigi.”

“Same thing.”

He grabbed a piece of toast from her plate without asking. Bit into it. Smirked.

A fork clinked.

“Wait—” one of their friends leaned across the table, squinting. “What’s that on your—oh my god.”

She froze.

Luigi leaned back in the booth, looking far too pleased with himself.

“Is that a hickey?” someone asked, already laughing.

“She’s glowing,” another friend added. “She’s literally glowing. And I know that shirt didn’t have a pattern this morning.”

She groaned, dragging a hand over her face. “It’s not—he bit me before we left.”

Luigi shrugged, mouth full of stolen eggs. “Claimed what’s mine. Nature’s temporary tattoo.”

The table exploded with laughter. The teasing was relentless. Someone was already miming a dramatic reenactment of “passionate collarbone love,” while another friend threatened to make a group chat poll about “most unhinged PDA award.”

Meanwhile, Luigi just kept stealing from her plate — a piece of fruit here, a bite of her pancake there — all while playing with her rings, nudging her leg with his knee under the table, and sneaking one last, smug glance at the mark on her skin.

She leaned in, whispered through her teeth, “You’re the worst.”

He turned to her, lips brushing her ear, voice low: “You loved every second of it.”

And god help her — she did.

After brunch, they peeled off from the group with no excuse besides “we need to walk this food off,” and strolled down a quiet block lined with brick buildings and spring sun.

He spotted it first — their favorite little bookstore. Tucked between a coffee shop and a florist. Hand-painted sign, bell on the door, the kind of place that smelled like old paper, dust, and possibility.

“Let’s go in,” she said, already pulling him toward the door.

“Do I have a choice?”

“Nope.”

The second they stepped inside, the noise of the city disappeared. Just soft instrumental music playing from a corner speaker, the occasional whisper, and the gentle clink of someone restocking the fiction shelves.

She went straight to the “Dystopian & Speculative Fiction” table. She loved that stuff — cities falling apart, governments going rogue, characters surviving on instinct and secrets. She ran her fingers along the spines like they were friends she hadn’t seen in a while.

Luigi wandered toward nonfiction. Science, psychology, stuff that made him feel like he was learning something useful. He thumbed through a few titles, smirked, then suddenly paused.

“Oh,” he said under his breath, pulling out a book.

She peeked over at him. “What is it?”

He turned the cover around. Come As You Are by Emily Nagoski.

She blinked. Then burst out laughing.

“You would.”

“It’s research,” he said, dead serious. “I’m expanding my toolset. Optimizing my methods. Learning how to support the whole woman.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m incredible,” he corrected, slipping the book under his arm. “And apparently very thoughtful. This is marriage maintenance.”

She walked back toward him, a book in her hand — some new dystopian title with a worn-looking cover. “Marriage maintenance doesn’t usually involve you getting handsy in public.”

“Doesn’t it?” he asked, already stepping closer, one hand casually slipping around her back as he leaned in.

His fingers slid just under the waistband of her jeans, resting on the small of her back in that slow, deliberate way that made her skin prickle.

“Luigi,” she warned, voice low, glancing around.

“We’re in the back corner,” he whispered, lips brushing her ear. “Nobody’s here. I’m just appreciating you. Academically.”

“Academically?”

“This is research. You can’t stop a scholar in his field.”

She snorted, elbowing him lightly, pushing him back. “You’re unbelievable.”

“But irresistible,” he grinned, stepping away and casually flipping through the pages of his new “study material.”

She rolled her eyes, cheeks flushed. “You’re gonna get us banned from the bookstore.”

“Then we’ll start our own. With a secret section in the back.”

“And what would that be?”

He winked. “Erotic nonfiction.”

She smacked him with her book, but she was laughing too hard to aim properly.

The bell over the record store door gave a soft ding as they walked in, sunlight following them through the open doorway. The air inside was cooler, tinged with the scent of vinyl sleeves, old wood, and dust.

Soft music played from a turntable at the front — something smooth and instrumental, like a lo-fi jazz set played in someone’s living room.

She went left immediately, eyes lighting up as she drifted toward the jazz section. Fingers flipping through rows of black-and-colored sleeves. Coltrane. Miles. Sade. Blood Orange. All her favorites. The sleeves whispered against each other as she combed through them like she was touching a secret.

Luigi trailed behind at first, head tilted, reading the covers over her shoulder.

“Who’s that?”

“Sade.”

“Hot.”

“Unreal voice. Legend. You’d love her if you listened instead of pretending every playlist needs physics-themed rap.”

He scoffed. “Music is math.”

She gave him a dry look. “I’m about to introduce you to feeling.”

He smiled but peeled off, wandering toward the “Weird Shit” section like he always did — obscure electronica, odd instrumental albums with cryptic covers, probably some experimental audio compiled by MIT grad students.

She stayed where she was, flipping gently through the “Soul & Jazz” crates, eyes catching on a mint Blood Orange pressing. She smiled to herself, about to slide it out, when a voice cut in beside her.

“Didn’t think anyone in this place had taste,” the man said.

She turned slightly. He was tall, dressed like he knew he looked good — long fingers resting too easily on the crate next to hers. Deep voice. Easy smile.

“Jazz girls are rare,” he added, eyes drifting down for just a second too long. “You’ve got that… real energy.”

She smiled politely, chin tipping up, voice smooth. “Thanks.”

He didn’t back off. Stepped a little closer. “That a Sade record?” he asked, reaching out — not for the vinyl, but for a strand of her hair that had fallen across her shoulder.

She tensed. Her hand moved reflexively to her left.

She turned fully, letting the light catch her engagement ring. Held his gaze. Lifted her brow.

“I’m married,” she said, soft but firm.

His hand hovered for a beat… then dropped.

“…lucky guy,” he muttered, before slowly backing off, fading into another aisle without another word.

She exhaled through her nose. Collected the record. Brushed her hoodie sleeve back into place.

A second later, Luigi reappeared, holding up a bizarre-looking album with a glitchy black-and-white cover. “Look what I found! I think this was made by a guy who lived in a lighthouse for six years with only a drum machine and a—”

He stopped, blinking. “Hey. You okay?”

She smiled up at him. “Yeah. Some guy tried to flirt with me.”

His brows lifted. “Oh?”

She held up her hand, wiggling the ring. “Handled it.”

Luigi looked down at the ring. Then at her. Then slowly, with a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, leaned in and whispered against her cheek:

“That’s hot.”

“You’re such a freak.”

“You love it.”

He didn’t give her time to process.

One second they were tangled near the couch, lips brushing, breath mingling — and the next, Luigi had her up in his arms, bridal-style, hoodie rising up her thighs, one of his hands definitely copping a feel on the way up.

“You’re mine,” he muttered, heading straight for the bedroom, curls still damp from earlier, jaw tense but smirking. “Every fuckin’ inch of you.”

“You’re being dramatic again,” she said, arms looped around his neck, biting back a grin.

“Yeah, well,” he said, kicking the door open with his foot, “you’d be dramatic too if you saw some guy trying to breathe in your wife like she was jazz and salvation in one.”

Later that night-

He laid her on the bed like she was made of glass — only to climb on top of her a second later with the energy of a man with something to prove.

His hands roamed under her hoodie as he leaned in, voice low and filthy right next to her ear. “Tell me, baby… when he was lookin’ at you, when he tried to touch you—”

She shivered.

“—were you wishing it was him inside you?”

She gasped, half laughing, half breathless. “Luigi—”

“No, no—humor me,” he whispered, lips dragging along her jaw. “You want him in your bed? Between your thighs? Instead of me?”

She tilted her head toward him, eyes soft with amusement, voice cool. “Yeah… I think I’d prefer that guy.”

He pulled back like she’d slapped him.

The look on his face — full-on betrayed Italian husband energy. Brows furrowed, lips parted, hand frozen mid-way up her hoodie.

“Scusa?” he said, horrified. “You’re joking.”

She burst into a giggle, grabbing his shirt. “Of course I’m joking. I want you, idiot.”

He blinked, still stunned. “I’m gonna need that in writing.”

She tugged him closer, lips brushing his. “I want you,” she whispered again, slower now. “Only you. Always you.”

The tension melted from his shoulders instantly.

And there it was again — that familiar little smile, smug and soft, sitting on his lips like it never left.

“Damn right,” he said, leaning in and kissing her hard. “Now let me show you what that guy can’t do.”

Luigi didn’t waste a second.

Once she pulled him down and whispered “only you,” something in him flipped. The jealousy didn’t disappear — it just melted into something deeper. Hungrier.

His mouth met hers again, urgent and full, hands everywhere at once — dragging her hoodie up, skimming over her sides, her hips, her thighs like he needed to relearn every inch of her right now.

“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he muttered against her lips. “Everywhere. Your mouth, your body—God, your laugh.”

She giggled as he kissed down her neck, tugging her hoodie off completely, her soft cotton panties the only thing left. His hands were warm, rough in all the right ways, stroking up her thighs like he owned them.

Then he paused, sitting back on his knees between her legs, looking down at her — cheeks flushed, hair messy, that mark still faintly on her collarbone.

“Gotta get you ready,” he said, voice low and serious. “You know I’m not gonna fit unless I do.”

She rolled her eyes playfully. “So humble.”

He grinned. “I’m humble. My dick isn’t.”

And then he was kissing lower — down her stomach, past her hips, fingers already slipping between her thighs, gentle but confident.

“You’re so wet for me already,” he whispered, more to himself than to her. “Fuck, baby, you missed me too, huh?”

She let out a soft whimper, hips tilting up instinctively.

Luigi eased two fingers in, slow and steady, watching her face the whole time. “Yeah, there she is. God, you take me so fuckin’ well.”

He leaned down again, kissing the inside of her thigh, curling his fingers just right. “You feel how deep I am already? And I’m not even all the way inside you yet. Gotta stretch you open, nice and slow. Can’t rush somethin’ this good.”

She gasped, biting her lip, laughing through it. “Luigi—oh my god—”

“Love that sound,” he groaned, kissing her again, working her open with the kind of patience only he had. “Love when you laugh like that while I’m ruining you. You’re mine, baby. Every inch.”

Once she was trembling, ready, practically begging, he pulled his fingers out, leaning over her with a low breath. “You ready for me now?”

“Always.”

He lined himself up, dragging the tip through her first — slow, filthy — then pushed in inch by inch, both of them gasping.

“Jesus, you feel fuckin’ unreal,” he groaned, head dropping into her neck, body tensed. “So fuckin’ tight. So warm. God, baby—fuck.”

He rocked into her slow at first, but deep — enough to make the bed creak and her breath hitch.

“Still think that guy could do this?” he whispered, voice wrecked and smug.

She laughed breathlessly. “Not even close.”

And with that, Luigi really made his point — moving rougher, but never letting go of that tenderness. Kissing her face, praising her between moans, hands gripping wherever he could reach.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he gasped. “Smart, sweet, mine.”

And when she giggled again, burying her face in his neck, he smiled through his groans, knowing he’d never get enough.

Luigi could tell she was close.

He knew it in the way her thighs tightened around his waist, the way her head tipped back just a little, lips parted, breath catching every few seconds like she couldn’t keep up with the rhythm anymore.

“You close, baby?” he whispered, voice strained but soft, lips brushing her cheek. “C’mon, let me feel it. Let go for me.”

His hand slipped between them, thumb finding her sweet spot, rubbing slow and steady while he kept thrusting deep — not rushed, not wild. Just right. Like he knew how to unravel her perfectly.

She gasped, fingers digging into his back.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Fuck, you’re squeezin’ me so tight—let me have it. Just like that. Let me feel you cum.”

And she did.

She broke apart underneath him, soft moans filling the room, body shaking as he kept moving, riding it out, kissing her through every pulse of it.

Her nails raked down his back, and he hissed, forehead dropping to hers.

“Shit—okay, okay, baby, where do you want me?” he asked, voice cracking. “Fuck, I’m close—I’m so close—tell me.”

She cupped the side of his face, eyes glossy and half-lidded. “Inside.”

He froze.

“…You sure?”

She nodded, biting her lip, still catching her breath. “Yeah. I want it.”

His entire face melted — surprised, wrecked, so in love.

“Fuck, I love you,” he gasped, slamming into her one last time. “I love you.”

And then he let go.

He spilled into her with a guttural groan, hips stuttering, hand gripping her hip hard. His body shivered with it, collapsing onto her a moment later, both of them breathless and flushed and laughing softly into each other’s skin.

“Holy shit,” he panted into her neck. “You’re tryna end me.”

“You started it,” she whispered, arms wrapping around his back, fingers trailing through his damp curls.

He shifted slightly, still inside her, forehead resting against her collarbone, lips brushing the skin just above where his love bite had darkened.

“Okay,” he said after a beat, still panting, “but now I need something even more important.”

She blinked down at him. “What?”

“Cuddles.”

She snorted. “You just finished inside me, and now you want to cuddle?”

“Yes,” he said, dead serious, eyes wide and dramatic. “I gave you my soul. I deserve to be spooned.”

“You’re insane.”

He gave her the most pitiful pout. “Please? Just for ten minutes. Let me lay on your chest and pretend you’re my emotional support goddess.”

She rolled her eyes and opened her arms. “Come here, you clingy idiot.”

He flopped on top of her instantly, sighing like a man finally at peace.

She brushed his curls back, kissed his forehead.

“Still think that guy at the record store had a chance?” she teased.

He grinned, eyes already closing. “Not even a little.”

The shower had washed away the heat, the sleepiness, and the last remnants of whatever messy chaos they’d just gotten up to (again).

Now the apartment smelled like clean skin, fresh soap, and something sweet — maybe the candles she always lit after long days. They were both dressed in something soft and simple: she wore one of his oversized tees and boyshorts, bare legs stretched out; he had on his usual boxers and a random hoodie from freshman year that still somehow fit.

The sun was setting, casting amber light across the hardwood floors and the messy sprawl of a board game they’d pulled from the closet.

They sat on the floor, backs against the couch, legs tangled, half-playing and half-laughing through the rules.

“Okay, no way you just pulled that card again,” she accused, eyes narrowing.

“I’m telling you,” Luigi said, holding it up proudly. “It’s fate. I am a statistical anomaly.”

“You’re cheating.”

“Or…” he said, leaning over dramatically, “you’re just intimidated by how hot and smart I am.”

She swatted his chest with a laugh. “You are so full of yourself.”

He grinned, scooted closer until his knees bumped hers, and said it with no hesitation:

“And I married the most perfect girl on Earth.”

Her laughter caught in her throat. She blinked at him, cheeks instantly glowing. “Luigi—”

“No, for real,” he said, quieter now but with that same cocky smile underneath. “You’re smart. You’re beautiful. You smell like warmth and you always know what to do and your brain works in ways that still make me sit there like, ‘holy shit, I tricked this girl into marrying me.’”

Her lips parted. She looked down, biting back a shy smile, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“Stop,” she whispered. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

“I’m gonna make you blush,” he said, already leaning in, brushing his nose against her cheek. “You’re all shy now. Look at you.”

She covered her face with her hands. “You’re so annoying.”

“Annoyingly in love,” he said, kissing her temple, then her jaw, then the tip of her nose. “Annoyingly obsessed with how lucky I am.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

He picked up a game piece and set it on her knee like it was a crown. “You’re my endgame.”

She burst out laughing, hiding her face in his hoodie again.

Outside, the sky burned gold and orange. Inside, their laughter filled the space between the sunbeams, soft and endless.

And even with the board game half-played and rules forgotten, it was clear: Luigi had already won.

Night had fully settled in, wrapping their apartment in that quiet kind of calm that only comes after a full day of love, laughter, and a little too much teasing.

A candle flickered on the coffee table — something warm and vanilla-spiced — casting soft shadows on the walls. The TV murmured low in the background, some random show neither of them was really watching. They were sunk deep into the couch, limbs tangled under a thick blanket, her legs draped over his lap, her fingers gently playing with the curls at the base of his neck.

Luigi had one arm behind his head, the other draped around her waist, eyes half-lidded and completely content.

He didn’t say much. He didn’t need to.

She turned slightly, resting her head on his chest, watching the way the light danced across his face — those strong brows, the freckles over his nose, the way his lips stayed in that half-pout he always swore he wasn’t doing on purpose.

“You know you’re perfect, right?” she whispered.

His eyes flicked to hers. “Me?”

She nodded slowly, her thumb brushing just beneath his eye. “Your big eyebrows. Your stupid pretty hazel eyes. Your freckles.”

He shifted under her, suddenly flustered — not the over-the-top Luigi who demanded praise, but the real one. The one who still didn’t know what to do when she said these things so gently.

“Stop,” he said softly, eyes darting away.

She smiled. “Your lips, too. Always pouting. It’s actually so unfair.”

He cleared his throat, suddenly tugging the blanket up higher. “You’re bullying me.”

“I’m worshipping you.”

“Same thing,” he muttered, cheeks pink.

Her hand cupped his jaw, and she leaned in just enough to kiss the corner of his mouth. “You’re beautiful, Luigi.”

He stared at the ceiling for a second, blinking like he didn’t know what to say.

Then: “I’m gonna cry.”

She giggled, nuzzling into his shoulder. “I’d still love you if you did.”

He turned and pulled her closer, holding her so tight against his chest she could barely move — his version of hiding, of needing her closer when the feelings got too big.

“I love you,” he mumbled into her hair. “Even when you bully me with compliments.”

“I love you more,” she whispered.

And with that, the show kept playing, the candle kept flickering, and the two of them stayed wrapped in each other — the kind of quiet, soul-deep comfort that only happens when you’re completely known… and still completely adored.

It happened slowly.

One minute, Luigi was murmuring something sleepy and half-sweet into her hair, his breath warm against her skin, his arm wrapped lazily around her waist.

The next… silence.

She shifted just slightly to look at him, and sure enough — his breathing had deepened, his mouth was parted just a little, and the softest snores had started to slip out.

His face was half-buried in her shoulder, eyelashes resting against his cheek, freckles barely visible in the flickering candlelight. His curls were a mess from the couch pillow, lips still holding that faint pout that didn’t go away even in sleep.

And his hand — God, his hand — was resting firm and open on her hip, fingers splayed like he was trying to keep her in place. Like he didn’t even trust her to stay close while unconscious.

Her heart squeezed.

Why is he so perfect.

She stayed there a minute longer, just watching him, breathing him in — the curve of his back under the blanket, the steady rise and fall of his chest. It was the kind of moment that didn’t demand anything. Just was.

Eventually, she shifted gently. Careful. His grip tightened instinctively for half a second, but he didn’t wake. He just exhaled a soft little sound, nuzzled into the spot where her neck had been, and stayed asleep.

She smiled to herself, tiptoeing around the apartment.

First the candle — snuffed out with a soft puff. Then the TV — screen going dark with a click. Then the lights — everything dimmed to a soft, moonlit glow spilling in from the windows.

When she came back, he was still exactly where she’d left him. Out cold. His hand had slipped slightly, now resting across the warm space where she’d been sitting.

She climbed back onto the couch beside him, shifting the blanket back over them, curling her body gently around his again.

And as soon as she settled, like he felt her there even in sleep, his hand moved back to her waist.

Holding her tight.

Like nothing in the world could pull them apart.

The light woke her before the sound did.

Soft and golden, slipping in through the sheer curtains, brushing over her bare legs and the tangled blanket. The living room still smelled faintly of candle wax and something sweet — like his skin, maybe, or the warmth of last night clinging to the air.

And then he stirred.

Still half-asleep, Luigi turned toward her on the couch, curls flattened on one side, eyes puffy with sleep, lips already twitching into that slow, smug smile.

“Good morning, bella mia,” he murmured, voice rough and thick from sleep.

Before she could respond, he was pressing messy, open-mouthed kisses to her cheek, her jaw, her shoulder — all over, like he couldn’t decide which part of her he missed the most overnight.

“You’re smothering me,” she laughed, though her hands had already found his waist, holding him closer.

He grinned, nose brushing hers. “I’m loving you aggressively.”

“You smell like sleep.”

“You smell like a dream I don’t want to wake up from.”

She shoved his shoulder gently. “Stop being corny.”

“Never.”

He gave her one last kiss, loud and dramatic on her forehead, before pushing off the couch and stretching with a groan, shirt riding up to expose a sliver of his toned stomach.

“I’m making breakfast,” he announced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Your perfect husband is on it.”

“Don’t burn the toast again,” she called after him, already following.

“No promises.”

She came up behind him at the stove, slipping her arms around his waist, hugging him from behind like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He smiled down at her hands as he cracked eggs into the pan. “You know,” he said casually, “I was thinking.”

“That’s dangerous.”

“Rude. But accurate.” He glanced over his shoulder, eyes warm. “I wanna visit my family next weekend. Head down to Maryland. You should come with me.”

She blinked, surprised for half a second — not because he was inviting her, but because the way he said it felt so normal, so obvious.

Like he couldn’t imagine going without her.

“Of course I’ll come,” she said quietly.

His grin widened. “You sure? You ready for my mom feeding you six courses and my aunt asking if we’re pregnant within the first ten minutes?”

“Bring it on,” she said, kissing the space between his shoulder blades. “I wanna see where this chaos was born.”

He laughed, flipping the eggs, leaning into her touch. “You’ll fit right in.”

She didn’t answer. Just held him a little tighter, heart full and easy.

And in that moment — in the glow of the morning, with the eggs sizzling and her arms wrapped around the boy she married — everything felt exactly right.

She stayed pressed against him at the stove, chin resting between his shoulder blades, arms still wrapped around his waist. He kept flipping the eggs like nothing was happening, but she felt the way his body shifted — a little tenser, a little warmer.

Her hands started to wander.

Slowly, deliberately, they slid up under his hoodie, fingers tracing the lines of his stomach, dragging over the subtle dips of his abs. She felt him twitch under her touch, muscles flexing like he was trying so hard to keep it together.

“You’re distracting me,” he muttered, voice already rougher.

“You’re warm,” she whispered, kissing the back of his neck.

“You’re evil.”

Her hand drifted a little lower, just above the waistband of his boxers — not touching anything too inappropriate. Just…close enough. Just enough to feel the tension in him spike.

He hissed under his breath, shifting slightly. “Baby…”

That’s when she felt it — the slow, unmistakable press growing against the front of his boxers.

“Oh,” she said sweetly. “What’s that?”

“Don’t start,” he gritted out.

She smirked, hands retreating instantly. “Was just saying good morning.”

And then — casually, like she hadn’t just lit him on fire — she stepped away. Walked over to the kitchen island. Sat down. Crossed her legs. Opened her phone.

Like nothing happened.

Luigi stood there, spatula in one hand, dick very obvious in the other direction, muttering curses under his breath.

“You’re gonna pay for that,” he warned, not even looking at her. “You know that, right?”

She didn’t look up. “Mmm. Prove it.”

He turned the burner off with more force than necessary, still rock hard, hoodie tenting and frustration radiating off him.

“You’re a menace,” he muttered again.

She bit her lip, looking up at him all sweet. “But I’m your menace.”

He glared. Then smirked. Then sighed like a man at the edge of sanity. “I’m gonna ruin you after these eggs.”

“I’m counting on it.”

Breakfast was mostly quiet. The eggs were perfect (thankfully), and Luigi had managed to focus just enough to get them onto plates without burning them or throwing the spatula in frustration.

But the entire time? He was staring.

Across the table, legs bouncing, lips pressed together in that crooked little smirk that told her he was thinking things. Dangerous, delicious, ridiculous things.

She knew that look. And the second they were both finished eating, she knew what was coming.

He leaned back in his chair, stretching — and very intentionally adjusting the front of his boxers, where his situation hadn’t quite gone away since the stove.

“So,” he started casually, “you gonna take responsibility for what you did this morning?”

She raised an eyebrow, sipping her coffee. “What I did?”

“You got me hard and walked away like a damn criminal.”

“Pretty sure you threatened to ‘ruin me after these eggs.’”

“I will,” he said, voice dropping instantly. “But I’d prefer you get on your knees first. Since this is your fault.”

She snorted. “God, you’re vulgar.”

“I’m in pain, baby.”

“Tragic.”

He stood, walked around the table, and leaned down beside her — voice all low and filthy, mouth right next to her ear.

“I’ve been hard for thirty minutes thinking about your mouth wrapped around me, your eyes all pretty and full, your throat fuckin’ tight—”

“Luigi,” she groaned, half-laughing, cheeks pink.

“C’mon,” he whispered, kissing just under her jaw. “Help me out. Let me hold your hair and moan like a goddamn teenager. I wanna see you looking up at me like you love ruining me.”

She gave him the driest look she could muster. “You’re lucky I married you.”

“I’m lucky you’re a freak behind that perfect little face.”

She sighed, pushed her chair back slowly, and stood up. “You’re so annoying.”

“But?”

“But,” she said, walking past him toward the bedroom, “I am your wife.”

His eyes lit up like he’d won the lottery.

“Let’s go, baby,” he grinned, following after her. “Time for you to finish what you started — and I’ll return the favor… twice.”

They didn’t rush.

He followed her into the bedroom like a puppy with a dirty mind — all grins, light footsteps, and one very clear motive. She stood by the bed, arms crossed, watching him like he was both a challenge and a toy.

She tilted her head, voice sweet and slow. “So, Mangione… how do you want it?”

Luigi didn’t hesitate. Not for a second.

His grin stretched across his face, eyes lighting up like she’d just handed him the key to the universe. “Okay, okay—picture this.”

She raised an eyebrow, already smirking.

“I’m sitting up,” he said, pointing to the edge of the bed, practically vibrating with excitement, “right here. Legs spread. Boxers down. And you…” he took a slow step toward her, hands loose at his sides, voice dipping lower, “…you’re between them, all sweet and smug and on your knees for me.”

She blinked, lips twitching.

“And you’re looking up at me,” he added, “like you want to ruin me. Like you’re proud of it. Like I’m the only thing in the world you wanna taste.”

Her breath caught slightly — not that she’d admit it yet.

He stepped closer, voice soft now, almost reverent. “And you take your time. Real slow. Let me feel every inch. Let me fuckin’ watch you take it, tongue out, eyes full. Maybe you hold my thighs. Maybe I hold your hair. Either way, I wanna see you love it.”

Then: a pause.

And he smiled, all wide and boyish, like he hadn’t just delivered the filthiest monologue of the week. “Pretty please.”

She looked at him, eyes soft, lips parted — her voice like warm honey. “You want me to ruin you, baby?”

He nodded quickly, eyes almost pleading now. “Yes. Please. I wanna be wrecked.”

She stepped forward, fingers grazing the hem of his hoodie, tugging it up and over his head, revealing his bare chest, his messy curls, the freckles he always forgot he had.

Her eyes drank him in — slow, hungry, affectionate.

“Anything you want,” she whispered, hands sliding down his abs, resting at the waistband of his boxers. “You’ve been so good.”

“Say it again,” he breathed, already dazed.

She leaned up, lips brushing his. “You’ve been so good, amore. Let me take care of you.”

And just like that, Luigi sat down on the edge of the bed, hands on his thighs, chest heaving, mouth parted — watching her drop to her knees like it was his favorite movie playing out in real life.

And it was …

⠂⠁⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂ ⠂⠁⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂ ⠂⠁ ⠂

Part two coming soon ☺️

I really hate this fic after reading it again, but hopefully you guys like it!

#luigi mangione #luigi mangione fic #luigi mangione fanfiction #luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione x yn #luigi mangione smut

198 notes · View notes