You’re Welcome

more luigi p*rn links again bc u guys asked *nsfw minors dni

lu pulling your hair while he fucks u from behind

more fucking from behind :p

how lu would suck on your tits while u ride him

there are no words for this one. oh my fucking god

pics: one two three four five six (the nerdy t shirt LOL) seven

fingering

he made u put your panties in your mouth to shut you up but ur whining like crazy anyway

choking u in missionary

imagine lu taking care of u like this fuck

size kink. omg

sending a video to ur ex of lu on top of u (need him like this so badly)

fucking you upstairs at a frat party

lu’s arm around your neck while he fucks u from behind NEED

fucking his cum back into u. SORRY

i should be banned off tumblr. anyway here u go :p

Good Job. — praise kink discovery

content warnings ; smut . oral . manipulation/observation if you squint rlly hard . praise (duh) . fwb . groping . sex jokes . finger sucking . slightly “awkward” dialogue .

event ۶ৎ taglist

Luigi was a smart man. There was no question about his level of intelligence— when he was in the lab or focused on his work.

As much as he hates to admit it, he gets knocked off his board a little bit when the summer comes around. It’s hard to focus when the world becomes an oyster, and for a man who isn’t materialistic in any shape or form, he loves indulging himself in the wondrous luxury of a pretty little pearl.

 So he’ll admit, it took him a while longer to pick up on the little…error…in your genetic code. 

Error, in the sense that it’s something he can indulge and fix. Oil and sticks he can throw overtop the shy little embers of a timid campfire.

What you had tried your best to contain and confine to a romantic relationship was now perfectly within his field of vision. He could see the little bug that itched to bite and claw at the flesh of another roaming around your headspace, and what kind of data scientist would he be if he didn’t test and rerun this code?

So he spent the next few weeks hovering around you, seeing how many buttons he could push, and what reaction each button yielded. He started small; tiny thank you’s and little compliments that could be passed off as genuine compliments and encouragement.

“Thank you, cutie!” “You’re the best.” “Good job!” “I’m proud of you.” “You’re so smart.”

He walked the ever-so-fine line between platonic and intimate, letting his tongue dip into the lukewarm waters of sexual gratification without shocking you out of your skin. He just wanted to spark tiny shocks across your mind and heart, nothing more.

The sun hung low in the pink and purple sky, hiding amongst the cotton candy clouds as he anticipated his bright and bubbly wife’s presence later in the day. The beach had slowly begun to lose its occupants, leaving Luigi and the stragglers the expanse of the sand to themselves. 

But Luigi wasn’t interested in the sands of time, the ancient rocks, or Poseidon’s most beloved daughter. As his feet kicked up the tiny rocks and the salty air carded through every strand of his cocoa-brown hair, he had only one thought on his mind.

How can he press a new button today?

He burst through your front door, relishing in the slight panic that set on your face as you whirled your head to see who had gained entry to your home.

“Luigi, calm down…you don’t pay enough rent to knock doors down like that…” you sighed, pressing a hand to your chest in silent relief.

“Sorry, cutie,” he murmured, making his way into the kitchen after locking the door behind him, a sign he wasn’t going back outside anytime soon.

“Ooh, what’re you making?” he asked, assuming his position behind you as you stood over the stove and leaned his chin on your shoulder.

The house wafted with the appetizing smell of caramelized onions and garlic, gentle spices, freshly cracked black pepper that left a tingle in your nose, and freshly picked herbs from some supermarket only frequented by those who value the produce put on the shelves. It was like seeing a vintage painting for the first time; basking in its radiance and letting its colors and stimuli occupy every corner of your soul.

“This recipe I got from the lady two doors down…she’s Italian, too, she’s great. She gave me these herbs from her garden and a big thing of sun-dried tomatoes,” you nodded, crushing your plum tomatoes in a bowl to avoid getting your hands dirty.

“Oh wow…” he purred, the sound vibrating right next to your ear— deep and gutty from the back of his throat as he wrapped his arms around your neck. Not tight enough to alarm you, but secure enough to let you know he’s there.

He watched as your hands cast their magic with a sharp-bladed knife, finely slicing your sundried tomatoes, halving your cherry tomatoes, and finally, tearing up some fresh basil.

You put your tomato and herb medley in the sizzling saucepan of onions and garlic, steam bubbled up from the bottom as the pot rapidly decreased in temperature. Luigi didn’t want to think about it too much— the more he listened, smelled, and felt, the more he felt the presence of his grandparents working your hands like you were their granddaughter.

“That smells so good…is it vegetarian?” he asked, staring into the bright red sauce as your wooden spoon incorporated each ingredient together.

“Nahhh. Hell no. I’m actually leaving you out and kicking you out, your stuff is packed up down the hall,” you deadpanned, narrowing your eyes slightly knowing he couldn’t see them. But you know he could feel it— he always could.

“Okay, now,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes with a breathy chuckle. “Be nice, peace and love.”

“Fuck and shove.”

“No, no! We choose peace,” he murmured, enunciating the end of his words with a playful raise of your boobs.

“Get out,” you chuckled, smacking his hand with the tip of your spoon.

“I’m cool! I’m cool!” He laughed, throwing his hands up in faux defense and licking the sauce from his knuckles, sitting on the counter next to you just to make a show out of his tongue darting out from his lips to suck his fingers clean.

“Luigi, you’re fucking disgusting, you were just outside,” you mumbled, averting your eyes immediately as soon as your cheeks began to flush with a familiar pool of heat.

“Mmh, so good, you’re a perfect little chef, good girl…good job, pretty.”

You paused, stumbling to the side a bit as you poured half a can of water into your empty can of plum tomatoes.

“Hah— I'm sorry, what did you say?” you stammered.

“Hmm?” He hummed, plucking his fingers from his mouth with a wet and sinful pop, the digits shiny with his saliva. “Good job?”

“No, the thing you said—…actually, nevermind,” you mumbled, turning your attention back to your pasta sauce and pouring your water into the pan before adding coarse salt, a little bit of olive oil, and vegetable bouillon for a little extra oomph.

“What did I say?” He fibbed, feigning near-impossible amounts of ignorance as he leaned back so his head touched the kitchen wall.

“Luigi, are you fucking with me?” You smiled, placing the lid on your boiling pasta sauce and pouring some pale yellow penne into a pot full of salty boiling water.

“Am I fucking you? Well, no, not currently, but we’ve fucked for sure,” he nodded.

“Oh, you’re trolling,” you chuckled, your brows rising and falling with amusement before you stepped away from the stove at last. “You’re trolling trolling.”

“C’mere.”

“No, why?”

“Just come here, I want a hug!”

“You are literally such a child, why do I live with you, I’m gonna package you and send you back to Sicily where you belong,” you huffed, reluctantly waddling over to Luigi as slowly as humanly possible.

“If you don’t bring that ass…” he murmured, leaning forward to pull you towards him faster by the hem of your shorts.

“Be civil,” you gasped, pressing a hand over your mouth in faux scandalization. “I thought you said peace?”

“Peace was never an option.”

“You are a nerd, oh my god…”

“The fact that you understood that lets me know you are too, so ha!” he beamed, wrapping his arms around your shoulders.

“Jokes aside, you did really good today, baby…I’m proud of you. Who taught you to be such a good chef? It’s so fucking attractive.”

You froze, trying not to audibly moan at his not-so-subtle praise like a virgin during ovulation. The words dripped from his mouth like honey, coating his deep and masculine tone with saccharine so sweet it’d deter the likes of most with sugar restrictions. 

You wanted to suck the words out of his mouth…like a blue raspberry lollipop fresh out of the candy store with the wrapper still on. How evil is the man that tempts the vulnerable with such a sweet reward.

“Stop…stop fucking with me,” you breathed, resting your forehead against his chest and letting your eyes flutter shut.

“I’m not fucking with you, I think you’re amazing…and hot…and I can’t stop thinking about what you look like under me,” he beamed, almost innocently, if the words that evacuated from his mouth weren’t so sinful.

“Poor cutie…Falling apart from some compliments. It’s okay, I’m a nice man, I’ll tell you what you wanna hear,” he chuckled, lifting you onto the counter with him so either of your legs sat on each side of his legs.

“Turn the stove off,” you whispered, a command that came out firm and steady compared to your brittle whines before.

“Yes ma’am,” he obeyed, leaning to the side to flick the dials, the blue flames dying out immediately with a little click.

“Back to you pretty girl,” he murmured, focusing his attention on your neck as he left tickling kisses and purple-ish hickies in his path.

“No…‘s not enough, I need more, hurry please…” you panted, pulling his head back tightly, earning yourself a pained but quiet whine.

“If you’re really that needy,” he mumbled before hoisting you off of his lap and sliding off the counter.

“I’m gonna make you touch every wall in this kitchen,” he warned, a careful and quiet little whisper that brushed against your skin before he propped you back up on the counter.

There wasn’t a second of silence that passed before the sound of ripped fabric pierced the veil of sound, the waves reverbed across the walls and triggered your brows to shoot up in alarm. 

“Lui—! Ah, fuck…!”

His mouth attached to your slick and shiny folds, disregarding the real meal just inches away on the stove in favor of the Michelin-starred repast he laid out on the counter. You had time to complain about his reckless behavior and expensive habits of rip-and-tear later, right now, your mind prioritized gathering the remnants of its pride in a pathetic attempt to silence your shameless moans.

Fortunately, you had the luxury of owning a house that wasn’t attached to another. No noise complaints would be filed, and sometimes you felt as though Luigi abused this opportunity until it was black and blue.

His tongue circled and suckled your sensitive nub, teasing and prodding her esse until puffy and swollen. The sounds of your moans and Luigi’s borderline sadistic, sea-side-flavored laughs mingled through the atmosphere— reminding you just how easy it was for Luigi to work you up. 

All with just some words.

“Good girl…so well behaved,” he purred.

And just like that, the rubber band deep within your womb that connected to your mind had snapped. You practically screamed into the sky, prompting one of Luigi’s large hands to squish your cheeks together in a slightly weak effort to filter your testimonies of euphoria.

He drank you up like sweet iced tea— the kind he’d go running towards after a particularly long surfing session. He panted, though you could hear the remnants of giddy little giggles at the end of his short and shallow breaths.

“I’m not finished with you. That’s only one wall.”

taglist ; @lorelaisg1lmore @flaca335 @7luvrs @fancyyanci @f4b111 @born444u @harrys0nlyange1 @lovelyfeeling @4ngelv4l

The Safe House - Part 3

luigi x unnamed reader fluff (a kiss?)

summary: fluff ! luigi and reader wake up in the vermont cabin, spend the morning together <.< coffee, showers, painting? its short lol

1,206w

PART 1

PREV FIC: PART 2

AN: jimmy butler to the warriors im sorry i feel like these are all trash but lmk what you think.

The Safe House - Part 3

How did I sleep longer than him? He was dead on his feet last night. Practically sleepwalking. But now he’s gone.I fling the blanket off of me and put my feet on the floor, cold against the worn-out wood, and I hear the shower running down the hall.

I get up, padding to the kitchen in my socks. There’s a box of muffins on the counter, one of those assorted grocery store packs. I grab a random one along with a banana, peeling it open and taking a big bite.

The sound of the bathroom door opening makes me look up.

Luigi steps out, steam curling behind him, wearing nothing but a towel slung low on his hips. His curly hair is damp, beads of water trailing down his toned shoulders and back. He doesn’t even look in my direction, just walks across the hall into the guest room. I barely catch a glimpse before the door clicks shut, but it’s enough to leave me breathless.

Jesus.

I swallow, finishing my banana too fast, nearly choking on it.

i turn back to the coffee maker and try to focus on making a pot. Im distracted by the sudden heat creeping up my neck. i shouldn’t be this flustered. By the time Ben shuffles out of his room, I got a few mugs lined up.

He takes one, mutters a half-hearted, “Mornin’,” and sits at the island counter, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Did you sleep?” I ask, eyebrow raised.

He grunts in response and takes a sip of his coffee.

It’s not long before Luigi reappears, fully dressed now, in some random clothes i swear are ben’s.. He moves toward the counter, right next to me, smelling like fresh body wash and warm skin. It’s too early for this. My pulse is already doing something stupid

“You woke up before me,” I say, still a little thrown by it.

“Yeah,” he says, voice quieter. “It’s hard to stay asleep.”

i glance at him, his dark curls still damp and defined.

There’s a beat of silence, and then he asks, “Have you painted anything yet since getting here?”

I blink, caught off guard. “Actually, yeah. I’ve finished two pieces and have a few others in progress.”

Ben smirks around his coffee. “You gonna paint a tragic portrait of this idiot?”

“Maybe.” i shoot back.

Ben snorts, shaking his head as he pushes off the counter, mumbling something about how we’re both weird, and heads upstairs, leaving just me and Luigi in the kitchen.

Luigi turns toward me fully now, his expression softer, brows pulling together. “Can you show me?”

"Yeah," I say, nodding quickly. "Yeah, c’mon."

I lead him toward the makeshift studio space I’ve set up in the loft, where canvases lean against the floor to ceiling windows, some finished, but most are half attempted ideas.

He steps past me, looking at all of it. and i get nervous. 

I bring him to an easel where my most recent piece is sitting, just finished.

“This one is newer. It’s supposed to represent feeling … out of control. Like there’s an unstoppable force, moving.” I point at the broad, deliberate strokes. “And this is the subject, whos anchored.”

He tilts his head toward the painting, eyes narrowing slightly 

“This is the movement?” he asks as he follows the direction of a brushstroke with his finger, tracing an invisible path in the air. 

I nod, excited. “Exactly! It’s like…”

Then it happens. He lowers his hand but his finger gets too close. 

 A streak of deep blue smears across the entire thing. Immediate and irreversible. A dark, muddy streak where my careful layers once were. We both gasp in unison.

“Oh my god,” he says, freezing like he just set off a bomb. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I’m-”  He looks at his hand, then at the painting, then back at me. “Shit. I ruined it.”

He tries to somehow put the paint he smeared back onto the canvas, but it just ruins it more. 

Luigi panics and looks at me, making a noise like he’s in physical pain from guilt.

I should be mad. This took me days. But he looks so horrified, like he just committed an actual crime, which, considering his actual crimes, makes this even funnier. He doesn’t feel bad about putting three bullets in Brian Thompson, but smudging some paint is unforgivable.

I can’t help it. I’m laughing. And somehow, the only thing I feel is affection. "Luigi, it’s fine."

"It is not fine! Oh my god…" He looks like he wants to throw himself into traffic, it’s pleasuring me.

And then, on impulse, I drag my finger right through the smear, making it worse.

His mouth falls open. “What are you doing?!”

“Adding to your idea.” I step back. The painting is different now. Not how I intended it to be, but it doesn’t look half bad. “It actually looks kinda cool.”

He’s still watching me, unsure if i’m messing with him. I smile and nudge him lightly with my elbow. “Wanna sign your name in the corner?”

His brows pull together. “I’m not an artist.”

I shrug. “Now you are.”

Something shifts in his expression. Like what I said actually got through to him in a way he wasn’t expecting. He stares at me, really stares, like I just handed him some kind of truth about himself that he wasn’t ready for.

Then, slowly, he nods. “You’re right.”

He picks up a brush, dips it into the paint, and scrawls his name in the bottom right corner.

Luigi.

I stare at it, then at him. “It’s kinda surreal seeing that.”

His voice is quieter now. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean… you were gone for months,we all thought you were dead. And now we’re making art together..”

Theres a beat, he leans against the wall, his hands slipping into his pockets. “Did you miss me?”

I scoff. “No.”

He smirks. “Liar.”

I roll my eyes, but my face is hot. “Where were you, anyway?”

He looks at me, probably gauging how much to say. “A few places.”

“Thats real specific, Lu.”

He diverts, “Last time I saw you, we were at that party.”

I blink. “Yeah. We…” I gesture awkwardly, a bit embarrassed, “ you know”

“We kissed.”

His gaze flickers to my mouth, just for a second. Then, so softly, like he’s testing the words, he says, “You’re the only person who knows I’m alive right now.”

My pulse is too loud in my ears. “I know.”

His hand lifts slightly, like he might touch me, but he hesitates. “That doesn’t freak you out?”

I shake my head. “No.”

His hand finally moves, fingertips tracing the back of my arm. He leans in just enough that I can feel his breath when he speaks. “You sure?”

I don’t get the chance to answer.

because then, he kisses me.

It’s hungry, needy, like he’s been thinking about this for a while and won’t wait another second.. His hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers curling just enough to make me shiver. I press into him, and he groans into my mouth, deep and low, like this kiss is pulling something out of him he didn’t even know he had, and hes holding it back.

I grasp at his shirt, tugging, pressing, needing more, and he gives it to me, kissing me deeper, harder, until my knees feel weak.

We break apart. His breathing is ragged, pupils huge.

“Fuck,” he murmurs. “I missed you.”

The Misadventures of Two Geniuses

pairing: post-prison!spencer reid x gen-z!reader

warning: generally short one-shots of crack, fluff, or angst; reader has physical descriptions, see each chapter warnings.

summary: you were once spencer's grad student until you ask to switch. now you are just a pain on his ass.

in order of posting:

rizz - in which you teach spencer the meaning of "rizz" and emily gives you an offer you can't refuse

paintball - in which emily took the team paintballing

brick - in which they took your phone away for making spencer and luke viral

origin - in which you finally tell them how you met spencer

bare minimum - in which they teach you how to date old school style

bau team incorrect quotes

more coming soon!

Chapter IV: The Prophecy

“Hand on the throttle. Thought I caught lightning in a bottle, oh– But it's gone again.”

series masterlist previous chapter

pairing: post-prison/ cm: evolution Spencer Reid x BAU AFAB!Reader (I like to think this is where Spencer is during the current seasons.) series synopsis: an unsub with a taste for couples and power imbalances leads Doctor Spencer Reid not only back into the classroom but down the hypothetical aisle with the BAU's newest Probie for an undercover assignment that may change his life. cw: age gap (Spencer is 42, reader is 24 in chapter 1), Use of y/n's (I'm sorry, I know I'm sick of it too.), fake marriage, romance romancing, kisses, and touches but no smut (yet…maybe); Reader is feisty and flirty; Spencer is anxious and has an aggressive outburst; female reader she/her pronouns, and mentions of typical CM violence. wc: 2.5k of conversation and world-building

The drive back to the university was nearly silent, with only the hum of the engine and the rhythmic tap of the rain breaking the tension that still hung in the air from Spencer’s outburst. When they finally arrived home, an unmarked car with government plates was waiting for them.

With a sigh, Y/N moved to open her door, only stopping when Spencer reached out, taking her hand in his. “Wait—” His voice was soft and timid, melting a part of her soul. Her gaze shifted from the waiting officer to Spencer. He cleared his throat, his grip on her hand tightening. “I’m really sorry that I snapped at you. We were having a great night, and I hate that I might’ve made you feel unsafe in my company…”

Y/N’s brows knit together as she shook her head, turning to better face Spencer. Her free hand cupped his cheek as she leaned in, her nose brushing gently against his before their lips connected. “Hey…I could never feel unsafe with you, okay? I understand it’s the job, it’s tough, and it can get to you…but we’ll figure it out. We’re in this together…till death do us part or whatever.” She teased, desperately trying to lighten Spencer’s somber mood.

He chuckled, nodding his head gently against hers. “Yeah…okay.” He kissed her quickly before letting her hand fall away, getting out of the car, and rushing to grab her door for her.

The pair looked a sight—clothes still dampened from their frolicking in the rain, wild curls, and kiss-bruised lips. They looked more like a pair of high schoolers than professionals.

“Looks like you two had a good night,” the agent called, slamming his car door. He looked annoyed, or maybe that was just his face, Y/N thought, observing the new file box securely under one of his arms. “The press finally caught wind of this one; it’ll be all over the 11 o’clock news if you two are too busy…socializing.”

The agent smirked, his eyes raking over Y/N’s body, catching the way her dress clung to her curves, leaving little to the imagination.

“I’m going to need you to apologize—” Spencer started, taking a protective step in front of Y/N. She had to admit, the role of husband looked good on him. Her hand gently gripped his bicep, trying desperately to ground him. “Spence—” Her warning tone begged him to stop.

“Come on, bro, be serious. I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true. I mean, good for you, honestly, bagging a newer model?” The agent threw Spencer a wink.

“Newer model—?” Spencer’s brows shot up in disbelief as Y/N snapped, her brows knitting together. Her feet carried her towards the agent, and her fist connected hard with his jaw before she even had time to register what she was doing. She snatched the box and stormed into the house.

“And I look unstable—

Gathered with a coven round a sorceress table.”

“Em, sorry, I punched him. If you get a call saying that one of your agents punched Agent Asshat or whatever his name was, I take full responsibility. Go ahead and write me up.”

Y/N all but yelled into the phone sitting in the middle of the table, a very tired Emily Prentiss on the other end.

There was a muffled yawn from the other end. “Did he deserve it?”

Y/N sighed, “Well—”

“Yes,” Spencer cut her off, returning from the kitchen with a makeshift bag of ice for her hand. “We may have looked less than professional, but that doesn’t excuse his blatant misogyny, nor the way he was practically eye-fucking Y/N on our front lawn.” He huffed, sinking onto the sofa.

“Sounds like he deserved it…” Much to Y/N’s surprise, Emily didn’t sound upset. If anything, their unit chief sounded amused.

“Should’ve seen it, Emily. She would’ve made Morgan proud. I think she might’ve broken his nose,” Spencer chuckled, glancing over at his literal blushing bride with a cheeky grin.

Prentiss laughed. “I don’t condone violence…but good on you, kid. I’ll let you know if I receive that call, but if he’s the jack-off you’ve made him out to be, I doubt he’ll admit to his superiors that a woman broke his nose. Regardless, I won't be writing you up for this.” There was a brief pause, the sound of shuffling papers and drawers closing on Emily’s end. The time difference between Seattle and the District meant it was past midnight.

“You should go home, get some rest, Em. We’ll look over the newest crime scene photos and see if anything stands out. If it does, we’ll let you know. The agent made the comment that the press had the story…so we’ll keep an eye on that as well…”

Emily, ever the workhorse, sighed. “Fine…I’m going to head out of the office now, but as always, call me if you need me or if there are any urgent developments.”

“Have a good night, Em…” Spencer sighed, his head lulling back against the cushion as the line went dead. “How’s your hand?” he muttered quietly as he started unpacking the newest box of evidence onto their coffee table.

“It hurts…” she shrugged, flexing her fingers under the ice pack, “but I hope his face hurts more.”

Spencer couldn’t help but laugh, a genuine smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he gazed at Y/N with pure admiration and pride. “Angel, I genuinely think you might’ve broken that idiot’s nose. I can almost—actually, no, statistically, I can guarantee his face will be hurting for a while, especially right now.”

“Pad around when I get home— I guess a lesser person would’ve lost hope.”

The night slipped by, the story was run, and the case stayed the same— unsolved. Nothing particularly groundbreaking was found at the crime scenes, and the MO and victimology were painfully consistent, which left little for Spencer or Y/N to analyze. It was driving Spencer crazy, how after nearly twenty years with the BAU, he found himself genuinely stumped.

In the coming days, everything suddenly became real. After their date, their kiss—it wasn’t just a cover story anymore. Spencer and Y/N no longer felt like characters in a tragic play. They were a couple, who kissed and held hands, who slept in the same bed and talked about their days.

Days turned to weeks, and before they knew it, August had slipped away like a bottle of wine. As the leaves began to change, the lines between reality and their cover began to blur. 

For the first time in a long time, Spencer was happy, and content in a life he had always imagined for himself—a wife, a home, a steady schedule. None of it was real, but if only for a moment, it was real to him. His classes ran smoothly, with students who weren’t just there because he had a pretty face—they cared, and it was groundbreaking. The university had even given him a TA to hopefully lighten his workload. She was sweet, not much older than Y/N, but working on a doctoral thesis in his field of expertise. All the pieces of this illusion had fallen perfectly into place.

"Still, I dream of her…"

Spencer woke with a start. He hadn’t had that particular nightmare in years, not since his brain had nearly bled out all those years ago, not since he saw Maeve that one last time. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath, his hands blindly searching for Y/N in the bed beside him… and then there she was, groggily furrowing her brows.

She wasn’t lying next to a psychopath in a pool of blood, cold and lifeless at his feet. She was in his bed, in his arms even, tangled in the sheets.

Memories and flashes of that night with Maeve, with Diane—the way she’d touched him, the way Maeve had looked. The cases were different, yes, but something felt very familiar to him. Reluctantly, he pulled himself out of bed, padding into the living room where the coffee table had been overrun by evidence from the newest murder. The body count was up to eight now, four couples, and the press was having a field day with this; they’d named the unsub The Albatross.

“Cautions issued, he stood shooting the messenger. They tried to warn him about her.”

The words danced across his mind, echoing in his ears as Spencer sat on the sofa, his eyes searching the crime scene photos desperately. The MO had shifted with the latest couple; the once precisely slit throats were no more, instead replaced by a single shot through the heart. The couple themselves were the same—an older man and a younger woman. However, with this couple, there had been an incident—a fatal shooting years back involving a stalker. Spencer shuddered at that information, his stomach twisting as he read the original case report.

“Shooting the messenger…” he scoffed, tossing the note back into the pile of evidence. He sat back, his head lolling tiredly against the back of the sofa as his mind worked overtime, assessing the words on the page as well as the previous notes left behind, trying to find any connection, any story or reason to the cryptic poem.

“What’re you doing up…?” Y/N’s sleepy voice caught him off guard. He turned to glance behind him at the half-asleep woman leaning against the hallway wall. “Rolled over and you weren’t there…” Y/N mumbled, trying to rub the sleep from her eyes.

“Couldn’t sleep…” he shrugged, trying to hide the fact that he’d been sleeping just fine—except for the haunting nightmare. He opened his arms for the younger woman, beckoning her to come and sit beside him on the couch. He needed to hold her, to know that she was real, but he wasn’t quite ready to get back in their bed just yet.

After a brief moment of contemplation, Y/N shuffled over, flopping down beside Spencer on the couch, her blurry eyes scanning the photos from the crime scene. She’d seen them earlier before they had inevitably decided to call it a night, but now, something she hadn’t noticed before caught her eye.

Without hesitation, she leaned forward, snatching up the evidence bag that held the latest note, her brow furrowing as she examined the reddish-brown splotches near the edge of the page. 

“Is that blood?” she asked, glancing back at Spencer as she handed it to him.

He stared blankly at the mess for a moment before reaching out for an evidence bag that held yet another cryptic poem—though this one was different—if only because he was fairly certain the unsub’s blood had dripped onto it, considering that when the lab had run it, there was no match to any victim. 

"Poisoned blood from the wound of the pricked hand."

“Oh—” Y/N shook her head, looking over the victim's hands…not a drop of blood.

“If it’s not from the victim, it’s sloppy…why not start over, why leave a trace behind?” she said softly, fighting a yawn as Spencer nodded slowly. 

“It’s almost like she's giving us a clue—”

“She?” Spencer asked, raising a brow. Dr. Spencer Reid was the king of picking out a female unsub, usually long before anyone else on their team. What had she seen that he’d missed? “How do you know it’s a woman? What stands out to you?” Spencer asked, leaning forward on the couch, observing the mess of case photos.

“Well, up until this last set…the husbands' throats are slit, and these notes are placed in their left palms. It’s brutal, but there’s an art to it.” She hummed, sinking back into the plush cushions of the sofa. “The wives, on the other hand, are laid out peacefully in bed with an albatross feather in their hands. It shows remorse—after the fact, the unsub is giving the women the respect that’s deserved…it's a different kind of death for the women."

“Okay, and what do you think the notes signify?” Spencer encouraged, slipping into teacher mode as his own mind raced a million miles a minute, putting together all of the points she’d made against the profile he’d been building in his mind.

“Well, they’ve always been in the left hand…ancient beliefs said the left hand was feminine, while the right was masculine. Other ancient stories point to your left hand being bad luck…which clearly…” she motioned to the gruesome photos before them with a sigh. “In some literary works, the left side symbolizes decay…death.”

Spencer nodded along. He’d already reached his conclusion, put the puzzle together, and built his profile. Now he was left to guide her, wait, and see if the younger agent would find her way to the same conclusion.

“Why slit their throats?” he asked softly, his eyes trained on the younger woman’s features, carefully analyzing every micro-expression he could find.

“Obviously, our unsub believes the husbands took something significant from their wives. The way our unsub is slitting their throats leads me to believe that she thinks it’s their voices or possibly their autonomy…I mean, we’re dealing with older men… I mean, it’s the history of man, right? To use women? Take something so simple but vital,” she said thoughtfully. “But it’s the albatross feather in the woman’s hand…such a heavy symbol, and you said before that the bird is associated with burden and guilt. It feels like the unsub is trying to release the wives from any guilt she believes they’re enduring…she’s just setting them free.”

Spencer nodded. “And this tells you what about our unsub?”

Y/N paused for a moment, thinking over the details before offering Spencer a small shrug and a heavy sigh, “Well, I would say that our unsub is a woman, and these men are surrogates…but she identifies with the wives and feels a need to avenge them.” She glanced up to meet Spencer’s eyes, desperate for the approval of the older agent, which he gave with a small nod, so she continued, “The careful way she arranges their bodies shows she has a sense of empathy… she sees herself in these women.”

“Exactly,” Spencer said with a warm smile. “Why do you think she targets older husbands?”

“She probably has a history with an older man—someone who dominated her or took away her voice. This is her way of reclaiming her power and avenging the other women she sees as victims.” Her voice trailed off, her eyes fluttering between Spencer’s eyes and his lips, as he leaned in to gently press a kiss to her forehead.

“Right…you are one hundred percent correct,” he sighed softly, his eyes raking over her delicate albeit exhausted frame with a frown. “And fortunately for us, this case will still be here when we wake up. Come on, let's get you back to bed…”

With a soft yawn, Y/N nodded, slowly rising to her feet, her hand outstretched for Spencer.

“Come on.”

"But I look to the sky and say

please…"

taglist : @olives-and-sunshine @iniyalovesall @suzysface @guiltyyassin @spencereidbasis @tatilolz @cherrycemeterry @hiireadstuff @r-3dlips @sweetpeterparker @catertotshitposts @purple-flower9 @wonderstruck4llthew4yhome @torturedpoetspsychward @skewedcherries @jackchampiongf13 @bouquetolegoflowers @pleasantwitchgarden @conrad4life13 @jdjwjdjjd @lilyn1909 @liquormoneysex @lynlin379 @imgublergirl

I hope i got everyone! if you’d like to be added to the taglist don’t hesitate to lemme know and as always i’d love to know the thoughts and feelings! So sorry this took so damn long

xo

misbehaving

luigi mangione x reader

｡𖦹°‧ your plan to piss off your cute tutor backfires in the best way possible.

part of my study buddies series (read here!) • nsfw • read on ao3

warnings : f! reader; EXPLICIT; unprotected (PLS practice safe sex); jealousy; brat taming; choking; some painplay; undernegotiated scene (all consensual!!)

notes : i could NOT find a cute little picture that fit for this one i’m sorry💔

You’ve been bad.

Which is weird to say, because you aren’t doing anything particularly naughty, or morally dubious, or criminal, for that matter. You’re doing homework. Math homework.

And what’s so bad about math homework?

Well, it would be different if you were working alone, or maybe with a friend of yours. It would be different if you weren’t in the library with a boy from your math class, who you proposed doing said homework with not even an hour ago. You don’t know this boy. Not well, anyway. His math skills are…mediocre at best, and the same could be said for just about every other aspect of him. His name is something simple, unremarkable—starts with a J, you think—and you don’t care to relearn it, because this boy is simply a decoy, a prop in your plan.

Right. Your plan.

You have a bit of a problem lately: your tutor, Luigi, has been quite busy with something. You have no idea what. You never do, because he doesn’t like to talk about himself, but you know that something has been keeping his time occupied because you haven’t seen him in a few weeks and when he does respond to your texts, he’s apologetic but short, dry, unengaged. It's driving you mad. You’re bored. He’s probably tinkering with computers or doing whatever it is people do in fraternities and you’re bored out of your mind, having to fend for yourself in mathematical and sexual proclivities. It’s not just your raging attraction to him that makes this problematic for you; in fact, if he weren’t so damn busy, you’d probably be doing your homework with him instead. But he is, so here you are, armed with your decoy and one goal only: to make your crush tutor jealous.

Does he even care enough about you to respond to petty tricks like this?

He had tried to talk to you before you made it to the library, and you had admittedly forgotten about your response. Looking at your drawn-out and seemingly unproductive conversation makes your skin feel hot, now:

Academic Weapon (Luigi) : Where you at

library

Academic Weapon (Luigi) : What doing?

hw

with [REDACTED] from math

There are two new messages from Luigi, ones you haven’t seen, sent about forty minutes ago while you were knee deep in your studies:

Academic Weapon (Luigi) : What

Who???

One question mark would be plenty worth an eyebrow raise, but three implies something much stronger, something tinged with what may very well be actual anger. You can’t decide if you think that’s a good or bad thing.

Your decoy is packing his things beside you, your work finished for the day. Suddenly your heart is pounding in your chest, like this library is only big enough for the two of you to crowd inside; the uncertainty of trying to push Luigi’s buttons makes you feel claustrophobic, and so, so wrong, but you’re chasing the high as you stand up to grab your backpack and thank Mr. J or whatever his name is for his help. It’s not very sincere—you know that at least a few of your answers are definitely wrong. The price you pay for dick.

Hugging your cardigan to you, you make your way off campus and start the walk to your apartment. The night is bustling with activity, as to be expected in a college town, but aside from your fluttering heart you have no fear, no back-burner thoughts of drunk dudes cornering you or shifty old guys trying to offer you a ride home. All you can think of is what Luigi is planning on doing about your disrespect.

Inside your dorm complex it’s much warmer. The elevator ride up to your floor is silent, aside from the sound of your own exhales. Tension builds in you and wraps up like a ball of rubber bands, threatening to snap, pull you apart. You’ve never seen Luigi mad before. You almost wonder if he has it in him; but that thought doesn’t last for long, because it’s quickly shot down by the rush of memories you have of him, active, protective, quick on his feet. Not violent in the slightest, but you imagine that he has soft spots deep inside him, ones that rupture at the slightest provocation. You’ve caught him at the gym a few times. Shirtless. Sweating. All meat and bones. He could easily throw you any which way if he wanted to.

When you round the corner of the hall you hear footsteps rushing behind you, then directly beside you, a hand grabbing your arm.

You don’t even need to turn your head to know who it is.

“Is your roommate home?” Luigi asks.

You are suddenly walking much faster with his guidance, and you have to be mindful of where you place your feet with each step so that you don’t trip over yourself. Should she be? Right now you’ll have the apartment to yourself—she works a night shift after her classes—but with the tone of Luigi’s voice and his firm grip on your arm you worry that you just might have triggered something serious in him, something animalistic.

Swallowing thickly, you answer, “no.”

“Good,” he rumbles. Then, matter-of-factly: “Because you’re going to lead us to your dorm, and then you and I are going to have a little talk.”

So, it’s official: you have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into. You expected some sternness, maybe a bit of a talking to, but overall nothing more than the almost overwhelming sweetness Luigi was known for. Right now it doesn’t seem like he wants to do much talking, or much sweetness, for that matter, and the thought of what’s in store for you has you anticipating bruises on your hips and an aching core.

The door is barely open before he’s ushering you inside and backing you against the nearest wall.

“I got your text,” he starts, “and I saw you. With—with fucking what’s-his-face from math.”

You resist the urge to grin. There is so much genuine jealousy in his words, jealousy over a pawn, a desperate volunteer you picked at random just to get his eyes back on you. Nobody. He’s jealous over nobody. You weren’t thinking he’d be cool as a cucumber, obviously, but to be this angry over a guy that both of you hardly know is a reaction that has you second-guessing every moment you’ve spent with him. Was he really this crazy over you?

“Yeah?” you scoff for effect. “What’s-his-face from math was helping me. With math. Big deal.”

And then he does something that makes your insides turn to slush. Luigi pauses, and you can see his tongue poking his cheek in frustration, his eyes trained on your face, his hands on his hips. It’s a look you’ve never seen on him before and you love it, every little detail, the way his brows furrow, the way those pretty lashes flutter. You feel like a kid getting caught with your hand right in the cookie jar. Maybe you shouldn’t have messed with him; maybe it was a bad idea to provoke him like this, hit him where it hurts, get him riled up over some aimless homework you did with another boy just to get his attention. But it would be a big, fat, horrendous lie to say that you don’t like where this is going. That you aren’t already slick between your legs thinking about what he might do to you when he’s this agitated.

Before you can open your mouth to speak again he has you pinned to the wall, towering over you just slightly. His hand is on your neck. He isn’t choking you, not even close, but there is just enough pressure against your throat to have your stomach in knots.

“What the fuck is this?” Luigi grits, low and rough. Dark. “Do you think it’s funny to just play me like that? Fuck with my feelings like it’s nothing?”

You gulp and crumble into yourself. When he talks to you like you’re in trouble you can’t help but feel small, weak, pliable, a bit like you would let him do just about anything he wanted to your body as long as he keeps his eyes on you. Helpless. Like prey.

The hand on your throat comes to seize your chin, hard. “I asked you a question, baby.”

To think that he’s probably only using just half of his strength stirs excitement deep in your belly.

“I didn’t realize it meant that much to you,” you squeak. It’s not completely a lie. This side of Luigi is new, a little scary, but unexpectedly titillating.

“Oh, you didn’t realize?” He is grabbing your face now, between his thumb and the rest of his fingers, holding your head straight so that you can’t look away from him and your lips push into a little pout. His knee juts between your legs. “Really? You didn’t realize it meant that much?”

“No, sir, I didn’t—”

The moment the word sir leaves your mouth he’s slinging you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. His hand gripping your ass knocks all the air straight from your lungs.

“You just have to be a fucking brat,” he grumbles. “Which one is your room?”

You offer a pathetic point at your door, accompanied by an even more pathetic whimper so that he can look in your direction. What can you say? It’s hard to think straight when he pulls out the B Word so casually.

Following your directions, Luigi carries you into your bedroom, closing and locking the door and then tossing you—carefully!—onto your bed. He has your arms pinned above your head in an instant and his other hand begins to make quick work of getting your pants down. Your heart is beating so fast you can hardly hear him speaking to you:

“Do you think this is how you should get a guy’s attention? Huh?” His voice is all warm in your ears, like marshmallows roasting over crackling fire. Your legs are spread wide and he is slotted perfectly between them. “All you had to do was just ask, baby. How fucking hard is that?”

A shadow of a grin teases your lips. “Clearly, it worked, didn’t it?”

He smacks your cunt through your panties and leans down close to you, smirking at your gasp. “You’ve got a smart fuckin’ mouth,” Luigi chides. “Keep running it and see where it gets you.”

He knows exactly what your intentions are. He has you figured out, had you figured out the moment you sent him that text, probably, despite your best efforts. You should have never underestimated your own tutor. Your shirt is swiftly pulled up and over your breasts, so that he can take one in his hand, growl at your lack of a bra, squeeze you, twist a nipple between his fingers. You want to run your hands through his hair but he still has your arms held above your head, and he can feel your wrists straining feebly, wanting desperately to hold him. I’m sorry, you want to say, I’m sorry, Gi, really, I didn’t mean it, but it would be useless, because you know that this won’t be over until he’s made his point, until you’re made very sure of the fact that he will accept absolutely none of this vindictive bratty shit.

And then he lets go of your hands momentarily to pull off his shirt, and you make the mistake of reaching for his pants. Luigi instantly has you pinned to your bed again, this time holding you down with both arms. You almost wish one of them was free so he could grab your face again, taunt you, make you feel all weak and stupid.

“Stay still,” he spits. He collects your wrists in one hand again and moves the other to the button of his jeans. “Someone ought to teach you some fucking manners, don’t you think? Teach you how to ask for what you want properly?”

Oh, you’ve never needed a lesson in behavior more than you do right this minute. “Yes, yes,” you agree, nodding absently.

“Yeah?” Luigi has his pants and his boxers down all at once and when you feel his hand sliding into your underwear it takes all of your resolve to swallow your mewl. “Oh, you’re so wet. Dirty fuckin’ girl. You know, I think I should just—”

Before you can blink he’s flipping you over, guiding you to pose exactly how he wants you, on your hands and knees with your legs spread and your back arching up towards him. You feel like a ragdoll, pulled this way and that, and you fucking love it, this untamed, beast-like side of him that just throws you around his court like a tennis ball.

“—There we go.”

Swiftly, Luigi pulls your panties down your thighs, tugs off your cardigan, and delivers a restrained spank to your ass. He comes up behind you and moves to do something that makes you heart sink and your cunt pulse: his right arm wraps around your face and hooks underneath your chin, bicep looping around your neck as he pulls you upward, against his chest. Holy shit. He has you in a fucking chokehold. Not enough to actually block oxygen from your brain, but enough that you can feel his muscles flexing, pressure tight on your throat.

“And how about this?” Luigi asks, deep and hot like lava in your ear. “Is this okay?”

The yes that leaves you is pained and broken, but your sticky, wet pussy tells him an entirely different story, one that reassures him as he pushes his cock inside of you.

Without any prep the stretch of him burns, but in the best way possible; after all, this was exactly what you wanted, him splitting you open and claiming every inch of depth inside of you. Yes, you should’ve known that this is exactly what you signed up for. You wanted to make him mad, make him itch for you, so badly that even the thought of you just doing math with any other guy has him wanting to put people in chokeholds, apparently—but right now, with Luigi working his dick inside of you, trapping you from air, whispering pure and utter filth into your ear, you aren’t regretful—certainly not—but you’re bracing yourself.

“Not so sassy now, huh?” he mocks. He warned you that running your mouth might earn you something special, but you certainly weren’t expecting this. You can only grunt in response.

He smiles. “Yeah, hard to talk when I’ve got you like this, isn’t it? Figures. Only time you’re ever quiet is when I’m giving this pussy some attention.”

Unreal. Absolutely unfair. You want to kiss his perfect mouth for saying all the words you wanted to hear him say to you, in that raspy, fucked-out voice that makes you whine like a bitch in heat. But it would be useless to try, because Luigi’s tight grip on you makes it impossible to move even your hips. His, though, pump with quick succession, snapping into you, ruining your cunt.

“That’s it,” he groans. You’ve sucked the mercy right out of him. He is fucking you relentlessly, forcing sounds out of you that he’ll be turning over in his brain for future reference. He learns something new about you every time you’re together, especially so right now.

“I love—fuck—” you’re trying hard to tell him that you agree, this is it, exactly how you imagined it, but with his arm tight around your neck and his cock brushing a certain spot that makes your toes curl it becomes increasingly difficult to express your satisfaction in anything other than lewd, incomprehensible noise. “I love the way you make me take it, sir.”

Luigi growls. “I’m just taking what’s mine.” If his other hand weren’t holding your head in place he would be playing with your clit, but the chokehold prevents that, so instead he pounds into you harder and chants into your ear, “mine, mine, all fucking mine.”

And then it starts to feel like just too much, because he’s panting and moaning and you want just the sound of this and him fucking you hard on repeat every day for the rest of your life. That would prove to be quite difficult, though—having to hear him nonstop would mean having to think about him all the time, too, even in the most innocuous moments, and there’s no way you could bear all of that at once. You can hardly handle it right now.

Suddenly, he starts to slow, and he releases you from his hold but before you can complain he rasps, “do you want to come?”. He already knows the answer to that question, so when you whimper he pulls out and follows it with: “Then get on your knees.”

And you do, faster than you ever have before, kneeling on the floor in front of your bed with him standing above you. Your cunt is still burning with need but Luigi comes close, stroking himself, his cock just mere centimeters from your face. “Open your mouth,” he breathes, and you lurch forward, holding onto his thighs and looking up at him as he guides his dick between your lips.

Fuck. He loves that you can take a hint. Knowing he’s close you start a steady rhythm, hollowing your cheeks around him, moving quickly and putting effort into each back-and-forth of your head. You can taste yourself on him. Luigi is groaning above you, speaking like he has to empty every thought that enters his mind: “oh, baby, yes” and “just like that” and “ohhhh fuck…”

You take him as deep in your throat as you can. He almost can’t stand to look at you as you’re sucking him, can hardly take your face and your mouth at the same time, but before he can come he catches a glimpse of you; he has your hair held back in both of his hands, your pretty doe eyes filled with tears, looking up at him through fluttering lashes. Rough carpet burns against your knees. You know that there will be bruises later, probably all over you, blatant proof of the feral and purely human attraction between the both of you—proof of his hands all over you, marking his territory, staking his claim. He thinks you’ve never looked prettier.

Luigi hisses, warns you that he’s coming, and when he lets your hair go and grabs your face with both hands he’s spilling into your mouth, warm and bitter. “Swallow,” he’s telling you, “swallow f’ me,” and you try to tame your gag reflex as you obey his demands, his cock still rammed in your throat. You whimper around him and the noise he makes is fucking obscene.

And then he tilts your chin up, pries your mouth open with his thumb so that you can stick your tongue out and show him that not a drop of him remains. He flashes you an absolutely dangerous grin. “Atta girl. C’mere.”

He helps you up onto the bed and guides you to lay onto your back with one big hand, smoothing over your stomach and tracing down your pelvis to your drooling cunt. Those long, skilled fingers dip into your slick and spread you, caressing, exploring. You’re sensitive after such a brutal pounding and each time he brushes against your clit you jolt with delight; he giggles at you, like he’s amused by the way his own body can break you.

“Sweet girl,” Luigi breathes, and you look into his eyes, look at his angel face as he stares down at you with adoration. You’re happy that he lets you move your hands, now, because you can hold him against your palm, trace his sideburns with your thumb, study the nearly symmetrical moles on each of his cheeks. He is so beautiful. You hardly know where to contain these feelings you hold for him.

Two fingers are probing your pussy, dipping inside, and your keen is louder than you intend it to be. He knows just where to look, instantly finding your sweet spot. He’s perfect. “Gi, fuck.”

“Baby, ‘m sorry I made you feel lonely.” You love how his voice sounds right now, dark and dripping with sugar, spice, and everything nice. “I get too focused, you know how I am. I missed you. Missed this pretty pussy.”

Inside your cunt Luigi is massaging your G-spot, his other hand gliding down your stomach, thumb meeting your clit and starting a gentle pattern of quick, circular motions. You already feel close watching both of his hands pleasuring you. Sharp nails fly up to dig into his broad shoulder, the back of your head burrowing into your pillow.

“You like that?” he leans down to kiss your nose, then your mouth. “Are you almost there, pretty girl? Gonna come all over my fingers?”

You nod incessantly.

He grins, white teeth flashing at you; he looks wolfish with his sharp canines and focused eyes. “Yeah? Let me see it, baby. Give it to me.”

And then you’re there, falling over the edge into his arms, squeezing his fingers like a vice and sobbing underneath him. Luigi helps you ride it out, still rubbing your clit and sending sparks through you, whispering sweet nothings that you don’t fully process as you come down from your climax. The inside of your thighs are slick and your room smells like sex and sweat.

“Are you mad at me?” Luigi asks from beside you after a while, eyes anxious.

You blink. “What? No, Gi. No. Why would I be mad?”

“I kinda left you hanging for a while,” he confesses, still clearly regretful of his bad habits of perfectionism and something that might be better described by a formal diagnosis in some edition of the DSM but you’re far too preoccupied and frankly under-qualified to name it right now. “I wasn’t trying to, and I meant to let you know, or tell you something, anyway, but different things kept coming up and I had to—”

Threading your fingers through his curls, you bring him close and kiss him, effectively shutting him up. You were never really mad. You aren’t now, anyway. Not when he’s this cute and so obviously concerned with you.

“I’m not mad,” you repeat. “It’s okay, Luigi.”

It’s a bit too dark to tell, but you think you can see his face flush pink, and he smiles at you, his dimple prominent under your palm. Then, he looks downward, towards your tits, towards his hand holding your waist, and his smile gets wider, its innocence from before missing.

“Can I make it up to you?”

masterlist

all works are spencer reid x fem!reader

requests are open! updated 08/01/24

from eden

lovable nerd

sweater vest

Can we have a round of applause for the chain here

for @vershautece, based off of this and a little of this 🩷 enjoy!

warnings luigi is a baby making machine! sahm themes, let’s just assume he never had back problems shhh, all italian is translated at the bottom, breeding, oral (both receiving), missionary + doggy, orgasm denial (?), rough sex, ass slapping (i don’t like the other word), reflection ;), half-assed proofread

a/n i am actually so sorry this is so late, i’ve been stacked today and then i scheduled this to post and it never did… ALSO THIS IS WAY LONGER THAN I ORIGINALLY INTENDED!!! and i’m sorry the smut is kinda vague i haven’t written actual smut in SOOOO long it’s embarrassing… i’m gonna be a hornball on your dash!

getting accepted to upenn was definitely in your top three most exhilarating moments of your life. with plans of majoring in art, you were over the moon to start your independent life at an ivy league school! you rarely let boys get in your way — enjoying life in the moment was a top quality of yours as an artist.

that was, until you met luigi. oh god, he’s so beautiful. you only picked up one digital class that you really didn’t even know the name of because you’d wanted to get into digital art and you thought it’d be fun to learn the functions. as soon as you saw him about two weeks into the course, you were swooning. unbeknownst to you, most other girls were also swooning.

you only had a few tight friends, but your kind personality was a trait everyone noticed about you as soon as you would approach. also how good you smelled. and your beautiful smile. and your full, happy cheeks when you laugh. really just everything — and you’d had no idea that boys in your courses would pine after you, too.

a few trusty years later, you and luigi were to be wed! babies came shortly after, and you had the most beautiful twin toddlers. after you’d been granted maternity leave from your job as a high school art teacher, you’d gotten a little too used to staying home and tending to the house, rather than scrambling every weekend to get everything done as well as take care of your husband and children.

you had a talk with luigi and determined that the money from his job would be enough to keep the family steady going as well as a few pieces you’d make and sell on ebay every now and again. almost as quickly as you could, you sent an email to the superintendent and principal of your school saying that you would unfortunately not be returning due to personal issues.

luigi had never asked you to be a sweet little tradwife for him, but he damn sure enjoyed it. today in particular, your three year olds’ daycare was closed so you were fortunate enough to leave them with their godparents. this was good for you, they’d likely ask to spend the night with their padrini*, so you can have tonight and tomorrow morning without a ‘bedtime’ for you and your children!

in the morning after dropping them off, you went back home to get cute and dolled up — you usually made breakfast wearing a silk pajama set that luigi bought for you last christmas. then you went to the grocery store and to the bank to deposit a check from a painting you sold for a little under $500. then back home to make a small lunch — you were planning to cook a big dinner — and then onto housework. you played music while you worked, and once beds were made you retreated back to your bedroom to tweak your hair and makeup for dinner.

you also made sure luigi knew not to come home before 5:45 because you wouldn’t be done with your dishes, and checked in on your kids to confirm they’d stay the night at their padrini’s house.

when luigi came home, just like out of a scene of a movie, he shouted from the front door: “tesoro, sono a casa!*” followed by the door closing and locking mechanically behind him. he strutted into the kitchen to see you putting plates together — exactly 6:00. he must have waited in the driveway to give you some extra time!

with a gentle hold of your waist and long kiss on your cheek, you suddenly felt much more comfortable; almost feeling safe that he was home. anxiety was sometimes a struggle when you’re home alone all day and your husband working half an hour away.

as you plated the food and brought the bread out of the oven, luigi went upstairs to change into something more casual. when he opened the bedroom door, he noticed you had left a precious little lingerie set laying on the bed, likely accidentally. his interest was certainly piqued! quirking an eyebrow and grinning a little to himself, he took a few minutes to change and mess with his hair a bit in the mirror.

luigi came down the stairs with happy haste.

“thank you for making this meal, babydoll, smells so good,” he compliments, kissing your cheek again.

your face burns excitedly. “thank you,” you kiss his lips a few short times.

over dinner, you chat about each other’s day and the children. he seems to be deep in thought for a moment, and when he notices you staring he speaks again.

“you think we should have another baby?” he asks cheekily.

you nearly choke and your heart rate runs rampant, looking as if you hadn’t had sex before. “do you want to?”

“would i ask if i didn’t want to?”

there’s a rush between your thighs almost immediately. you place your fork down onto your plate and stand up, but before you can walk off he’s up and scooping you into his strong arms. he cascades up the steps with you bridal style.

as soon as he steps into the bedroom, he places you down on the fuzzy chair in front of your vanity. a finger points to the lacy set laying on the neat bed.

“you wanna tell me what you got this out for?” he presses, kneeling down on the ground in front of you. luigi’s pretty lips pepper kisses on your ankles, lifting each one up slowly to remove your kitten heels. once each shoe is off, he places the now bare calf on his shoulder.

“please, lu…” you plead pathetically.

his eyebrows furrow upwards, looking at you with big eyes full of faux empathy. “please what? use your words, mio amore. dimmi cosa vuoi*.”

words are quick to fail you. your brain is blank, almost static. most times you have sex it’s quick and hushed because the twins are in the house.

he’s kissing up your legs again, attempting to get a rise out of you. once he gets to your thighs, you’re getting a little restless.

“taking too long,” you mumble, and he lifts his head to look you in the eye again — this time much more stern.

“what was that?”

“said you’re taking too long,” you repeat yourself louder, locking your gaze with his.

within a second, he’s snatched you up and thrown you onto the neat bed.

“you and your goddamn bed decorations. i never know why you put all these pillows on here when we’re just gonna throw them all off later,” he grumbles, clearly angry and clearing the throw pillows from the bed, tossing them to the floor.

luigi pushes your maxi skirt up and nearly tears your little cotton underwear off of you. his tongue darts between your warmth and his nose harshly rubs against your clit, catching you off guard and sending your spine into electric shock. your hands fly to grip his hair in one hand and the tightly made bedsheets in the other.

“y’taste so sweet, tesoro,” he groans against you, leaving open-mouthed kisses on your thighs before going back to devouring your sex.

he’s already working an easy orgasm or two from you. he pulls you from your stupor and unzips your dress, gingerly pulling it off of you — he knows how upset you got last time he accidentally ripped the hem of your dress.

his shirt is gone, his chin and parts of his cheeks are still wet, and removing his belt as quickly as he can. as soon as his pants drop, you grab the hem of his boxers and pull them down. every time you see his cock, it never fails to surprise you that the tip touches his fucking belly button.

you pop his throbbing pink tip into your mouth, giving it little kitten licks and short kisses. you work your way down, or as much as you can, using your hand to pump what you can’t fit in your mouth. you’re moaning and slobbering around his cock, vibrations from your voice sending chills up his spine and down into his arms. his hands find their way to the back of your head, carefully urging you to take more.

your throat is constricting and you retract from his cock, looking into his eyes for validation.

“you’re taking too long,” he mocks in a faux whiny voice. luigi pushes you back onto the bed by his shoulders and holds his heavy cock. he teases your folds, rubbing his hot tip through to spread your own spit and cum from him eating you out. slowly, he pushes in. he always waits a little for you to adjust to how big he is.

“fuck, m’so full…”

“you’re so tight, mio amore.”

his eyes are boring into yours and his hands press down onto your womb to see his own cock buried into you.

“gonna cum if you don’t breathe for a second and relax, holy fuck baby,” he reminds you with a deep, raspy tone.

you take a deep breath and mid-exhale he starts to pound into you with a feverish and eager alacrity, causing you to almost scream.

“mmmmy fucking god!” your voice shakes with each impactful thrust against your hips. one of his hands grips your waist and the other attaches to your boob, his head following shortly. his tongue laps around your peaked nipple rapidly.

then both hands are on your waist and he briefly pulls out to flip you onto your stomach and prop your ass up to his liking. he’s shoving his cock back into your soaked cunt and returns back to his relentless pace.

“gonna fuck a baby into you, bella ragazza, gonna get you nice and swollen with a pretty baby, hm? isn’t that right?” he pushes his hand down onto your lower back, arching you up higher for him. both of his big hands find your frizzed up curly bun and he snatches your head back.

“feels so fucking good, m’gonna cum, lu!”

“aht,” he slows down exponentially, “you’ll cum when i tell you to.”

your eyes roll to the back of your head with adoration and you swear your ovaries start jumping at the demand. he’s back to slamming into you and a hard hand comes down onto each ass cheek three or four times. he adds to the torture by holding your hair in one hand and moving his other arm around your hip to grind his palm on your clit.

“oh my god, i’m gonna fucking cum luigi…” you breathe out between a moan, a scream and a whisper.

“what’d i tell you?”

“to wait ‘til you tell me to cum!”

“do what i tell you, be a good girl and listen to me.”

your brain is numb and your head falls limp, his grip in your hair is the only thing holding your body close to his.

“you’re so fucking pretty, mio amore, can i take a picture?”

you just nod obediently, not really caring too much at this point. he reaches over to the bedside table where he put his phone before dinner and opens the camera, showing your mascara dripping down your face from tears you didn’t know were flowing and an agape mouth, moans slipping through with every motion.

“you see why i love fucking you s’much? hm? look at yourself while i fuck you, baby,” he’s shoving the phone into your hand to palm your clit again. you’re bucking your hips against each form of stimulation with your jaw wide open, breathing shakily.

“there you go, tesoro, y’wanna cum?” he taunts, to which you nod your head and moan a hearty ‘yes!’

his index and middle finger focus on your clit, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves as tightly as he can. your eyes go crossed, no longer paying any attention to the reflection in the camera. luigi’s hand drops from your hair, pushes your head down and arches your back up one more time. he pressed record on the camera and kept up with his cock bullying into your cervix over and over.

“go ahead and cum with me baby, take it like the good girl you are.”

when he gives you permission, almost like a stage cue, you totally let go. your cunt squeezes around him entirely and traps him in. his cock twitches rampantly inside you as he meets his release, watching your face through the camera that you’re gripping onto with your life.

it takes a few minutes to cool off after he lays down beside you, stopping the recording and kissing all over your face. “you did so good for me, baby. sei una brava ragazza*.”

you don’t even have it in you to respond, your chest heaving.

“you think that one will take? should we go for another round?”

this gets a breathless chortle from you. “can i catch my breath first? also, you messed my hair up.”

“so that’s a yes?” he asks, already burying his face into your chest and carefully pressing kisses to your hot skin.

🌺🩷💋

italian words and phrases:

padrini: godparents

tesoro: sweetheart

sono a casa: i’m home!

dimmi cosa vuoi: tell me what you want

sei una brava ragazza: you’re (such) a good girl

'O Sole Mio'

?: After a few glasses of cheap Chianti, Luigi tells you a story. Nothing could have prepared you for its delivery.

1,080w

Author's Note: I don't have any words left after this, all i have is feelings and crying and ... im so gone for him. ive lost my mind. i dont know if this shit makes any sense but i was just about weeping writing it LOL

------------

It was the last golden gasp of summer at Seaside Heights, the kind of evening that feels like a postcard itself. The boardwalk was alive with the smell of fried dough and the sound of distant screaming children on rides powered by questionable engineering. Luigi and I had wedged ourselves into a corner table on the patio at some hole-in-the-wall Italian place.

We had ordered slices and “just a glass” of wine, which inevitably became, “Just bring us the bottle.” By the time I was three pours deep, Luigi had his legs stretched out like he owned the place.

His eyes, espresso-dark and shining under the cheap string lights of the boardwalk, were giving me that look. You know the one. Like he knew how good he looked in his half-buttoned linen shirt.

That’s when he suddenly froze, his head tilting to the side. He pointed upward. The music—some cheesy, dramatic Pavarotti knockoff that these Italian dives play to try and appear authentic. Then he smiled, clapping a hand over his mouth.

“What?” I asked, already laughing at whatever dumb thing he was about to say.

“Oh my God.” He shook his head. “I can’t tell you. No way.”

“Well, now you have to tell me.” I smacked his arm—rock solid.

He paused and sighed. “Okay, but promise me you won’t laugh.” He leaned in with a straight face that had me eagerly anticipating another highly entertaining Mangione story.

“I promise,” I lied.

“Alright.” He looked around, then leaned in conspiratorially. I was melting for this man. Every moment with him felt important, filled with meaning. He could have said anything, and I’d lap it up like a dog. “So,” he started, rubbing his face like he was already regretting this.

“My mom used to play these mix CDs on the stereo at home. Pavarotti, Bocelli, all the classics, right? She’d be cooking, cleaning, just vibing to these… love songs.”

“Sure,” I said. Totally normal so far.

“But this song”—he pointed upwards again to the song playing on the patio speakers—“‘O Sole Mio,’ a total guilty pleasure for her. When it came on, she would lose her mind. Singing, swaying, dancing. And eight-year-old me sat there watching her, thinking, This must be the greatest song in the history of songs. So, Mother’s Day comes around…”

At this point, Luigi paused, biting his lip like he wasn’t sure he should continue. I couldn’t help the smile that possessed my face.

“Oh my God, Lu, what did you do?”

He waved me off, reaching for his wine. “No, nah, I can’t—”

“Finish the story, Luigi.”

“Fine.” He threw his hands up. “I learned the song. Like, the whole song, okay? I watched every Pavarotti performance on YouTube at the time. Memorized the lyrics. Practiced in front of the mirror. And on Mother’s Day, I performed it for her.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did. For her, my family, my cousins, neighbors. I’m pretty sure Pavarotti himself has sung for smaller audiences.”

I lost it. “You did not…” I said, breathless already. The image of little eight-year-old Luigi in my head, filled with love for his mama, singing an Italian love song in complete earnestness, was too hysterical to keep contained.

“I did,” he admitted. The music swelled in the restaurant, hitting that classic over-the-top crescendo, and Luigi—my God, this man—pushed back his chair and stood up.

“And now…” He slapped his hand on his puffed-up chest and lifted his chin.

“Luigi, NO.”

“I will sing it for you.”

And let me tell you, it was terrible.

He was hamming it up like some kind of opera drunk on karaoke night, his voice all over the place but somehow still deeply passionate, like he was singing to save Italy itself. People in the restaurant were staring. I was just as mortified as I was captivated. Tears were streaming down my face. Dying. And he didn’t stop. He didn’t care. He kept going—arms gesturing wildly, every crescendo perfectly wrong—and it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

When he hit the final note—“O SOOOOLEEEEEE MIIIIOOOOOOO!”—he threw out his arms in a dramatic flourish, like he was expecting roses to rain down from the sky. I clapped so hard my palms hurt.

When he finished, he bowed. One or two other patrons gave half-hearted claps, probably just impressed by his dedication to the bit. His cheeks and ears were a delicious shade of pink, his smile lighting up his face as he moved his chair closer to me.

“You’re too much, Luigi,” I said, wiping tears from my eyes.

He finally sat down, our knees touching. He leaned towards me, and suddenly I was his only audience. “Do you know what the song means?” His voice was soft, so only I could hear. There was a twinkle in his eye that wasn’t there before.

I shook my head.

“Okay, ‘O Sole Mio’—it means ‘My Sunshine.’ It’s about… someone being the light of your life. Like…” He shifted his weight, trying to find the words. “Like even the sun itself can’t hold a candle to the person you love.”

He ran a hand through his hair, a little embarrassed by the intensity, but too caught up in the moment to stop himself. “It’s like the artist was saying, ‘The world is so much brighter with you in it.’ The guy is completely wrecked over how beautiful life is because of this one person... you know?”

His eyebrows furrowed slightly, gauging if any of this was resonating with me at all. His goofy bravado had melted into something almost painfully genuine and sincere.

This was real for him.

“I do know, Lu,” I said quietly.

He leaned back, taking his wine. He shrugged. “And that’s why I sang it for my mom.” He tried to downplay it, but I saw right through him. “Because she’s always been my sunshine. Always will be.”

My breath caught in my throat at that.

Then, he must have realized he’d gone too far into the serious zone. He snapped back to being playful. “Anyway, I fucking nailed that performance on Mother’s Day, and everyone talked about it for weeks after.”

I don’t know if he realized what he was doing to me. The lights sparkled brighter. The air tasted sweeter. And my heart was warmer. Because he was here. He was insane, but I wouldn't have him any other way.

The song made perfect sense. Life is a gift with you.

~~~

What a beautiful thing is a sunny day.

But another sun, even more beauteous, oh my sweetheart, My own sun, shines from your face This sun, my own sun, Shines from your face; It shines from your face