THE GODDAMN BEARD ARE YOU KIDDING ME SOMEONE HOLD MY HAND PLEASE

😩😩😩😩

Wrong Time, Right Place

Pt1.

The last time she’d been in the Mangione house, she was nine, and someone had dared her to jump off the diving board.

She didn’t. She stood at the edge of the pool for what felt like an hour, heart hammering in her chest, goggles too tight against her face. Kathleen was laughing from the kitchen window, Luciana was sunbathing like a goddess on a striped towel, and Maria Santa had already done a backflip and was begging someone to “hurry up and go.”

She remembered Luigi too. Not as a boy she really knew—but as the kid who fixed things. Always barefoot, always squinting at something broken. He was quiet back then. Soft-spoken. Always carrying some piece of a gadget around with him. At some point that summer, he helped her dig a caterpillar out of a net and didn’t make fun of her when she cried. That was all she remembered. That, and the way the Mangione house smelled like lemon and rosemary, even when it rained.

Now she was 19, and back on that same porch. Only this time, she wasn’t here to swim or laugh or prove anything. She wasn’t a little girl anymore. She wasn’t even sure who she was lately. The door opened before she could knock. Her mom was already inside, calling out greetings like she’d never left. It was early summer, just past five, and Baltimore’s air had that heavy warmth to it, like the heat was sinking into the wood and staying there. She stood on the welcome mat with her duffel bag and her tote sliding off her shoulder, hair pulled into a lazy braid, lips dry, skin tight from the drive.

“Come on,” her mom called gently, waving her in. “Don’t just stand there.”

She stepped inside, and it hit her like it always did. The smell. Garlic and oil. Faint citrus. Something sweet baking in the oven. And the music, some old Italian record humming low from the dining room stereo, like the whole house had a pulse. For a second, her body didn’t know how to relax. It had been on edge for weeks. Finals. Projects. A roommate breakup that wasn’t even romantic but still felt like one. And the boy.

God. The boy. The one who kissed her like she was a secret and left her like one too.She hadn’t cried about him. Not really. But she hadn’t slept much since, either.bAnd now here she was. In a house she barely remembered but always missed. Kathleen appeared first, wiping her hands on a towel, smiling like she meant it. “You’re taller.”

“I’m literally the same height,” she said, setting her bag down. But her face cracked into a grin anyway.Kathleen pulled her in. It wasn’t one of those fake hugs. It was real, warm, tight, like she hadn’t just seen her grow up through Instagram. “I’m so happy you’re here,” she said into her hair. “You’re staying as long as you need. Okay? No pressure to be anything.”

That almost made her cry. She blinked it back. The kitchen was chaos in the best way. Luciana was barefoot on the counter, swiping wine from a bottle and yelling about how someone stole her favorite candle. Maria Santa was chopping tomatoes with a toddler balanced on her hip, pretending she wasn’t doing three things at once. Her mom was already laughing with Louis, Luigi’s dad, who was by the stove stirring a pot of red sauce and shaking his head fondly at the noise around him.

“This house,” her mom muttered, squeezing her shoulder, “I swear, it hasn’t changed since we were your age.”

And for the first time in weeks, she smiled and meant it.

~~~~~~~~~~~

They gave her Luciana’s old room. The one with the yellow walls and the creaky fan. It smelled like rose water and faded perfume. There was a bookshelf by the bed with random paperbacks and one photo of the three siblings taped to the wall—Luigi, Maria Santa, and Luciana, probably in high school, grinning at something off-camera. She unpacked slowly, half-listening to the sound of voices downstairs. Her mom had wandered off to help with something in the backyard. The Mangione sisters were still in the kitchen bickering like it was a sport. It was nice. No one was asking her to perform. No one was demanding to know how she was doing or expecting her to talk about school. She was just here. And that was enough for now. When she came back down, it was golden hour. Light spilling through the windows, Luciana now dancing in the dining room with a half-drunk glass of wine, Maria Santa setting the table, Kathleen humming along to the music with a dish towel slung over her shoulder.

“There she is,” Luciana called out. “We were about to send a search party.”

“She was unpacking,” Maria Santa said, smiling at her softly. “Let her breathe.”

“She can breathe while chopping basil,” Luciana joked, already pulling her by the wrist into the kitchen.

They handed her a cutting board and made room for her at the island. It was loud. Lively. Plates clattered, someone opened a bottle too fast and sprayed the counter, and Kathleen shooed everyone away from the oven like she had secrets to protect.

“You look so much like your mom,” Maria Santa said, dicing garlic. “But your mouth is all your dad’s. Sharp.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Luciana gasped. “She talks back! I love her.”

“She’s not quiet anymore,” Kathleen said proudly, pouring olive oil into a skillet. “She’s got fire now.”

She blushed a little. But it felt good. It felt like being seen.She wasn’t used to people celebrating the parts of her she didn’t have to hide. The back door creaked open, letting in the faint sound of cicadas and the warm breath of early evening air. The kitchen was already buzzing,Maria Santa stirring something on the stove, Luciana holding court with a glass of wine, and Kathleen rummaging through the fridge with her whole body like she was wrestling it.

She didn’t notice him right away. Not until Kathleen called out, casually, “Lu, tell your father to stop poking the sausages. They need to sear, not suffer.” And then he laughed. That sound, low, easy, familiar in a way she didn’t expect made her look up. He was standing in the doorway like he belonged to it. White linen shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled once, skin warm and tanned from the sun. His hair was short, dark, cleanly styled, like he’d combed it once that morning and hadn’t touched it since. His jaw was a little sharper than she remembered. His smile, somehow softer. He looked like he smelled like sea salt and warm cotton. Like he’d been outside all day fixing something just because someone asked. Like the kind of man who wasn’t trying to be the center of attention, but always ended up there anyway. His eyes moved across the room,briefly, casually until they found hers And stopped. It was quiet, just between them. The kind of moment that doesn’t interrupt anything but still makes the air feel different. His brow twitched like he was trying to place her, then smoothed when it clicked.

“You grew up,” he said, not surprised. Just quietly impressed.

“So did you,” she replied, heartbeat climbing way too fast.

He smiled, tilted his head. “You’re not still afraid of the deep end, are you?”

She huffed out a breath. “Only when I’m tired.”

Kathleen’s voice cut through before he could respond. “Luigi, baby, grab the wine from the table and make yourself useful.”

He stepped past her, giving her a nod so subtle it barely counted, and moved toward the counter like he hadn’t just knocked the wind out of her. But before he reached the sink, he glanced back. Not to say anything. Just to look. And she wasn’t sure what kind of look it was—curious, familiar, maybe something else—but it landed in her chest and stayed there, warm and buzzing beneath her skin.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sun was just beginning to slip behind the trees when Kathleen announced dinner like it was a holiday. “Everyone out back! Shoes optional, opinions not.”

She followed the flow of bodies onto the patio, arms brushing shoulders, plates clinking, Luciana already halfway through a dramatic retelling of a Tinder date that ended in an emergency room. The long wooden table was set with mismatched chairs and wine glasses that didn’t match either. Candles flickered low, napkins were folded but already sliding out of place, and everything smelled like roasted tomatoes, lemon zest, and summer. She didn’t know where to sit. Her mom had found a seat next to Louis, deep in conversation about property taxes, and Maria Santa was balancing her toddler in one arm while waving a fork in the other. She hesitated at the edge of it all, unsure where she fit—until she felt someone step beside her.

“Here,” Luigi said, quietly, nodding to the last empty chair.

Next to him.

She glanced at it, then at him. He was already sliding into his seat, one arm resting lazily along the back of the chair beside his. Like it had always been meant for her.

She sat. Close enough that their knees almost touched under the table.

The food came in waves. Bread, salad, pasta. Kathleen moved like a magician between courses, and Luciana was already tipsy enough to declare herself “a saint for helping with the dishes later.”

Conversations layered around her like music—half-heard stories, laughter that built without warning, forks scraping against plates. It was loud and warm and beautiful in the kind of way you forget you need. And then Luigi leaned in. Not dramatically. Just enough that his shoulder brushed hers.

“So,” he said, eyes still on his plate, voice low enough that no one else could hear, “are you actually here for the summer, or did someone bribe you?”

She took a sip of her wine before answering. “Little of both.”

He smiled, slow. “I figured. You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“Like your brain’s still somewhere else.”

She turned to him. “And you don’t?”

His grin widened, but he didn’t argue. A pause settled between them. Not awkward just full. Like neither of them was in a rush to ruin it.

“I forgot how loud your family is,” she said finally, glancing at Luciana now singing backup vocals to the music playing through a tiny Bluetooth speaker. Luigi laughed into his glass. “That’s their quiet setting. You should hear them at Christmas.”

“I’m scared.”

“You should be.”

She found herself smiling without thinking. It was easy, being near him. He didn’t talk too much. Didn’t force it. But every now and then, he said something that made her feel like he really saw her. Not the version she was pretending to be. Just her. Kathleen came by and topped off their glasses. Luciana shouted across the table to say she looked “suspiciously good in this lighting,” and someone dropped a spoon that clattered like thunder. But all she could feel was the weight of his gaze when she looked down. Their arms touched again when they both reached for the bread. Neither of them moved away.

By the time dessert was cleared, the sky had turned completely dark. The candles on the patio burned low, flickering against empty wine glasses and half-finished plates, catching in the gold of Luciana’s earrings as she waved a fork dramatically and told a story she’d clearly told before. Her mom was yawning into her sleeve. Maria Santa had her youngest slumped against her shoulder, fast asleep, curls tangled and cheeks sticky with tiramisu. Louis stood to help her carry him in, and one by one, the others began drifting back into the house—laughing, brushing crumbs from laps, stretching their arms above their heads like the night itself had worn them out. She stood too, unsure where to go. Luciana kissed her on the cheek without warning and whispered, “You’re handling us beautifully.”

She smiled, a little dazed. “I used to think this family was loud.”

“Oh, honey,” Luciana said, looping her arm around her waist for a quick squeeze, “we’re just getting started.”

Inside, the kitchen was quieter now. Dimmer, too only the warm under-cabinet lighting left on, making the marble counters glow softly. There was a stack of dishes in the sink, a tray of burnt lemon rinds, and a towel half-crumpled near the sink like someone had given up mid-clean. She lingered there a moment, just taking it in. It was rare to see a kitchen like this when it wasn’t full of voices. When the energy had settled and you could finally hear your own breathing.

Then she heard footsteps behind her.

“Leave them,” Luigi said, his voice lower now, softer without the buzz of dinner around them. “You’re a guest.”

She turned. He was rolling up his sleeves further, collar still open, curls a little tousled from the humidity outside. He looked… relaxed. Like the night had worn him in all the right ways.

“So are you,” she said.

He reached past her for a dish and grinned. “I live here half the year. That makes me an unpaid employee.”

She hesitated, then grabbed the towel and bumped her hip lightly against his. “Fine. Then I’m your assistant.”

He raised an eyebrow, amused. “You gonna dry?”

“If you wash.”

“Deal.”

And just like that, they found a rhythm. He washed slowly, carefully, like someone who knew how to do it right—rinsing twice, stacking neatly. She dried, hands brushing his a few times too many. Neither of them mentioned it. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was… charged. Familiar in a way she hadn’t expected. Every now and then, he’d say something—point out that Luciana had hidden an untouched shrimp under her napkin or that Louis always left the forks for last. Small things. Observations. He noticed things. She liked that.

“You used to be scared of this kitchen,” he said suddenly, glancing at her with a little smirk.

“Only because Luciana threatened to throw me in the oven once.”

He laughed, deep in his chest. “She’s gotten nicer.”

“She gave me wine and called me hot. I’m terrified.”

He handed her a plate and looked at her a little longer than necessary. “She’s not wrong.”

She paused. The towel stilled in her hands. He didn’t look away. His expression didn’t change. And she wasn’t sure what to say—if she should joke, deflect, or pretend like her pulse didn’t just skip—but before she could decide, he turned back to the sink.

The moment passed. Quietly.

But it stayed there between them.

Humming.

By the time the last dish was done, her hands smelled like lemon and soap, and she was a little dizzy,but not from the wine. He wiped the counter with the back of his wrist and leaned against it, arms folded.

“You’re different,” he said softly.

She glanced at him. “So are you.”

A pause.

Then, like he couldn’t help it: “In a good way.”

Something in her chest tightened. The kind of ache that wasn’t sad. Just full. Before she could respond, Kathleen’s voice echoed from the hallway. “Luigi, don’t leave her alone in there. Give her the tour or something.”

He didn’t move. Just looked at her.

“You want the tour?” he asked.

“Only if it includes snacks.”

He smiled.

And led her out of the kitchen.

He didn’t really give her a tour. He started in the hallway, pointed vaguely toward a guest bathroom, then made some joke about Luciana’s old room being cursed—which, judging by the crooked closet door and permanent smell of vanilla lotion, might not have been far off.But after that, it was quiet. They walked slowly, barefoot on cool tile, the house creaking softly around them like it was falling asleep. Voices had dimmed behind bedroom doors. Her mom had gone to bed. Even the music had stopped. It was just them. He led her toward the back of the house, the older part,where the windows were thinner, the light more golden. The walls here were lined with photos, decades of family birthdays and anniversaries and blurry Christmas mornings.They paused in front of one without speaking. It was him,probably sixteen, holding a sparkler, grinning with cake frosting on his shirt.

“I looked like I had no idea what to do with myself,” he said, voice low, eyes on the frame.

“You looked like you were trying really hard not to smile.”

“I probably was.”

She tilted her head. “You were kind of quiet back then.”

“I’m still quiet,” he said, glancing at her. “People just stopped pointing it out.”

They stood there for a second too long. Then she shifted, brushing a finger along the edge of the photo frame.

“I used to love this hallway,” she said softly. “When I was little, I’d walk back and forth during parties pretending I was going somewhere. Just to be around it. The noise. The energy.”

He looked at her. Really looked.

“And now?” he asked.

“Now I think I came here to be around it without being in it.”

Luigi nodded slowly, like he got it. Like maybe he felt that way sometimes too.Then he turned, opened the last door on the right.The back den. She remembered it as the TV room,low couch, dark wood shelves, the leftover blankets always balled up in the corner. It looked the same now. Familiar. Safe. He stepped inside, but didn’t turn on the light. Just reached for the lamp in the corner and let it cast that soft amber glow across the room. She stood in the doorway for a second. He sat on the edge of the couch, leaned forward on his knees, looking out the window into the dark. She joined him, curling one leg under the other, the cushion dipping between them. Neither of them spoke for a moment.The quiet wasn’t empty. It pulsed with unsaid things. She turned her head toward him.

“You’re easier to talk to now,” she said.

He didn’t look at her. Just smiled gently. “You never tried before.”

“Maybe I was scared.”

His eyes met hers. No teasing this time.

“You don’t seem scared now.”

“I’m not.”

He nodded once.

Then, quietly: “Good.”

Her breath caught in her throat. She didn’t know what to do with the way he was looking at her. Like she wasn’t just some girl at the end of a long day. Like she was the thing he hadn’t realized he’d been waiting to find again. The silence stretched. And then he reached forward not dramatically, just instinctively and brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek.

His fingers were warm. Calloused at the tips. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just looked at him. Let it sit there. Let it be what it was. And when he dropped his hand and leaned back again, she felt the absence like a string gently tugging at her chest.

They didn’t kiss.

Not yet.

But something settled between them anyway.Something neither of them had words for.

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This is just the first part I’m hoping you guys like it, still feel like I can do a lot better lol if you guys have any feedback I’d be glad to hear it (: someone please lmk if this feels rushed (:

@luigisbambinaaa @luigis-wetdream @multi-culti-girl @mangionesdaisy @snoopy184 @mashkatzi

Soft Girls Don’t Stay

Part I – I Wanted to Be That Woman

(“Sí, yo quería ser esa mujer / La madre de tus hijos…”)

It started like all the stories that don’t end well do—slow, careful, innocent. A friendship. A bond so natural it didn’t feel like anything at first. Just comfort. Just ease. Just him.

You met Luigi in college. You were nineteen, heartbroken over some boy who didn’t even like himself, let alone know how to love you. Luigi was two years older. Funny. Smart in the quiet way, where he didn’t need to prove it. The kind of guy who made you feel safe just by being there.

He never tried to make a move. Not then. He was just… there.

The one you called when you needed help with insurance. The one who showed up outside your apartment when you said you were fine but your texts were off.

The one who listened.

The one who always stayed.

You didn’t realize when it shifted.

When friendship started to taste like something else.

Maybe it was the night you watched that stupid movie on his couch and your legs brushed—and neither of you moved. Or when he came to your place after his ex cheated and you spent the night on the floor beside his bed, holding his hand in the dark.

You were just friends.

Friends who slept in the same bed.

Friends who told each other everything.

Friends who started to look at each other a little too long, too late, too often.

“Y juntos caminar hacia el altar / Directo hacia la muerte…”

You knew the moment you were gone for him.

It was the night your last boyfriend left you crying on the sidewalk outside a party. You called Luigi. No words. Just sobs. He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t hesitate. He came.

You remember sitting in the passenger seat of his car, hoodie pulled over your knees, mascara streaked down your face, and him looking over at you like you were breakable. Like he didn’t know what to say—but would still sit with you in the silence until it felt like breathing again.

“I hate seeing you like this,” he said.

You looked at him, eyes swollen. “Then stop leaving every time I start needing you.”

It slipped out. And he didn’t answer.

Just reached over and took your hand.

⸻

You didn’t talk about it the next day.

You never talked about it.

That was your pattern: almosts. Stares. Brushed hands. Long hugs. Texts that said “come over?” and replies that said “I was already on my way.”

You had other people. So did he.

But they didn’t feel like anything.

Sex with them was just movement.

But sex with each other?

It felt like gravity.

⸻

The first time you slept together, it wasn’t planned. It never was.

You were wearing a big t-shirt and nothing else, curled on his couch after another hard week, your legs in his lap. He was talking about a fight with his dad, something old and unresolved. You reached up, brushed a curl behind his ear without thinking.

He froze.

So did you.

Then he kissed you.

Slow. Deep. Like he’d been waiting years.

And maybe he had.

You ended up in his bed. Skin on skin. Breath on breath.

It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t messy. It wasn’t loud.

It was real. So real it made you want to cry. The kind of touch that makes you forget where your body ends and theirs begins.

He said your name like it was a secret. Like a prayer.

And when he came, he buried his face in your neck and whispered, “You feel like home.”

⸻

But in the morning?

He was different.

Quieter. Softer. Still there—but already slipping away.

And you let it happen. Again.

Because that’s what you did.

⸻

That summer, you weren’t together.

But he still got jealous.

You were at a party, laughing at some guy’s joke. Luigi saw you from across the room. His jaw clenched. You could feel it before you even turned around.

Later that night, he cornered you in the hallway.

“You like him?” he asked.

You blinked. “We’re not doing this.”

He stepped closer. “You were touching him.”

“He touched me.”

He scoffed. “Yeah, well, it looked like you wanted it.”

You crossed your arms. “Why do you care?”

He looked at you like you had said something offensive. “Because you’re mine.”

The silence after that was deafening.

You whispered, “Then say it. Out loud. Call me yours.”

He stared at you.

Didn’t say a word.

So you turned around. And walked away.

“Y al final, ni hablar / Los dos nos destruimos…”

⸻

That’s how it always went.

He was there—but not fully.

You loved him—but never enough to stop hurting.

And still, if he called, you came.

If you cried, he showed up.

You once told your best friend, “I know he’s not mine. But it feels like he is. In the ways that count.”

She said, “Then maybe those aren’t the ways that should count.”

⸻

And now, five months later—

You’re folding laundry on the floor of your bedroom when you hear it:

Three soft knocks.

Your whole body stills.

You press your fingers to your lips.

“No,” you whisper to no one. “Not now. Not again.”

You tiptoe to the door. Look through the peephole.

And there he is.

Luigi.

Same curls. Same hoodie. Same hands that used to know how to undo you.

Your heart drops.

And all you hear, again, is the lyric that never stops echoing when it comes to him:

“Y al final, ¿qué tal? / Tú y yo ya no existimos…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part II – I Still Smell Like Yours

“No, no quiero ser esa mujer / Ella se fue a un abismo…”

He didn’t bring flowers. He brought a box. A worn, cardboard box with your handwriting on the side—half-faded hearts you’d drawn in Sharpie a lifetime ago. Inside, you already knew what you’d find: your sweatshirt, your journal, probably that hair clip he used to slide off you like undressing was second nature.

He didn’t knock like he was sorry.

He knocked like he was hoping you’d still answer.

And you did.

Because of course you did.

You opened the door slowly, quietly, like maybe if you moved gently enough, the past wouldn’t rush in behind him. But the second you saw him—same curls, same hoodie, same mouth you used to kiss just to shut him up—it hit you like heat.

And worse?

He looked relieved to see you.

“Hey,” he said, voice low.

You didn’t say anything.

He shifted, awkward. Held up the box like a white flag.

“I found this in my closet. Thought it was yours.”

You folded your arms. “You drove all this way for a box?”

He glanced down. Shrugged. “I was in the neighborhood.”

“Bullshit.”

He smiled, just barely. “Yeah.”

A pause.

“You gonna let me in?”

You should’ve said no.Should’ve slammed the door and let him carry his regrets back home. But your body moved before your brain could catch up.

You stepped aside.

The air changed the second he walked in.

He looked around like the room still belonged to him. Like nothing had changed. Like you hadn’t cried into your pillow every night for the first three weeks after he ghosted you in broad daylight.

His eyes landed on the candle burning by the window. Vanilla and rosewater.

He closed his eyes for a beat.

“You still wear that lotion?”

You didn’t answer.

He smiled to himself. “Of course you do.”

You stayed near the door, arms crossed. “Ten minutes. That’s all you get.”

He set the box down. “You look good.”

“Luigi.”

“Just saying.”

“You don’t get to say that anymore.”

⸻

Silence. The kind that buzzes in your ears.

He turned to face you fully now. His voice softened. “I missed you.”

You shook your head. “No. You missed the way I loved you.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

He stepped closer. Not touching. Just near enough that it felt like skin on skin.

“You think I didn’t love you?” he said, voice low.

“I think you loved me the way scared people do,” you said. “Only when I wasn’t asking for anything.”

He blinked.

You pressed on.

“I never wanted a superhero, Lu. I just wanted someone who wouldn’t run every time it got real.”

“Tú no eres aquel que prometió / Sería mi superhéroe…”

His jaw tensed. “You think it was easy for me?”

“You made it look effortless.”

“That’s not—”

“I begged you,” you snapped. “I fucking begged you to just show up. To tell me it wasn’t all in my head. And you left me on read.”

“I didn’t know what to say.”

“So you said nothing? For months?”

His voice cracked. “I was scared.”

You laughed. It was bitter and small. “You were scared? I let you see all of me. I made you my safest place. I would’ve done anything for you.”

“I know.”

“Then why wasn’t I ever enough?”

The words hung there. Heavy. Sacred.

He stepped forward again. Too close now.

“You were always enough,” he whispered. “That’s what scared me.”

You stared at him. Your throat burned.

“Don’t,” you said, voice barely holding. “Don’t do this if you’re not going to stay.”

He touched your cheek. Just barely. Fingers brushing skin like it still belonged to him.

“I never stopped thinking about you.”

“You stopped calling me.”

His hand dropped. “I didn’t think you wanted to hear from me.”

“I didn’t,” you whispered. “But I wanted you to want to try.”

His eyes dropped to your lips.

You felt your heart stutter.

Because you wanted him to kiss you.

God, you still did.

But you couldn’t afford it. Not again. Not this time.

He looked at the couch, then back at you. “Can I sit?”

You nodded slowly.

He sat, elbows on knees, staring at the floor. You stayed standing.

He looked up. “You look happy.”

“Does that bother you?”

A beat.

“Yes.”

You moved to the arm of the couch, careful not to be close. He turned his head toward you.

“You see anyone?” he asked.

You smirked. “Would it matter?”

“Don’t.”

You tilted your head. “Why not? You saw other people. You had no problem letting them touch what I built.”

His brows pulled together. “That’s not fair.”

“You’re right,” you said. “Because at least they knew what we were.”

You stared at each other. You saw it in his face—the pain. The wanting. The jealousy.

“You were never mine,” he said, voice soft. “But you always felt like you were.”

Your eyes welled.

“And that’s the problem.”

In the silence that followed, you both knew:

There was no button to bring you back to the beginning.

No reset. No rose-colored ending.

Just this.

Just heartbreak dressed like history.

“¿Y dónde quedó ese botón / Que lleva a la felicidad?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part III – The Goodbye I Deserved

“Y que todo acabó, no queda más / Seremos dos extraños…”

You didn’t mean to sit down.

But your legs gave in before your pride did.

You were on the far end of the couch now, knees pulled up, palms clenched. Luigi sat across from you, elbows on his knees, like he was waiting for the right time to speak.

Like this was a funeral.

And he’d shown up late with nothing to offer but the truth.

“I used to picture it,” he said quietly. “Us. A place together. You in my hoodie, yelling at me for using the wrong sponge on the dishes.”

You looked down. Smiled without warmth. “You never said that before.”

“I didn’t know how to say anything before.”

You scoffed. “No. You just left.”

He nodded. Took it. “I know.”

A long pause.

“You were the only one I told everything to,” he said. “The only one who made me feel like I wasn’t too much. You made the world quieter.”

“And you made mine louder,” you said, looking up. “You made me doubt myself. You made me wait. You made me feel like love was something I had to earn.”

He winced.

You continued, voice steady now. “I wanted to be that woman. The one you saw a future with. The one who got your last name, your kids, your ugly coffee mugs.”

“Sí, yo quería ser esa mujer / La madre de tus hijos…”

Your throat tightened.

“I would’ve built a life with you, Luigi,” you said, barely above a whisper. “I would’ve chosen you. Over and over. Even when you didn’t choose me back.”

He looked broken now.

“I still would,” he said, voice raw. “If you let me.”

You stared at him. Silent.

And that silence was the answer.

He exhaled. Closed his eyes. Rubbed his hands together like he could warm up from the cold you’d become.

When he spoke again, his voice cracked in places it never used to.

“I know I fucked up,” he said. “I know I didn’t show up when it mattered. But if you ever need me—if you’re ever falling apart at 2AM or you just need someone to show up without asking why—”

He looked up.

“I’ll be there.”

You blinked. He kept going.

“I’ll always be here. I’ll always wait for you. Even if you never come back.”

There it was.

The thing you wanted for so long.

Too late.

But still.

You let yourself feel it.

You crossed the space between you. Sat next to him. Pressed your forehead to his.

“You were my favorite almost,” you whispered. “But I can’t keep choosing you in every lifetime where you never choose me.”

His hands trembled as they gripped your waist, but he didn’t pull you in.

He knew better now.

You stayed like that for a moment. One last inhale. One last warmth.

Then you stood.

He watched you walk to the door. Barefoot. Steady.

You looked back only once.

And with the softest voice you’d ever used on him, you said:

“Goodbye, Luigi.”

“Yo te olvidaré, me olvidarás… hasta nunca.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

I hope you guys like this hate to admit it but I cried while writing this (:

@luigisbambinaaa @luigis-wetdream @multi-culti-girl @mangionesdaisy @snoopy184 @daydreamingwithluigi @iinfinitelimits

Newly released screenshots from body cam footage taken by Altoona PD on the morning of December 9th:

In this motion, filed by Karen, she is seeking to suppress evidence related to the New York State charges:

You can read the full motion here.

https://www.tumblr.com/palmersluvr/780707340543508480/this-is-an-ask-that-luigisbambinaaa-wrote-about

Girl that was sooooooo good. You NEED to start writing 💕

AWWW THANK YOU 💞💞💞 honestly it’s my first time ever writing anything like that!!! im on spring break right now so i guess i could try to write more if you have any ideas :P

OMFG 😣😣😣😣

Wait 💀his sister or something catching him going into your room at night she’s like what the actual fuck 😦I mean yes you don’t want to talk to him but ur still fucking him OBVIOUSLY YOUR THOUGHTS NOW PLS

I know this is from a few days ago omg but this is MESSYYYYYY (and I love it) because what if one of his sisters caught him sneaking down the hallway in nothing but his boxers, heading to your room like a thief in the night, glancing over his shoulder to make sure the coast is clear, only for her to spot him while she’s in the bathroom brushing her teeth?

She’s standing there, toothbrush still in her mouth, like:

“…Luigi?”

And, there, he halted in his tracks like a kid caught sneaking out in the middle of the night.

She squinted. “Are you serious right now?”

He tried, badly, to play it cool. “What?”

“What?” she repeated, pulling the toothbrush from her mouth. “You’re supposed to be giving her space, not sneaking into her room like it’s high school. Jesus Christ.”

He groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not like that.”

“Oh, really? So you’re just casually visiting the mother of your child at 11:45 p.m. in your boxers to talk about co-parenting? Do you remember the part where she said she needed space? Or did that get lost somewhere between you ‘checking on the baby’ every hour? You’re a fucking joke, you know that?”

And then, not even moments after she confronted him, he still went ahead and entered into your room. Now you’re in the middle of fucking each other, engaging in some risky business that you shouldn’t even be doing, especially not here, in his parents’ house. He’s breathless, lips brushing your ear between kisses, whispering, “You gotta be quiet, baby…” and “Remember, he’s right there—don’t wake him up.” But now that one of his sisters knows what you two have been doing, sneaking around and still hooking up after everyone’s gone to sleep, the weight of that confrontation hangs heavy on his conscience. Still, he’s the one making noise and not being quiet—thrusting into you, moaning against your skin, whispering praises in your ear while you struggle to stay silent, biting back sounds that don’t even have names. And when he feels you slipping, he would press a hand gently over your mouth, whispering, “Shh… shh…”

anon you did summ here 😮‍💨

Prof Mangione who has his home screen on his MacBook Pro set to a picture of you and him posing and smiling together at the top of a hiking trail—you in your cute two-piece workout set, and him in just shorts, shirtless. One morning, when he connects his laptop to the lecture hall’s projector and monitor, the photo pops up on the big screen and the whole class lets out an “Aww,” and he gets so fucking bashful 😭😭😭😭

stopppp this is so effing cute mama omfg😭🥺

i love the idea of his students shipping the two of you and ooohing and aaahing at every little moment between you both!!!! anytime you make even the slightest appearance during his lectures they tease you guys and probably throw around a “when are you two getting married?” gahhhhhh😣

legal team part one luigi mangione x reader

summary working on luigi mangione’s legal team has its benefits

warnings unedited, I do not like this hair on luigi and speak about it 2x, rpf haters are not gonna like this one, surprisingly safe for work

he doesn’t see you every week.

meetings with his attorney are rare enough. meetings where you’re there too—sitting off to the side with your notepad, eyes lowered—are even rarer. still, he notices you every time. how careful you are. how you listen without pretending to. how you somehow make the cold concrete room feel a little less dead.

he remembers the first time you walked in: frostbitten, soft-spoken and sweet. you were bundled up in a heavy coat, scarf loose around your neck, hair tangled from the wind. you looked too soft for this place. too alive.

his attorney—well, she insists he just call her karen now—she notices. she makes these meetings feel less like depositions and more like conversations. she listens closely, looks for patterns. she sees the way his eyes flicker when you’re mentioned, how they lose focus when someone else enters the room. she caught the way his jaw tensed when she introduced him to her senior paralegal. the way his shoulders dropped, relieved, when she reassured him you weren’t gone—just reassigned, temporarily, to a different stack of documents.

“y/n isn’t here this week,” she says gently, like it might break him.

luigi blinks. he hadn’t even sat down yet. “sorry?”

“she’s still on the case,” karen says pointedly.

the hazel-haired boy sits stiff in his seat. he should be offended—should feel insulted that his attorney finds it necessary to clarify something so trivial, so far from the gravity of his trial. his greatest anxieties should be occupied with the outcome, the press, the sentence hanging over his head like a blade.

but they aren’t.

his fingers twitch against the leather of the chair. he doesn’t look at karen when he asks, voice quieter than before, “so she’ll be back?”

karen nods. “next week, maybe sooner. depends on how fast the paperwork clears.”

he leans back, but only slightly. eyes drift to the window behind her desk—rain tapping gently against the glass like it’s trying to pull him out of the room. he can almost picture you in it. red scarf, crooked smile, hands too small for the amount of documents you had to carry. the soft clumsiness of someone not built for law offices and depositions, but for poetry, maybe. for gardens. for late afternoons with nothing scheduled.

“good,” he murmurs.

she re-arranges the paperwork in front of her, glances at him. “from what i read, you two went to penn together?”

he nods once.

“same year?”

“she graduated early.”

karen nods, making a note in the margin of the document in front of her. “that tracks. she struck me as someone who doesn’t waste time. sharp, efficient. very focused.”

luigi lifts one shoulder in a shrug. avoids her eyes. “we weren’t friends,” he says quietly. the first piece of his real life he’s given up in weeks. “i TA’d for one of her classes.”

karen’s smile comes smally. it’s cute, she thinks. and undoubtedly useful.

“i’ve worked with women like her,” she goes on. “sharp, composed, polite on the surface—but give them a red pen and a narrow margin and they’ll eat you alive. i’d bet she rewrote half your comments.”

a faint smile flickers across his face, the kind that men of his class fight to hide.

“you’re aware, of course, that casual conversation is permitted,” karen says, tone returning to a neutral cadence.

he looks at her now, uncertain.

“with her,” she clarifies. “should she return. which she will. next week.”

he doesn’t respond, but she sees the way his jaw shifts.

karen nods, satisfied. “just thought i’d mention it. in case you were under the impression that you had to admire her silently.”

the next week, karen is back—with her daughter in her place, the senior paralegal. she’s grown on luigi more than he expected. he likes the way her hair is always curled like she’s got somewhere to be after this, and the way she talks back to her mother. in a lot of ways, they’re similar. she knows how to talk to people. she knows how to talk to him.

the rain hasn’t let up all month. it swallows the edges of new york, turns the windows into blurred watercolor, makes the concrete sweat, seeps into his bones even though he hasn’t stepped outside in weeks. it makes the bad days worse. heavier. slower.

they’re mid-review when karen needs to step out for a phone call. he slumps back in his chair and sighs without realizing.

“bored?” sofia, the paralegal, asks, not looking up from the file.

“no,” he says. then, “yeah.”

she snorts softly. “we could ask the court to make the evidence more entertaining.”

“maybe add a soundtrack.”

“sure. live orchestra. i’ll have my father write the motion.”

luigi almost smiles.

she gives him a once-over. almost looks unimpressed. “you’ve let your hair grow out.”

he shrugs. “not much to do about it in here.”

“well, you’re about three inches taller now. we’ll have to update your profile. or adjust the lighting so the media doesn’t notice the awful new hair.”

he exhales through his nose. “very nice.”

and then—

the doors open.

soft voice, familiar cadence, gentle thank you’s to the guards as you step inside, coat dripping at the sleeves, coffee in hand like a peace offering.

“sorry i’m late,” you say, breath still uneven from the run. “you’ll never believe what happened on the train before this—“

luigi doesn’t say anything right away. he barely registers what you’re even saying. he just watches as you tug the scarf loose from your neck, tuck your damp hair behind one ear, offer that half-smile you give when you’re tired but trying.

“you made it,” sofia says. “thank god. our client was getting dramatic.”

you glance at the table, doe-eyed and sweet. “mr. mangione?”

“he sighed like four times,” she says. the two share a glance, where luigi feels himself glaring. surely this was confirmation this family gossips about him at the dinner table.

sofia smiles in his face, a glimmer of mischief sparkling in her chocolate brown eyes. “if there’s ever a tell-all, i’ll make sure the section about your terrible attitude is thorough.”

“i sighed once,” luigi mutters.

the paralegal nods. “yeah. loud enough for me to count it four different ways.”

you draw your presence closer and hold out your hand. a cup of coffee.

“it’s cold. but it’s yours.”

he takes it, fingers brushing yours. he didn’t like coffee, but he liked the gesture. the idea of you going out of your way for him—stepping off the train in the rain, weaving through the checkpoint, explaining yourself to two bored guards just to get through the door and hand him something warm—did something to him. something soft. something stupid.

he smiles up at you. “i’m sure it’s better than anything i can get in here.”

sofia wants to laugh, but doesn’t. she lingers by the table a second longer than necessary, pretending to run through her notes.

“actually,” she says, too suddenly to be believable, “i need to step out. quick call.”

luigi doesn’t look up. “to who?”

“clerk’s office.”

you glance at her. “you already spoke to them this morning.”

“right. well, something might’ve changed.”

“since an hour ago?”

“these people are unpredictable,” she says with a shrug, already slinging her bag over her shoulder. “besides, you’ve got time.”

before you can respond, she’s halfway out, nodding at you, “it’s good you’re back. he’s nicer when you are.”

then she’s gone.

he watches you peel your coat off—slowly, like it’s sticking to your sleeves—and drape it over the back of the chair. you shake the rain from your hair. it clings to your collarbone, a little frizzy from the weather. your pretty eyes wash over his tired face.

“karen said you were a little miserable last week.”

“those women talk too much,” he murmurs. luigi then takes a sip of the coffee, hoping it’ll give him something to do with his hands, but it’s cold. watery. he grimaces.

you arch a brow, sifting through the mountain of documents in front of you. “you mean the ones building your defense?”

he exhales through a crooked smile.

“alright. they talk just enough.”

you take a pause to watch over his expression. “did you want something else?”

“what?”

“you don’t like the coffee?”

“it’s fine.”

“there are vending machines outside—”

luigi takes another swing of the coffee. it’s terrible. “really,” he tells you. “it’s fine.”

“you’re making a face.”

“this is my grateful face.”

you laugh, short and real. it knocks the air out of him, a little.

“that’s your grateful face?” you ask.

“what, you don’t like it?”

“it’s alarming.” you say, teasing. “almost as alarming as your new hairstyle.”

he immediately runs his fingers through his chaos of light brown curls, self-conscious now. “you noticed?”

“how could i not?” you say, already reaching for one of the papers, your eyes flicking over the page like this is just another tuesday. like this—being here with him—is ordinary. he watches you, struck by how easily you settle into the space, how you speak to him like he’s just a man across a table, not a headline or a case file. something about that makes his chest ache a little.

luigi smiles, trying to make it seem like it’s no big deal, but he’s suddenly acutely aware of how unkempt he probably looks. “you think it’ll divide the jury?”

“i dunno, i liked it shorter,” you say, casual, distracted.

luigi nods. “i’ll let the barber know.”

the conversation lingers for a second longer than feels professional. he’s not sure if it’s the cold coffee in his hands or the way your eyes keep landing on him—steady, warm—but there’s a looseness in his chest he hasn’t felt in weeks.

“it’s… really good to see you,” he says, softer now.

your voice has that tired warmth he remembers—not from knowing you, not really, but from watching you closely enough to wish he had.

“yeah,” you reply softly, looking at him with a small smile. “good to see you too.”

the next week, the rain clears.

you arrive in the first minute of morning, your coat slipping off one shoulder, a soft crease still pressed into your cheek from your pillow. there’s a grogginess to your expression—half-lidded eyes, slow movements—that he finds endearing. he watches you walk in with a bundle cradled in your arms, and it takes him a second to realize it’s for him.

“good morning, mr. mangione,” you mumble, voice still heavy with sleep. his mouth lifts slightly at the sound of it. you’re the only one who still calls him that—no teasing, no irony. just soft and sincere, like you still believe in titles, in dignity.

“you know you’re the only person who calls me that,” he murmurs, watching you from under lowered lashes.

his chestnut brown hair is shorter now, clean at the neck, the mess finally tamed. you notice right away, your eyes flicking up as you set the clothes down on the table. the new cut brings out the angles of his face more—sharper jaw, clearer eyes—but there’s still something boyish in the way he looks at you.

your innocent eyes meet his, head tilted. “do you want me to stop?”

he shakes his head once. slow. deliberate. “no. i want you to say it again.”

your lips part slightly, caught off guard—not just by the words, but the way his eyes are on you now.

“we have people waiting, mr. mangione,” you decide on saying, sliding him the cloud of clothes. his fingers tighten around the bundle like he’s anchoring himself to it. he disappears behind the divider, the makeshift dressing area tucked in the corner of the room. you hear the rustle of fabric, the soft clink of the belt buckle. silence, mostly. then his voice, low but clear:

“you didn’t have to bring the tie.”

you smile. “they like it when you wear green.”

he chuckles under his breath. when he steps out, the shirt’s still slightly wrinkled, but it fits. the blazer straightens his posture. the tie—crooked. he frowns down at it, then at you.

“this is not my skill set,” he says.

you stand, stepping in front of him, fingers reaching to adjust it. he goes very still. you tug it straight, tighten the knot gently, smoothing the line of fabric down his chest. he’s watching you the whole time. his eyes aren’t sharp anymore—they’re soft. warmer than you remember.

“better,” you say.

“i like when you do that,” he says quietly.

you glance up, eyebrows raised. “tie your tie?”

“fix me.”

you smile. but you notice it. the air shifts between you—tightens. neither of you moves, but the tension grows sharp. your hands are still at his collar, and his gaze dips to your mouth, just for a second.

his eyes linger on you longer than is professional. there’s something about your face this morning—fresh and undone, your lips still pink from sleep, your eyes impossibly doe-like. they blink slowly, sweetly, and he wonders how it’s possible you look softer now than you did when he first saw you in the frost of december.

“you’re going to be late,” you say, clearing your throat.

“just one thing first,” he says, and before you can ask, he leans in—slowly, giving you the chance to stop him—but you don’t.

his hand curls firmly around your waist, the other finding your jaw, thumb brushing the edge of your mouth before his lips replace it. he kisses like he’s starved for it—slow but deep, tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes your knees give a little. he feels it, steadies you with a hand at your hip, pulling you closer, pressing into you like the taste of your mouth is something he doesn’t want to lose.

you gasp softly into him, but he doesn’t pull back. just breathes it in, groaning quietly when your fingers tangle in the short hair at the back of his neck.

you’re heat and rain and tension in his hands. everything about you is soft but decisive—the way your hips press into his, the way you lift your head and open up under him, the way your skin flushes like it’s just for him.

“you cut your hair,” you breathe against him, lips swollen and glazed.

he brushes his nose against yours, smirking. “you hate it?”

“it’s terrible,” you joke.

“yeah?” he murmurs, mouth skimming your jaw, voice rough. “still kissing me, though.”

you laugh, quiet and shaky, breath hot on his throat. he pulls back enough to look at you—just look. your eyes are glassy and soft and a little dazed. doe-like. he’s never seen anything sweeter.

“how late can i be?” he asks.

“i’d prefer if you didn’t make me explain the delay to a room full of cameras,” you say, pouting.

he laughs, but it’s soft, breath still mingled with yours. “we’ll have to be quick then,” he says smoothly, warm hands wandering. “you’re gonna have to work with me here.”

askbox

saving this to definitely write something later…

https://x.com/sloppyslvt/status/1898950058516639994?s=46

lu fucking you in his dorm just like thisss

“shh, don’t want people walking by hearing you”

“stop being so fucking loud, you’ll get me in trouble” as he shoves his fingers down your throat 😣

Luigi coded