chaotic-for-good

[chaotic-for-good]

peach card

Luigi Mangione x Reader

no use of y/n

NSFW as heck

summary: a lighthearted game inspires you and Luigi to explore lands yet untouched.

cw: anal sex, soft dom lulu, dirty talk, you know the drill

author’s note: first off, apologies I have not yet had the brain power to address prior requests. to be honest, I wasn’t really sure I’d come back to this, and all of my attempts to write anything else I’d discussed before had me nearly tearing out my hair. for whatever reason, the thing that finally yanked me from my grief cave and into a sexy enough mindset to write smut was… butt stuff. so! if that’s not your thing, this is not the fic for you. if it is! 🤭😏 hehehe

word count: 3.6k

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“I mean, I’ve always been intrigued. Just… only if the other party was, too,” you clarified, arching a brow. “Not your thing?”

You cast him a look from across the picnic table. He looked unfairly radiant, all lit up with the late afternoon sun playing in his chocolate curls. You chuckled lightly—he was holding the card tight to his chest like one of the screaming kids playing tag nearby might somehow decode “have you ever done anal?” from four feet away.

The brewery probably hadn’t realized what kind of game this was when they stuck it on the shelf next to Uno and dominoes.

He’d pulled down his Ray-Bans, squinting slightly, pinching his lower lip with that pointy incisor you adored.

“I think I’m on the same page,” he said after a beat, exhaling. “It’s not something I’ve been dying to do, so it just never happened… but. I’d be down.”

He flushed as he finished the last swig of his beer, glancing over at you. “Now that I think about it? Be hot to have a first time with you.”

“One pure part of me left for you to have,” you teased, winking as you plucked the card from his hand. He rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth turned upward as the two of you started scooping the rainbow of cards back into their cracked plastic container.

✨🍑✨🍑✨🍑

He was practically vibrating in the kitchen. Taut, contemplative, lips pressed together as he squinted down at the pan. He ran a hand along the back of his neck as he let the onions sweat—a dead giveaway. You always knew when that big brain of his was firing on multiple cylinders. It was like watching the air tense around a storm.

“Something on your mind, big guy?” you asked, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. You kissed the dip between his shoulder blades, resting your cheek against the solid warmth of his back.

He peeked at you over his shoulder, his fingers skimming gently along the forearm you had draped across his stomach.

“Remember that card game?” he asked, hesitant.

“The anal card?” you snorted, tracing lazy circles into the soft fabric of his t-shirt.

He huffed a quiet laugh, nodding as a flush crept into his cheeks.

You paused, sensing the shift. Peering up at him, your smile turned mischievous.

“You really are obsessed with my ass, huh, babe?” You squeezed his sides playfully for emphasis. He groaned, leaning into you, but your teasing cracked through his apprehension.

Turning around in your arms, he slid his palm down the small of your back.

“‘Kay, fine, pretend that’s news,” he said, voice soft, earnest. “I’m obsessed with you, alright? And… honestly? I want all of you.”

“Well, it just so happens—” you drew his chin down to yours, pressing a kiss at the corner of his mouth. “—I think about what that would feel like. Like… When I’m alone. Touching myself, thinking of you.”

His mouth dropped open, brows lifting. “Fuck,” he choked out, grabbing your chin in his hand.

He turned the dial on the stove off before backing you slowly against the wall across from the counter, moving his hand to wrap lightly but authoritatively around your neck.

“You think about me taking you like that, pretty girl?” He breathed, grazing his teeth along your lower lip.

“Yeah, baby,” you purred.

“Feels so good when you eat me,” you babbled. “Makes me want to feel it, feel that full of you.”

“Shit,” he groaned against your throat, your fingers threading through his hair. “Like, right now?”

He pawed at your breast, kicking one leg out to open you up, slotting himself between your hips. You were already warm, already buzzing.

“You’ll get me ready?” you asked him, voice smaller, but certain.

“It would be my honor,” he said, pressing a hand to his chest in mock theater.

Then softer, eyes locking with yours: “Seriously. I just want to make you feel good. We can stop anytime. I’d be thrilled just to spend time with you. Especially in or around your perfect ass,” he added, winking.

You laughed, wrapping your arm around his neck. Somehow, he understood. No hesitation. No panic. Just the kind of yes that blooms quietly in your chest when you feel safe.

“Okay,” you whispered, nodding against his forehead.

He exhaled like you’d handed him a gift he wasn’t sure he deserved.

Then, wordlessly, he scooped you up—one arm under your thighs, the other wrapped around your back, pressing you close to his chest. You clung to him, heart thudding, grinning into the warmth of his neck.

He carried you out of the kitchen, turned the corner into the bedroom, and kicked the door shut with his heel.

“Obviously, I’m big on setting the vibe, as well you know,” he said, peppering you with kisses before tossing you—gently but deliberately—onto the bed.

“While I get to work on that front,” he added, tugging on the hem of your shirt, “take that off for me?”

You propped yourself up on your elbows, watching as he pulled out his phone. A soft click of the screen and the lamps on either side of the bed dimmed to a warm, golden hue. The speaker on the dresser chimed to life, the low pulse of music filling the room.

He listened for a moment, then nodded in approval. “That’s better. Now I can focus on my girl.”

He pulled his shirt over his head, muscles flexing as the fabric dragged upward. His slightly crooked happy trail carved a line from his navel down. He was already half hard, and your mouth went dry just looking at him. Your thighs squeezed together instinctively.

He moved toward the bed with an easy kind of hunger, crouching over you just long enough to kiss your temple.

“You talk to me, yeah, baby?” he murmured, voice low as his fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts. “I need to know how you feel every second.”

He slid them down slowly, pressing his lips against your thighs as they were revealed inch by inch. He wasn’t in a rush. That was his way—especially in the bedroom. Every motion was measured.

“There she is,” he whispered against your belly, sighing. Then he licked a long stripe from your hole up through your slit.

You gasped, arching beneath him as his tongue got to work.

He half moaned, half mmm’ed, slashing his tongue back and forth over your clit with just the right pressure. His left hand stayed high, thumb circling your bud in sync with his mouth, while his right moved lower—rubbing soft, deliberate circles around your ass, teasing but patient.

He looked up at you through dark lashes, then plunged his tongue into your core. His thumb never left your clit as his other hand resumed its gentle, grounding rhythm below.

He groaned low in his throat as he pushed your legs up, presenting you. The sound vibrated against your skin. He began pressing soft kisses just below your entrance. Slinging one forearm over your thigh to keep his fingers on your clit, he worked with maddening patience—but his mouth shifted lower, breath hot against the tight circle of muscle.

His lips brushed against you.

He used both hands to part your cheeks, thumbs stroking lazy circles into your skin as his mouth lapped and sucked with slow, confident pressure.

You whimpered as he dipped the tip of one long finger inside, barely opening you.

“Yes,” you gasped, threading your fingers into his hair. You felt deliciously full. It made you wonder how it would feel to have a little bit of him in every hole you had.

“That’s it,” he groaned, voice thick as he pressed a kiss to your hip. Half a finger was inside you now. “God, you feel so fucking good already.”

He pulled back just far enough to reach for the bottle of lube on the nightstand. You watched him pump some onto his fingers, then rub them together—warming it, working it in. His expression was focused—tender, almost reverent.

“You’re doing perfect,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss your inner thigh as he brought his slick fingers back to your ass. “Tell me if anything feels off. We’ll take our time.”

You nodded, breath shaky, but your legs relaxed instinctively. You trusted him completely—there was no part of yourself you had to hide from him.

He resumed slowly—pressing the first finger in again, now slick and smooth, easing deeper with care. He didn’t rush. He worked in shallow, gentle strokes, stopping when your breath hitched and pulling back just enough to let you catch up.

“You’re opening up for me,” he whispered, nuzzling into your skin. “Just like that. That’s my good girl.”

You whimpered again, so loud you were almost embarrassed, as he worked you open a little more. He added more lube, circling your hole slowly before sliding in deeper.

His mouth found your clit again, and the combination sent heat curling low in your belly.

“Need more?” he asked against your mound, voice breathless but controlled.

“Yes,” you rasped. “Please.”

He moaned into you, grinding his hips against the bed. “Fuck. You don’t know what that does to me.”

Then he added a second finger—slower this time, stretching you just enough to make your back arch. His free hand cradled your hip, grounding you. His mouth stayed on you, lips working your clit like he wanted to undo you from the inside out.

“That’s it, baby girl,” he grunted, pumping two digits inside you in earnest now. “Almost ready to take me. Okay to keep going?”

He cocked his head, flashing that devilish half-smile of his. It made your nerves vanish and your pelvic floor flutter. You bit your lip, nodding.

“Use your words, baby,” he tutted, catching your clit between his lips and stilling his movements both there and behind. That tone always made your heart stutter, your body go weightless. Like you were floating right above your skin.

“Want more,” you breathed, squirming. “I can take it.”

At that he practically growled, deep in his chest, before reaching for the bottle again. You watched, breathless, as he pumped more lube onto his ring finger, rubbing it in with deliberate care.

“You sure?” he murmured, eyes locked on yours. “Gonna stretch you real slow, sweet thing. Want you to feel how ready you are.”

You nodded again, letting your mouth fall open. Needy and soft and completely his.

He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, then shifted, hand cupping your hip as the slick pads of his fingers circled your entrance once more. Then, with infinite patience, he began to push—two fingers already seated, the third easing in beside them.

You sucked in a breath, body going tense for half a second—until his other hand found yours, fingers lacing tight.

“Breathe for me,” he whispered. “That’s it. You’re doing so fucking good.”

Just like that, you opened for him.

An almost guttural moan punctuated by a sigh escaped his lips. Then you realized: the soft, rhythmic shudder of the bed wasn’t from you. It was him—rutting into the duvet, chasing relief like he couldn’t take one more second.

“Babe,” he gasped, voice breaking. “I’m dying to be inside you.”

Hearing him that desperate almost made you come on the spot—and the moan you let out in response was absolutely pornographic. “Please,” you panted, bucking into his fingers. “Please.”

He pulled all three digits from you, slow but urgent, making you gasp at the sudden emptiness. Then he was shoving down his shorts and briefs, cock springing free—pink tip flushed, leaking, beautifully hard.

“Oh! One sec,” he said suddenly, catching himself. His voice dropped into that commanding register you loved. “Touch that pretty clit for me. I wanna hear you from the hallway. Understood?”

You nodded, lips wrapping around two of your fingers before reaching down between your legs. He bolted from the room, heavy cock swinging obscenely, and your pussy pulsated in response. Oh, you could make noise for that boy.

“Lu—” you gasped, swirling slick fingers over your clit, “I need you—”

Your other hand found your breast, thumb teasing your nipple as you writhed on the sheets.

“Need you to take me,” you whispered, voice gravelly, trembling.

“Atta girl,” he said when he returned, tone thick. He crossed the room in a few quick strides, spreading a towel across the bed as his chest heaved.

“Roll over onto your side for me, love.”

You obeyed immediately—of course you did. You were his good girl.

He flopped down beside you, a small glass bottle of lube in one hand, already squirting it into his palm as he wrapped his fist around his dick.

“I’m gonna take you just like this,” he murmured, slotting himself behind you. “That okay, gorgeous? I read it’ll be more comfortable. And I can still see your face.”

Propped up on one elbow, he looked down at you—somehow soft and feral all at once. Then he brushed a strand of hair back from your cheek and kissed your temple, his voice barely a breath:

“We’ll go real slow. And we’ll stop whenever you need. You ready for me?”

Instead of answering, you reached down and grasped his thick length, guiding it between your cheeks, dragging it right where you wanted him.

“Oh,” he rasped, grabbing your top thigh beneath the knee to open you up. He nodded in understanding, pressing the flushed head of his cock to your entrance. His eyes never left yours as he began to ease in—so slowly.

Just the tip.

“Holyfuckingshit,” he panted, voice fraying as an inch or two slid inside. Your breath hitched, chest rising, overwhelmed in the best way.

“How’s that feel?” he murmured against your lips. “Want me to stay like this for a second?”

Your sweet boy. Always checking in.

“Move,” you whispered, “but don’t go deeper yet.” You dragged your tongue along his in an open-mouthed kiss—the filthy kind he loved when he was buried inside you.

He groaned, low and broken. “You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?”

He eased out slightly, then pressed back in—just enough to make you clutch the sheets.

Yes.

You tilted your head back, pressing your cheek to his, your neck exposed. He didn’t hesitate—his tongue ran along the tender spot below your ear, teeth grazing just enough to make you shudder.

Restraint was written all over him: jaw clenched, breath shallow, eyes wide. He looked beautiful like this—lips pink and plush, sweat beading at his temple, every muscle in his body focused on not giving you too much, too fast.

“More, baby,” you crooned, pulling at his hip. “Make me yours, Gi.”

His breath caught—sharp and audible. He tilted your head up by the base of your skull, and he continued sliding in, centimeters at a time.

“Mine,” he gritted out. “All mine.”

You barely stopped yourself from crying out, stretched full, the ache blooming and exquisite. He was inside you, and somehow not done yet.

You wrapped a hand around the column of his neck, grounding yourself. “How much to go?”

He looked down at where your bodies met, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest—affectionate, familiar. Then he gave you that look: one corner of his mouth tugging down, brow dipping just slightly. Not quite a smile, not quite a wink. Like a shared joke. He knew how big he was—and that you’d still take all of him.

“Half,” he murmured, mouth twitching. “Not even.”

You took a steadying breath. Met his gaze.

“All the way,” you said. “I want you to.”

“That’s my girl.” His face lit with something like pride, and something hungry. He wrapped his hand around your inner thigh, lifting, holding you open.

“Take a deep breath,” he guided. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

His eyes never left yours as he pushed in deeper, slower than before.

You nodded, sucking in air as your whole body tensed. Your pussy and ass clenched together, trying to make sense of how full you were, how good it already felt.

And then he was seated fully inside you.

His hips nestled against yours, the coarse hairs on his thighs brushing the backs of yours. Holy. Fucking. Shit. You could barely breathe.

You weren’t sure where pain ended and pleasure began—the lines were so blurred, the sting in concert with the rapture. Your body was reeling, craving movement but not quite ready yet.

To steady yourself, you turned toward the hand cradling your head and slipped two of his long fingers into your mouth, sucking greedily, eyes fluttering closed.

He panted, mouth open, breath ragged. The sound alone made your body clench around him again.

“So fucking tight,” he groaned, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder, mouth slack—like he was trying to make sense of what he was feeling, trying not to come from just being inside you.

You could see him fighting it—struggling to stay still, to not lose it.

“I want to feel myself inside you,” he nearly begged, sliding a hand between your thighs.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you chanted, fingers still partly in your mouth, the rest of you already unraveling.

He let out a ragged moan, swirling two slick fingers over your clit before sliding them lower, inside. His eyes locked on your face, studying every twitch and gasp.

His other hand steadied you at your neck, grounding you. You could feel the press of his cock inside you as his fingers slid into your pussy, the dual sensation dizzying.

And from the look on his face—jaw slack, lashes fluttering—you knew he felt it too: the surreal, world altering awareness of being in you twice, surrounded by you completely.

“You belong to me,” he breathed, voice hoarse with awe and want.

His fingers moved idly between your legs, stroking your pussy even as he began to thrust in earnest—pulling almost all the way out of your taut hole before plunging back in, slowly, taking you apart piece by piece.

You fucked him back as best you could, hips rocking, your back arching, your hands trailing down the length of his muscled arm like you were trying to hang on.

“Just like that, baby,” he cooed, undone by your responsiveness. His thumb found your clit again and circled, steady and skilled.

“Oh, shit,” you cried out, every nerve on fire. You could hardly believe how good he made you feel—your body adjusting around him, the press against both sets of walls sending you spiraling.

“Lu—” you gasped, voice trembling, confusion blooming with arousal. “I think—”

He hissed against your neck. “I can’t hold off if you come, baby. You feel so fucking good.”

His hips were stuttering now, thrusts sloppier, more erratic—but he never let up on your clit. Kept working you. Kept chasing it.

“I want it,” you whined. “I want it, I want it—”

The coil inside you was pulling tight, too tight, with different nerve endings flaring, both familiar and not. Shimmering on the edge of something bright and impossible, like you didn’t know if you were going to come or shatter.

What finally sent you both over the edge was your own voice, nearly screamed aloud: “You own me—”

You felt him swell suddenly, impossibly—his cock pulsing inside you as he cried out, voice wrecked, face contorted in ecstatic agony. His brows drew together, eyes squeezed shut.

And at the same time, you bucked beneath him, vision blowing white, ass and pussy clenching down hard. Your whole body convulsed in a release so deep it made time feel slippery, like the moment stretched out around you.

Your arm twitched. Your head lilted back against him, mouth open, trembling.

“Jesus,” you finally managed, laughing breathlessly in disbelief.

“Not Jesus,” he murmured, nudging a knuckle under your chin. “Luigi.”

You shook your head, letting out a husky, giddy giggle just as he gently pulled out. Cum spilled from you, warm and slick, making you flinch, still sensitive.

Smart guy, bringing that towel.

“You okay?” he whispered, already rolling you toward him, foreheads brushing.

“I was half a virgin when I met you!” you responded dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest.

He groaned. “I’ll take that as a good thing, Regina.”

You both laughed genuinely as he kissed you, deep and sweet. “Love you, baby.”

“Love you, mister,” you replied, dragging a fingernail along his cheek. “And I’m honored to take your virginity—even if it is a bullshit construct designed to commodify women.”

He snorted. “The pleasure was mine, beautiful.” Then, raising a brow and tilting his head like he was offering candy: “Bath time?”

“Mmm. That sounds incredible,” you sighed, stretching. The bed shifted as he rose.

You heard the squeak of the faucet, followed by a wicked little giggle.

The speaker chirped to life again as the song changed. Lyrics washed over the room: Booty had me like… Luigi cackled from the bathroom, clearly proud of himself.

“Fucking frat boys,” you muttered under your breath.

“What’s that, princess?” he called out, voice sing-song. “Come say it to my face! In the tub!” He punctuated with a splash, smacking the water with excitement.

You groaned, hoisting yourself up from the bed—but you were melting. His.

[chaotic-for-good]

ropes & rumors

Luigi Mangione x Reader

NSFW 18+

summary: When Luigi thinks you cheated on him with his rival frat brother, he goes nuclear and makes you prove you belong to him.

based on this request: you cheated on lu at a party while being super drunk (as if that'd ever happen in real life pls who'd cheat on him 🙄, but its just for the plot) and he finds out, gets super mad. So he kidnaps you in like a random cabin in the forest, 'punishes' you by overstimulating your nipples and clit while you keep apologizing to him with tears streaming down your face but he just does not give a ff.

cw: cheating (kind of), dubcon, established relationship, vaginal sex, overstimulation, bondage, fingering, it's always a Tyler (sorry Tyler's), frat boy Lulu, some pred/prey themes going on

an: This got a lot more dramatic at the end than I had originally envisioned (idk if I've just been reading too much romantasy or if worrying about this boy made me need to write some softness back in after he goes wild or what). Lulu and reader are a lil obsessed with each other. This was fun, thanks for the request and feel free to keep 'em coming :) I'm thinking we need a lil fluff sometime soon after this one haha

Usually when you black out at a party, you take it as a sign to sit the next weekend out. Half as punishment for the inevitable embarrassment (though who can really say what happened?), half to recover from the damage you surely did to your developing brain. A little reset after behaving badly.

You spend the weekend alone, or at least mostly alone. Journaling, meditating, reading. Sometimes, you even let Luigi join for parts of your reflective time, if he promises to be quiet and keep his hands to himself (he’s not always great at the latter). You grocery shop, cook, clean, get your apartment back in order. Cuddle up and watch movies. Stop paying attention to the movie entirely when more naked activities prove to be a better cure for your frazzled nerves.

But this weekend is the exception.

It’s winter formal, and despite the way your stomach pitched the whole ride up, despite still being wracked with hangxiety a full week after having a few too many at Phi Psi, you’d never back out of a commitment you made to him.

Now, sipping prosecco out of a red solo cup in the hot tub, snow falling gently as the other girlfriends gossip and laugh, you’re actually grateful your usual weekend reset had to be postponed. Sinking into a pure moment of girlhood always has that effect on you. It’s nice to be out here, under the stars, convening with nature—especially knowing Luigi still hasn’t seen you’re wearing the flowered bikini that drives him crazy.

Inside, he’s running the beer pong table with his partner, Ryan, when that jackass Tyler calls winner. He throws Ryan an irritable look.

Normally, Luigi is as chill and easygoing as they come. It was rare, if ever, that he had an issue with anyone, least of all one of his fraternity brothers.

But Tyler… Tyler gets under his skin.

It’s the way he looks at you—like you’re a piece of meat. Something to be won. The way he’s always finding excuses to put his hands on you—a graze of your arm, a half-hug, a too-playful shove. And he gets bolder when you’re drunk.

You’re Luigi’s girl—his vulnerable, precious baby, something to protect at all costs. But you’re not oblivious. You see what Tyler’s playing at, and you don’t let it slide. The time he had the balls to crack a joke about how he’d “keep you up late that night”, you told him in no uncertain terms to fuck off—with enough heat to make him steer clear of you for a few peaceful weeks. Good thing Luigi wasn’t there for that exchange, or you surmise he would have gotten into the first fight of his life.

So, when Luigi hears Tyler’s idiot friend pumping him up across the table about how you finally made it back to his room last weekend—and that you were in there for over an hour—something inside him snaps.

His blood runs cold.

And for the first time in Luigi’s calculated, careful, methodical life—he doesn’t think at all.

He just acts.

In some kind of predatory haze, Luigi pushes back from the table, shoving past anyone unlucky enough to be in his way. He barely hears Ryan call after him, chastising him about leaving in the middle of a game. He pulls on his coat, laces up his sneakers, and steps out into the frigid cold, heading straight for the hot tub.

He hears you before he sees you—your warm giggle, that little squeak at the end of it that always gives away how tipsy and light you’re feeling.

Any other time, he’d find it endearing.

But after finding out what you did, it makes his skin prickle with rage.

It fills him with hunger, need—a feral desire to take what’s his and crush all of the foul feelings bubbling up inside of him until they don’t exist anymore.

You think he’s joking when he plucks you out of the hot tub by the armpits, throws you over his shoulder, and storms down the side of the house like you weigh nothing. A cacophony of giggles, what the fuck?’s and oh my god, Mangione’s follow you as he strides into the woods.

“Luigi! It’s COLD!” You squeal, giggling and swatting against his back.

But Luigi isn’t laughing. Not at all.

Instead, he grips your wrists behind your back, voice raw and rough as he growls something about the party last week. About how he knows everything.

_____________________________________________________________

Luigi rounds the path to the tiny cabin on the edge of the property, barely feeling the cold, barely feeling anything at all.

When you arrived earlier, the owners warned against advertising the additional space to the other brothers, saying it was remote enough it had a tendency to encourage bad decisions. Before leaving, the caretaker’s wife slipped the key into Luigi’s hand, winking as she murmured something about keeping everyone in line.

Now, he was sliding said key into the lock, ignoring your frantic protests.

“Luigi, please, just listen—"

He cuts you off. “Oh, I don’t think talking about this one is what either of us need, y/n.”

His voice is cold, sharp as a blade as he shoves the door open and throws you onto the little double bed tucked into the corner of the one-room cabin.

You scramble to get up, but Luigi is already moving—pulling off his jacket and shirt before rummaging through an ancient-looking armoire, each movement purposeful. He doesn’t look at you as he walks past, but when he kicks a wooden chair into place in front of the bed, you flinch.

Before you can react, he’s on you again.

You squeal as he picks you up once more, planting your ass in the chair with authority.

“Luigi, please, just let me tell you—” you start, before he smacks your tit so roughly it makes your bikini top skew. You gasp at his sudden sharp touch, arching your back against your will.

His fingers lock around your jaw. With his face this close to yours, you can see the hazel flecked in his eyes. “STOP. TALKING. Y/.N.”

His snarl sends a shiver down your spine. You freeze, shock rippling through you.

Behind your seat, you feel him sweep your wrists together, tightening something soft but unyielding around them. Cloth—a shirt, maybe. Something that holds you firm, but won’t hurt.

Like him.

His hands move fast, rough, yanking at the tie of your bikini top before you fully register what’s happening. The damp fabric peels away, falling uselessly onto the floor. Your breath hitches, nipples pebbling under the cold air and his scalding gaze.

He crouches, gripping your ankles as he rakes your dripping bottoms down your legs. You jerk against his grasp, struggling, but he’s stronger. So much stronger.

He forces one ankle against the chair’s wooden rung. Then the other. Spread wide, locked in place.

“You belong to ME.”

His voice is venomous, possessive—an unfamiliar edge darkening each word. Not like your Luigi. Your Luigi doesn’t even like killing mosquitos when you camp.

You open your mouth again—to explain, to protest, to make him understand—when without warning, he shoves two fingers into you at once.

A broken moan spills out instead.

You thrash against your restraints, but he gives you no time to adjust, immediately pumping those long fingers you love so much into you, dragging over every sensitive spot with ruthless precision. He has your body down to a science, and each movement is calculated, practiced. This isn’t about pleasure.

This is a claim.

Your eyes prick with tears, the pleasure-blurred edge of discomfort unraveling into something raw. And for the first time in your relationship, Luigi doesn’t seem to care.

No—he revels in it.

Every mangled cry that escapes you only seems to fuel him, to sharpen the hunger in his gaze. His towering frame dwarfs you, caging you in as he grips the back of the chair. You’re so small beneath him. Weak.

All you can do is submit.

“You’re going to come on my hand,” he grits out.

And as though he’s spoken it into existence, pleasure detonates through you, sharp and brutal.

“Yes.” His growl vibrates through the air as you pulsate around his fingers, gasping. He fucks them into you harder, faster. Wet sounds fill the room, your body wrung tight around the relentless curl of his fingers, milking every last tremor from your release.

And still, he doesn’t stop.

“Nothing happened,” you choke out, voice splintering. “I would never—"

“You would never!” He spits, moving to palm your full breast with his other hand. “That’s what I thought, y/n. Until you did.” His voice cracks on the last word.

His fingers keep working you with cruel expertise, circling his index finger and thumb over your peaked bud, exactly the way he knows makes you fall apart. His other hand stays firmly between your legs, unyielding. The restraints bite into your ankles as you flail, fighting for any kind of reprieve from his overstimulating hands.

“He cornered me,” you falter, trying to meet Luigi’s gaze, only to find yourself nearly eye to eye with his straining fly, his bulge pressed heavy and thick against the fabric.

A third finger slides into you, and you inhale sharply against his relentless touch. His thumb circles your swollen clit with agonizing precision.

Luigi is everywhere, his presence inescapable. His hands demand your surrender, each deft movement a command your body can’t refuse.

“I’m yours, Luigi!” You cry out, tears finally spilling over, streaked black with mascara as you break beneath his touch. “I’ve only ever been yours!”

You can only hope he finally hears your pleas, desperate to see usual light in his eyes so you know he hears you. That he understands.

“Please,” you whisper, breath stuttering. “Please look at me, Luigi.”

But he’s still lost, eyes dark, locked on you like prey as he crouches down to eye level.

“Again, y/n,” he demands, voice dangerously low.

Your body teeters on the edge once more as he swirls against both delicate buds. The coil inside you tightens, impossibly taut, ready to snap.

“Luigi,” you sob as you fall, pleasure crashing over you in vicious waves.

You wonder, dazed, how your body can keep answering his call—how you can still pulse and clench like this when every inch of you is completely wrung out.

Something tugs at the edges of your consciousness as he launches his next assault on your pussy and breasts; his hands and mouth setting every nerve on fire. Something you need to tell him… Something clawing at the edges of your mind.

His teeth scrape your nipple, sucking hard enough to make you arch. Something like panic bubbles up as you realize he’s about to pull another orgasm from you. He’s done it before, without all this added stimulation to your cunt—just his hands, his mouth, his normally endless curiosity about how to make you climb new heights under his touch.

The thought is terrifying in it’s intensity, your body too wrecked to allow it—you have to reach him before you explode again.

That’s when you see it.

The pain in his eyes when he looks up at you, the raw betrayal lurking there. The sweat at his hairline releases the familiar scent of his shampoo, anchoring you back to reality.

He still doesn’t know you were alone the whole time.

That’s it. That’s what you need him to understand. That you were never really in there together, that you’d never let it happen.

That you would never turn your back on him.

It all rushes back—Tyler’s hands on you, your own hands shoving back, the anger in his eyes when you refused him. His friends dragging him away when they saw how unwilling you were to play his stupid game. The door slamming. Silence.

You were alone. You had only laid down for a moment, pissed off and clouded, before the booze swallowed you whole.

“Tyler left,” your voice cracks, tears spilling freely now.

But Luigi doesn’t stop. His fingers, his mouth—they keep going. His hands are still demanding, cruel as they force you to concede, even as your body thrashes against the stimulation that has long since tipped into too much.

“I just fell asleep,” you insist, voice raw. You reach for him through the binding, landing a trembling hand on his forearm.

You dig into him, fingertips pressing into taut muscle, answering his demands with one of your own: come back.

Understanding flickers. Just a spark at first, a moment of hesitation. But it’s enough.

His grip falters. His breath hitches. His mouth stills against your breast.

And then it crashes down on him, all of it.

The fury drains so suddenly that it leaves him empty, weightless. Like something inside him has become unseated, and doesn’t know how to put it back.

His hands tighten for a moment—as if trying to hold onto his anger, trying to ground himself in what he thought was real. But the crack has already splintered wide across the ice, and it’s giving way beneath him.

“Y/n—”

His tone is different now: shaking, raw. Ruined.

His forehead drops to yours. His whole body, the same one that had been unyielding, overpowering, relentless, now shivers against you.

His weight sinks into you, crushing, fervent.

“I didn’t know.” The words rasp out of him, barely a breath. His hands tremble where they hold you, unsure whether to grip tighter or let go completely.

A sharp, choked sound rips from his throat—somewhere between a sob and a curse—and suddenly, he’s moving.

You barely register it at first—the sudden shift of his weight, the whisper of fabric.

The pressure at your wrists disappears.

One restraint falls away, then the next.

Your ankles. He yanks them loose so fast you barely have time to process it before he’s pulling you into him.

Not to restrain. Not to control. To hold—capturing you against him.

“Fuck, I thought…” he croaks. “I didn’t—"

A wrecked, hollow sound escapes him as he gathers you into his arms. He’s surrounding you again, but not like before. Not demanding, or cruel.

Desperate.

“I love you, I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry.” The words tumble out of him, choked, frantic. He presses his face into your neck, his body shaking against yours, clinging.

“I love you, I love you, I love you—"

It spills from him as he unravels. His hands are everywhere once more, stroking, clutching, reverent. Like he’s trying to memorize you, trying to hold onto something he thought he lost.

He presses himself to you, chest rising and falling erratically, every breath a sob that never quite escapes.

“Please—"

His hands slide beneath you, pulling you closer. As if there’s any space left between you. As if he isn’t always pressed into your skin like a bruise.

You don’t fight it, even when the wounded part of your mind reminds you could. That maybe you should.

But you don’t—because it’s him. Your Luigi. The only man you’ve ever loved, completely wrecked in your arms.

You stroke shaky fingers through his hair, feeling his damp curls beneath your palm. His breath stutters unevenly.

“I know,” you whisper.

He shudders, eliminating whatever space lingers between you as he kisses you. Not rough, not punishing, no longer even desperate.

Worshipping.

Like he’s trying to prove himself to you this time, to rebuild. Offering himself back to you the only way he knows how.

And you let him—because you really are his. Because you’d give him anything, anything at all, if he asked for it.

“Please,” he breathes again, voice breaking as he fumbles with the button of his pants. He doesn’t let you go for even a second, one hand still gripping you—caressing, holding, like he’s afraid to lose you again.

His hard length springs free, and then he’s pressing against you, his palm cupping your jaw, tilting your face up to his.

“You’re mine,” he rasps, rutting into your aching folds.

“Yes,” you whisper, voice just as wrecked. “Always have been.”

“And I'm yours. Need to show you," he pleads, voice breaking. "Need you.”

His tip brushes your entrance, his eyes searching your face before his bitten, plush lips melt into yours.

“Show me, Luigi,” you whisper back, spreading your legs wider, inviting him in. After the distance, the disconnect—you need him, too. Need to mend what’s broken, to be whole with him again.

He nods against your forehead, breath ragged, as he plunges into you. You both cry out, bodies fusing as he clings to you—like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

“Y/n,” he moans, fucking into you so deep, barely pulling himself out of you with each rolling stroke. Like he can’t bear even that much separation from you.

You thread your fingers through his hair, breath hitching as you take him in, letting go for him. Opening. Meeting him. Just as he does the same for you.

“Mine,” he growls, a glimpse of his usual self peeking through. He drags his lips along your throat. “Say it again.”

“Yours,” you gasp, your body bowing to him once again as he pulls you back toward your peak, walls fluttering around him.

He follows with a rough groan, eyes locked on yours as he empties himself inside you. His hips stutter as he rides you through the aftershocks before he collapses against you, chest heaving, still wrapped around you. Still buried deep, like he never wants to let you go again.

For a long moment, all that fills the room are your mingled breaths, the slick heat between your bodies, the weight of everything that just happened.

Luigi hardly misses a beat before letting out a half-satisfied half-apologetic chuckle against your skin.

“Well then.” He quips. “I think we just redefined ‘making up’."

You huff a breathless laugh, arching a brow as you look up at him. “I sure fucking hope so,” you snort.

The tension finally breaks, but you still search his face, serious. “You good?”

“Good?” He lifts his head, smirking despite the exhaustion in his eyes. “I just went from hell and all the way back to heaven with no layover in between.”

You roll your eyes but smile, shaking your head. “Babe, in the future, can we just assume Tyler is always full of shit?”

Luigi grimaces, then shakes his head with a wry grin. “Maybe that would've been the smartest move tonight.”

[chaotic-for-good]

luigi fic request: you cheated on lu at a party while being super drunk (as if that'd ever happen in real life pls who'd cheat on him 🙄, but its just for the plot) and he finds out, gets super mad. So he kidnaps you in like a random cabin in the forest, 'punishes' you by overstimulating your nipples and clit while you keep apologizing to him with tears streaming down your face but he just does not give a ff.

You all really made my day yesterday! Thank you for all the kind words. I was really nervous posting that, but you’ve made me excited to keep giving it a try :)

In the process of taking a stab at this request with some minor tweaks. Hope you’ll forgive me that she doesn’t actually cheat (but Luigi most certainly thinks she does). They’re at winter formal in the woods (is formal what those frat weekends away are called? Was not a frat rat in college lol)

A little taste of ropes and rumors below the fold :) Trigger warning, another character gets pretty pushy and corners her.

Usually when you black out at a party, you take it as a sign to sit the next weekend out. Half as punishment for the inevitable embarrassment (though who can really say what happened?), half to recover from the damage you surely did to your developing brain. A little reset after behaving badly.

You spend the weekend alone, or at least mostly alone. Journaling, meditating, reading. Sometimes, you even let Luigi join for parts of your reflective time, if he promises to be quiet and keep his hands to himself (he’s not always great at the latter). You grocery shop, cook, clean, get your apartment back in order. Cuddle up and watch movies. Stop paying attention to the movie entirely when more naked activities prove to be a better cure for your frazzled nerves.

But this weekend is the exception.

It’s winter formal, and despite the way your stomach pitched the whole ride up, despite still being wracked with hangxiety a full week after a few too many at Phi Psi, you’d never back out of a commitment you made to him.

Now, sipping Prosecco out of a red solo cup in the hot tub, snow falling gently as the other girlfriends gossip and laugh, you’re actually grateful your usual weekend reset had to be postponed. Sinking into a pure moment of girlhood always has that effect on you. It’s nice to be out here, convening with nature, under the stars—especially knowing Luigi still hasn’t seen you’re wearing the flowered bikini that drives him crazy.

Inside, Luigi is running the beer pong table with his partner, Ryan, when that jackass Tyler calls winner. Luigi throws Ryan an irritable look.

Normally, Luigi is about as chill and easygoing as they come. It was rare, if ever, that he had an issue with anyone, least of all one of his fraternity brothers.

But Tyler? Tyler gets under his skin.

It’s the way he looks at you—like you’re a piece of meat. The way he’s always finding excuses to put his hands on you—a graze of your arm, a half-hug, a too-playful shove. And he gets bolder when you’re drunk.

To Luigi, you were his vulnerable baby girl he’d protect at all costs, but you weren’t oblivious. You knew what Tyler was playing at, and you didn’t let it slide. The time he had the balls to crack a joke about how he’d “keep you up late that night”, you told him in no uncertain terms to fuck off—with enough heat to make him steer clear of you for a few peaceful weeks. Good thing Luigi wasn’t there for that exchange, or you surmise he would have gotten in the first fight of his life.

So, when Luigi hears Tyler’s idiot friend pumping him up across the table about how you finally made it back to his room last weekend—and that you were in there for over an hour—something inside him snaps.

His blood runs cold.

And for the first time in Luigi’s calculated, careful, methodical life—he doesn’t think at all.

He just acts.

In some kind of predatory haze, Luigi pushes back from the table, shoving past anyone unlucky enough to be in his way. He barely hears Ryan call after him about being in the middle of a game. He pulls on his coat, laces up his sneakers and steps out into the frigid cold, heading straight for the hot tub.

He hears you before he sees you—your warm giggle, the little squeak punctuating the end of it giving away how tipsy and light you’re feeling.

Any other time, he’d find it endearing.

But after finding out what you did? It makes his skin prickle with rage.

It fills him with hunger, need—a feral desire to take what’s his and crush all of the foul feelings bubbling up inside of him until they don’t exist anymore.

You think he’s joking when he plucks you out of the hot tub under the armpits, throws you over his shoulder, and storms down the side of the house like you weigh nothing. A cacophony of laughter, what the fuck?’s and oh my god, Mangione’s follow you as he strides into the woods.

“Luigi! It’s COLD!” You squeal, giggling and swatting against his back.

But Luigi isn’t laughing. Not at all.

Instead, he grips your wrists behind your back, voice raw and rough as he growls something about the party last week. About how he knows everything.

Your heart drops.

Foggy memories bubble up as you shiver over his shoulder, yelping when he smacks the back of your thigh, grabbing your flesh and squeezing hard.

Your prosecco-fuzzy brain fights to fill in the blanks.

Jello shots with Jenny and Rachel (far, far too many). Losing at rage cage, dancing under the galaxy light one of the brothers always brings out.

And then—Tyler.

Tyler pestering you. Like he always fucking does.

Tyler herding you into a room, cornering you. Even wasted, you shoved at him, slurring something about how you wanted Luigi, telling him to get the fuck out of your way.

But what did it look like from the outside?

Your stomach lurches.

Because now, you’re being dragged into the woods by the only man you’ve ever wanted—and he thinks you betrayed him.

To be continued

[chaotic-for-good]

games

Luigi Mangione x Reader

NSFW 18+

summary: reader plays games with Luigi after missing him while he’s gone on a work trip. He reminds her who she belongs to.

cw: soft dom brat tamer lulu, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, fingering, dirty talk, orgasm control, edging, use of toys, established relationship, choking, he has a lot to say, you can bet he’s throwing reader around while he says it

author’s note: my first ever post on tumblr be nice to me I’m soft. longtime smut reader first time writer 🤗

When you finally caught his eye as your gaze slid down the dimly lit bar, you knew you were playing with fire. Seeing precisely the reaction you’d hoped for flash across his face ignited all your pent-up longing with a spark of glee: the sharp line of his jaw, shadowed lightly with second day stubble, twitched as he subtly lifted a brow and poked his tongue in his cheek. Nothing the baby-faced intern, still scratching his sparse mustache as they spoke, would ever notice. But for you, the message was unmistakeable: that’s enough.

Under normal circumstances, that would have been enough. You would have stopped brushing your coworker’s arm, found a polite way to bow out of whatever mindless small talk you were engaged in, and slinked back down the bar to his side, proving just how well-behaved you could be for him.

But the days spent apart and untended while he traveled to and from a work conference had made the throbbing between your legs unbearable. Desperate for a sliver of his attention, you knew you’d have to push him further to make him focus on you the way you’d been aching for all week.

You swept your long hair off your shoulder just how you knew he loved, pretending not to clock his reaction. Giggling sweetly at whatever comment your colleague made, you bit your lip lightly and smiled through your lashes over the rim of your martini. You weren’t even listening to what was being said anymore. The only thing that mattered was the game you’d just set in motion—and you knew if you showed your cards too soon, it’d be over before it had even begun.

You were still calculating how best to sneak another glance at him when suddenly, his broad frame loomed behind you, his large hand grazing the crepe fabric of your dress.

“Hey, baby,” he greeted lightly, his voice smooth, expression controlled—but the dark flash in his eyes betrayed him. He swept over to your coworker, offering a warm smile. “I don’t think we’ve met, have we?” Extending a hand, he continued, “I’m Luigi, y/n’s boyfriend.”

He punctuated boyfriend with a casual but deliberate dig of his knuckle into the small of your back, making you straighten on instinct, covering your sharp intake of breath by clearing your throat.

“Oh yeah, she’s mentioned you!” Mark—or was it Mike?—responded enthusiastically. “I’m Mike,” (oops). He reached out to grasp Luigi’s extended hand. “You’re an engineer, too, right?”

“I am,” Luigi smiled wide, his straight, white teeth and dimples on full display. “And I’d love to talk shop, Mike, but unfortunately traffic is picking up and y/n and I are now running a little late for our next engagement. Will you forgive me if I steal her?” He cast Mike an apologetic grimace.

“Hey man, no worries, yeah!” Mike responded, clearly confused by Luigi’s abrupt call to exit. He was already helping you into your coat as Mike trickled off, “Well, good talking to you, y/n.” 

You threw back the last swig of your perfectly bruised martini, setting the glass on the bar and sending a questioning look toward him as you looped your purse onto your shoulder. But he didn’t acknowledge it, didn’t even look your way—just grabbed your hand, squeezing authoritatively as he angled for the door.

“We’ll catch up soon, yeah?” Luigi called over his shoulder, not bothering to wait for a response or look at you at all as he led you into the cool night air. The moment you reached the back of his black SUV, he was on you.

His long fingers clamped over the curve where your neck met your shoulder, steering you roughly toward the passenger side.

“Hope you understand what you’ve started, brat.” He murmured, a restrained smile flickering over his lips as he opened the door—no trace of that earlier warmth to be found. 

“What do you mean, Lu?” You asked innocently, ignoring the dig. You hesitated, resting a hand on the dashboard. “I didn’t know we had other plans.”

His jaw flexed. “You and I both knew what was going to happen next when you went acting up like that in there.”

Before you could respond, he gripped your ass, hoisting you into the car as he held the door open. Now seated, he locked his hand around your neck, tilting your chin up until your forehead was almost pressed against his. Your breath hitched.

“You wanted my attention, yeah, y/n?” His voice was low, teasing—dangerous. “Let’s see how much you like it.”

With that, he pulled the seatbelt over you, clicked it into place, and slammed the door shut.

The second he was out of sight, you exhaled shakily, your chest heaving with the effort to appear composed. Squeezing your thighs together, you fought for relief against the building ache between your legs. As he slid into the driver’s seat, you forced your hands into your lap, smoothing your floral dress, schooling your expression into something demure.

You knew all too well—if he saw how much his reaction was affecting you, he’d make you suffer for it.

One hand on the steering wheel, he tugged at his collar with the other, his patterned button-down slightly wrinkled from the tension in his shoulders. He didn’t speak as he pulled onto the narrow one-way street toward his house.

The longer the silence stretched, the more your nerves prickled. His dark brows were drawn, jaw set.

Had you overshot?

You only wanted to tease him—just enough to get him to remind you who you belonged to. It was just a game. Right?

The car jerked to a stop outside his house. He threw it into park, finally turning to look at you.

His eyes burned with something almost feral.

“We’re both going inside.” His voice was calm, brutal.  “You will go directly to the bedroom. Undress. On your back. Legs open. Keep still—or else.”

The words sent molten heat pooling between your thighs. You scrambled out of the car, practically tripping over yourself as you hurried into the house to make your way to his bed.

As soon as you were in his room, you hastily started stripping off your dress. Your fingers trembled, pulling at the fabric as anticipation thrummed through you. By the time you were on the bed, legs spread just as he’d ordered, you were soaked.

And then—nothing.

Minutes passed. You clenched your fists in his sheets, fighting the urge to touch yourself, your chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.

You didn’t even realize he’d been watching.

“That desperate already, huh, pretty girl?”

His voice made you jolt.

He was leaning against the doorframe, a wicked smirk playing on his lips, taking his time drinking in the sight of you. 

“Y-yes,” you stuttered, any attempt at appearing unaffected crumbling under the weight of his stare.

Pushing off the wall, he approached the bed slowly, methodically. The way his muscles flexed beneath his button-down as he tugged it loose from his slacks was almost obscene. You barely caught yourself propping up on your elbows for a better look—

A mistake.

In an instant, he was over you, yanking your wrists into one hand, delivering a smack to your throbbing cunt. You moaned, hips twitching, desperate for more.

“What did I say about moving?”

Your lip quivered. His hands slid under your hips, yanking you down the bed, trapping you between his strong thighs.

“Seems like you need a reminder about who’s in charge, yeah, baby?” His voice was dark amusement as he continued to unbutton his shirt, inspecting you through hooded brown eyes.

His smirk turned predatory. “Well, all you had to do was ask.”

You barely had time to gasp before his fingers were between your legs, taunting—taking his time. The game wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

He slides one inside, crooking it just right, pressing it against that perfect spot as if to say, good luck.

You thrash beneath him, moaning, “yes, Luigi,” and just as quickly, he withdraws, leaving you clenching around nothing, the sudden loss making you keen with frustration.

“So fucking needy, aren’t you?” He taunts, licking his lips as he watches you squirm.

Locking you between his legs once again, Luigi takes his time, pulling off his shirt agonizingly slowly before moving lower, unbuckling his brown leather belt. His movements are deliberate, meant to draw your attention—and it works. Your breath stutters as the belt slides free from its loops, your eyes fixated on the thick outline of his cock, hard and straining beneath his slacks.

When he finally pulls the belt free, he wraps it firmly around your wrists, securing it with a satisfied smirk. He chuckles mildly at your whining response.

Digging through his bedside drawer, he extracts a bottle of lube and the navy blue vibrator—your favorite, usually. Tonight, it feels like a threat.

He pushes your bound wrists above your head, pinning them in place. A moment later, he drips the slick fluid onto your swollen clit, cool against your overheated skin. Your hips jerk instinctively, but his hand on your low belly holds you still.

Then—click, click, click, click. He brings the vibrator immediately to full intensity, its buzz unrelenting.

You gasp sharply, arching your back, but he’s not done. With two fingers, he spreads your hood up, exposing your delicate bud completely before pressing the vibrator directly against you as he crouches between your legs.

The shockwaves radiate through your entire body. You can’t hold still. It’s too much, and yet, not nearly enough.

The tension, the torment, the denial—it’s been building all night, and now you’re hurtling toward your climax at record speed.

And then—he yanks the vibrator away from your core, just as you’re about to unravel.

You all but wail in response, wrists jerking against the belt, hips rolling uselessly toward nothing.

“Look at you, baby,” he coos at you. “Thought I’d let you get off that easy?”

He strokes the soft skin of your trembling thighs with contrary sweetness to his biting remark.

“After toying with me like that at the bar, you’re going to have to prove to me you can behave if you want to come tonight.”

“Please,” you bear out through gritted teeth.

His eyes flash, predatory amusement flickering across his face. “Tell me how bad you need it.”

His taunts are relentless, but softened by the tender touch he continuously peppers you with: pressing kisses along your twitching thighs, fingertips caressing your cheeks as you gasp and shudder beneath him.

“More than anything,” you huff out, gritting your teeth.

Satisfied with your answer, the vibrator’s unforgiving buzz returns, rumbling against your overstimulated clit, a merciless, throbbing pulse. You’re so close again, so fucking close—

Just when he removes it from your heat once again.

You scream, almost sobbing, cursing and writhing against him.

“Shhh, I know, I know,” he murmurs, tracing soothing circles along your hips, but his grin is nothing short of smug.

“You’re so fucking dramatic, baby,” he shakes his head. “Shaking and falling apart. I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

You whimper, chest heaving, body trembling uncontrollably. Your skin is burning with frustration.

“Think you can behave now?” He taunts, running his knuckles over your soaked folds, teasing along your entrance but refusing to give you what you really need.

Your hips buck uselessly after his hand, chasing any kind of friction. “Yes, yes, please, I swear. I swear,” you sob.

“Mmm, I don’t know.” He glides his fingers between your sensitive folds, keeping you on the ledge. “You look so pretty like this—" he dips in, just the tips of his index and middle finger, before pulling away again. “Maybe I should keep you here a little longer.”

“Luigi, please,” you beg, gripping his forearm like a vice.

“Fuck, y/n,” he groans. His resistance begins to crack as he watches you tremble, the grit in his response showing you just how worked up he is for you. Then, with one smooth motion, he plunges two fingers into your desperate, dripping heat.

Your head snaps back, mouth falling open in a soundless cry as your entire body melts beneath him. The relief is so immediate, so overwhelming, you barely register the sharp curl of his fingers, dragging against that perfect spot inside you.

He keeps them there, pressing, stroking, working you open, watching with blown pupils as your thighs quiver and shake.

“There you go, baby,” he murmurs, leaning down to press an open-mouthed kiss to your stomach, dragging his teeth against your skin. “Taking what I give you, just like you should.”

He rolls your peaked nipple with one hand as his fingers keep moving inside you—deep, slow, deliberate—but you both know it’s not enough. You’re too strung out from all the denial, and even as your walls flutter around him, you know you need more.

Your hands jerk uselessly against the belt around your wrists, the leather biting into your skin as you try to grab him, pull him closer. “Need you,” you whimper. “Please, Luigi—please.”

His dark eyes flick up to yours, hot and unreadable for an instant before he smirks.

“Oh, now you need me?” He curls his fingers sharply, wrenching a sob from your throat. “Could’ve sworn you were doing just fine teasing me all night.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you rush out, the words spilling from your lips, messy, frantic. “I swear, I’ll be good, I just—fuck, I need you.”

His smirk deepens. “Mmm,” he sighs. “That’s better.”

He withdraws his fingers slowly, deliberately, watching your wrecked expression with admiration as he spreads your slick with his fingertips. “So fucking wet for me, amore.” He brings them to his mouth, sucking them clean, groaning softly at your taste. “Jesus. Should’ve made you wait even longer.”

You whimper, squirming, arching up toward him helplessly. “No, no, please—”

“Shhh, shhh—I’ve got you.”

He grabs your chin, tilting your face up, catching your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss that leaves you panting. He’s done teasing now—you can taste it in the way his tongue claims you, the way his grip tightens around your jaw.

Then, finally, finally, he sits back on his knees, pushing his slacks and fitted briefs down in one fell swoop. His cock springs free: thick, heavy, his tip dripping precum.

The sight of him alone makes you whimper, legs spreading wider on instinct.

He strokes himself lazily, teasing you with the sight, but you’re so far gone, your body writhing, begging, aching—you can’t handle another second.

“Please,” you sob. “Need to feel you. Please, Luigi—”

His gaze softens—just a flicker, just for a second, before he gives in.

“Yeah, baby?” He knits his dark brows together, mischief and lust playing behind his eyes. “Need me to take care of you?”

You nod furiously as he lines himself up, running the thick head of his cock against your clit before dipping into your dripping folds, pressing just the tip inside before stopping.

Your breath catches, every nerve on fire.

He leans down, forehead to yours, voice a low, dark whisper.

“Then take it,” he whispers, forcing his entire length into you in one fell stroke.

Your eyes flutter shut as you cry out, body instinctively clenching as he stretches you, slow and deliberate.

Now edging back toward sweetness after making you endure his punishment, he thrusts into you with measured control, making sure you feel every inch. His fingers thread through your hair, gently but firmly tilting your face toward him.

“Eyes on me,” he murmurs, voice dark with intent. “Look at me when I give you what you’ve been begging for.”

He starts slow, rolling his hips with each stroke, pressing deep, hitting that perfect spot over and over. The coil inside you tightens, heat pooling and spreading through every nerve.

“You want to come on this big cock, pretty girl?” he taunts, his breath hot against your skin. “Show me.”

You meet him halfway, rolling your hips up, urging him deeper. When your hands grip the back of his neck, he stills for just a second—then shifts, lifting your hips and sliding a pillow beneath you as he throws your legs over his shoulders, angling for more.

“That’s it,” he grunts, palm landing on your ass before his pace quickens, matching your urgency. When your thighs start twitching, his fingers find your clit, tracing tight, focused circles between you.

“Oh, baby—I know you’re close.” His voice is deep, reverent, his eyes locked on yours as he drives you closer to the edge. His movements grow frenzied, determined, his own restraint unraveling as he works to push you over.

“Let go for me,” he gasps, his rhythm breaking as he fights against his own release. “I need all of it.”

His name spills from your lips as you shatter beneath him, the pleasure hitting like a tidal wave. Your hands clutch at his arms, nails leaving half moons in his skin as your body clenches around him, lost to the euphoria he’s dragged you toward all night.

“There she is,” he praises, looking down at you with a mix of awe and need. “That’s my good fucking girl. So good for me.”

But he’s still not done with you yet, milking every bit of your orgasm out of you as he chases his own high. You spasm around him as his thrusts turn rougher, more urgent—grip tightening, breath ragged against your skin. His voice is raw, fraying as he loses control.

“Fuck, baby—squeezing me so tight—” A groan rumbles through his chest as he pounds into you, chasing that final push as you jolt underneath him, still reverberating from your own drawn-out high.

“You’re mine,” he grits out, forehead pressed against yours. “I need to show you how much, baby—need to fill you up—”

He has you nearly has you folded in half from the way he’s drilling into you. His fingers dig into your hips, holding you still as he thrusts deeper, sharper, his restraint slipping completely. “Take it—fuck, baby, I’m—“

His voice breaks, a strangled moan escaping as he shudders against you, buried deep, pulsating inside you as he gasps your name like a prayer.

He slumps against your legs, breath ragged, chest heaving. His weight presses into you, pinning you beneath him, and when he catches the strain flickering across your face, he shifts—easing out, rolling to the side, and turning toward you.

A lazy smirk tugs at his lips as he runs his thumb along yours. “You look especially beautiful when you’re wrecked like this.”

You roll your eyes at him lovingly, smiling slightly in your fucked out haze.

His fingers trace your face, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple before rising from the bed. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

With effortless strength, he lifts you, carrying you bridal style before setting you on unsteady feet near the bathroom door. A hand glides down your back, and with a soft pat on your butt, he gently nudges you forward. “I’ll be right back,” he murmurs, swiping your water bottle on his way out.

Still breathless, you glance at the mirror and stifle a giggle at your reflection—mascara smudged, hair a wild mess.

“You laughing, pretty girl?” His voice rumbles as he steps back in, ice rattling against the sides of your bottle. He’s stripped down to just his black briefs, gaze warm, inviting. “C’mere,” he pats his thigh. “Tell me what’s so funny.”

Your legs tremble as you shuffle his way, and the moment you reach him, he pulls you into his lap, tucking you against his chest like you belong there.

He strokes your hair as his own laughter rumbles underneath you. “Your little stunt was cute, baby. Was all that attitude at the bar worth it?”