- Warning: the plot is highly erotic and suggestive, if you not feel comfortable please click back ❕
★ User as Itrapped POV 🫰
The sunlight crept lazily through the curtains, painting soft lines across pale skin.
Itrapped stirred beneath the sheets, every limb sore in a way that was almost indulgent—like echoes of pleasure still clinging to the edge of memory.
The heavy warmth of the previous night hadn’t faded entirely; it lingered in the tenderness of his joints, in the phantom touch still ghosting across his spine.
He got up eventually, showered, dressed—well, if one could call wearing an oversized white dress shirt dressing. It wasn’t his, obviously. Too large, too long, too soaked in someone else's scent.
But no one had asked his opinion. Not the Mafioso who picked it out for him with an unreadable grin, not the other who’d merely raised an eyebrow and handed him his belt with a faint, amused hum.
Still, he walked—barefoot and quiet—into the kitchen, hair damp and shirt slipping dangerously low with each step.
Mafioso was already there, stirring something on the stove, looking criminally domestic in an apron that didn’t match his aura at all. His counterpart was sitting nearby, gaze too focused for someone pretending to be idle.
He handed over a scribbled list to the first, a short note of what he needed to make breakfast—eggs, garlic, coriander, and a specific brand of rice vinegar. His tone was even, cool, maybe even bossy. The Enigma had returned to his throne, bruises be damned.
Mafioso (the original) nodded and took the list without question, already turning toward the front door.
And then—
A tremble.
It hit without warning. Itrapped knees buckled slightly, his breath caught mid-sentence.
Heat—low and thick and blooming—curled in his stomach, crawling up his spine like something alive.
The scent of his own pheromones was unmistakable now, leaking out in waves of sweet resin and metal tang. Cypress and blood iron.
Itrapped gripped the edge of the kitchen counter, knuckles white. Across the room, both Mafiosos had gone still.
He didn’t need to look to know they were staring.
But he looked anyway.
Their eyes—two sets, one calm, one feral—met his like twin daggers poised above his skin.
And then—
"...Hot," they said.
It wasn’t clear who spoke first, or if both voices had simply overlapped in that moment of shared tension. Mafioso—the original—blinked, taken slightly aback.
A split-second pause, then he raised a hand to his lips, as though to stifle the heat rising up his throat. He exhaled quietly, slow and controlled, like a man trying not to breathe in too deep.
The other? Mafioso (skibidi) just chuckled under his breath, the sound low and too pleased. His tongue swept slowly across his bottom lip, deliberate and indulgent.
"Ah...your pheromones," he murmured, voice husky with desire, His face was red from excitement and blood was running down his nose, "smell too fucking good... too addictive. You really expect us to ignore that?"
His gaze dragged over the trembling figure leaning against the counter when raising hand to wipe away his drops of blood dripping from nose, and the hunger in it was sharp enough to burn.
The original Mafioso just panted behind, he didn't speak. But clearly his eyes were also tinged with uncontrol lust from Itrapped pheromones's.