#paperbacksinner

———

You don’t even pretend to play it cool anymore.

Ever since Luigi started bulking, he’s been walking around the house looking like a man specifically engineered to ruin your self-control — thicker arms, broader chest, veins in places that should be illegal. And the worst part?

He has no idea what he looks like. He’ll just stretch or reach for something and your brain shuts off like a dying appliance.

Every time you make eye contact, it’s over. He’ll glance at you from across the room and you’re already crossing the floor, already tugging his shirt up, already climbing into his lap like your body acts first and informs you later.

At first he’s shocked, breath catching when you straddle him on the couch. Then he gets cocky.

“Again?” he murmurs, hands gripping your waist — one hand now enough to hold you exactly where he wants. “Didn’t I fuck you stupid two hours ago?”

“you got bigger,” you whisper, grinding down on him, shameless. “you look so good I can’t think.”

And God — that does something to him.

He flips you onto your back like you weigh nothing, settles between your thighs with that new bulk pressing into you everywhere, crowding you, owning the space.

“Yeah?” he says, voice lower than you’ve ever heard. “You want it that bad?”

You nod, desperate, pulling at his shoulders, needing him inside you more than you need air.

He laughs — soft, breathless, hungry — before kissing you hard.

“I swear,” he growls against your mouth, lining up, pushing in deep with one long, perfect thrust, “the bigger I get, the needier you get.”

You moan into his chest. He groans into your throat.

And he fucks you like he’s testing the limits of every new muscle he built — slow at first, then harder, deeper, using his thickness to hold you down when you arch away, making you take every inch.

By the time he’s done with you, you’re limp, trembling, ruined.

And of course — two hours later, he catches you staring at his biceps again.

He had just walked into the kitchen shirtless, hair messy from a post-workout shower, shoulders insanely wide, veins still raised on his arms?

Yeah. You don’t stand a chance.

You don’t even pretend to hide it.

You look at him for one second — one single second — and he gives you that slow, knowing smirk that tells you he’s already seen how your thighs pressed together.

“Come here,” he murmurs.

You don’t walk. You pounce.

He catches you easily, big hands gripping your waist like you weigh nothing, pulling you into a kiss that’s all teeth and hunger. His chest is hot and solid under your palms — thick, heavy muscle you can’t stop touching.

“Can’t get enough of me, huh?” he laughs against your mouth, squeezing your ass with both hands. “My girl’s obsessed.”

“Maybe I am,” you pant, burying your face in his neck. “You’re so big, Lu… I can’t think straight.”

He groans — a deep, wrecked sound — and spins you around, hands already moving you exactly where he wants you. Before you can breathe, your hips are pressed to the cold counter, his body crowding you from behind, stomach flush to your spine.

“Hands on the counter,” he says, voice low. “You wanna act hungry? I’ll feed you.”

Your fingers curl against the countertop as he drags your shorts down, the air hitting your skin just before his palm does — warm, wide, claiming.

“Look at this,” he murmurs, spreading you open with one big hand. “Dripping for me already. Just from looking at me.”

When he pushes into you, it’s with the confidence of a man who knows you’ve been needing this all day — slow only for the first inch, then deeper, then deeper, until you’re gasping and the counter is creaking beneath you.

“Fuck— you feel tighter when you’re desperate,” he groans into your shoulder, grabbing your hips, pulling you back onto him with every thrust. “Like your body knows I’m getting bigger… and wants to keep up.”

You choke out his name, your knees trembling as his hand slides up your spine to press between your shoulder blades, gently but firmly bending you lower against the counter.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, fucking you harder. “Let me hear you. Let all the neighbors know how much you need this.”

You moan so loud you surprise yourself.

He wraps one huge arm around your waist, lifting your hips into his rhythm, filling you so deep your vision blurs.

“Look at you,” he breathes, lips brushing your ear. “Can’t stop wanting me. Can’t stop taking me. My perfect little angel…”

The kitchen smells like simmering garlic and sweat and sex. He’s so warm against your back. So big around you. So deep inside you that you can barely stay upright.

And when he growls, “I’m not done with you… not even close,” you know the counter — and your body — are both going to remember this for days.

You barely get a breath before Luigi’s hands are on your hips again — big, warm, insistent — pulling you back against him like he can’t stand even a few inches of space.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, voice already dark with hunger.

You expect him to fuck you again right away, but instead he lifts you—easily, like you weigh nothing now that he’s bulked up—and sits you right on the kitchen counter. The cold marble shocks your thighs at the same moment his shoulders slot between them.

“Lu—” He looks up at you from between your legs, pupils blown, jaw tight.

“Spread,” he says softly. “Gonna eat you until you forget how to stand.”

You whimper, opening for him, and he immediately slides his hands beneath your thighs, dragging you to the edge like he’s starving. His mouth is on you before you can breathe — hot, slow, claiming licks that make your whole body jolt.

He groans against you, deep and hungry.

“Sweetest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever tasted,” he mutters, tongue circling your clit with lazy confidence. “Been thinkin’ about this all day.”

His grip is firm, keeping your thighs open even when they shake. He sucks, licks, eats you like he needs every drop, like this is his purpose on earth. And when you start to fall apart—when your fingers grip his hair and your hips grind against his face—he just moans, holding you still.

“Go on,” he growls, voice muffled. “Give me another one.”

You break. Loudly. Messily. His mouth never stops.

By the time he’s done with you, your legs are trembling so hard he has to carry you to the bedroom.

He lays you down gently, but there’s nothing gentle in the way he looks at you — pupils dark, chest rising fast, arms still pumped and veiny from holding you up against the counter.

“You ready for another?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.

You nod, dazed and needy. He gives a low chuckle.

“That’s my girl.”

He climbs over you, caging you in with those thick arms, the mattress dipping under his weight. When he kisses you, you taste yourself on his tongue — hot, slow, filthy.

Then he lines up, presses in slowly, deeply, all the way until your breath catches and his forehead drops to your shoulder with a groan.

“Fuck… you’re still so tight,” he whispers. “Gonna ruin this pretty pussy.”

He starts thrusting slowly at first, savoring how wrecked you already are, but every time he meets your eyes he gets hungrier. You grab his shoulders—broad, solid, bigger than ever from his bulk—and pull him closer.

That’s what does it.

He growls and snaps his hips harder, deeper, fucking you into the mattress, your back arching with every thrust. His hand slides under your knee, pushing your leg up to open you wider.

“You look so good taking me,” he pants. “So fuckin’ good—look at how you’re squeezin’ me, baby.”

Your nails rake down his back, and he shivers — shivers, this giant man reduced to trembling because of you.

He bends down, mouth on your neck.

“Want you to fall apart on my cock,” he whispers. “C’mon. Give me another.”

You do — violently, beautifully — clenching around him, crying his name, shaking in his hands. And he follows with a deep, broken moan, thrusting hard, burying himself as he cums, holding you exactly where he wants you.

When he collapses onto your chest, sweaty and breathless, he kisses your shoulder, your throat, your jaw.

“You’re gonna give me another,” he murmurs against your skin, “after a minute.”

You laugh weakly. “You’re insatiable.”

He kisses your cheek.

———

It’s nearly midnight when you hear the soft knock on your window. You sit up, startled at first—until you see him. Tyler, balancing carefully on the narrow ledge, his breath fogging the glass in the chilly night.

Your heart leaps. You scramble out of bed and push the window open, whispering harshly, “Tyler! What are you doing here?”

He grins like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Missed you.” His voice is low, warm. He ducks inside with surprising ease, brushing the leaves and night air off himself.

“You’re insane,” you murmur, but you’re already smiling. Already reaching for him.

He pulls you in before you can say more, arms wrapping around your waist, face burying into your shoulder. He smells like soap and coffee, like home. “Couldn’t stand another night without you.”

Your protests die on your tongue. You melt into him, cheek pressed against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. The world outside feels dangerous, heavy—but here, in this quiet room, it’s just him and you.

“Tyler…” you whisper, “if anyone finds you—”

“They won’t.” He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his thumb brushing your cheek. His smile softens, all boyish affection and quiet defiance. “I’ll be gone before sunrise. I just… needed this. Needed you.”

You sigh, a mix of worry and relief, but when he leans down to kiss you, all the tension drains away. The kiss is slow, unhurried, the kind that says more than words ever could.

Later, curled up together under your blanket, the window cracked just enough to let in the cool night air, you whisper, “You’re going to get us both in trouble.”

———

Luigi notices it in the bath first.

The way the water slicks through her hair and it doesn’t lie flat like he expects — it coils. Little dark spirals clinging to her head, tight at the nape of her neck, looser near her temples. When he cups water in his hands and pours it gently over her scalp, the curls spring right back like they’re proud of themselves.

He blinks. Then blinks again.

“…no way,” he murmurs.

Your daughter kicks happily in the tub, squealing, completely unbothered by the revelation that has just rocked her father’s world.

She has his curls.

Her name is Giulia — Giulia Rose — and she’s barely old enough to talk, but she already has the same soft, stubborn spirals he’s spent his entire life ignoring, brushing out, flattening, pretending weren’t there. On him, they were always “unruly.” On her?

They’re perfect.

Luigi wraps her in a towel after the bath, carefully patting instead of rubbing like you told him, even though it goes against every instinct he’s ever had. He sits on the edge of the bed with Giulia in his lap, studying her hair like it’s a sacred text.

“Look at these,” he whispers to you, gently separating a curl with his fingers. “They’re… they’re exactly like mine were when I was little.”

You smile. “I know.”

That night, after Giulia is asleep — curls still slightly damp, tiny chest rising and falling — Luigi is on his phone. Deep in a rabbit hole. You catch glimpses over his shoulder.

how to take care of curly hair babies

curly hair routine toddlers

leave-in conditioner for curls

You raise an eyebrow. “Doing some research?”

He doesn’t look up. “I don’t want to mess it up.”

That’s how it starts.

At first, it’s just for Giulia. A gentle shampoo. A soft detangler. Luigi learns how to rake product through her hair with his fingers, how to scrunch instead of comb, how to let it air dry even when it takes forever. He watches how the curls form, how they shine when they’re treated kindly.

And something in him shifts.

One morning, you catch him staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, hair still damp from the shower, curls forming at the ends whether he likes it or not.

He touches one, tentative.

“…do you think,” he starts, then stops. Clears his throat. “Do you think I should try it too?”

You grin. “I was wondering when you’d ask.”

So now there are two curl routines in your house.

Luigi standing in the bathroom with Giulia on his hip, both of them with conditioner in their hair. Him reading labels out loud, squinting. “Sulfate-free… okay. This one smells nice.”

Giulia giggles when he scrunches her curls. He laughs when she reaches up and grabs one of his, tugging gently like she’s checking if it matches.

“See?” he tells her softly. “Same hair. Just like papa.”

He becomes meticulous. Protective. Almost emotional about it.

When someone suggests brushing her curls dry, Luigi is instantly like, “No. Absolutely not.”

When her curls bounce perfectly after a wash day, he texts you photos with an embarrassing amount of pride.

When his hair starts curling more than it ever has, he pretends not to notice — but you see the way he stands a little taller.

One night, after Giulia is asleep, you find him sitting on the couch, one curl wrapped loosely around his finger, thoughtful.

“I spent so long hating my hair,” he admits quietly. “Always thought it was messy. Too much.”

You lean into him. “And now?”

He looks down the hall toward Giulia’s room.

“Now I think… I just didn’t know how to take care of it.” A pause. “Or myself.”

He kisses the top of your head, then adds softly, almost to himself:

“I’m glad she’ll never feel that way.”

And in the morning, when Giulia toddles into the kitchen with her little curls bouncing freely — just like her father’s now do — Luigi scoops her up without a second thought, presses a kiss into her hair, and smiles like the proudest man alive.

Two generations of curls. Finally loved the way they deserve.

———

Joe doesn’t say anything at first.

You’re halfway through doing your makeup when you feel him behind you, hands settling at your waist like he’s claiming his place. His reflection meets yours in the mirror — calm, unreadable, eyes just a little too focused.

“So,” he says lightly, “this Christmas party.”

You smile. “What about it?”

He tilts his head, watching you like he’s already ten steps ahead. “You mentioned that guy from accounting will be there. The one who gets… friendly.”

You sigh. “Joe, he’s harmless.”

Joe hums, unconvinced. His hands slide up, thumbs brushing your ribs, his mouth ghosting over your neck. “Maybe,” he murmurs. “But I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

Before you can respond, he presses his lips to your skin — slow, deliberate. Not rushed. Not messy. Just enough pressure to make your breath hitch.

“Joe—” you start.

“I know,” he says softly, kissing just below your ear. “But consider this a reminder.”

His mouth trails lower, teeth grazing, lips lingering until heat blooms beneath your skin. You grip the edge of the counter as he leaves another mark, then another — carefully placed, intentional.

He pulls back just long enough to admire his work.

“There,” he says quietly. “Nothing too obvious. Just enough.”

“You’re impossible.” you murmur.

He smiles — small, satisfied. “I’m practical.”

He guides you gently toward the mirror and stands behind you, hands resting on your hips, eyes focused not on your reflection — but on your neck. His fingers brush your hair aside with almost clinical care, exposing the faint marks he left behind.

He tilts his head, evaluating. Adjusts one curl so it falls just right.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

You meet his gaze in the mirror. “You’re really satisfied with yourself, huh?”

A small smile tugs at his mouth. “I like knowing people see what’s mine,” he says calmly. Then, softer, almost fond: “And I like knowing you’ll think of me all night.”

He presses one last kiss just beneath your jaw — gentle this time, affectionate — before stepping back and handing you your coat like nothing ever happened.

“Have fun tonight,” he adds, eyes darkening slightly. “And don’t worry. He’ll understand.”

You know he means the hickies.

———

Luigi’s head is tipped back against the couch, lips parted, breathing ragged as you work him with your mouth. One of his hands is tangled in your hair, not pushing, just holding on like he needs something to ground him.

You can feel him getting close — the way his thighs tense, the broken little sounds he’s trying (and failing) to hold back.

When he comes, it’s with a low groan of your name, hips twitching as he spills hot across your tongue. You keep sucking him gently through it, milking every last drop until he’s shuddering and oversensitive.

You pull off slowly, lips shiny and swollen. Instead of swallowing, you hold it on your tongue.

Luigi’s eyes are half-lidded, dazed, watching you with that soft, fucked-out look he always gets after he comes.

You crawl up his body, straddling his lap, and lean in like you’re going to kiss him sweetly.

He meets you halfway.

The second your lips touch his you push everything back into his mouth — warm, thick, salty. His eyes fly open in surprise, a shocked noise vibrating against your lips.

You don’t let him pull away. You kiss him deeper, sliding your tongue against his, making sure he tastes every bit of himself.

When you finally break the kiss, a thin string of spit and cum connects your lips for a second before it breaks.

Luigi stares at you, chest heaving, pupils blown wide. His cock, which had started to soften, twitches hard against your thigh.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “You’re disgusting.”

But the way he says it — rough, reverent, turned on beyond belief — tells you he loves it.

You smile, sweet and innocent, and lick a stray drop from the corner of his mouth.

“Swallow for me, baby.”

His throat works. He does.

Then he’s pulling you back in, kissing you hard and messy, hands gripping your ass like he wants to devour you.

“You’re gonna pay for that,” he growls against your lips, already half-hard again.

You just laugh softly into his mouth.

“Can’t wait.”

———

tags: @iinfinitelimits, @mangionesdaisy, @poohkie90, @mrs-cactus69, @bbyelle12, @bornresilient, @bambinuhhh, @maplemangione, @lilbadblueeee, @mangobabydaddy, @mochibambigi

———

Luigi lifts you like it’s nothing.

One second you’re standing in front of the mirror, teasing him for staring at you while you fix your hair, and the next? His hands slide under your thighs, and you’re suddenly weightless, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. And the second your body settles against his, you feel it.

Yeah.

He’s definitely hard.

And he definitely isn’t hiding it.

Your arms loop around his shoulders. His forehead presses to your cheek for the briefest second, a quiet inhale against your neck, like he’s grounding himself in your skin.

And then he looks at you in the mirror.

His lips brush your jaw, slow and intentional — Luigi never kisses you carelessly. Even now, even with your legs around him and your heartbeat stuttering against his chest, he kisses you like he’s choosing you, choosing this, choosing right now.

“Didn’t know you were gonna take a picture,” he murmurs, noticing your phone, his breath warm against your ear.

“You picked me up,” you say, pretending to sound unimpressed even though your pulse is doing somersaults. “I needed proof.”

He smirks against your skin. “Proof of what?”

“That you can do this.”

His grip tightens — not rough, just secure, possessive in that gentle Luigi way that goes straight to your knees even though you’re not using them right now.

“I can do a lot more than this,” he says quietly.

Your breath catches. He feels it. He always does.

“Take the picture,” he murmurs, voice low against your ear. “I want you to see how fast you do this to me.”

You lift the phone, but your hand trembles when his hips press up into you — not thrusting, just letting you feel him, the weight and heat and intent of it.

“Luigi…” It comes out more like a whimper than a warning. He laughs softly, breath warm against your throat.

“I know, baby.” he coos.

One of his hands slides up your back, holding you tighter, angling you exactly where he wants you — right against the proof of how badly he wants you.

“Go on,” he whispers. “Take it. Then I’m taking you.”

You hit the shutter with a shaky exhale.