“ I was this cool the whole time”

The air in the decently sized eatery was warm, smelling of bitter-roasted coffee beans and baked sweet treats.

On the table, Solayne had a chocolate filled croissant before her, while Ámerei took the occasional bite of her blueberry cheesecake.

Both girls had met up with the promise of completing homework together. Either knew that would not happen.

"I'm surprised that's what you picked," Solayne pointed with a fork at Ámerei's food, shielding her mouth as she chewed.

Peering down at the slice of cake, Ámerei stared at it for a moment before giving a soft shrug. She glanced back up at the girl across from her. "Just wanted to try something new."

Solayne nodded. She swallowed. "Been trying a lot of new stuff lately, huh?"

Those words made Ámerei's eyebrows twitch. She looked at her friend, attempting to keep a steady enough expression.

"What do you mean?"

With a frown of indifference, Solayne shook her head. "I mean … you've just been disappearing—"

"Solayne—"

"Noo, don’t pretend you don’t know what I'm talking about, 'cause I know you do." Her stare was pointed, lips pursed.

Ámerei was conscious of her face, sure to not let anything slip; the jump of an eyebrow, the twitch at the corner of her lips. "The semester just started, you know I've been busy with school work. You have, too. We're all busy, Sol'."

Solayne waved her off as she gave a weak eye roll. "Please, you know you've been running. I'm surprised we're even here right now."

She allowed herself to squint, a deep furrow in her brows. "You're over-exaggerating."

And that was probably true. A big reason she hasn't seen Solayne as frequently was due in part to Ámerei now having a single dorm.

"And I still see you guys, we just hung out at Aneesa and Malaysia's place."

"Yeah, and you're always leaving hella early."

Ámerei gawked. "I told you I had things to do! I have so much homework, you know I'm apart of Leaderboard—there's so many things, Solayne."

She wasn't lying, per se. And it wasn't like she was ditching a hang-out with the girls every time. Only when her friends happened to get together on the days she had already arranged to meet with Onyankopon.

Letting out a sigh, the copper-haired girl waved her off yet again. "I know that's not the only things you've been doing. 'Cause if it was, you'd be talking about it more."

Incredulous laughter bubbled out of her at the absurdity of her words. "That's not true!"

For a second, Ámerei considered it: confessing to her about Onyankopon. How she hits him up for a little bit more than weed, because they both know she's not an avid smoker.

The idea died just as fast in her head.

She resurfaced from her thoughts, finding Solayne's stare far too intense for this conversation. The wrinkle between her bushy brows was soft, hardly there. And yet, it made something in her stomach stir.

"I don’t know, this feels … different."

Her heart skipped a beat. Ámerei held back on releasing a breath. "Different how?"

For a moment, the other girl didn't say anything, only looking off to the side in thought. Just until she offered a weak shrug.

"But, you're okay, though, right?"

When Solayne looked back at her, Ámerei noticed the pleading look in her eyes.

The one that begged Ámerei to let her in, simultaneously comforting her with the promise that she'll always be there for her despite whatever she was going through.

Ámerei cast her vision elsewhere, unable to handle what felt like the perfect mixture of sincerity and manipulation.

How was she going to tell her that the only reason she was so "distant" was because she started fucking her plug? How can she describe how thrilling it it felt, having this little secret to herself.

She's sure Solayne would understand that aspect of it. But if the rest of the girls heard who it is that she'd gotten herself involved with—especially Aneesa?

She internally cringed thinking of the judgment—to her face and possibly behind her back. Ámerei is no doormat, but she isn't afraid to admit that she can be a bit of people pleaser at times.

With something as scandalous as this, she had a feeling that if wind of this got out to her friends, she'd have to at least claim a connection to him. That would surely ruin what they have going on.

Even with being new to this "casual" relationship of theirs, it wasn't lost on her that she didn't know much about Onyankopon. She didn't know if he was talking to anyone else—she hadn't gathered enough from the limited comments of his one Instagram posts to suspect anyone. She definitely didn't know if he was hiding her from someone, either.

Was it too late to ask?

"Yes, Solayne, I'm okay," Ámerei laughed, hoping to throw the other woman off of her scent. Get her to stop thinking so much about what she might be doing in her free-time.

The brightest, most relieved smile graced Solayne's face. "Okay, good."

Relief. Although, before Ámerei could let out a sigh, the next words uttered stopped her in her tracks.

"So, did you find your costume for the Halloween party?"

Rapid blinks make her lash line ache. She tried, believe her, but Ámerei could not recall ever discussing a Halloween party with the girl. At least not enough for it to be referred to as a specific reference.

"Halloween Party?"

"Yes girl, we're going this year," she announced as though it were a fact. "We can't go through college and never go to a Halloween party."

Ámerei jerked back. "We're going?"

A quirk appeared in Solayne's brows. "I mean, us—the girls. We could all even do a cute group costume-moment. Trust, it's gonna be fun."

Had they discussed this already?

Solayne gave her look. "You'd know about this if you hadn't been leaving the hang-outs so early."

"Okay—" she sighed, reaching for the bridge of her nose to pinch. "I mean, you could've texted me about it. When was this decided?"

"Yesterday."

It was Ámerei's turn to roll her eyes. "Okay, and when is this party?"

Who was she kidding? Of course she was going to the party. She couldn't imagine saying no, not only would that get the girls on her case, but it would definitely make Solayne that much more suspicious of her recent whereabouts.

"Uh, the night of Halloween?" Sarcasm was evident in Solayne's tone. "It's a saturday." Glancing down at her croissant, she pinches off a piece. "Which means we've got two weeks to get ready."

She popped the flakey snack in her mouth, chewing as though she had merely mentioned the weather forecast.

Ámerei's eyebrows almost lept off of her face, her mouth dropping open as her eyes widened. "Solayne, how are we doing a group costume with only two weeks to prepare? Do you know how long it takes people to plan their own costumes?"

Solayne only waved her off, swallowing her food. "We'll talk about everything later tonight on a group call. Relax, we'll get it done… Just make sure you don't leave that call before everything's sorted out."

Ámerei didn't miss the pointed look on her friend's face.

PALE PINK TIGHTS CLING TO HER LEGS LIKE A SECOND SKIN. The gossamer fabric is a flimsy shield against tonight's biting cold. Still, it's an added bit of protection to pick up where her ivory leotard lacks in keeping her warm.

But, it's not a worry for her. Ámerei knows that she'll never be outside for longer than a few seconds—a minute at most. Besides, Halloween is only one night a year. Why waste it on being modest?

"I just hope the fucking dj knows what they're doing, 'cause if there's no good music, I'm getting behind that booth my-fucking-self," Malaysia declares, and quite loudly over the rap music blasting in the car.

"Please," Solayne snickers, her eyes never leaving the road as she steers.

From the passenger seat, Aneesa joins in on the conversation as she checks her makeup in the mirror. "I just know that place is about to be packed."

"Mhm, everybody's gonna be at that damn party," Solayne promises. "The fucking early access tickets were sold out in, like, five minutes when it was posted to Posh."

"Oh shiiit," Malaysia beams, sticking her tongue out.

That word: everybody. It gets Ámerei thinking, and thinking gets her excited. She rolls her lips into her mouth, using the guise of spreading her lip gloss, to stop a growing smile as anticipation bubbles in her chest.

She doesn't want to get ahead of herself, she's not even sure if he's the type of guy to frequent parties, but … she's hoping that he'll decide to pop out for tonight. And … she kind of does want him to see her like this.

Dressed up in her cute costume, large white bunny ears hanging down the sides of her straightened sew-in. She wants him to see her dancing amongst the sea of people, throwing what little ass she has, with her friends.

And, if she's lucky, she might even get to throw it on him.

Her heart almost leaps out of her chest. The apples of her cheeks tighten as her lips begin to pull at their sides.

"What you smiling so hard over there for?"

Caught.

Glancing up, she meets eyes with Aneesa through the slim vanity mirror in the sun visor.

Wispy lashes bat against her cheeks, blinking rapidly as she recenters her focus. "I'm just excited."

"I know that's right, me too," Solayne yells.

"Period," Malaysia joins in.

Her attempt at a casual giggle is shoddy at best. She hopes that they're a little too tipsy to realize.

ᝰ

THE GIRLS HAVE ONE RULE when they’re out: stay together.

In the darkness of this house, even as dancing bodies threaten to break them apart, they do a good job adhering to the guideline. Although their tiny circle is split up a time or two, the farthest one of them strays is about three feet before the straggler is shouldering their way back into the arms of the others.

Ámerei has never been the one to wander from their huddle, however, that doesn’t mean her attention hasn’t.

Her gaze is almost frantic, jumping from one corner of the room to the next. She can hardly differentiate between the thumping of the music and her own heartbeat, but she knows that both are running quite fast.

How do I even know that he'll show up? A costume party—why would he come to one of these? I need to relax and enjoy tonight with the girls, stop thinking so much about him, and—

"Dj got about twenty minutes to play some heat, I'm telling y'all!" Malaysia points, threateningly, in the direction of Dj’s booth.

All of the girls’ eyes follow, though Ámerei’s strays.

Over the rim of the red solo cup—poured for her by Aneesa—she investigates the particularly dark corner near the booth, eyes squinted as she tries to work through every face she can see over there.

Damn, no luck.

A sinking feeling burrows itself in her chest; disappointment. She tries to ignore it.

See, that’s what you get, she thinks to herself as she takes a thick gulp—a straight shot of tequila. As she battles with the burning taste at the back of her throat, she’s pulled from her thoughts by a polite bump to the shoulder, courtesy of Aneesa.

“’Mei, come,” she shouts, holding up her phone as its flash rains down on them.

For a minute, Ámerei locks in to participate in her video; one hiked up shoulder as she leans in, planting a faux kiss with puckered, NYX Crème Brulee-colored lips, shooting a wink at the camera.

She can’t tell how long the video is, only that her breath is suspended for as long as the camera records.

When the flash stops, and an afterimage still lingers in her field of vision—partially blinding her—that’s when she ironically sees it. Him.

Onyankopon.

She exhales a shaky breath, nervously twisting in her spot as she tries to sneak a look at him that lasts longer than a second.

He hasn’t spotted her yet. How can he when he’s turned the other way, in conversation? Another guy, about the same height as him, pale and hair pulled back in a loose bun, speaks in his ear. They laugh at something.

And, of course, neither of them are wearing a costume.

She glances down at her outfit, feeling a bout of self-consciousness for participating in this affair to such an extent. Is this … childish? Suddenly, she’s not as eager for him to see her.

Peering back out into the crowd, she finds that the unknown man has a permanent smirk on his face as he whispers something in Onyankopon’s ear. His outfit is quite casual, not a single garment that she can pick out by a logo or a name.

It sits in the shadows of what Onyankopon wears: a skull-cap covers his waves. A dark leather bomber that looks like it would be heavy, sits on his frame. She imagines that if she were to put it on, she would be engulfed by the scent of his cologne and natural musk mixed together.

Silvery glints of light peak past the bomber’s parted zipper track, flashing anyone that glances his way; his chains. His earrings do the same when he turns his head further inward to say something back to someone who is clearly a friend of his.

He’s never mentioned any of his friends to her.

“What are you looking at?”

Ámerei almost jumps at the sound of Solayne’s voice, louder in her ear than the music. She whips around to see the other girl searching in the direction she'd been staring off into, for something she too might find of interest.

Ámerei spits out the best excuse she can think of: “I thought I recognized someone from my class!”

Solayne’s stare lingers for a moment, her mouth quiet for a while, before giving up with a shrug. “Can we fucking dance?” She begs, grabbing ahold of Ámerei’s wrist.

And so, she nods, allowing her friend to pull her back into the orbit of their circle.

HE DOESN'T KNOW WHY HE ALLOWS EREN TO CONVINCE HIM TO COME TO THESE PARTIES ANYMORE.

‘Bro, you’re fucking anti-social ass—pop out with me.’

He reluctantly agreed, with the stipulation that he wouldn’t be wearing a costume.

‘I’m not wearing one. Half the fucking people there probably won’t either. People just wanna party.’

So, here they are, holding up the wall with their bodies as everyone dances to the bass-backed music. And taking a glimpse around the room, he can confidently say that Eren is a liar. Almost every person that manages to slip past him is dressed in a costume of some sort.

There were those who threw on a simple headband: black cat ears or red Devil horns and a clip on tail. Then, there are those that took the next step and did the special FX makeup. Nasty gashes, fake burns, skin painted in pinks, greens, and blues. And, of course, a couple of people went the extra mile, replicating fandom characters down to the smallest detail.

Those ones impress him the most. He’s got an appreciation for people dedicated to their craft.

What he doesn’t appreciate is the rank smell of bodies, slick with sweat, marinating in this room. And hot air onlyrises. He swipes at his nose a time or two, only briefly giving himself a break from the stench with the soft scent of The Dreamer by Versace.

It only does so much.

A tap to the shoulder rouses him from his thoughts, simultaneously knocking the stank look off of his face.

“You tryna drink?”

Eren had leaned in to say the words in his ear.

Onyankopon gives him a curt nod before they begin their trek through the dense crowd, to get to the kitchen.

As they cross the threshold, stepping into the small square of light that is this separate room, the air is a degree or two cooler. And the music isn't as loud. It relieves him, his body relaxing just a bit.

“All this fucking tequila,” Eren frowns.

He quietly snorts at his friend as he reaches for a cup from the stacked tower.

“Onyankopon?”

He stops mid-reach to look over his shoulder.

His brain takes a moment to decipher the face before him, and when it finally does, the gentle furrow between his brows smoothens. He abandons his previous task to greet the woman properly.

A tall-ish woman—around five feet and eight inches. Her hair is pulled out of her face, slicked back in a low puff. Under the kitchen’s fluorescent lights, her deep brown skin still glows. She’s dressed as Ash Ketchum.

“Wassup,” he says lowly. Something resembling a smile, yet not quite, befalls his lips as he pulls her in for a quick side hug. “You good,” he asks, pulling back to look at her.

“Yeah. Didn’t expect you to be here,” she laughs, lifting a cup to her lips. He hadn’t even noticed she was carrying one.

“Eren had me pop out with him. I’m just being a good friend.”

Her two-toned lips curl into a smile. “I can see, don’t even got a costume on or nothing,” she chuckles.

Shaking his head, he glances around the kitchen for a quick second. “It’s not my thing.”

“Never one to participate—“

As the words leave her mouth, she’s interrupted by the yelling of someone fighting their way to get into the kitchen.

“‘Scuse me! Sorry, ‘scuse—sorry!” A young woman mashed her way through, pulling her friend in tow.

She brushes shoulders with his conversation partner before snaking her way between them to get to the kitchen counter—a zombie cheer leader, with a white bunny trailing close behind.

He and said bunny happen to make eye contact, and he watches her make her way through the packed kitchen. Her expression is one caught between awe and mild shock. Those big brown eyes that he’d seen just the other day, are framed by a new set of lashes.

Even as the pair passes him, they’re staring at each other until she's forced to turn her head forward. It gives him freedom to let his eyes wander—just low enough for him to catch how the little puff of a tail at the slope of her ass bounces with every step.

And all Onyankopon can think, as he tears his gaze away to look back at the woman in front of him, is—

“That’s cute. A zombie and a bunny, what a pair,” she shrugs, looking at them for a second more before peering back up at him. “Well, it was good seeing you, gotta head back to my people.”

“Likewise,” he says, giving her a calm dap-up before she leaves the kitchen to reunite with her crew.

“Mariah still go here?”

He turns around, seeing Eren at his back with his new drink. For someone that complained about there being so much tequila, he didn’t expect him to get half of a cup-full.

“Yeah,” he answers.

Face-to-face with his friend, who he knows so well, Onyankopon catches that glint in his eyes. “She say anything about me?” The corner of his lips pick up by a fraction.

“Didn't even ask,” Onyankopon smirks. “But, you could say something to her.”

Eren shrugs, a devilish smile breaking out onto his face this time. He can’t help himself. “Say less.” He slides past Onyankopon, heading in the direction of the dark-skinned babe.

Joining the other party goers at the counter, Onyankopon falls in line with the bunny and zombie.

As he grabs a bottle to pour into his cup, he feels a pair of eyes on him. He doesn’t look up until he’s done pouring, and when he does, he gives the little bunny a wink before tasting his drink.

Mentally, he takes note of the finer details of her costume: A white leotard and pink tights. With the slightest movement of her head, those bunny ears are flopping about, a pristine white color and undeniably fluffy.

He won't lie, the costume is pretty basic, but he's never pegged her as the nerdy-type. Not in the dress-up way, at least. He also isn't going to complain, not when he gets to see her figure. His eyes climb back up her body.

Her lips part to speak, and just before a sound comes out—

“C’mon, ‘Mei!”

Her attention is retrieved by the zombie cheerleader. She’s led back into the crowd, leaving him behind as she stares at him over the hill of her shoulder.

Too slow.

ᝰ

AS TIME PASSES, it gets increasingly harder to keep track of pale bunny ears in this crowd, especially when they sit atop the head of someone so short.

But, Onyankopon manages, watching her for a minute at a time from a distance.

She takes pictures and videos with her friends, dances with them in ways he’d never seen from her, and laughs at everything—likely due to the cup he's never seen her put down.

She isn’t all he pays attention to. Occasionally, an acquaintance or two crosses his path. He engages in short conversation with them, only a mere greeting for each.

Less than half of them were women.

And every time, after they part ways and he’s free to resume his past-time of monitoring, there’s a pair of big brown eyes staring back at him from across the room.

He guesses that’s why she hasn’t made her way over to him. Just the same as how her friends are a natural deterrent to him, too.

The whole routine got old fast, and he's losing his patience. But, he maintains his discipline.

Even as he sees a guy approach her.

He isn’t smooth about it, either, lurking in proximity to her small group before shuffling his way in front of her.

Onyankopon can tell that his presence catches her off-guard. And if the unsure look on her face is anything to go by, then he can bet that she doesn’t know him either.

Which leaves him confused as to why he stays in her face for so long.

He lifts his cup to his lips, watching the entire thing unfold; her nervous smile and laugh, his inability to take a hint.

And in his opinion, it drags on for way too long. His brows twitch. The music in here is starting to annoy him, too.

But, he can rest easy, because her friends are jumping in to make sure that she’s okay. They surround the poor guy like sharks circling in on prey, likely questioning who he is and why he's talking to their friend.

He's got to give it to them, their ability to scare off a guy in such a short amount of time is impressive.

He can't help but to laugh.

ᝰ

THE ALCOHOL IS DOING ITS JOB, and the music only embellishes its effects. Long white ears flop against the sides of Ámerei's head as she hops around the party with her friends.

Dancing, videos, shouting lyrics—she's truly getting the college experience. Her night is going great. But, never one to settle for less, Ámerei is determined to make it better.

She knows the rule, but she also knows that she's tired of playing eye-tag from across the room.

Maybe it's the alcohol talking, but she genuinely believes that drinking activates her super power: invisibility.

What else can be the reason that she's able to slip away from the group so easily? And no, she won't consider that they were also a little too tipsy for their own good.

Either way, she promises herself that she won't be gone for long. She'll find her way back to them.

Gaze dead-set on the man all the way on the other side of this party, she maps out the best path to get to him: to cut through everyone. She isn't playing coy about it either—shouldering her way past people and bulldozing through groups.

Normally she wouldn't, but she's just so tired of the distance!

When she gets to him, his back is partially turned to her as he speaks to someone. He's got a cup in his hand.

An idea flashes in her mind: to greet him by pulling his hand down to put her lips on the rim, drinking from the exact spot his mouth had been on.

Before she can enact such a terrible idea, he turns around in the nick of time, like he sensed her presence. Beneath the party's flashing lights and through her slightly hazy vision, she sees his solemn face grow tender as he quickly recognizes her.

His eyes rake over her unabashedly. He licks at his bottom lip, probably tasting traces of his drink that she wishes she could taste, too.

"Where your friends at?"

Her closed-mouth giggle goes unheard under the cover of the loud music. "Does it matter?"

She doesn't notice how his other arm rises to her side, bracing her from the dancing bodies teetering too close to them.

His brows furrow slightly, yet his smile only grows. "You sure you supposed to be alone right now?"

An eye roll. "I'm twenty-one!"

He shakes his head, lips pressed together in faux disappointment. "That's not a answer!"

"Ugh, why are you acting like you don't want to see me?"

"I didn't say that," he laughs. Like, actually laughs.

Before she can fix her lips to say anything else, a heavy arm drops over her shoulders and pulls her in close. Ámerei was right, his jacket does smell like him. It smells amazing.

She cranes her neck to look up at him through her lashes. Her stomach flutters as an unstoppable smile rises on her lips. She doesn't try to hide it, either.

He leans down, his lips close to her ear. "You good?"

When he pulls back to check her face, he's not too surprised to see the almost dazed look in her eyes. He snorts as she gives him a delayed nod.

He's not sure whether to chalk it up to the fact that she can't hear him over the music or if alcohol might be the culprit.

So he leans in again. "You ain't drink too much?"

This time when she answers, she licks at her bottom lip before shaking her head.

Noting the little quirk, he gives a quiet nod.

Her lips move, but all he hears are the vulgar lyrics of a Future track. His brows pull together and he tilts his ear closer to her lips, a silent gesture to repeat herself.

But all of this yelling is stealing her breath, and it's aiding the alcohol in making her dizzy. So, Ámerei reaches for his cup, her glassy eyes only centered on its red body.

"Hey—woah!"

Before she can get her hands on it, he pulls it up to his lips and knocks back whatever's left of his drink.

She wouldn't have liked it anyway.

"Hey," she protests, her face contorting in aggravation.

Offering a toothy smile, he overturns the cup, spilling nothing but air. "It's no more!"

A look of horror befalls her face before laying a light smack to his chest.

"It's finished!"

She rolls her eyes before making an attempt to turn her back to him.

"Aye, Aye—" he laughs, pulling her back around. "Chill!"

Her face is screwed into a frown, to which he ignores in favor of getting close to her ear.

"I like your costume." That arm around her shoulder falls behind her, a hand cinching her waist. "Why your friends let you come out like this?"

Her folded arms are pressed to his stomach. She's unwilling to unfold them. "It's a costume party."

Despite the loudness of the music, he can still hear the attitude in her voice, to which he dutifully ignores.

"All this fucking ass out." The hand at her waist reaches lower and plucks at the portion of her leotard that ends at the top of her butt.

She reaches back to grab his hand, fighting off a smile with a weak scowl. "Is that your—ah!"

She can't help the giggles that pour out of her when that hand had lifted and came down, hard, against one cheek, gripping it up whilst pulling her impossibly closer.

"Oh my God!"

She gawks at him, at a loss for words, all while he's got a dangerous smirk on his lips. Her heartbeat only quickens.

"Your ass getting fatter," he tells her.

She kisses her teeth, still feigning irritation. It's a strong battle, but she's determined to win. "No, it's not!"

"Yes it is, c'mon, show me!"

"What?"

She's barely able to pull away to see his face. The only answer she gets is no answer as he begins to sway to the music, mouthing the words. It's a dancehall tune, one she's definitely heard before.

Just as she recognizes it, she's spun around, her back now pressed against his front. That's all of the convincing she needs.

Ask her and she'll admit it faster than the question is posed: Ámerei cannot twerk. She hasn't gotten the rythym down for a tic-toc, she can't bubble, and she hasn't even gained the confidence to attempt the puppy-tail.

Then, she'll follow all of that up with the promise that she can definitely whine, because as a second-gen Jamaican American, that's the least she can do.

The liquid-courage helps, loosening up her waistline to make her movements smooth and fluid. The music is a perfect tempo for her to pull out all the moves that she knows, and she can't be more carefree.

Onyankopon doesn't complain, only leaning back to catch more of what she throws on him. Even delivering a couple of lazy smacks to her ass.

It seems like the music only gets louder. She's got her tongue out, looking back at him as she pelts waist. And when she notices the stiff, rigid feeling in his jeans, it only pushes her to keep going.

In fact, she makes sure to drag out each roll of her hips, just to feel every bit of it. The grip on her waist tightens, it gets more possessive. Feeling an ounce more courageous, she switches it up, throwing everything that she has back on it.

There's a hand on her neck before she can even do it a third time. Gently, she's pulled up to lean back on his chest. His mouth is at her ear again.

"What you dancing so hard for?"

She giggles, unable to stop herself as she circles her hips against him. "You seem to be enjoying it!"

No answer. For a minute, she's lost to the music again, doing whatever she wants on him without fear of embarrassment.

"That's not my dick," he says in her ear.

She slows to a stop before turning in his hold to face him once again. There's an unreadable look on his face, and confusion on hers. Before she can ask—

"Your friends looking for you." As he looks up, she turns her head to follow his line of sight.

Sure enough, she catches a glimpse of Malaysia's face, full of worry as she twists and turns in the crowd. Solayne is searching, too.

Turning back, she finds Onyankopon already staring at her, his eyes low.

"We're meeting up later," she tells him, pulling on her best stern face.

He laughs, squeezing her waist one last time before leaning in.

"I'm waiting!"

She slips back into the crowd, thinking up the best lie she can give to her friends.

THE SECOND PART OF HIS NIGHT TRULY BEGINS IN FRONT OF HIS APARTMENT BUILDING.

Sitting in the car, the heat blasting despite his blood running hot—his bomber thrown in the backseat—Onyankopon makes no plan to get out.

He's on a retrieval mission.

And right on time, as he looks out of the window, there's a faint blur of white, hopping towards him in the distance.

As he watches it get closer, the blur materializes into the Ámerei he's familiar with. She nurses a half-drunken bottle of water, squeezed nearly flat between her last two fingers, while she holds her phone with the first two.

And at this point, she runs on the tips of her toes across the concrete, throwing a glance back every few feet or so.

When she finally rounds the car to get to the passenger side, she throws the heavy door open, the biggest smile on her face as she climbs in. The seat is still in the low, pushed back and semi-reclined position she had left it in.

"It's a little hot in here, no?"

The question pours from glossy lips, too used to wearing a big smile since this night begun. With the quick and feminine flick of her wrist, she pushes her hair back over her shoulder as she turns to face him.

"Had it on for you … know how you get," Onyankopon says as he reaches to lower the heat. "Why you running?"

"'Cause I feel like they're watching to see where I go." She bends low in the seat, trying to find the window of Malaysia and Aneesa's apartment.

With a quiet scoff, Onyankopon puts the car in drive. "You ain't wanna tell 'em?" He glances at her just in time to see the face she pulls in objection.

"No. They get weird when it comes to being in my business … I don't know." She blows out a breath, opening up her phone as she speaks. "I get it, their intentions are good, but … it's just weird—especially Aneesa."

He almost asks, because how did she expect him to know who Aneesa is? Instead, he keeps quiet, hoping that will signal to her to change the topic.

"Anyway," she sighs out. "Can we get some food, please?"

Onyankopon shakes his head. "Bet you is hungry … all that dancing you was doing."

She rolls her eyes, a grin fighting to reappear on her lips. "Shut uuup."

Her laughter layers over the music playing softly through his speakers as he heads to the nearest food spot open at this hour.

ᝰ

SHE NEVER TOOK THE CHANCE TO REALLY LOOK AT HIS CAR. But, seeing as she's been left alone in it, her phone is one twenty-three percent, and she's in desperate need of a distraction while Onyankopon gets their food, she's taking the oppurtunity to do it now.

The interior is definitely a perk: Charcoal grey leather seats, stars in the ceiling, amazing foot room, and the fresh smell of Black Ice that never seems to fade every time she's been in here, all make it a nice experience.

She glances into the storefront of the small fast-food Halal spot he'd taken her to. He's leaned up against the counter, checking something on his phone as he waits for their food.

His tints are too dark for him to see her from the outside.

Her eyes skate around the car again, desperate to find something new to fixate on. That's how she winds up in a staring competition with the glovebox right above her knees.

Really, she's at war with herself. Her parents taught her better, she's never been one to snoop. But, it also is safer to know as much as she can about the environment she's in—is the excuse she gives herself to pull the small compartment open.

It's soft yellow light shines as its components are bared to her. And, fuck everything else that lies in there, because all she can focus on is the matte black gun sitting just inches from her.

Her eyes go wide, her head turning in every direction, as if she could be caught in this moment.

"Oh my Go—what the fuck," she whispers to herself, jaw slack in awe.

Her hand reaches for it before she can think twice, but she stops herself. Giving one last look out of the window and finding Onyankopon still nose-deep in his phone, no sign of their food being ready any time soon, she grabs the weapon.

It's heavy. Her hands already grow clammy as she gingerly holds it. It's cool in her grasp. She's careful not to lay a finger on or even near the trigger.

Slowly, Ámerei turns it over, allowing what little lighting the glovebox offers, to spill over the fine ridges and curves of the gun. She can't even find the safety on it.

The car door pulls open before she can even look up.

"You not supposed to be holding that."

Her mouth is open as she stares up at him, at a total loss for words. He looks down at it, sitting in her delicate hands.

It looks like it doesn't belong, the handle just a little too thick for her to be able to use it efficiently with one hand.

He nods over to the open glove box. "Put it up."

"Sorry."

Meekly, she glances at him before doing as told. She's ridiculously careful in putting it back, especially knowing that she can't find the safety, and gentle in closing the glovebox.

Onyanopon doesn't get in the car until it's away, passing the weighty plastic bag over in her lap to hold the food. Neither of them say anything as he pulls off from the restaurant, his low music and the occasional rustle of the food being the only sounds in the car.

When he finally finds a good enough place—a parking spot in a residential neighborhood about three minutes away—they finally begin to unpack the food. The exchange of boxes and small paper bags is quiet.

As good as the food is, Ámerei finds that her thoughts are still back at the restaurant—the gun. She isn't sure if she should ask him about it. Not directly, at least.

He didn't seem too happy about her holding it. And she's sure that if he wanted her to know about it, he would've mentioned owning one a long time ago. So, after deliberating for so long—long enough that they finish their food—she finally settles on another question:

"How come you never let me run plays with you?"

His head perks up at the question, a twist in the usually perfect symmetry of his face as he stares at the pretty girl next to him, that had the audacity to ask him such a question.

"'Scuse me?"

She shrinks in the seat at that, averting her eyes elsewhere in the car. "Wha—I just mean—never—"

"First of all," Onyankopon shakes his head, no semblance of a smile on his face. "Don’t ask me that shit again."

For a moment, Ámerei wishes that these bunny ears were real, so that they can flop in her face and hide it from his burning gaze.

Such a dumb question, why would she even ask something like that? The feeling worsens as she remembers that she's sitting in his passenger seat, dressed in a fucking costume.

"I'm not taking you somewhere I might have to up it on somebody, c'mon now," he says, glancing out the window.

Her thoughts stop as she dares to look at him.

"This not no cute shit, I wouldn't even play with your safety like that."

She doesn't know what to say. Should she … apologize? No, he might tell her it's not necessary.

"Second—" he shoves one last fry in his mouth, chewing on it softly as he packs his garbage into the plastic bag. "If you tryna chill, just ask. Shit, I'd even go with you to mall—anything but what you just asked me."

Her heart nearly leaps out of her chest at the admission. As Onyankopon's eyes flick up to meet hers, Ámerei has to keep her lips from lifting.

He lifts his brows, silently asking for an answer.

"O-okay."

"Mhm."

He swallows, the car going quiet for a minute or two. Unable to help that awkward streak within her, she turns to look out the window, only allowing herself a split second to let that smile free.

"Run plays, you don’t fucking talk like that."

"Shut up!" She squeals, burying her face in her hands as she hears the grin in his voice.

"Nah," he laughs. "You really gathered the confidence to ask me that—'cause I know your lil' ass was thinking on it—"

She shoves him by the shoulder, although it doesn't do much to move him. "Leave me alone!"

"A'ight, calm down with the yelling," he chuckles, his laughter dying down.

Ámerei only rolls her eyes.

"You funny," he says with the shake of his head, throwing the bag of garbage down by his feet.

Quiet again, until…

"Well, can I see you use it?"

Another glare.

He scoffs, a smile breaking out on his face. "H-how much you had to drink tonight? I only seen you go get drinks about twice, your friends was getting you some?"

"Onyankopon," she whines.

"What is with these questions?"

This time, she doesn't try to conceal her smile. Straight teeth and pink gums.

"Can I?"

He stares at her, trying to figure out just what it is that's wrong with this girl, before sighing out with the shake of his head.

Wordlessly, he reaches over her to open up the glove compartment, retrieving the gun she had put away almost an hour ago.

Still pristine and just as intimidating.

He doesn't look up to turn on the front cabin light, illumination reveals all of the details previously lost to the dark.

As he holds the weapon in a tatted hand, she notes the way the ink seems to jump off of his skin as a few veins here and there elevate the skin.

His pointer finger only rests over the frame of the gun, careful not to slot itself and curl over the trigger.

"The safety's on, a'ight?"

she nods, half-listening as she eyes the way he holds it.

His hand doesn't move around the gun as he holds it with caution. The curve of the handle feels too familiar in his hand. He's held it too many times to be worried about accidentally shooting it, and still, he can never be too careful.

His gaze flicks up for a moment to look at her.

"Watch."

Silently, he unloads the gun, taking it apart to pull out the unused bullets.

"Now…" he puts it back together. "It's empty."

Flicking his gaze upwards to her, he notes the way her eyes sparkle under the light as she stares at what's in his hand.

That same look she gets whenever his dick is in her face.

Staring at the weapon, Ámerei finds her mind at war. It's such an ugly thing, designed to spit out bullets that rip through skin and rupture organs.

The design isn't even all that special, just a regular pistol. And yet, his hand around the handle makes it look so much more special than it really is.

"See?" He points the gun up to the ceiling. As he looks her in her eyes, he pulls the trigger three times in succession.

Tch, tch, tch.

"Empty."

Her inhale is shallow, as if too much movement might set something off—she doesn't know what. "H-how long have you … um—"

She tears her eyes off of the thing to see him already looking back at her.

"How long have you had it—I'm sorry." She hides her smile behind a hand as she laughs.

He shrugs. "Couple of years."

She goes right back to looking at it, a faint wrinkling between her brows. "A-aren't you only twenty—"

"You nervous right now?"

He steals her attention away again, her face dropping like she'd been caught.

"Am I n-nervous?"

"You keep stuttering. I thought we got over that."

Her mouth opens and shuts just as quickly. "Wha—I—it's not nerves—"

"What is it, then?"

She's a deer caught in headlights. As he stares at her, a slow smirk forming on his lips, Onyankopon can't help but to think that maybe that's what she should've been for Halloween.

Anyway, he's not sure why he teases her with the questions. Maybe it's because her reactions entertain him.

"You horny?"

If her face could go red, he bets that it would be flushed right now.

"What?"

He nearly cackles, throwing his head back as his shoulders jump. "You don't gotta lie to me."

"No! I'm not—"

"You wet right now? Matter fact—"

He reaches a free hand over the console to push it between her legs. The pads of his fingers press against the middle of her legs, undoubtedly feeling a faint pulse and the dampness at the crotch of her leotard.

"Yeah, you are," he grins.

"Mooove!" She frowns, pushing his hand away.

He can see the smile fighting to come out on her face.

"Mhm, I know."

Crossing her arms, she turns to the door, staring out of the window instead. "Fuck you."

"Don’t know why you tried to lie," he chuckles to himself, placing the gun in his lap. "Maybe you did pick the right costume. You don't ever stop, just always ready to go—"

"Shut the fuck up."

"Yo—"

A soft grip befalls on her neck as he pulls her face close to him. And there goes that cute bottom lip, pulled between two rows of pretty teeth.

"Quit talking like that."

She can only stand to look him in the eyes for a second before looking to his lips. Usually, it's hard for her to pull her eyes off of them—impossible, actually.

Yet, for some reason, she glances at his lap, stealing a quick look at the gun placed right over his dick.

Ignoring the slip up, she surges forward, only to be stopped by the hand that keeps her in place. Instead, Onyankopon presses his lips against hers.

The tips of her toes tingle. Her tongue buzzes against his.

His grip never falls away from her neck. And she's unable to even follow him in the kiss. When he pushes his tongue into her mouth, she doesn't think twice about sucking on him.

He squeezes the sides of her throat as she claws his outer-facing thigh to let him know that she's running out of air, and she loves it. When she had reached over to touch him, he's not really sure.

Eyes closed, Ámerei allows her hand to travel up his leg, as it usually does. But when the tips of her fingers touch the cool weapon, she's pulling back. The hitch of her breath is caught by Onyankopon's mouth.

He keeps her close, lips ghosting over hers.

"Touch it."

Her eyes peel open, flitting back and forth between his, still unsure.

"Your—i-it's in the way."

"Then move it."

He can't help the smirk that starts on his face as she hesitates to grab the tool. He glances downwards, watching her slowly push it out the way.

"Y'know you can't handle a dangerous weapon like that."

The rasp of his phone is churning her brain.

"You gotta hold it right, go 'head... Grip it tight."

She glances at him one last time before hardening her grasp, holding it like she really knew how to deal with a gun.

"You was getting real friendly with it at the party, why you moving scared?"

At the party…

She doesn't vocalize her surprise at the revelation that what she'd been whining on, was not his dick. And, interestingly enough, that does something to her.

Her eyebrows twitch as, what he thinks, is the cutest pout dawns on her face.

"Why do you keep playing with me?"

The question pulls a shocked laugh out of him. "I'm not playing with you, Ami." His lips near hers again. "Y'know you could always get this dick."

Always.

Her stomach twists itself up hearing that.

She shifts in her seat, growing antsy. "I want it," she practically whines.

"Then take it out, mama."

The faux pity in his tone makes her pussy flutter.

Her pout deepens. "In my mouth."

"I gotta repeat myself?"

She reaches for his belt buckle.

"You know you gotta do some work around here."

He wants to laugh, getting a front row seat to her desperation. She hardly spares the time to pull his boxers down, pulling his dick out over the band of it.

It barely touches the air before she gets a hand around him, jerking him in a perfect rhythm.

"Mhm," he hums, looking down at her with so much lust. He pushes his hips up.

She leans in, pressing a wet smooch to the corner of his mouth before getting her lips to his ear.

"When I put it in my mouth…"

He pulses in her hand, eyes falling shut.

"I want you to point it at me."

They snap open.

Her hand doesn't stop moving, especially as a dribble of precum allows for an easy glide. His lips part, a slight furrow between his brows.

"What you talking 'bout?"

"Point it at me," she says breathlessly. Like this is getting her off just as much as it is him. "Tell me you'll shoot me if I don't do it right."

His hips twitch and her head goes down. "W-wha—"

He sucks in a breath, the wet heat of her mouth closing in around his dick.

"Mmph…"

She wastes no time wetting him up, sliding him down her throat as far as she can.

"Ahh—shit," he hisses, hitting the back of it.

One hand is pressed to the wall of his stomach, the other reaches for the gun. Blindly, she holds it out for him, stilling her head as she does.

She's waiting.

His brain buffers, staring down at everything. "What the fuck?" He gingerly takes the weapon.

When her hand is empty, she continues. He swallows down a moan.

"Th-thought you … liked being treated like a princess…"

Her movements are languid, smooth as she regurgitates and swallows his dick right back up. His toes are curling—when did she get this good?

"N-now you got me … h-holding a fucking gun to your head," he watches her, choking herself on his dick.

He rights his grip on the pistol. And she seems to hear the small movement, switching to lave at the underside of him as she bobs her head.

"Fuuck," he groans deeply. His hand moves on its own, pointing the gun at the back of her head. The mouth of it rests gently on her skull.

She whimpers.

"You … feening like you want this shit forreal."

The soft vibration of a moan travels through him. She gets her hand on him, twisting it around him as she sucks.

"Mhm … mhm, keep—fuck—keep proving yourself." His voice is clipped, growing unsteady. "Keep f-fucking showing out for me," he grits.

On this particular swallow, her head is pushed with force as the mouth of the gun is forced harder against the back or her head.

"All the way down—"

A strong gag rips from her throat.

"It's gon' do you good to suck my shit right..."

He hums, stomach flinching as she sucks at him.

"Could blow your shit clean off—"

She moans around him before he can even finish the sentence, desperate to taste his cum. She needs it. She needs this.

Pulling off, she pants, her face a mess of her own spit and his precum.

"Cum on my face," she begs, words slurred and rushed.

His free hand buries itself in her hair, and grips it tight at the scalp. He points the gun to her temple, staring down at her with a hardened look.

"You think you deserve that?"

A hasty nod, she can barely keep her eyes open. "Yes, Ony—"

"What you said?"

"Yes!"

He presses the gun deeper into her skin, watching her face, how messy it is. His eyes roll over every detail, amazed with himself at how he still finds her so pretty like this.

"Fuck, I think I'm gonna cum—"

The moaned admission catches him off-guard. He looks at her side of the car and sees the hand between her legs, pressing.

"Cum before me and this gun gon' bust before I do."

Her face is scrunched up as she tries to hold in. A broken whimper leaves her.

"Now suck this fucking dick like you mean it. I'ma tell you when I want you to cum."

He doesn't let her wipe her face or even answer. He shoves her back down on him.

She gags, whines, moans—all of it. Her body trembles, she's too excited for her own good.

"Shit … shit … aw shit, g-get off—" 

As she's freed by his hand, she pulls off of him in time to see his thick length twitch. She keeps her face close, mouth open to catch his cum shot when it spurts out.

"Agh—fuck…"

She waits, sticking her tongue out further. Any second now—

"Get in the fucking back."

She looks up at him, confused when she hadn't gotten what she wanted.

"Ony—"

"Put your face in the seat and your ass in the air. I'on feel like hearing you speak."

As she stares up at him, she can't stop the excited smile that comes.

"Hurry up."

As she climbs into the back seat, Onyankopon takes a minute to calm himself down. He couldn't just end it there, not yet.

It takes him longer than she expected to meet her back there, as he cracked the backseat windows and pushed the seats forward.

She kept herself busy, playing with her pussy through the leotard. She knew he'd get on her for it, but that didn't matter to her.

Not until she felt something hard at the side of her head. Her breathing stutters.

"I said you could do that?"

She shakes her head.

"I asked you a question—"

"N-no, Daddy."

His brows lift. "Oh, that's what it is now?"

She keeps quiet, unsure of what to say.

Good choice.

"How you feeling?"

He can hear her fragile exhale. "S-so good," she moans.

"Mhm … Put your fucking hands behind your back. Always touching what's mine."

Her eyes roll shut. She does what she's told.

"My gun … my dick … this pussy."

Her teeth sink into her bottom lip, unwilling to vocalize just how close she is to cumming on herself.

"I'ma teach you something about that, though."

The weight at the side of her head leaves for a moment. He's quiet, and she waits with baited breath to see what he'll do.

Rrrrrriippp—

A sharp gasp leaves her as her leotard is stretched and pulled apart at the crotch. He doesn't stop there, going for her tights and soaked thong next.

She whimpers, shifting on her knees as her arms are held behind her back. Her ass is high in the air, the soft breeze slipping in through the open backseat windows brushing against the seat of her ass.

Onyankopon gazes down at her, watching the way her cunt clenches through the ripped opening he made.

The trembling lines of her body, every puff of air that leaves her—he eats it up. Gorges himself on it.

"Y'know you always do good with that mouth … but I'm on something more tonight."

She groans out.

"I ain't got no condom, though," he mumbles. "Still gon' let me put it in?"

Her lips—messy with drying spit and precum, yet pressed to the warm leather of his seats—part. Before she can get a word out, she feels the gentle tap of him against her pussy lips.

"Huh?"

A bulbous tip, glides between them. Taunting.

"C'mon, Ami … Y'know I only fuck you like this…"

She swallows, her eyes squeezing shut as she tries to talk herself back from the ledge.

"Know I only want you like this, Ami…"

The slide of his dick against her folds has an extra push behind it.

"Ami … Ami," he groans, head dropping as his hips push back and forth against hers.

"Ah—"

Her lungs expand behind her ribcage; the head catches just at her opening. His hips twitch, he keeps himself from pushing all of the way in.

The arm outstretched, pushing the mouth of the empty gun to the back of her head, trembles with strain.

"You want it like this? Tell me."

She nods against the seat, head feeling foggy. "Y-yes—"

He pushes in, feeling his dick slide into the slick, contracting walls of her body.

"Mmh, fuck. You so wet—"

He doesn't wait, immediately moving into a steady pace. Her cute yelps start, leaving her every time her ass meets his hips. It's a vision, her ass falling back against him with every thrust.

And yet, she can't help it; unfolding her arms to reach back and pull her cheeks apart, just for him.

"Shit … creaming around me."

She rolls her lips into her mouth, desperate to silence her moans as her stomach is beat in by the pressure of his dick bullying its way, in and out of her.

But as silent as she tries to be, her body can't help but to weep around him, crooning like a running faucet.

He hisses, his face contorting. "Mh—fuck, m'bout to nut already."

His wavering confession he's not ashamed of. Her walls spasm around his dick, pulling a wounded sound out of him.

"You love … doing that shit—" He grits his teeth, smacking a cheek before dropping his gun to the floor and gripping her waist. He goes harder. "S-stop squeezin'—"

Her eyes open in the darkness, if only to roll back into her skull, a hazy feeling coming over her as he fucks her roughly.

She can't help it as her body responds the only way it knows how; creaming around him, a ridiculous amount.

"Oh my … G-God," he pants, gawking at the mess she's making all over his lap. "This … fucking pussy—"

She can't even speak, unable to release a warning as she lets go, all over him. Her body is shuddering, pulling tight around him.

Her cream packs at the base of his dick. And everytime he pulls out, he's covered to the tip in her release. Her pussy makes all of those pretty noises around him, gurgling around his dick through the last few strokes.

"Oh … fuck, I'm 'bout to n-nut in you—"

The first few spurts of cum splash against her walls. The rest is released over her lips and ass, left to drip down the backs of her thighs and down the opening of the tear.

"Ooh, fuck," he huffs.

For a moment, he keeps still, sitting on his knees with a forearm braced against the back of the driver's seat headrest. He's so thankful that he cracked open the back window, he would've passed out if otherwise.

"Shit, Ámerei," he sighs, looking at the mess they've made. He peers at his gun, lying empty on the floor. "You crazy as hell."

His tired chuckles back her away from the ledge before she falls into unconsciousness.

With some struggle, Onyankopon manages to peel off his T-shirt. The thick fabric will be used to wipe their bodies down. He does her first. He's careful, quiet as he focuses on the cleaning.

"Your pussy?"

The question knocks him out of his head. He breaks his view of her wet ass, glancing up to see her dark and shiny eyes peering back at him over her shoulder. He just barely catches the lift at the corner of her lips.

He manages a half-hearted smile. "We was in a scene, no?"

She rolls her eyes, turning her head back and breaking eye contact. He allows himself to drop the fake expression.

"Are you … d-do you have anyone else?"

This time, her voice is quieter. Much less teasing in it.

He shakes his head before he can remember she isn't looking. "Nah … you?"

"No," she squeaks, her face remaining forward.

They're quiet again as he continues to carefully clean her.

"You … finished in me—"

"I know, my fault, I'm sorry. I'ma … get you a Plan B—"

"I-I'm on birth control…"

The confession is a stun to the conversation, he's not sure why.

"The shot," she finishes.

He nods to himself, taking the information in.

Finally done with cleaning her off the best he could, he starts on himself. As his hands move, his mouth moves faster than his mind gets the chance to give his words another thought.

"You tryna sleep over tonight?"

She doesn't answer right away.

The brief silence pushes him to say 'forget it, nevermind.' This isn't the first time he's asked the question.

However, it is the first time she's says—

"Yeah."

𝒃𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒔 ᝰ @uzmacchiato @crylynnluv @graphiclost

You don’t know when it started, but lips and hands all over your body in your bedroom, and Matt sat manspread in a brown armchair. Matt stayed seated, directing Frank and Peter’s movements, directing them on what to do. “Take her shirt off, Peter,” Matt said aloud, and you shivered, Frank’s hand was against your throat. Matt could hear the hitch in your breath as his fingers pressed on your throat. Matt smirked; he heard your heartbeat, a distinct sign that you were excited and liked it. He quickly undid his belt buckle, his hands slipping inside his black boxers.

All you did was whisper, “Please,” and they were at your mercy. Peter felt up on your boobs and kissed your nipples, and Frank grinds his strained dick on your backside. “Peter, you should really start fingering her now,” Peter’s head turned to Matt almost unsure. “R-Right now? A-are you sure ?” Frank didn’t wait for Matt to answer back. “Red, if he’s too pussy to do it, I will,” an inpatient grunt left Frank as he began to kiss your neck. Peter kissed your lips passionately as his hands slipped under your skirt and his lanky fingers to meet your soaked, soppy pussy, and he pushed in.

“It’s just like anatomy class I got this,” Peter whispered to himself as you threw your head back on Frank’s shoulder. Frank’s eyebrows furrowed. “Are you fingerfucking her and talking about anatomy class? That’s your dirty talk?” his face in disbelief. How could he be touching his best friend, the one girl he’s always wanted, and talking about a damn anatomy class? “Unbelievable,” Frank shook his head, then kissed your ear, whispering into it, “It’s okay, baby. I got you. You are doing so good for us, such a good girl.” The praise made you let out a pornographic moan. “Please, I’m so close,” Matt’s voice chimed in as he stroked himself lightly, rubbing his tip occasionally. “Faster, Peter, she’s close.”

You feel Frank’s hips move behind you as you feel his hard dick pressing on your ass, Peter’s fingers curling inside you as he starts to rub your clit, and you look to the right. There is Matt stroking himself and listening to everything.

“Please, I-ahhh, I’m so close,” you cry out as you move your hips to meet his fingers. “Atta girl,” Frank praises you as his calloused hands are holding your neck and turning your head to face him and kiss you. You moan, and Frank swallows every sound, slipping from you as his lips crash onto yours. “Cmon, baby, cum for us,” Frank whispers. “Be good and cum.” Peter leans down and kisses your clit, leaving it with a soft lick, and your body locks up, your cum squirting just a bit. Matt smiles. “Peter, do that again,”

Needless to say you came multiple times that night but New York City’s crime fighting vigilantes.

⋆˚. ꒷ 🍰 . 𖦹˙— mika’s notes: ehhhh…idk how to feel about this one but first time writing for my marvel men 😛 i did in fact have a dream about this, also thinking of writing when peter had the spidey mask on, the MASK STAYSSSS ON!

but i hope my lovelies enjoyeddd this!

all rights reserved © aizawash0e. all fanfics made here are mine, do not copy, translate, or modify in any way repost as yours. do not feed my work to AI as well.