Amilliona Nichol

Bruh His Mama Used Her Son To get Her Freak On Just In case 🫵🏾 Didnt Understand What was going on 🤣Plz don't teach Your Kids this Song 🤣🤣 #itshollywoodal #fyp this #kidstory is not the 1 to teach your kids

Chapter 8: Fractured Loyalty

The airport pickup felt like stepping back into childhood—too familiar, too raw. P Money and Young Smith idled the Escalade at arrivals, windows cracked, trap music low. Quan stepped out in a black hoodie, duffel slung, grin wide like nothing had changed.
“P! Smith! My n***as!” Quan dapped them up hard, sliding into the backseat. “Feels good to be back in H-Town. Detroit cold as f**k this time of year.”
P forced the smile, knuckles white on the wheel. Smith stayed silent in the passenger seat, eyes flicking to the mirrors. They pulled off clean, merging into traffic. The audio clip looped in P’s head—Quan’s voice selling them out. But for now, keep it cool.
“Man, remember that first lick?” Quan laughed, leaning back. “We was twelve. Stole them bikes from old man Harris’s garage. Rode ’em like we owned the block till the cops chased us into the river.”
P chuckled, throat tight. “Yeah. You jumped first. Saved my ass when I got stuck in the mud. Always had my back.”
Smith nodded slow. “Infants to now. Thirty-plus years. Family ain’t blood—it’s ride-or-die.”
Quan’s eyes softened. “Real talk. Y’all the only ones left from the old hood. After my moms passed, y’all kept me straight. We built this s**t together. Bricks to jets. Can’t nobody break that.”
P’s hands flexed. “Yeah… can’t nobody.”
The drive dragged. Nostalgia thick, betrayal lurking. They pulled into the driveway quiet. Inside, the air crackled. Kiesha by the door, G***k visible. Christina at the table with her laptop. Amilli on the couch, hazel eyes hard. Bre and Tatty flanked the sides, tension rolling.
Quan stepped in, smile fading. “What’s good? Y’all look like somebody died.”
P moved fast—snatched Quan by the collar, slammed him against the wall. Smith pulled his .45, barrel to Quan’s temple. “You tell us, n***a. You flipped?”
Quan’s eyes went wide. “What? The f**k you talkin’ ’bout?”
Kiesha stepped up. “We got audio. You sellin’ the drop to Dre. Timestamps. Details.”
Amilli played the clip—Quan’s voice clear: “…Rivera girls got the bricks now. Dre gon’ pay big…”
Quan’s face drained. “That ain’t me! I ain’t say that s**t! P, bruh—thirty years! You know me!”
Smith pressed harder. “Audio don’t lie. You set us up. For what? Paper? Dre’s pockets?”
Bre cocked her .40. “Snitches get ditches.”
Tatty stayed quiet, eyes flicking between them, hand near her purse—but no move.
Quan struggled, pleading. “I swear on my moms! I’d die before I betray! Somebody framed me!”
Christina held up a hand, laptop open. “Wait. I ran the audio through forensic software. Metadata shows edits—AI-deepfake traces. Pitch shifts don’t match Quan’s voice from old recordings. Subtle, but there.”
Kiesha checked her phone. “IP bounce on the sender goes to a burner in Dre’s territory. Lil Marco’s style. He set this up to turn us against each other.”
The room froze. P lowered his hands, stepping back. “What…?”
Quan slumped, breathing hard. “Told y’all. I’d never.”
Smith holstered, face crumbling. “Bruh… we almost…”
P’s chest heaved—anger collapsing into raw hurt. Thirty years. Diapers to now. He’d almost killed his brother over a lie. “I… I can’t. F**k this.”
He stormed out, door slamming. The Escalade roared off alone.
Inside, silence. Kiesha exhaled. “We spare him. Lock him in the basement till we confirm. No risks.”
Quan nodded, wiping sweat. “Whatever. Just find who did this.”
Amilli turned to Smith, his broad frame shaking. “Come on. You need air.”
Smith looked lost. “Yeah… yeah.”
Bre grabbed keys. “I’m drivin’. Hotel. Clear heads.”
They piled into Bre’s Infiniti—Smith in back, Amilli beside him, Bre up front. The drive to the Marriott downtown was quiet, city lights blurring. In the suite—king bed, dim lamps—tension shifted.
Smith sat on the bed, head in hands. “Thirty years… I put a gun to his head.”
Amilli straddled his lap, hands on his face. “It wasn’t real. He’s good. You’re good.”
She kissed him deep—slow, comforting. Smith groaned, hands gripping her ass, pulling her closer. Bre watched from the chair, sipping mini-bar Henny, heat building.
“Room for one more?” Bre asked, voice husky.
Amilli glanced back, smirking. “Always.”
Bre stripped slow—shirt off, revealing toned curves, pants dropping. She joined, kissing Amilli’s neck while Smith unzipped Amilli’s hoodie. Amilli moaned, grinding on Smith’s hardness. “Console him right, Bre.”
Bre dropped to her knees, unzipped Smith, took him in her mouth—deep th*****ng slow, eyes up. Smith grunted, head back. “F**k… y’all…”
Amilli shed clothes, straddled his face. He gripped her thighs, tongue diving in—lapping her p***y eager, sucking her c**t. She rode him, fingers in Bre’s hair as Bre bobbed on his dick.
“Switch,” Amilli panted.
Bre straddled Smith, sinking down on his thick length—riding reverse cowgirl, ass bouncing. Amilli kissed her deep, fingers rubbing Bre’s c**t while Smith thrust up hard.
“Damn… you tight,” Smith groaned.
Bre came first—body shaking, nails digging into Amilli’s shoulders. “Sh*t… yes!”
Amilli pushed her off gentle, mounted Smith facing him. She rode hard—bouncing, grinding, breasts in his face. He sucked a ni**le rough, hands slapping her ass.
Bre fingered herself watching, then joined—tongue on Amilli’s c**t as she rode. Amilli shattered—screaming, p***y clenching around Smith.
He flipped her, entered doggy—pounding deep, grunting. Bre slid under, licking where they joined. Smith pulled out, came hot across Amilli’s back.
They collapsed tangled, breathing ragged. “Thanks… needed that,” Smith murmured.
Amilli kissed him soft. “We got you.”
Meanwhile, P hit the corner liquor store—neon buzzing, shelves stocked. He grabbed a fifth of Hennessy, paid cash, slumped in the Escalade outside. Bottle open, he swigged hard—tears burning. Thirty years. Gun to his brother’s head. Over a lie.
Footsteps. Tatty appeared at the window, bottle of tequila in hand. “Papi? ¿Qué haces solo?”
P wiped his eyes. “Tatty? The f**k you doin’ here?”
She shrugged. “Saw you peel off. Followed. No one should drink alone.” She slid into the passenger seat. “¿Quieres compañía?”
He nodded, swigging. “Sí. Todo esto… Quan. Pensé que nos traicionó. Casi lo mato.”
Tatty took a pull, hand on his thigh. “La lealtad duele cuando se rompe. Pero no fue real. Llora, papi. Déjalo salir.”
Tears fell—silent, then sobs. “Desde niños… él salvó mi vida más veces que puedo contar. ¿Y yo? Puse una pi***la en su sien.”
Tatty pulled him close, his head on her chest. “Shh… está bien. Eres humano. El dolor pasa.”
They drank, talking soft Spanish—past pains, street scars. Heat built. Tatty kissed his tears, lips soft. “Deja que te ayude a olvidar… por ahora.”
She straddled him in the seat, tank up, big t**s free. P sucked a ni**le hard, hands on her ass. “Sí… necesito esto.”
Tatty unzipped him, stroked slow. “Duro como una roca, papi.”
She sank down—wet, tight, riding slow. P thrust up, groaning. “Joder… tan buena.”
Faster—car rocking, windows fogging. Tatty moaned Spanish curses, nails in his back. “¡Más fuerte! ¡Dame todo!”
P flipped her to the backseat, entered missionary—deep strokes, kissing fierce. She came clenching, screaming. He pulled out, finished on her t**s.
They lay tangled, bottles empty.
Tatty smiled soft, stroking his face. “Todo saldrá bien, papi. Confía en mí.”
P exhaled, exhausted. “Yeah… trust.”
But the real snitch—yet remained hidden. The frame job was deeper than Dre or Lil Marco.
For now, P closed his eyes, Tatty’s warmth against him, not knowing the storm was still building.

Finally done Brii in Blush

Would we do this irl Brii in Blush

Brii in Blush you wanna be my womanager lol

Free you

Yeah we went and did perfect Aiko

Aiko wanna go bowling???

Brii in Blush Destinee Luxeandpoised