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What happens if reader gets their period in the cage? I am NOT freebleeding in that stupid box

Omg great idea, I’ve never thought of this 😭

———

- Joe notices immediately. You wince once. Shift uncomfortably. Maybe mutter, “fuck” under your breath. His head snaps up like a deer in headlights.

“Are you—are you hurt?”

“No. It’s just… my period.”

“Oh.” Processing… “Oh.”

- He looks genuinely distressed. “They didn’t exactly stock this place with tampons. I didn’t plan for this. I should’ve—fuck. I should’ve—”

- Leaves instantly. Doesn’t even slam the door. You hear the cage lock click and then the sound of his boots on the stairs.

- Returns 30 minutes later with a whole CVS bag, pads, tampons, wipes, Midol, chocolate, a microwaveable heating pad, and a soft pair of boxers he must’ve stolen from your apartment

- Leaves it all in the airlock and stammers, “I didn’t know what kind you use so I got, like, every option.”

- Brings you an extra blanket “because you always say you get cold.”

- Lowkey looks more upset about it than you do. “You’re in pain. And you’re trapped. That’s not fair. I can’t fix that.”

- You stare. “Joe. I bleed every month. I’ll live.”

- He nods, guilty. Comes back later with soup.

- If you let him, he’ll read to you in that low, soothing voice, pretending not to glance at your abdomen every five seconds like he could will your cramps away with concern.

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Hi. Dating Luigi and he’s a Velcro boyfriend? (Like a Velcro baby but a boyfriend).

Hi 😌🩵 YES. You’re dating the world’s clingiest Italian golden retriever, and it’s the best and most chaotic decision you’ve ever made.

Velcro Mangione

TW: None (unless you count excessive cuddling and shirt stealing)

———

Luigi Mangione is many things.

But above all?

He is a Velcro boyfriend.

The second you start dating him, you become his magnet. His shadow. His favorite human pillow. And he? He’s your living, breathing weighted blanket.

You sit on the couch?

He’s laying across your lap.

You go to brush your teeth?

He’s suddenly standing behind you, chin on your shoulder, arms wrapped around your waist like you might vanish if he lets go.

“Just brushing my teeth, Lu.”

“I know,” he mumbles into your neck. “Missed you.”

“You were literally in the next room.”

“Exactly. Too far.”

He follows you around the apartment like a golden retriever in socks.

You leave to grab coffee? He’s halfway in your passenger seat before you finish tying your shoes. You go to take a nap? He dives under the blanket with you, all limbs and warmth and clingy sighs.

“Do you even like napping?”

“No,” he says, “but you’re doing it.”

And if you pull away from him in bed for even a second, he instinctively yanks you back like:

“Nooo. Where you goin’? C’mere. C’mere. Right here. Just five more minutes.”

Spoiler: it’s never five.

———

Luigi when you wear his hoodie: 😍 brain empty

“Keep it,” he says every time. “Looks better on you.”

You now have four of his hoodies.

And he’ll still dramatically pout when you’re not wearing one like, “You don’t love me anymore.”

———

Texting habits:

• “wyd” every 15 minutes

• Sends you pictures of his lunch like it’s his child

• Voice messages that are 95% him saying “baby” in different tones

• Unironically calls you “my oxygen” and “my lifeline” during minor separations (like if you go to the grocery store without him)

———

Movie nights:

• Sits on top of you, not next to you

• Somehow turns into a human octopus when he's sleepy

• Keeps whispering “you’re so warm” while wrapping himself tighter around you like a burrito

• And if you ever try to get up?

“Where you goin’?”

“Bathroom.”

“Nooooo come back, I’m cold and dying.”

“You’re literally sweating.”

“Still cold. Emotionally.”

———

He walks around with his arm around your shoulder or hand in your back pocket at all times. He’ll kiss your temple in public like it’s a reflex.

Someone so much as looks at you?

“Babe, do I look intimidating right now or should I flex a little?”

And God forbid you get mad at him.

“Oh my God, you hate me.”

“Lu, I just said I needed space.”

“Right, space. No, totally. I get it. You want me to suffer.”

And then he’ll sulk for exactly 47 seconds before crawling into your lap like, “I lied. I can’t handle it. Please love me again.”

Despite the clinginess, there’s nothing needy about it.

It’s just love. Big, loud, ridiculous love.

Luigi doesn’t want to be away from you. He doesn’t see the point. He has arms—he should be using them to hold you. Constantly.

“Lu,” you whisper one night, sleepy and smiling, “do you have attachment issues?”

“No,” he mumbles, already curled around you like a koala. “I have you. Same thing.”

———

Lmk if you want a college edition where he follows you around campus, carries your tote bag, and threatens to drop out every time you have a night class 😭💗

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hear me out, college bf lu thats secretly a freak and makes immature/dirty jokes and pretends its the wind

The Wind

TW: sexual jokes/innuendo

Girl I’m LISTENING 😭 he’s so bf coded, A+ req 🥹

———

You’ve been dating Luigi for three months.

On the surface, he’s everything you thought you wanted: funny, warm, always walks you to class, always brings you coffee just the way you like it. He’s the type of boyfriend who carries your tote bag without being asked and remembers your little cousin’s hamster’s name.

But there’s something wrong with him.

Or maybe something deeply, chaotically right.

Because under all that sweetness is a man who cannot go a full 24 hours without making a dirty joke, saying something absolutely deranged, or whispering the filthiest sentence imaginable into your ear… and then going:

“Huh? What? Oh — that was the wind.”

———

You’re walking across campus, holding hands, talking about something normal — like your chemistry lab or whether you should get pizza or pasta later.

And then he says, real casual:

“Or we could skip dinner and you could just ride my—”

He coughs. Loudly.

You pause.

“Lu.”

He blinks innocently. “Huh?”

“I know what you were gonna say.”

He shrugs. “You must be hearing things. That was the wind.”

“The wind did not tell me to ride your—”

“Babe.” He gives you puppy eyes. “It’s a windy day. You can’t trust your ears right now.”

———

You’re sitting on the couch in his dorm watching a movie, all snuggled up in his hoodie. It’s cozy. It’s sweet. He’s kissing your head.

Then, without breaking his sweet little voice:

“You ever just think about how warm your throat must be?”

You whip your head toward him.

He doesn’t even blink.

“THE WIND, baby,” he says, clutching his chest like he’s offended. “God. You really think I’d say that?”

———

You’re in the dining hall. Full daylight. Surrounded by people.

You lean in to kiss his cheek.

He leans back, grinning.

“Gonna let me eat something else later?”

You punch his arm.

“Luigi!”

“What?!” He snorts. “You don’t know what I meant! Could’ve meant—like—cookies! Oreos! You’re obsessed with me.”

You glare. “Say ‘the wind’ and I swear to God—”

He grabs your hand and kisses it gently.

Then whispers against your knuckles:

“That was the wind.”

He’s a menace.

A menace with heart-shaped pupils when you talk about your dreams.

A menace who gives you his jacket when you’re cold, always lets you pick the music, and tells people you’re the smartest girl on campus.

But also a menace who once sent you a text that just said:

“Would you still love me if I was a worm? With a huge dick.”

And the worst part?

He always says it like it’s a joke.

Like he’s just messing around.

But then there’s this glint in his eye — just for a second — that makes you think:

Oh.

He’s serious.

And he’s holding back.

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Some headcanons on how would the marriage be like with Luigi?

And the honeymoon?

Married Life 💍

SFW:

- He’s possessive in the most tender way. Not like jealous-rage all the time — but you best believe that wedding ring is on your finger 24/7. And when you fidget with it? He notices. And he melts.

- Luigi calls you “my wife” like it’s a full sentence.

“Where are you going?”

“To pick up my wife.”

“Who cooked this?”

“My wife. She’s amazing.”

- Insists on doing all the “heavy” stuff: carrying groceries, fixing things around the house, dealing with strangers.

- Keeps a wedding photo in his wallet. Refuses to upgrade to a digital version. It’s crinkled. He loves it.

- Still gets weirdly flustered seeing you in a towel, like you’re not literally his wife now.

“We’re married.”

“Exactly. I should be used to this. But I’m not. You’re not real.”

- When he gets home, he always finds you. Always greets you with a kiss. Always tells you:

“Hi, baby. Missed you.” Like he didn’t just leave 3 hours ago.

- Can’t stop touching you at home — his hand on your lower back when you pass him, fingers brushing yours while you cook, lips on your shoulder while you're doing dishes, arms wrapping around you from behind on the couch.

- Genuinely obsessed with calling you things like:

“Mrs. Mangione” (teasing)

“My bride” (tender)

“Wife” (hot. Very hot.)

NSFW:

- He gets off on being your husband. Like, a lot. He’ll whisper “my wife” in your ear while fucking you slow, deep, and possessive.

- Praise kink central.

“Look at you, taking all of me. You were made for this, huh? Made to be mine.”

- He likes marking you up. Hickeys, scratch marks, even just his scent lingering on you all day.

“You walking around with my cum still inside you? That’s my fucking girl.”

- Public teasing. He’ll touch you under the table, whisper dirty promises in your ear while smiling sweetly at the waiter, and then act all innocent.

- Loves eating you out on his knees, murmuring things like “my favorite fucking meal” while holding your thighs open.

- Possessive but not controlling. If someone even looks at you sideways, he wraps an arm around your waist, grinds his hips subtly into your back, and mutters “mine.”

- Has 100% said, “Wanna make a baby?” in the middle of sex even if you’re not trying. His voice just drops when he says it. And you can’t help but melt.

🌴 Honeymoon:

SFW:

- Somewhere private but beautiful — not super flashy. Maybe a beachy villa in Greece or a quiet cabin in the mountains with a big fireplace and no neighbors.

- He books the most romantic place possible. Big bed, secluded balcony, a bathtub with enough rose petals to drown in. He wants it to feel like just you two against the world.

- Unbearably clingy in the best way. Cannot go ten minutes without touching you.

“I didn’t bring you all the way here to be more than ten inches away, babe.”

- Wakes you up with lazy kisses every morning. And then distracts you so long you don’t leave the room until like noon.

- He lets you sleep in one of his shirts and absolutely loses it every time you pad around barefoot, sleepy-eyed, brushing your teeth in his oversized tee.

“You look like you belong to me.”

“I do belong to you.”

“Say it again.”

- Beach walks, little back-of-your-head kisses, tracing the tan line where your ring sits, forehead touches at sunset. He is SOFT.

- Spends most of the trip completely love-drunk. Keeps murmuring “my wife” when he thinks you’re not listening. Spoiler: you are.

- Slow dancing with you in the living room of the villa. No music. Just his hand on your waist and his lips brushing your cheek.

NSFW:

- Every time you walk past him in a sundress or towel, his hands immediately find your waist or ass. He pulls you in and murmurs, “You trying to kill me?”

- Slow, heated morning sex. He’s lazy and cocky—mumbling praise against your skin, hand between your thighs, soft little “that’s it, just like that, baby” while he wrecks you with lazy thrusts.

- Late-night skinny dips. He pulls you into the water with him and presses you against the side of the pool/lake/hot tub. Hands under water. Kisses everywhere.

“Shh, you want someone to hear how pretty you sound?”

- Muffled giggles and moans in the Airbnb shower when he can’t keep his hands off you. Biting your shoulder. Making you beg.

“Don’t be shy, you’re my wife now. You’re allowed to want it.”

- Aftercare is his religion. He dries you off, rubs lotion into your legs, makes sure you eat something—even if it’s just chocolate from the minibar. Then spoons you in bed, arms wrapped tight around your waist like he’s afraid to let go.

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pls write some more for luigi!!!

Perfect

TW: none! just some postpartum comfort (+ luigi holding a baby)

———

The sound of a pan sizzling woke you before the sunlight did.

You blinked slowly, arms still heavy from the midnight feeding. The baby had just gone down a little before 5 a.m., and the clock now said 8:13. A miracle. Your back ached, your chest was sore, and your eyes burned—but the house was quiet. Peaceful.

The scent of eggs and coffee drifted through the cracked door. You shifted, tugging the blanket up, still in Luigi’s old t-shirt—stretched and soft, smelling like cedar and warmth and sleep.

Then came the humming.

You knew that tune. Something sweet and old. Italian. His mom used to sing it while cooking. Your lips twitched.

You sat up slowly and padded into the hallway. There he was.

Luigi stood at the stove, shirtless, hair messy, baby in one arm, spatula in the other. The baby’s cheek was squished against his collarbone, her tiny hand curled in his gold chain. And in the crook of his elbow?

Your nipple cream.

You burst into a quiet laugh.

“Lu,” you called softly.

He turned, eyes lighting up the second he saw you.

“Look who’s awake,” he grinned, voice still sleep-rough. “I was gonna bring you breakfast in bed. You ruined the surprise.”

“Is that my nipple cream in your armpit?”

He looked down, then smirked.

“Multi-tasking, baby. I’m everything now—chef, dad, boob medic…”

You smiled, but something twisted in your stomach when you glanced down—at your hips, your belly, the old stretch marks that had darkened since the baby came. You folded your arms over your chest, tugging the hem of the shirt down.

“I feel gross,” you muttered.

Luigi turned the stove off immediately.

“Hey. What?”

You shook your head. “I don’t know. I just… I don’t feel like me anymore. My stomach’s soft, I’ve got lines in places I didn’t before, my boobs feel like milk grenades. I hate the way I look right now.”

He blinked at you. Then looked down at your body like you’d just insulted the Sistine Chapel.

“Are you kidding me?” he said, crossing the room in three strides.

The baby cooed softly in his arms as he kissed your forehead, then cupped your face with his free hand.

“You made our daughter in this body. This one.”

“Lu—”

“No. I mean it.” His eyes were serious now. Fierce. “I’d get you pregnant all over again just to worship it.”

You went silent.

He pressed a kiss to your temple. Then your cheek. Then the side of your neck.

“This belly kept her safe. These arms hold her. Those hips rocked her to sleep last night. You don’t need to get your body back, baby. You are your body. And she made you even more beautiful.”

The tears came fast.

You sniffled into his shoulder while he balanced you both—his wife in one arm, his daughter in the other, like it was what he was made for.

“You’re everything,” he whispered. “And you’re mine.”

The baby started to fuss, and Luigi bounced her gently, humming again like nothing in the world was more natural.

You leaned into his chest, letting your tears soak into his skin.

And somewhere behind the sting and the doubt and the tiredness… you started to believe him.

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Hii, I was wondering if I could request a Luigi fic where reader gets jealous and it ends up turning into a huge argument and then they have make-up sex?

Ps: I love your fics 💕

Say It Like You Mean It

WC: 1.1 k

TW: 18+ for language, explicit sexual content, possessive themes

———

It started at the bar.

Of course it did. That was the kind of place jealousy brewed—under dim lights and neon signs, with liquor loosening tongues and turning glances into stares. And you’d noticed them all. Every damn one of them. Women watching Luigi like they knew something you didn’t. Like they wanted something they thought you didn’t deserve.

You clenched your drink tighter every time he leaned back and laughed, voice like honey and gravel. That easy, relaxed posture he got when he felt powerful—like the whole room moved around him.

Because it did.

And he knew it.

You weren’t mad at that. You knew who you were dating. You knew how people looked at him.

No, what made your chest tight was her.

The tall one with the red lips and the plunging neckline who touched his arm when she talked. Who leaned in too close, laughed too hard. Who tossed her hair like she was in a damn commercial.

And he didn’t pull away.

He didn’t even flinch.

Luigi caught your eye across the bar and raised his glass in a lazy toast. You didn’t smile. You turned away, grabbed your purse, and stormed out.

You didn’t make it far before you heard his voice behind you.

“You gonna tell me what that was, or should I guess?”

You spun on him, heat crawling up your throat. “Guess? Oh, I dare you.”

His smirk faltered. Just for a second. “Don’t do that, bambina.”

“Do what?” You crossed your arms. “Get upset when my boyfriend lets some girl paw at him like she’s next in line?”

Luigi let out a sharp exhale. “Jesus. That’s what this is about?”

You gaped at him. “Are you serious right now?”

“She was drunk. I was being polite.”

“Polite?” you snapped. “She had her tits halfway out and you looked like you didn’t mind.”

He stepped closer, jaw tight. “You jealous?”

You didn’t answer.

“You’re jealous over some stranger who’s not even gonna remember my name tomorrow?”

“I wouldn’t have to be jealous if you acted like you had a girlfriend!”

His face dropped. Like you’d slapped him.

And maybe you had. Not physically. But the words hit just as hard.

“That’s what you think?” he said, voice quieter now. Dangerous. “You think I don’t act like I’m yours?”

“I think you forget sometimes,” you said, just as quiet.

Silence stretched between you like a tripwire.

Luigi moved first.

He grabbed your wrist, firm but careful, and walked you backward toward his car. The street was mostly empty, shadows swallowing the sidewalk.

“You wanna fight?” he muttered. “Fine. We’ll fight. But not here.”

—

He slammed the apartment door behind you.

“Say what you really wanna say,” he growled, tossing his keys down.

You didn’t back down. “Fine. I hated watching you flirt with her. I hated seeing her touch you. And I hated that you didn’t push her off!”

“I wasn’t flirting,” he snapped. “And you know that. You know damn well if I wanted to cheat, I wouldn’t do it with half the bar watching.”

“That’s not the point, Luigi—”

“No?” He stalked toward you. “Then what is the point, huh? That you don’t trust me?”

Your throat tightened. “I trust you. I don’t trust them.”

“Then trust me to shut that shit down.”

“But you didn’t!”

“I would have if she got any closer,” he said, voice low, teeth clenched. “But you didn’t even give me a chance. You just ran.”

“Because I didn’t want to watch you like that!”

He paused. Took a breath. Something shifted in his face—something hot, sharp, and deeply possessive.

“You think I didn’t notice the guys looking at you tonight?”

You blinked. “What?”

“They were watching you, baby. The whole room was watching you. That little dress—those heels—every one of them wanted you.”

You swallowed hard.

“And I didn’t throw a fit,” he continued, voice thick with something darker now. “Didn’t drag you out by the wrist. Know why?”

You didn’t answer.

“Because I know you’re mine.”

He stepped closer, backing you into the wall. His body caged yours in.

“But if you need a reminder,” he said, low and rough, “I’ll give you one.”

You didn’t speak.

You just kissed him.

Hard. Messy. Angry.

And he kissed you back like he was starving.

He grabbed your hips, lifting you without effort, and carried you to the bedroom. Threw you on the bed. Pulled your dress off so fast the zipper nearly snapped. His mouth was on your neck, your collarbone, his teeth grazing skin as you arched beneath him.

“Mine,” he muttered, between kisses. “All fucking mine.”

Your fingers clawed at his shirt. “Then act like it.”

He growled. Not playfully. Not gently. Like something primal was boiling under his skin.

And then he did.

He pushed into you with no warning, no hesitation, dragging a gasped curse from your throat. You weren’t ready—but you were. Emotion made everything more intense. Your body molded to his like muscle memory, like instinct. Like need.

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t slow.

It was a punishment. A confession. A stake in the ground.

He held your wrists above your head with one hand and gripped your hip with the other, thrusting hard, deep, each motion punctuated with sharp breaths and gritted teeth.

“You’re the only one I want,” he snarled. “Only one I see.”

You moaned his name like a prayer and a curse all in one.

He kissed you again, bruising and desperate. His hair was a mess, his jaw tight, his muscles trembling with restraint.

You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper. Daring him. Begging without words.

He gave you everything.

He didn’t stop until you came with a cry, back arching, nails dragging down his back. And even then—he kept going. Slower now. Reverent. A change in the rhythm. From anger to love.

“I’ve never looked at anyone else,” he whispered against your skin. “Never wanted anyone but you.”

When he finally came, he buried his face in your neck, groaning your name like it broke him apart.

—

After, you lay tangled in the sheets, chests heaving, silence loud but not empty.

Luigi turned to you, eyes soft now, guilt flickering underneath.

“You’re it for me,” he said quietly. “Even when I’m pissed. Even when you’re yelling. Still you.”

You reached for his hand.

“I know,” you whispered.

His fingers squeezed yours. “Next time you get jealous, just tell me.”

“Next time you get hit on,” you said, voice dry, “maybe don’t flirt back.”

He rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t flirting.”

You gave him a look.

He grinned, leaned over, and kissed you again. Slower this time.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he said. “Starting with round two.”

You didn’t argue.

Not this time.

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Not to be self indulgent, but could you write something about Lu comforting you after a horrible no good very bad day🥲

Oh babe absolutely 🥺 you deserve some comfort from Lu — soft voice, protective hands, letting you crawl into his lap while the world falls apart outside.

All Better Now

———

It all comes crashing down the second you close his apartment door behind you.

You're still holding it in — the shitty day, the lump in your throat, the way your body feels like it's buzzing from pure exhaustion. But the moment you see him — hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair a mess, barefoot in the kitchen — something in you breaks.

He hears the door and turns with that easy smile.

Then he sees your face.

“Hey—hey, what happened?” He’s across the room in a second, hands on your shoulders, eyes scanning your face like he’s checking for bruises.

You open your mouth but nothing comes out.

Just one shaky inhale. Then tears.

“Aw, fuck,” Luigi says softly, already pulling you in. “C’mere, baby. I got you.”

You collapse into him like your bones don’t work. His arms go tight around you — strong, warm, safe — and you just sob.

He rocks you a little, one hand stroking the back of your head, the other curling around your waist.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble into his chest. “I didn’t mean to cry like this—”

“Don’t,” he says, voice low and steady. “You don’t have to be okay for me. You never do.”

And somehow, that makes it worse.

Or better.

You're not sure.

Eventually he coaxes you onto the couch, tugging off your shoes, wrapping you in the blanket he always uses when he watches old movies. He sits down first and pulls you right into his lap like it’s instinct, not even asking.

You don’t complain. You press your face to his neck and stay there.

His fingers trace slow lines down your back. “Wanna tell me what happened?”

You sniff. “Everything. It was just… everything. I woke up late, I missed my quiz, my manager’s a dick, my car made a weird noise, and then some girl at Starbucks told me I looked tired and I lost it.”

Luigi breathes out a quiet laugh through his nose. Not at you — just at the world being stupid to you. “You don’t look tired,” he says, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “You look like someone who’s been holding too much shit for too long.”

Your lip wobbles. “I feel like a walking breakdown.”

“Then break down,” he murmurs. “I’ll be here to catch the pieces.”

God. What did you do to deserve him?

You press a kiss to his neck, barely there. “Can I stay the night?”

He looks mildly offended. “You think I’m letting you leave?”

“I don’t have clothes—”

“Wear my hoodie.”

You smile, even if it’s small.

Luigi tilts your chin up with two fingers, eyes soft but steady. “You’re allowed to have shitty days. You’re allowed to fall apart. But you’re mine, okay? And I take care of what’s mine.”

Your breath hitches. “I love you.”

His smile finally shows. “I know. Now shut up and let me baby you.”

And you do.

———

The water’s steaming, lavender-scented, and filled with a generous pour of your favorite bubble bath — the expensive one you only use for special occasions. Apparently, surviving today counts.

Luigi sits on the bathroom floor next to the tub, hoodie sleeves shoved up, one hand lazily stirring the bubbles while the other rests on your wet knee. His thumb traces soft circles on your skin.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur, slouched against the tub wall, cheeks still pink from crying earlier.

He shrugs, but his gaze doesn’t leave your legs. “Just want you to breathe.”

You blink down at him. “You’re not even looking at me.”

“I am,” he says, smiling faintly. “Just… respectfully. You’re all soft and floaty right now. Like a sad little mermaid.”

You snort, and he grins wider. That was the goal.

“You good?” he adds after a moment. “Water too hot?”

“No, it’s perfect,” you say softly. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“Yeah I did,” he replies. “I like doing it. I like spoiling you. I like seeing you relax instead of trying to survive every second of the day.”

Your throat tightens.

Lu brings your foot into his lap and gently massages it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You got me now, baby. You don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

———

Later on, you’re curled up in his bed in nothing but his hoodie and underwear, damp hair in a towel, skin warm from the bath. Luigi comes in quietly, flipping the lights off as he goes.

You’re already half-asleep when he murmurs:

“Hey. You’re on my side.”

You blink drowsily. “Sorry. I’ll move—”

“No,” he says immediately. “I meant stay there.”

You turn over, blinking up at him. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he mutters, climbing in beside you. “You need the good pillow tonight.”

Your chest squeezes. “That’s your favorite.”

Luigi shrugs like it’s nothing. “You’re my favorite.”

You bury your face in the pillow and laugh, half from exhaustion, half from the way he always makes your heart ache in the nicest way.

He pulls the blanket over both of you and tucks your cold feet between his. “You feel a little better?”

You nod sleepily. “Because of you.”

Luigi presses a kiss to your temple. “Good. Now shut up and use my pillow, woman. I swear to God.”

You fall asleep in his arms with the softest smile on your face, breathing in his scent, swaddled in the kind of peace only he can give you.

[paperbacksinner]

What about Joe with a virgin fem!reader? 💗

Like This

You told me you hadn’t done this before.

And now I can’t stop thinking about how that makes you mine in a way no one else ever was.

TW: MDNI, oral (f!receiving), reader loses her v card, unprotected sex (wrap before you tap irl)

Okay THIS might be my fave fic rn

———

Your thighs are trembling.

Not in fear, not quite. But Joe feels the nerves in every shaky breath, every flutter of your lashes, every heartbeat thumping through the soft skin of your chest.

He whispers, "Breathe, baby. Just breathe."

You nod.

You're already bare beneath him. He took his time getting you here—every kiss down your stomach, every gentle press of his hands against your hips, was meant to coax your body into trust. And you let him. You let him undress you, lay you down, open you up slow.

“I’ve never… y’know. Not all the way.”

You’d said it so quietly. So shy. And it made something in Joe's chest burn. Not because of what you haven’t done—but because of what you were trusting him to do.

Now, he presses his mouth to the inside of your knee, trailing kisses up your thigh like a pilgrimage. The scent of you—warm and raw, a little sweet, a little nervous—floods his senses before he even reaches your center.

When he parts you with his fingers, you gasp. Not from pain, but surprise.

“Oh,” you breathe.

He can see how wet you are. Slick clings to his fingertips when he strokes gently through your folds, circling your clit just enough to make you arch. But lower—at your entrance—you flutter, tight and untouched, muscles clenching around nothing.

So small. So untested. So fucking perfect.

Joe groans, forehead pressing to your thigh.

“You’re gonna take me so well, sweetheart.”

“You think?” you whisper, lip trembling.

“I know.” He lifts his head. His voice is low. Steady. Possessive. “I’ll go slow. I’ll make it good. You’ll only ever think of me when you touch yourself from now on.”

He says it like a promise. Like a threat.

You’re already nodding.

When he finally lines up, the head of his cock nudging your entrance, he waits. Watches your eyes. Feels your thighs tense around his hips.

And then—slowly, carefully—he pushes in.

Holy fuck.

You’re tight. He can feel every inch of pressure, every resistance, every trembling clench as your body learns how to take him. You whimper, breath catching, hands clutching his shoulders.

“Just a little,” he murmurs. “You’re doing so good. Let me in, baby.”

You do. Inch by inch, you open up for him, that sweet little slick sound echoing softly in the room. Your brows furrow. He stills.

“Too much?”

“No,” you breathe. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

He groans like a man broken.

And he doesn’t stop.

Joe thrusts—gently, deeply—until he’s buried to the hilt, your walls stretching to fit him. You’re clinging to him like he’s the only thing tethering you to earth, and in a way, he is.

He kisses your neck. Your shoulder. Whispers things like “You’re mine now,” and “No one else will ever fuck you like this,” and “I’m gonna ruin you for everyone else.”

You tremble.

You moan.

And when he rubs your clit just right, whispering “Come for me, sweetheart,” you do.

Tight, clenching waves. Wet heat. Joe groans your name like a prayer as you come around him, tight and gasping, and he follows you seconds later with a low growl into your skin.

After, you’re trembling. He holds you. Cleans you up. Strokes your hair back with trembling hands.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You smile—wrecked, blissed out, glowing.

“I’m perfect.”

Yeah, Joe thinks, wrapping his arms around you.

You are.

[paperbacksinner]

Could you write about Joe eating reader out??

Sorry if it's straight to the point LMAK 😭

Love your fics !

Devour

TW: oral (f!receiving), possessive inner monologue, slight dub-con vibes (but reader is clearly enjoying it), overstimulation, language

Porn w/o plot oopsies 🫣

———

He looks up at you like you’re the last thing he’ll ever taste.

Because that’s how he’s treating you.

Not like he’s doing you a favor. Not like it’s a chore or a game. But like he’s starving and you’re salvation. Like between your thighs is the only place he’s ever belonged. Like you were made for this—for him.

And the way you’re shaking? The way your hands tangle in his hair, tugging, desperate? Maybe you were.

Joe groans into you, low and needy, nose nudging your clit as his tongue slides deep, slow, reverent. His hands are tight around your thighs, holding you open, keeping you still.

You taste like heaven. He knows that’s a cliché, but clichés are only clichés because they’re true.

He murmurs something against you—your name, maybe. Or mine. You can’t tell. It’s all buzzing now. Your skin, your nerves, the unbearable pleasure of his mouth.

He’s not just eating you out. He’s memorizing you.

Mapping every twitch. Every breathy gasp. Every buck of your hips that he answers with a tighter grip and a rough, “Stay still, sweetheart.”

You try. You really do. But he’s not making it easy.

He sucks your clit just right—slow at first, then faster, then slow again like he’s testing you, like this is some experiment and he’s obsessed with the results. Your moans. Your thighs trembling. Your back arching. It’s all data to him.

And God, he loves a good story.

Loves a good obsession.

You’re better than any book. Better than the ones he used to shelve, better than the poetry he quotes in his head when he watches you sleep. You’re alive. Warm. Wet. Writhing.

He could live here. Between your legs. Nose full of your scent, tongue sliding against your soaked folds, tasting the evidence of your need. His need. His.

Because that’s what this is, isn’t it?

You’re his. Even if you don’t know it yet.

Even if you never said it out loud.

Your fingers yank at his curls, and he groans, deep and hungry, rutting his hips against the mattress like he’s getting off on your taste alone. He probably is. Joe doesn’t do this for just anyone. No. This is sacred.

And you—you—are holy.

“Fuck, Joe—” you whimper, breathless.

He pulls back for half a second, just long enough to look up at you.

Hair messy, mouth soaked, eyes dark.

“Language,” he says, voice wrecked. “Be a good girl for me.”

And then he’s back on you. Tongue flat, firm, dragging slow and hard over your clit, then flicking fast, fast, fuck. One hand slips between your legs and pushes two fingers inside, curling just right.

You cry out, legs shaking, walls fluttering around him.

He hums—like he’s pleased. Like this was exactly the reaction he wanted. Like he planned it.

And of course he did.

Joe’s always ten steps ahead.

He knew you’d come for him like this. He knew how sensitive you were, how your thighs would tremble, how your breath would catch when he hit that spot.

He knew he’d ruin you for anyone else.

And when you finally break—when you come hard against his face, crying out his name, fingers gripping him like a lifeline—he doesn’t stop.

Not right away.

No, Joe keeps going. Slower now. Soothing. Lapping at you like a man in love.

Because he is.

He’s so in love it hurts.

You’re still panting, twitching, whimpering as he finally pulls back and kisses your thigh. Then your hip. Then your stomach.

When he looks up at you, he smiles.

“You okay, baby?”

You nod, dazed. “Yeah. I—yeah.”

He brushes your hair back, tender and sweet. So gentle you could almost forget the way he just destroyed you.

Almost.

[paperbacksinner]

if ur still taking joe requests can you do one where reader finds out about joes stalker-ish habits and she’s just kinda.. into it? Like it makes her feel special? If that makes sense. Thank you :]

His Favorite Show

———

You weren’t supposed to find the box.

But you did. Hidden in the back of his closet, taped shut like a time capsule.

Inside: photographs. Notes. Printouts of your social media. One of your receipts.

Your breath caught in your throat.

At first you thought—this isn’t me.

But then you saw the photo of you in your bedroom window, wearing a tank top you still own.

And a screenshot of the post you deleted after 5 minutes, the one that only had 3 views.

He saw it.

You sat down on the floor, staring at the evidence. Your heart pounded. Not from fear.

From something else.

You waited until he got home to say something. Of course you did. Joe’s careful. Cautious. You wanted to see the moment he realized.

“I found something,” you said casually, perched on the edge of the bed.

He tensed immediately. “Yeah?”

“In the closet.”

He went still.

“Under the blue flannel you never wear.”

Joe looked up at you slowly, eyes sharp, jaw tight. “That’s not—what did you find?”

“I think you know.”

He didn’t speak. But his silence said everything.

You let it hang for a second. Then you smiled.

“You really kept everything, huh?”

His brow furrowed. “You’re… you’re not mad?”

“No.” You rose from the bed, walking toward him slowly. “Honestly? I kind of figured.”

Joe stared at you, silent. Processing.

“I mean… the way you always knew what I needed before I said it. How you showed up right when I was about to text you. You noticed everything. It made sense.”

“You thought I was just… intuitive?”

You smirked. “I thought you were in love with me.”

Joe swallowed. Hard. “I am.”

“And you watched me.” You reached up and touched his chest, right over his heart. “All the time.”

His hand caught yours. “I never meant to scare you.”

“You didn’t.” You stepped in closer, crowding into his space. “I liked it.”

He blinked.

“I like knowing someone wanted me that much. That they needed to see me. That they cared enough to pay attention. Even when I didn’t notice.” Your voice softened. “Especially when I didn’t notice.”

His breath hitched. “You’re serious.”

You nodded. “You watched me like I was art. Like I was precious.”

“You are.” His voice broke. “You always were.”

Your lips brushed his jaw. “So why’d you stop?”

He pulled back, stunned. “You… want me to keep watching you?”

“I want you to keep wanting me like that. Completely. Obsessively.” You kissed his neck. “Like I’m the only thing that keeps you breathing.”

His hands gripped your waist. Tight. “You are.”

“Then show me.”

———

Later that night, he watches you change from the hallway. You leave the door open on purpose.

You glance at the camera light on his bookshelf and smile at it.

He never hides it again.

You never ask him to.

[paperbacksinner]

Request for a drabble or fic- what it would be like to lose your virginity with Luigi where he’s also a virgin? How would he be like?

Firsts

(this is how he would look at you 😣)

———

His room smelled like cedar shampoo and laundry detergent. A little like the pizza box abandoned on his desk. The party downstairs was still humming through the floorboards, but here — in the dim lamplight of his room, door shut, sheets rumpled — it felt like a different world.

You were lying on your side, facing him. His cheeks were flushed. His arm was slung across your waist, fingers curled into the hem of your shirt like he didn’t want to let go.

“You’re sure?” he whispered.

You nodded.

“Are you?”

Luigi swallowed. His eyes darted to your lips, then back to your eyes.

“Yeah. I just… I don’t wanna mess it up.”

You smiled. “Me neither.”

There was a silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just charged. Heavy with anticipation and nervous affection. You reached up and touched his jaw, brushing your thumb over the edge of his cheekbone. He leaned into it like instinct.

“I’ve never done this before,” he admitted, quieter. “I mean… not with anyone. Not—like this.”

Your heart fluttered. “Me neither.”

Luigi kissed you then — slow, hesitant at first. He tasted like mint and nerves and something warmer, deeper, uniquely him. The kiss deepened. His hand slid under your shirt, fingers trembling slightly as they grazed your skin.

“Can I take this off?” he murmured against your mouth.

You lifted your arms, letting him peel it away. He stared for a second, eyes full of wonder, lips parted like he’d just seen something holy.

Then it was your turn — tugging at the hem of his tee, revealing soft muscle and olive skin, his breath catching when your fingertips traced the dip of his hipbone.

You were both fully bare before either of you realized it. It wasn’t rushed — more like a careful unfolding. The way his hands explored your body like he was learning a new language. Kisses to your shoulder, your chest, your belly. A soft gasp when your thighs parted for him.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

You pulled him close, legs wrapped loosely around his hips.

“Go slow, okay?”

He nodded. His cock — flushed, hard, and slightly twitching — pressed against your entrance. Luigi looked down between your bodies, then back up at you with wide, adoring eyes.

“Tell me if it hurts. I’ll stop. I swear.”

You kissed him instead of answering. And he pushed in, carefully — the head first, then an inch, then two. It stretched, burned just slightly, but his hand was cupping your cheek, his forehead pressed to yours, breathing shaky.

“Holy shit,” he choked out. “You feel—fuck. You feel so good.”

You whimpered softly, the fullness unfamiliar but not unbearable. Your nails dug into his shoulders as he bottomed out, hips flush against yours.

“You okay?” he asked, panicked.

You smiled through a shaky breath. “Yeah. I just… I didn’t expect to feel this much.”

He kissed your nose.

“Me neither.”

The rhythm was slow. Tentative. His hips rolled with care, like he was memorizing your body with every movement. Every moan you made seemed to wreck him — made him move deeper, kiss harder, whisper your name like a prayer.

“Am I doing it right?”

“Yes. God, yes.”

“You’re so warm, baby—so tight around me.”

You could feel the tension building — in his stomach, in yours. His breath hitched, face buried in your neck.

“I’m close,” he admitted. “Fuck—I can’t—”

“It’s okay. Me too.”

His hand slid between your bodies and touched you — clumsily at first, but then just right. You cried out softly, hips arching into his, and the orgasm bloomed white-hot in your belly as you clenched around him.

Luigi came with a gasp, stuttering inside you, body trembling with effort.

After, he collapsed onto his side and pulled you into him immediately, holding you so tightly your ribs ached — in the best way. His face was buried in your hair, voice muffled.

“You’re mine now, right?”

“I’ve always been yours,” you whispered.

And he kissed your temple like he was promising forever.

[paperbacksinner]

Omg your joe fics actually have me weak in the knees...if you feel like it:))))) could you please write a lil joe fic where yall are just having like a heated makeout with like groping and dry humping!?! No worries if not, you have beyond quenched my thirst with your beautiful content🙏🙏🙏

Aw thank you angel!! 😭

Can’t Help Myself

———

You didn’t mean for it to go this far. Not tonight.

But then again, Joe never just kisses you.

He devours.

He consumes.

It starts with you sitting on his lap, straddling him on the couch like it’s nothing — like he hasn’t been fantasizing about this all week, palms twitching every time you leaned over or touched his arm or laughed in that breathy way that wrecks him. You said you were cold. You curled up next to him. He kissed you once, just to warm you up.

Now his mouth is everywhere.

Joe's hands are already under your shirt, splayed across your back, thumbs brushing the curve of your ribs like he’s mapping your body by memory. And you? You’re grinding against him, needy, shameless, your soft little gasps breaking right against his lips.

"You're gonna be the death of me," he mutters, breath hot against your mouth, voice ragged. "You know that?"

You don’t answer. You just kiss him harder, tugging at his curls, rolling your hips against the bulge in his jeans until he groans.

It’s pathetic how fast he’s unraveling. But he can’t stop. He won’t stop.

Your thighs tighten around him. His hands slide down, gripping your ass through your thin shorts, dragging you closer like he’s trying to fuse you to him.

“I think about this all the time,” Joe confesses against your throat. “How warm you are. How soft. How fucking perfect.”

His teeth graze your jaw. His hips buck up into you. He’s so hard it hurts.

“You don’t even know what you do to me.”

Your hands clutch his shoulders, back arching, grinding down like you’re as desperate as he is. And you are. He can feel it — the heat between your legs, the need in your moans. You’re soaking through the fabric. So is he.

It’s not enough. It’s everything.

Joe growls low in his throat, lips dragging across your collarbone. “I could make you come like this, you know. Right here. Just from this.”

You nod against his cheek, breath shaky. “I know.”

“You’d let me?”

“God, yes.”

He pulls you tighter, grinding against you slow and deep, every motion thick with tension, like the two of you are going to burn through your clothes. His hand slides under your waistband, not inside yet — just touching, holding, claiming.

“I’m so in love with you it’s sick,” he whispers.

You whimper. Kiss him again like you mean it. Like you belong to him.

And maybe you do.

Maybe you always did.

[paperbacksinner]

need him to eat me out until I can't breathe 🎀

[paperbacksinner]

soft morning sex with joe 😕🙏

Sunlight & Sighs

TW: tiny bit of foreplay (f!receiving), praise, unprotected sex (be safe irl), Joe being a little too in love, mild overstimulation, slight breeding kink undertone if you squint

———

The first thing you feel is warmth.

Not the sunlight spilling through the half-open curtains. Not the weight of the blanket tangled around your ankles. Not even the soft ache between your thighs from the night before.

No—this warmth is him.

Joe.

Pressed up behind you, chest to your back, arm slung heavy over your waist. One leg between yours, holding you in place. His breath slow and steady against your neck.

Safe. Solid. Still half-asleep.

But then his hand moves.

Fingertips dragging lazily up your stomach, under the hem of your shirt. He’s not in any rush. Just touching you like he needs the confirmation that you’re still here. Still his.

You hum, still somewhere between dreams and waking.

And then you feel him.

Hard against you. Slow grind of his hips, soft groan at the contact.

You smile, eyes still closed. “Morning.”

Joe kisses your shoulder. “Mm. Morning, baby.”

You shift, pushing back into him slightly, and the breath he exhales is sharp. Like he wasn’t ready for that. Like he’s been holding back all night.

His hand slides lower. Cupping between your thighs. Finding you warm and already a little wet.

You hear him swear under his breath. “Jesus.”

“What?” you mumble, teasing.

“You,” he says, kissing your neck. “You’re perfect.”

His voice is still scratchy from sleep. Rough. And when his fingers slip between your folds, dragging slow and careful, he groans again—like he’s the one being touched.

“Fuck, you’re so soft,” he murmurs, almost reverent. “So warm… I could stay like this forever.”

You tilt your head, giving him better access. “Then do it.”

He chuckles softly. “Yeah?”

“Mmhmm.”

Joe doesn’t ask again.

He hooks your leg up over his hip and nudges your panties aside. Pushes in slow—so slow—with a deep, low moan that vibrates against your skin.

You both sigh when he bottoms out.

He holds there for a moment, forehead against your shoulder, just breathing. Just feeling you.

“So tight, baby,” he whispers. “Like you were made for me.”

You squeeze around him just to feel him twitch.

He bites your shoulder gently. “You’re gonna kill me.”

But he doesn’t move fast. Doesn’t thrust hard.

This isn’t about fucking you.

It’s about being in you.

With you.

He moves slow. Deep. Rhythmic. Each rock of his hips is deliberate, worshipful. His arm wraps tighter around your middle. His hand finds your breast under your shirt, thumbing your nipple lazily.

“You feel like heaven,” he murmurs. “Every time.”

You gasp when he angles just right, brushing that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. He notices, of course he does, and does it again.

And again.

Your hand finds his where it rests on your stomach, lacing your fingers through his.

“I love you,” you whisper.

Joe’s breath catches.

He kisses your temple, your cheek, your jaw.

“I love you,” he says softly. “God, I love you.”

The pace stays slow, but the intensity builds. Every thrust is a promise. Every sigh a confession.

You can feel yourself unraveling—bit by bit—until you’re clenching around him, quiet cries slipping from your lips.

“That’s it,” Joe whispers. “Let go for me. You’re doing so good, sweetheart…”

And when you come, it’s soft. Deep. Like waves lapping over your body.

Joe follows with a quiet, broken groan—your name, over and over, as he spills inside you and holds you so tight you almost can’t breathe.

But you don’t mind.

Because this? This is everything.

This is Joe when he’s real. When he’s not hiding. When he’s just yours.

He stays inside you, breathing heavy, kissing the back of your neck.

“Stay with me,” he murmurs.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.

And neither is he.

Not ever.

[paperbacksinner]

can u write about college boyfriend luigi who’s shy, nerdy, loves you very much and is obsessed with going down on you but doesn’t know how to ask you for it (he’s a consent king) without getting flustered bcuz he’s new to relationships (you’re each others firsts in every sense;))

Learning Curve

TW: oral (f!receiving)

———

Luigi wasn’t the type to shout from the rooftops, but if there was one thing he’d never hesitate to tell the world, it was this:

He was completely, utterly obsessed with you.

Not just because you were his girlfriend—his first girlfriend—but because you were the whole new universe he wanted to explore, carefully and respectfully.

Being each other’s first everything—first kiss, first date, first “I love you”—meant that everything felt new and thrilling and a little bit terrifying. Especially when it came to the bedroom.

One evening, tangled up on his dorm bed, Luigi’s fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back, his heart was pounding.

He wanted to do something special for you, something that showed how much he cared, but the words caught in his throat.

“Um,” he began, voice soft and shaky, “I... I really want to make you feel good.”

You smiled, brushing your fingers against his cheek. “I know you do.”

He looked down, cheeks flushed. “I’ve been thinking... about, uh... maybe... trying to... you know.”

You laughed softly, encouraging. “Go on.”

“To... like... go down on you?”

You blinked, pleasantly surprised. “Oh.”

He nodded quickly, eyes wide, “Only if you want. I don’t want to do anything without asking. Consent is important, right?”

Your heart swelled. “You’re the best, you know that?”

Your smile was all the encouragement he needed.

He kissed you slowly, tender and deep, then slowly trailed kisses down your neck, whispering, “I want you to tell me if anything feels weird, or if you want me to stop, okay?”

You nodded, heart pounding.

Luigi’s hands were gentle, exploring, learning the curves of your body like a sacred map. When he finally lowered himself between your legs, you felt a delicious thrill — the way his breath warmed your skin, the soft sound of his lips parting.

He took his time, attentive to every shiver, every sigh. His tongue was careful but eager, exploring, tasting, worshipping you with a reverence that made you feel like the most important person in the world.

“Tell me what you like,” he murmured against your skin, eyes locked on yours.

And you did.

You guided him, moaning softly when he touched the right spot, gasping when his fingers curled inside you just right.

He looked up, flushed and hopeful. “Does that feel good?”

“Better than I ever imagined,” you whispered.

Luigi smiled, pride shining in his eyes as he worked to learn every inch of your pleasure, all while making sure you felt safe, cherished, and loved.

When you finally came, soft and shuddering, he held you close, whispering, “You’re amazing.”

And you knew: this was just the beginning of everything beautiful you’d explore together.

[paperbacksinner]

If you're still looking for recs could you write Joe Goldberg finding reader at a library during exam season? Then in true Joe fashion he stalks her only for her to ask him out before she leaves.

No pressure and your fics are amazing !!

Check Me Out

———

Finals week.

The air inside the library tastes like panic, cold coffee, and crumbling willpower.

And then there’s you.

Sitting three tables from the end, tucked into a worn armchair by the window, surrounded by open textbooks and color-coded notes like you’re building a fortress out of flashcards.

You're in a sweatshirt two sizes too big. Hair up. Phone face-down like it’s not allowed to speak. You chew on a pen cap between pages and mouth your notes like you’re casting spells.

And Joe can’t stop staring.

He doesn’t even remember why he came in.

One minute, he was looking for a paperback on mythology. The next, he saw you—deep in thought, fingers curled into your temple like you were physically holding your brain together.

And that was it.

You’re so tired. So overwhelmed. So focused. No one sees you like this. No one’s ever taken the time.

Except him.

He’s good at watching.

He always has been.

Over the next three days, he becomes a regular.

You don’t notice him at first. No one does.

He sits a few tables away. Pretends to read. Watches.

You hum when you study. You talk under your breath. You stack your books by color. You bring the same iced drink every afternoon but only finish half. Your laptop’s held together with washi tape and stubbornness.

You check the time constantly.

You sigh through your nose when your eyes get tired.

You twist your necklace when you’re trying to remember a term.

Joe catalogues it all.

It’s not creepy if it’s love.

Not if he’s the only one who truly sees you.

Day 4. You're crying.

It’s not loud. Not dramatic.

But your face is buried in your hands. Your notes are a mess. Your water bottle is leaking into your bag and your highlighter just died mid-sentence.

Joe grips the edge of his book.

He wants to fix it. Needs to.

But not yet. Not here.

He’ll learn your schedule. Your classes. Your favorite snacks. He’ll figure out who makes you feel this stressed and he’ll—

"Hey."

Your voice cuts through his thoughts.

Joe blinks.

You're standing in front of his table.

He straightens instinctively. “Hi.”

You give him a tired, crooked smile. “I’ve seen you here every day this week.”

His heart drops into his stomach.

“Oh,” he says, neutral. “Yeah. Finals.”

You nod. “Same.”

You pause.

Then: “I was wondering… do you wanna get coffee? When this hell week ends?”

Joe stares at you.

You shift on your feet, suddenly unsure. “Sorry—if you’re not interested, it’s totally fine. You just seem quiet and... not annoying.”

Joe swallows.

You asked him.

You saw him. Noticed him. Chose him.

He smiles, soft and sharp all at once.

“I’d love to.”

That night, Joe goes home and deletes the location tracker draft on his phone.

He doesn’t need it.

You came to him.

He knew you would.