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He’s been weird since he got back.
To be frank, Luigi is always weird. But his return from Japan has made his nature much more noticeable to you, much more pronounced. He’s cagey, quiet, sort of unfocused. Not all over you, which is different—he’s normally much the opposite when he’s been travelling alone. Something is off with him, and it’s been that way since he came home to you.
It has to be that bag.
Whatever’s in it, he doesn’t want you seeing. You came across it while helping him unpack the night after he got home—a plain black drawstring bag, about as big as your head, holding something so special that the moment you discovered it and had the nerve to ask what was inside, he snatched it away, shutting you down with a quick and completely unserious “nothing!” before flinging it into your shared closet.
The next day, when you opened that very closet to dress for work, the bag wasn’t there anymore.
So, you know three things about what’s inside this mysterious, captivating bag: (1) it’s from Japan, (2) Luigi doesn’t want you to see it, and (3) whatever’s inside is definitely not fragile. What gives? You try to find out. Try to drop hints to him, coax him into giving you something, anything. Subtle and direct. Polite and rude. You try everything you can think of:
“Is there anything else you wanted to show me from your trip?”
“Are you ever gonna let me see what’s in that bag?”
“Did you bring something dead home with you?”
All you get back?
“You’ll see.” Sometimes he’ll smirk for effect. Little shit.
Nothing works. Luigi won’t even budge when you give him your best puppy dog eyes, the ones that always make him snap and give in to you, the ones that show up in his wet dreams some nights. Begging doesn’t work—neither does the silent treatment or endless interrogation. He just goes about his days as if that night with the bag never happened, as if the bag itself never even existed. Just goes to work and out with his friends and leaves you with so many questions you don’t even know where to start.
What gives?
One Friday Luigi is sat up in bed reading, moonlight beating down on his face from behind the windows of his apartment. When you walk into your shared room with a basket of clothes fresh out the dryer you grin at him.
“Dune? Again?”
He smiles back. “You would understand if you read it.”
“Babe, I understand once or twice, but this is—what, the fourth time?”
“You’re keeping count?” He looks genuinely surprised.
You set the basket down on the floor, rolling your eyes jovially. “I keep tabs on, like, everything to do with Luigi Mangione, just in case you weren’t aware.”
He watches you drop down into a squat to begin sorting your clothes. Marks his page. Sets Dune aside.
“Don’t fold those yet. C’mere.”
A curious eyebrow raises, but regardless, you listen; you walk over to him, swinging a leg over his hips to straddle his lap comfortably. His hands instantly find your thighs.
Luigi’s kisses always start slow. His lips are like pillows, so soft and preciously pink, working with intent against yours. You sigh into his mouth, linking your arms behind his neck and settling further into the warmth of his body. With time, he deconstructs more and more; you lose yourself in the motion of him against you, tangling your hands in his curls as his own trace your hips and flanks.
“What’s this all about?” you ask suddenly, raking your nails over his stubbled jawline.
He pauses, lips lingering. Looks you over; studies your face. Seems to contemplate something.
And then he guides you off of his lap and instructs, “wait right here.”
You aren’t sure where he runs off to. But he returns after a minute or two, approaching the bed holding something familiar.
The bag. He’s holding the bag.
“Oh, so now I get to know what’s in that thing?”
If this was all it took you’re pissed. If all he needed was some motivation, something to work him up to it, you could’ve easily given him that and much, much more. Just a little bit of kissing was enough to convince him to finally show you what’s in this damn bag? But when he loosens the drawstrings and begins to reveal what’s hiding inside, you start to understand:
A bundle of rope. Crimson red and moderate in thickness, probably no longer than thirty feet. The subdued, grassy smell of hemp hits you almost immediately.
Oh.
Luigi has discovered something new during his travels.
“In Tokyo I came across this little club,” he starts, fidgeting with the rope. “I guess you could say it was themed. It was…There were guests engaging for everyone to watch, doing all kinds of different things.”
“You went to a sex club.”
“That—” You watch him debate you in his own head, lose, and then come to terms with that loss in real time. “Yes. But not on purpose! I didn’t realize what I was walking into—”
“Babe,” you interject. “Did you fuck anyone?”
“What? No! I would never do that to you!”
“Then I don’t care,” you say, smiling. “Tell me more.”
He sighs, shakes his head at you. You drive this boy up the fucking walls.
“Anyway. Upstairs I found…a demonstration. There was a woman, a bakushi, teaching an audience how to tie a basic arm restraint with a model. It was very thorough.”
“So…” you lean closer, tone exploratory. “You watched a bondage show while you were in Japan.”
“Essentially,” he nods. “But it’s much more than just bondage.”
“Are you about to get philosophical on me?”
Luigi giggles. “Shut up. It’s an art form, baby. Kinbaku is a way for couples to connect as equals, while still maintaining the dynamic of dominance and submission. The bakushi explained this to us—it’s a form of communication, in a way. There’s an idiom she used: ichi-go ichi-e. To treasure the unrepeatable nature of a moment. That’s kinbaku.”
“Yes. This is so hot.” You’re nodding, holding your chin in your hands with half-serious intrigue.
“You are so mean,” he intones, pouting. “I’m pouring my heart out to you about Japanese rope bondage and you’re laughing.”
Now you feel kind of bad. He’s adorable. You love his brain, love the way he takes such interest in how other people fuck, all in search of an even better, more exciting way to fuck you. And out of his own adventurous curiosity, of course—the man starts and ends his day with a question. You crawl on your knees over to where he’s standing and cup his pretty little face in your hands, pecking him on the lips.
“You’re right. ‘M sorry.” You run your hands over the rope he’s holding, brushing your fingers against his. “Did you buy this at the sex club?”
He nods. “I stayed after the session to ask the bakushi what she recommended.”
Fuck. The idea of that is the cutest thing you’ve ever been blessed with a mental image of. Sweet Luigi, standing by as everyone finds something (or someone) new to do, just so he can learn more about whatever the fuck he just walked into. Because he’s just that inquisitive.
“It’s so soft…” you murmur.
At that Luigi smiles. “It’s raw hemp. I treated it myself.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“I had to stretch and singe it,” he explains, “and then I treated it with jojoba oil, the stuff that’s in your conditioner.”
Jojoba oil. When did he have time to do all that? Why is this impressive?
“I didn’t realize it took this much work,” you say, still gripping and admiring the rope in your hands.
He grins. “I told you it’s a craft, baby.”
With those words Luigi begins to unravel the core of the bundle, working it apart. There is a pungent silence between the two of you—you ponder the scene in front of you, your boyfriend handling a cord of red rope with ease, implying an earnestness left unspoken until now.
“You want to tie me up,” you utter plainly.
There is a flash of something hungry in his eyes.
“I’d like to,” he says. If you were touching him you could probably feel the heat rising in his cheeks. “But only if you would want to try it with me. And only if we do it very carefully.”
You’d try anything with him.
Leaning close again, you thread your fingers into his wild curls, bringing your lips to his once more. He groans against your mouth.
“Let’s try it,” you whisper. “Tie me up.”
His eyelids rise momentarily, but then he’s smirking, cheeky and shrewd.
“Strip for me,” he says with a playful smack to your rear.
So you get onto your feet, making quick work of your (his) T-shirt, shorts, and socks; you move a little slower with your underwear, peeling it down your thighs tantalizingly, making sure to keep his eyes drawn to you the entire time. When you’re fully undressed for Luigi he guides you to stand in front of him with your back facing his front, but you stall for a moment, watching him fold the rope so that it’s doubled up.
“Nervous?” he asks.
You shake your head. “Just thinking that it’s kind of awkward for me to be the only one naked.”
He grins. “Is it?”
Well, yeah. You pout at him and he chuckles.
“Such an impatient little thing,” he tuts, finding the hem of his own shirt and quickly revealing one of your favorite sights: Luigi topless, all broad shoulders and defined pectorals and perky, soft nipples. Your tongue itches to lick the trail of hair that disappears under the waistband of his basketball shorts.
“Is this better?”
You smile at him. “Much better.”
Now your back is turned to him for good. Luigi guides your shoulders backward, grabbing your arms and gently coaxing them together behind you, as far as they can go. You feel the slight sensation of your deltoids flexing and accommodating to his ministrations.
“First, I’m just stretching your shoulders,” he explains, “so that you don’t lock up on me while we’re tying.”
“We?” you repeat, curious. He seems to be the only one holding any rope.
His chin is leaning against the crook of your neck as he stretches your arms, the warm air from his nose tickling you. By now he’s bringing them backward just slightly, your fingers spread to stretch those tricky tendons in your hands. “Oh, you’ll have to help me out with some parts. I told you kinbaku is a group effort, baby.”
Then, right into your ear, he murmurs: “Tell me if I hurt you at all, okay?”
Damn. He wasn’t kidding about this being serious.
With your reassurance, he begins his work by wrapping the rope around your neck from behind, pulling it under your arms, almost like you’re wearing a hemp backpack. He then pulls this little loop he’s created down, against the mid-center of your back, feeding the first end of the rope through and then the second. Luigi is sure to straighten the cords with each movement he makes, securing the aesthetic of the tie while also ensuring your comfort. Then he does something that whips the air right from your lungs: he wraps himself around you and, using the leverage his body grants him, encourages your arms backward, making it easier to hold your elbows together behind you.
Fuck. Such a simple touch in this context rubs all the pleasure centers in your brain just the right way.
“This is called a strappado,” Luigi tells you, tightly wrapping one end of the rope around a high point of your arm, just a few centimeters below your shoulder. “There’s actually no consistent name for this style in Japan. Different bakushis have different names for it.”
“What did your bakushi call it?” you ask—half teasing him, half genuinely inquiring.
“…A strappado,” he says, anticlimactic. “She spoke English, so she didn’t have a special name.”
What a goof.
“Anyway,” he continues, mirroring his wrapping of rope around the other arm. His free hand maintains the positioning and straightness of the work he’s done so far. “It’s technically a form of torture, if you add the suspension part. It was actually one of the most common methods used on prisoners at the Hanoi Hilton during the Vietnam War.”
POW torture. That’s definitely a turn on. Jesus.
“Maybe don’t talk about that part while you’re tying me up,” you joke.
You forgive him silently when you feel his long, lithe fingers brushing against your skin as he maneuvers the rope. He seems to notice how you shudder, revels in the gooseflesh that peaks in reaction to his touch.
“Oh, and another thing…” His voice is lower now, rougher. “You have to stay very still for me. If you move your arms at all, eeeeverything I’ve done will fall right down.”
This must be the part where you have to help him. No pressure though, right?
The first tie is complete by now, the tight friction of the rope holding your elbows as close together as possible.
“Feeling okay?” Luigi asks. “Any tingling or numbness anywhere?”
“Nope,” you answer, shaking your head. “Should there be?”
He chuckles. “No, baby. I’m just making sure you’re comfortable.”
With your confirmation he continues his work. The second wrap is done faster, his practiced fingers threading each end of the rope through the knot he creates. It’s now that you notice just how much attention he puts towards avoiding your sensitive joints.
“Luigi, how much did you research this?”
His fingers halt, seemingly allowing him time to think. Then, he speaks:
“I mean, I had to watch another tutorial to make sure I could remember the tie correctly,” he reveals, locking the second knot with a harsh tug that rocks your body with his movement. “And I made sure to memorize where every major nerve in your body runs, so I don’t give you any lifelong damage.”
You’re starting to understand why he hid this from you at first. Luigi is anything but sloppy; if he’s going to do something, he’s going to do it right—as evidenced by your entire sexual history with him. He wanted to tie you up on his own terms, and that meant checking every box, crossing his t’s and dotting his i’s. Keeping you safe and comfortable. As always. You should’ve known better.
And on top of all that: the image of Luigi carefully watching a fucking bondage tutorial has you boiling over.
“I didn’t lie when I said this was hot,” you admit. “You’re such a geek. It’s, like, the sexiest thing ever.”
You can practically feel his smile beaming into your back. “I would argue that you are the sexiest thing ever. But I accept the compliment.”
The third line is just as simple as the first two. Luigi gently but firmly loops the rope around your left arm, an inch or so below your elbow, drags it over your back—keeping two fingers planted underneath, so as to not burn your tender skin with its rough fibers—then around your right, securing the knot with a tight wrap-around. Again, he pulls the rope taut with one slick motion that sways your body to and fro and sends your heart pitter-pattering into overdrive. You feel like putty under his touch.
“Still feeling okay?” Luigi asks.
You’re melting, basically.
“Yeah,” you whisper, voice weaker than intended. “Just kinda want a kiss.”
He gives pause to that. Keeps the rope held tight in one hand and grips your chin with the other, tilting your head to meet his mouth. The kiss he gives you is sweet, deep, and slow—exactly what you were craving, but it lasts long enough to light the fire of yearning in your chest, enough to make you want more.
You whine at the thought. Whoops.
It’s like Luigi can read your mind. “You’ll get more later,” he whispers, pulling away and bringing his attention back to the rope. “Just one more knot, baby. We’re almost done.”
The next wrap is started right above the ball joint of your hand, binding your wrists together. This knot is likely the weakest, but he assures you that the friction of the first two ties holds the entire piece together; “it’s all in the single column,” he tells you. And once the final line is finished, he takes what’s left of the rope and wraps it around that very column, creating an intricate winding pattern. The finishing touch.
“Is that it?” you ask.
“That’s it.” You hear him shuffle, taking a step back as if to admire his work of art. Urge overwhelms you.
“Well, I want to see!”
He laughs, guiding you toward the full-length mirror near your closet. You turn your back toward it, arching your neck as far as you can to get a peek of his work…
Yeah. He should feel proud.
Red looks nice against your skin. The paradox of a visually rough appearance and a physically soft texture catches your eye almost instantly, tantalizing and…sexy? Wow. You feel sexy. When’s the last time that happened? His attention to the delicate details of the strappado endears you in a way you didn’t quite expect—it’s not bulky or awkward like you were anticipating. It’s pretty. And that single column really is everything—it connects each appendage of the tie like a double helix, spiraling up your spine and framing your flexed shoulders.
“…Do you like it?” Luigi asks after a while of you admiring yourself in the mirror. He sounds a little nervous—like the confidence you saw before has dissipated into dust on the wall behind him.
You turn your head to him and smile. “I love it. I would hug you but, um, my arms are a bit…not free.” Instead, you resort to a peck on his cheek, right near his nose where your favorite mole of his resides.
And at that he smiles, cheeks rosy.
“I think this confirms it,” he says. “My instincts are always right. You know why, baby?”
“Why?”
His hands meet your hips, grip strong and wanting. He leans into you, mutters in your ear:
“You look beautiful in red.”