#spencer cassadine x black!reader

[neighbourscat]

𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓 𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐄 , spencer cassadine

EVERYONE HAS A QUIET ESCAPE.

𓈒  ˙ ꪆৎ   ꣹  ۫  𖨂 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 . .. . estate owner!spencer c. X estate chef!black!fem!reader. || second person ( you, yours, you’re ) + lowercase intended.

+ synopsis. making breakfast was your way of reaching out, of letting him know, wordlessly, that he wasn’t alone. it wasn’t about the food itself but about giving him a moment of comfort, a pause from everything weighing on him .. a quiet escape.

+ cw. mature language! & indications of social status difference between spencer cassadine and black!reader. || other than that, no warnings! ( a lot of italics! & sorry if my writing of spencer cassadine is poor and inaccurate, i haven’t watched general hospital enough. the storylines are so confusing to follow /: )

+ nali’s notes; food is a love language! reader is heavily inspired by ayo edebiri || sydney adamu from the bear! reader is three flowers tall! so gen-z, so hilariously awkward, so silly, so dorky, so sweetie & so patient with cranky spencer cassadine. such a doll! reader loves sza & chappell roan & beabadoobee! i love writing a reader who rambles a lot. wordcount :: 4.0k+

+ more; short does not follow any specific plotline of general hospital!

+ to be played: normal girl, sza. || alternative: there she goes, the la’s.

EVERYONE HAS A QUIET ESCAPE.

LAWRENCE, NEW YORK || DECEMBER 4, 2023

the king’s market stood at the very edge of lawrence; a small town within a big city .. . where the paint peeled off old brick buildings, and faded signs creaked in the december wind. yet, despite its weathered exterior, the supermarket was lawrence’s unexpected gem ( as was shawnda’s boutique, toni’s kitchen, minnie’s nails, the sullivan community college, that dunkin’ on mccarter road, brunch box, and express deli ) — a place that managed to thrive against all odds. its large windows glowed warmly under flickering neon lights, as if the store itself were proud of what it held inside.

you skid to a harsh stop — your brother’s old navy blue bicycle croaked with each pedal, it practically begged to be thrown into a junkyard — and immediately lose balance. you caught yourself before the tumble could come; the bottoms of your ragged, black vans scraping at the concrete and your thumbs accidentally brushing against the bike’s bells . .. . the scratchy ringgg alerted the cluster of pigeons, causing them to flap away, and made the mother pushing her big-enough-to-walk-on-his-own toddler side-eye you.

“mornin’ . ..” you raised a shy hand in apology, leaning your brother’s aged bike against king’s dried bike rack. you snatched up your bundle of reusable tote bags from the screwed-on basket and dug into the jumble for the bicycle’s lock; the new one ordered from amazon. “o .. kayyyy,” you sung to yourself, wrapping the chain link over a rack pole. hearing it click and seeing that it remained in place, you let out a deep breath .. relieved.

king’s market is quiet, but it’s a comforting quiet, broken only by the hum of old refrigeration units and the faint rustle of a distant shopper. sunlight filtered through the small, high windows, casting a soft glow over the shelves and illuminating specks of dust floating lazily through the air — king’s market was different from what was expected. though the aisles were narrow and the checkered linoleum tiles were cracked and crumbled and lifting out of place, each row and shelf was organized perfectly.

a faint scent of earth and herbs drifted from the produce section, where vegetables sat stacked in bright, fresh columns. local greens glistened with a crispness that rivaled any high-end market over in port charles ( you believed ), their colors vivid against the worn wooden bins. tomatoes were perfectly ripe, their skins taut and glowing, and bunches of parsley and dill leaned together like old friends, filling the air with a sharp, green fragrance.

in the far back, there was a small bakery nook filled with golden loaves, round bagels, fluffy croissants, beautifully-decorated cupcakes and soft cookies made with old-fashioned love, managed by antonella cardenas. beside it, a mini flower-shop section . .. . you’ve made it your business to circle by during your early morning grocery-runs.

you ripped the bud from your ear and let the wire hang down your front, dangling and brushing against the puff of your dark-green winter jacket. “tev?” you gave the worktop a knock, not too loud but hard enough to be heard throughout the mini-kitchen. tevin’s butcher counter was simple but spotless, manned by an old man who knew every cut by heart, arranging steaks and chops with the precision of an artist.

“tee-tee?!” still, nothing or no one came to you — you knew the mini-kitchen was open. the lights were on and the faucet was running. “i’ve got some .. fucked-up, jacked-up, cracked-up shit to tell you, tev.” you were careful with your curses, not giving them their regular intensity and over-exaggeration. “tevi?! it’s work shit!” crickets. that usually worked. you stopped knocking on the cold counter and dropped back onto your heels. “i know you can hear me, tevin,” spoken under your breath and while you were unraveling your wired-headphones.

and you started onward . .. realizing that it might’ve been a good thing tevin wright hadn’t come out to the register. you weren’t the best at lying on the spot. you had a little tell of it; while for many, it was laughing or evasive smiling or rapid blinking or coughing and clearing their throat, avoiding eye contact; like looking up at the ceiling, or those self-soothing gestures or being too fidgety with their fingers and clothing, you overused defensive phrases: like “honestly,” “to tell you the truth,” or “believe me”.

with sza’s ‘sweet november’ playing faintly in your ears .. you stand in the center of a narrow, softly lit aisle; shelves of hand-drawn packaging designs, others in plain jars that let the rich red or green hues of their contents do the talking. your hands hovered over two jars — one labeled locally-made marinara, the other a small-batch pesto. your fingers grazed the cool glass of both as you considered them, your full brows knit in thought. it’s just .. fucking pasta sauce, you could hear your mother’s grating voice. pick up a jar and go.

you lifted one jar, squinting at the label, as though weighing the memories each flavor might stir up. a faint smile tugged at your lips as you remembered how your father would make a whole affair out of selecting ingredients, debating over spices and sauces as if it were a high-stakes decision. are you kidding me? this is ridiculous. you are just like your father. half-insult.

you set it back down, you reached for the other choice, your gaze thoughtful as you further debated which would give your evening dish that extra something — sza’s song of past experiences fading into chappell roan’s love me anyway — you set that jar back into place and grabbed the third option. the one with the hand-drawn design. it was cute and you made a mental note to peel the wrapping off before use.

PORT CHARLES, NEW YORK || DECEMBER 4, 2023

the kitchen of the cassadine estate was a masterpiece of traditional russian design, combining rustic elegance with a sense of historic charm. the kitchen was a vast, open space dominated by an enormous central island, topped with dark, veined marble that has been polished to a mirror-like finish. cabinets of deep, rich wood line the walls, their surfaces gleaming under the sparkle of hanging iron chandeliers with exposed filament bulbs that cast a golden light over everything.

every detail exuded craftsmanship: the hand-carved moldings, the wrought-iron handles on each cabinet, and the aged brass fixtures that gave the room a touch of vintage grandeur. pots and pans of shined copper hung in neat rows from a ceiling rack, their warm glow offset by the cool, tiled walls in muted creams and grays, which add a subtle neatness.

a massive stone hearth sat against one wall, its archway adorned with intricate, hand-laid tiles. within, a wood-fired oven emitted a faint, smoky scent. to the side, a marble-topped counter held a selection of oils and aged vinegars kept in glass jars, each label handwritten in russian script.

large windows near the farmhouse sink overlooked the estate’s gardens, letting in natural light that poured across the butcher-block counters and casted shadows on the tiled floor. this floor — worn but immaculate — was ice cold underneath your soaking wet polka-dot socks. in one hand, your pair of vans ( fiona mccall, the estate’s lead-housekeeper, and her team were stern and meticulous in ensuring that the grand halls, ballrooms, libraries, staircases, and more importantly, the floors remained pristine ), your phone with the letterboxd app still open and dropped into a shoe, in the other hand; your grocery tote-bag you were to keep in the employee mini-fridge.

you faked a bad cough, in attempt to fake clear your throat — “sorry, goodmorning .. mr. cassadine.” — still, you grabbed his attention. spencer cassadine stood at the central island with his elbows resting on the chilled surface, his head lowered, lost in thought. the weight of family expectations pressed heavily on him, and the stillness around him offered a brief moment of respite .. before hearing your voice, of course.

your presence filled the room with a sense of . .. . play and awkwardness. spencer studied you: your winter jacket over a simple, faded-once-graphic t-shirt, wrinkled mom jeans, hints of gold jewellery, your box-braids loosely tied back with baby pink crochet yarn, giving you that .. ‘relaxed’ look, he guessed you were going for. it wasn’t effortless, it was messy. spencer’s gaze switched to your shoeless feet .. as did your own eyes — you took one large step to the left and landed behind a counter, only letting your upper half show.

“fiona-ms. mccall, i mean,” you began, your shoulders tense and your arms cramping from the hanging shoes and bags of groceries, “and those-sorry, your floors, sir. she’s serious ‘bout ‘em, that one. i mean, her team too. they’re like .. so serious about th’ floors .. i had’ta walk around in my socks-“ you stopped before continuing on. seeing him stand there with that signature blank, cold look on his face only shut you up ( you opted not to speak on how you dropped your dunkin’ coffee on the way here ) and drove sickness deeper into your heart.

you looked away from a moment, taking a shaky breath. “i should, uhm ..” you faced him again, “sorry, mr. cassadine .. my arms are, like, getting ready to snap off. like, actually.”

spencer watched you waddle off into the shared-employee closet. he straightened a bit, his fists carefully drumming at the marble surface as he waited for your return — though, he wouldn’t admit to anyone that he had been ‘waiting’ for you. after a moment, he took a step aside and tilted his head slightly, giving himself a clear view into the employee closet; with its array of lockable, highschool-style cell phone lockers . .. . you were shoving your winter jacket into the available top shelf, struggling on your tip-toes.

when you landed on your heels again, spencer took his previous position; leaning against the central island — “so, um . ..? sorry, but why are you back here, anyways?” you called out, but gave spencer not even a second to process the question. you peeked your head out of the employee closet, braids no longer tied back but cascading over your shoulder. “sorry, this is your family’s kitchen. you have, uhm .. every right to be back here. sorry.” you disappeared into the employees’ closet again, leaving spencer to be alone and to .. somewhat try and understand you.

“you apologize a lot?” he asked, his voice steady and even. not a question, but more so a statement.

dropping your hands from your braided bun, you moved away from the wall mirror and out of the closet saying: “trauma response,” unapologetic and freely, fixing your white button-up and fresh apron, “i can’t help but feel bad for a person literally every-time i-“

“what?” a deep grumble. too forward. he’s not one of your friends, you reminded yourself. you can’t speak to him like he’s on your level — rather, like you’re on his level. “sorry, mr. cassadine.” again with the sorry.

spencer huffed and in a low tone, “you can stop with the ‘mister’.” not a request, but an instruction. unsure of what to say next, in bad habit; “i’m sorry?” his eyes narrowed and you bit down on your lower lip, stopping yourself from the ‘m’ word and the ‘s’ word. “i actually get asked about that .. like, a lot. the ‘s’ word, thing. i’m kind of working on it. kind of.”

“kind of?”

“mhm-yeah. takin’ it day by day . .. . kind of. you know what i mean?” no comment, no further movement. your shoulders drooped, but you were okay. you were in an okay mood this early, december morning even after dropping your dunkin’ coffee. you had on new, warm socks and had beabadoobee in one ear — “you still use ..” with a hand, spencer gestured toward his own ear, “wires?”

you stared down at your phone, the adapter snug in the charging port; ‘pictures of us’ by beabadoobee at its first full minute. the slander on ‘wired headphones’ was so unnecessary and so childish. without thinking: “i’m sorry?” you paused a moment to recollect and what looked to be a smile began tugging at spencer’s lips. “i mean-who doesn’t? .. who doesn’t like wires?”

“many people.”

a weird chuckle, “what? literally so many people like wires. i don’t-? what is so wrong with wires?”

“what isn’t wrong with wires?”

“i don’know? that’s why i’m asking you ‘what’s wrong with wires’?

“everything.” and that was that. spencer had the last word, though your disagreed completely. silence fell for eight seconds, maybe nine, before he asked; “what are you, uh ..?” shoving his veiny hands into the front pockets of his dark jeans, “who are you listenin’ to, anyways?”

“beabadoobee.” you paused the song. “her beatopia album. it’s so good, seriously.” a part of you considered sharing the unused earbud, but that would require closeness and sharing wired headphones was an intimate gesture, a chance to bond with another — that couldn’t be done with airpods or those chunky beat headphones. “i’ll come over to you-you just stay there.”

spencer met you halfway around the marble island, going against your statement without a second thought. the gap between you and spencer was intentional, on both ends. he kept himself from standing too close, as did you. “okay, so, if bea’s not your cup of tea, or, uhm, you don’t like her sound or somethin’ .. justttt, uh, don’t say anything-y’know?” spencer listened intently, hands at his sides and the soft skin of his fingers rubbing the stitches of his dark jeans. “sorry, that wasn’t exactly ‘polite’-“

“play the song.”

“mhm. yeah.” your index finger tapped down on the rewind button .. pictures of us started, the acoustic guitar entrance soothing and inviting — “the words take awhile to, um . .. actually begin, sor-nope.” spencer smiled faintly at your effort, giving a light thumbs up. you appreciated the gesture, warmth slowly growing within your chest, causing you to chew the inside of your cheek.

with the pad of your thumb, you dragged at the progress bar, watching the thin line skip forward in small jumps, stopping at the right mark. you let your finger rest, satisfied as bea’s lyrics finally filled the air.

“i’ve watched that.” right under the music widget had been a notification from letterboxd: w-katie02 liked your review of the elephant man ( 1980 )! “it’s one of my favorites,” he continued, almost hesitant. “yeah?” a little, genuine smile as your fingers brushed the edge of your phone. “yeah.” spencer ended there, seemingly restricted; as if he’d just given something away he hadn’t meant to.

“do you have letterboxd?” just the most important app on your cellular device. well, one of them, certainly. by the glint in your eyes, spencer could feel the unmistakable love you held — because for you, it was so much more than just a platform; it was like a never-ending journal of emotions, insights, and memories. your perfect profile was filled with entries — some thoughtful and delicate and passionate, others scattered and messy and raw, like snapshots of your silly life in film. you’d spent many hours logging your thoughts after each movie, capturing how it made you feel, who you’d watched it with, what kind of day it had been . .. . you never missed a detail.

“what’s a .. letterboxd?” you unlocked your phone in under a second — “it’s like goodreads, but for movies,” you said as you clicked the app open. spencer, though confused and having never heard of goodreads, kept his lips locked and waited for your explanation: “letterboxd is immediate, like no other platform.” you held out your phone and he took hold of it; mindful of the need to avoid physical contact.

“social media in a way that’s like-“ spencer’s finger swiped up and you inched inward, lifting onto your tip-toes to watch as he did so. “-ultra safe and super cuddly. there’s no politics, close-minded straight men, or mentions of global crises, the sad stuff essentially, y’know? .. well, okay, actually-i guess, if you’re on the wrong side-“

“there are sides?”

“so, it’s . .. . yeah.”

“mm.” — pictures of us faded into don’t get the deal — your gaze shifted between his working finger and his face. you didn’t know what he’d been doing exactly, but you paid attention to how his eyes zipped side to side under his eyelids and how his brows lightly scrunched and how he sniffled softly every now and again and how his tongue darted out to bring moisture back to his lips. and in this very moment, this quiet moment of, what you assumed was nothing, he looked . .. . approachable. it surprised you how easily he fit into this small moment, his attention focused on something so trivial.

spencer cassadine — extra polished, effortlessly confident, someone who belonged to a world you’d only ever seen from a distance — handling your phone as though you and him were two equals. the four fingers of his right hand nearly covering every collected sticker.

to you, he really was someone you had heard about in passing, the kind of person with a surname people spoke of in hushed tones, heavy with history. he seemed so different up close, less like a distant idea of wealth and reputation, and more like just .. a person, with his own subtle quirks and quiet intensity — it felt like a rare glimpse beyond his guarded expression, easing the image you’d carried of him.

you tried not to overthink it, letting yourself just be here, grounded by the purr of the kitchen and beabadoobee in the background and the heat of his presence . .. .

then came a muffled ping; spencer returned your phone and retrieved his own from his back pocket. that dry, somber demeanor was back and whatever that quiet moment was, was long gone. you clicked off beabadoobee — your eyes searching his face for a hint of what could have been troubling him. “can i make you something?” a sweet offer. a sweetness that spencer cassadine had not known, or been at all familiar with.

he blinked up from his screen. “what?”

“have you eaten breakfast yet?”

spencer shook his head.

“food always helps.” just as you pivot and circled the counter, he spoke: “i’ve already taken too much of your free time. i’ve interrupted your routine,” clearly trying to brush off your sweet offer, though his stomach growled in response to the idea of food.

“it’s fine.”

“i can’t let you ..”

“seriously?” you stopped in your tracks, barely smiling. “come on, seriously. c’mon. i can prepare somethin’ quickly. i don’t mind, really,” you reassured. and spencer felt a flicker of thankfulness at your inclination; you weren’t offering to impress him or because he was who he was, but out of the kindness of your heart. “thank you.”

with a nod, you moved to the large refrigerator, opening the door with purpose. you pulled out a few eggs and some vegetables, your movements deliberate and calm. the rhythmic sounds of your chopping and sautéing completed the kitchen.

as you worked, spencer was leaned over the counter .. having just downloaded letterboxd and putting together his own movie lists. he found your account, remembering the username in the top left corner, and added a few of your saved movies to his new “to watch” list. “how long have you been cooking for?”

“mom put a knife in my hand at five, so i’d say since then,” you replied, glancing up briefly and laughing seeing the concerned look on his face — you weren’t joking. “it’s therapeutic,” you said then, eyes down again. “i find real comfort in it-a quiet escape, like my letterboxd. plus, feeding people is a nice way to show you care.”

your words struck a chord with him. he could see how the kitchen was your sanctuary, just as it had become a momentary refuge for him. “i can understand that,” he admitted, his gaze wandering to the window, where the light falling snow touched down and melted. “i’ll find my ‘quiet escape’.”

“you don’t have one now?”

“unh-unh.”

“that should be impossible. what do you look for when you need a moment?”

“i walk around and sit in silence.”

“that sounds awful.”

“it’s not the worse thing ever.”

“no, i guess not. but what do you love to do? like really, truly love to do-imagine, ‘kay, it’s your very last hour alive .. ‘nd you’re trapped in a dome with only th’ materials needed for your number one hobby, what is it?”

spencer’s mind went blank for a few seconds. he didn’t write, he didn’t read, he couldn’t draw, he couldn’t paint — “i like the gym.”

“okay .. cool.” you smiled and scratched at an eyebrow, “um, but seriously. what’s the hobby?”

“.. nothing.”

“-shit.”

“yeah.” a hopeless shrug. “i never got into an art or instrument. nothing that requires serious skill and talent.” spencer turned off his phone and held his hands together, fingers interlocking.

“well . .. a hobby doesn’t have ‘ta require serious skill or talent. and it doesn’t necessarily have ‘ta be an art.” you told him, matter-of-factly; knowing and practical. “like bird-watching. don’t have’ta be in your sixties to do it.” dropping your spoon onto a paper towel, you went for one of the five spice cabinets and dug inside. “i collect cool things.” you were a collector of very fine whatchamacallits, doo-dads, and trinkets; which ranged from mail stamps, pink paper clips, buttons of all shapes and colors and sizes, unique beer bottle caps, and stickers — your junk-sticker phone case is evidence.

“what-like rocks?”

“sometimes. marbles too.”

“marbles?”

“marbles.” firmly, “mancala pieces.”

“what’s a mancala piece?”

“y’know ..? mancala?”

“what’s mancala?”

“what’s mancala?” in disbelief, you released a defeated sigh and shook your head. “i have a mobile version, i can explain the game after this.” yyou stretched your arm over and with a knuckle, tapped down on your phone screen; you had little over an hour left. “jus’ta confirm, i will be explaining the game.”

no objection.

“but back to hobbies-“ spencer heard your voice and instantly flipped his phone back over. “-what’s an instrument you’ve wanted to play?” piano, there was no need to think about it. the first time spencer had heard a piano, the melody was soft and almost a whisper, beckoning him away from the clamor of the gala crowd. he drifted toward the sound, drawn in as if by a spell —

— he saw the grand piano in the corner of the room, its sleek black body gleaming under the warm lights. a man was seated there, his fingers gliding over the keys with such fluid grace that spencer could hardly believe it . .. . and in that moment, he felt an overwhelming urge .. not just to listen, but to touch the keys, to know how it felt to draw out a sound so moving and pure. but he was only a child, and the instrument seemed impossibly large, as if it belonged to another world.

and years passed .. life had filled up with other obligations and distractions, and the closest he’d come to a piano was brushing his fingers over the keys of one owned by a close friend or at another sprawling event. but every now and then, when he heard the low throb of a piano in a restaurant or wherever, he felt that same pull, that longing that had begun in the corner of a crowded room so many years before, waiting patiently for him to return.

“piano,” he answered. though he had no idea what happiness looked like for him, he was sure that starting with piano would make that discovery easier — he was so incredibly detached from himself and the more you spoke to him, you could tell.

“i know you can learn,” you said, kindly.

“i don’t have the time.”

“not even five minutes? you can download an app and start slow .. memorize piano stuff.”

“you have a piano app?”

“no, but i can find one for you.” his dark eyes brightened imperceptibly. “i bet there’s a lot. there’s an app for everything .. unfortunately .. kind of.” you mumbled the last bit, plating his breakfast with care. “.. here. simple, but it’ll help.”

in grabbing himself clean silverware — for the first time, he felt the possibility of letting someone in, even if just a little.

[greengoblinswifey]

All Mine— Fratboy!Nicholas Chavez x Fem!Reader

summary— nicholas gets jealous as you spend more time a guy for a presentation but he shows you, him and everyone else your’e his in the best way possible. based on this request.

warnings— dom!nicholas then sub!nicholas, jealous!nicholas, possessiveness, oral(f), fingering, rough sex, choking, voyeurism, praise kink, daddy kink, unprotected sex, creampie.

Nicholas had never been the jealous type—or so he thought. But the last few weeks had tested that notion in ways he hadn’t expected. You’d been spending hours with Brandon, working on your presentation, and while he trusted you completely, he couldn’t ignore the way it felt seeing you and Brandon talking and laughing together. Brandon was popular in the frat, known for his charm, and Nicholas couldn’t help but feel a pang of frustration whenever he saw the two of you together, his stomach twisting at the thought of anyone else seeing you the way he did.

One evening, Nicholas overheard Brandon talking with some other guys at the frat house. “Man, she’s hot,” Brandon had said, just loud enough for him to hear. “I wouldn’t mind spending more time with her.”

Nicholas felt his hands clench involuntarily, and it took everything in him not to say something or, worse, do something he’d regret. Instead, he walked away, trying to ignore the knot of jealousy tightening in his chest.

Finally, the day of the presentation arrived. You and Brandon presented flawlessly, earning an immediate 95%. But as you wrapped up and turned back toward Nicholas, he was already heading over to you, his expression soft but determined. Without a word, he took your hand and pulled you close, pressing his lips to yours in a deep, passionate kiss right in front of Brandon. It was uncharacteristic of his usual sweet and shy demeanor, but he didn’t care—he needed Brandon to know exactly where you stood.

When you pulled back, slightly breathless, you noticed the look of shock and irritation on Brandon’s face. Nicholas just gave him a calm, steady look before taking your hand and leading you out of the classroom with a “come on baby, excuse me and my girlfriend Brandon.”

Back in his room at the frat house, Nicholas let out a relieved sigh, his hand resting on the small of your back. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, rubbing his neck sheepishly. “I- I didn’t mean to get like that, but seeing him with you—it just, it just made me so fucking jealous.”

You smiled, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. “You don’t have to apologize, Nick. I only have eyes for you. Besides,” you teased, “I kind of liked seeing that side of you.”

He blushed, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Good,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss you, it was slow, his touch gentle but filled with the unmistakable spark of all that had been building up over the past few days.

His touch was electric, his hands roaming all over your body. The moved to your breasts, groping you as you moaned into his mouth.

“These,” he breathed, pulling away just a bit as he grabbed your breasts again, “they’re mine.”

You had never seen him so possessive and jealous over you and boy, did it turn you on. He pushed you flat on his bed, his hand around your neck and stripped you of your clothes, roughly.

“N-Nick, are you sure? Everyone’s here��.” He cut you off by pressing a kiss to your lips. He stripped himself of his clothing, his muscles flexing and you bit your lip in anticipation.

Immediately, he leaned down, attaching his lips to your pussy, savoring your taste as you squirmed underneath him and tried to contain your moans. “Fuck, don’t hold back those moans baby, let it out,” he murmured, in between his movements.

You tried to hold on, but the minute he slipped his fingers inside you, curling them to hit that spongy spot inside you, you were unable to hold back. Your moans filled the room as Nicholas lapped at your juices, his palm pressing against your abdomen. The pressure rested on your lower belly and he continued, his fingers speeding up along with his tongue on your clit.

“Cum for me angel, I want you to cum on my tongue and I want to hear you scream.”

Your back arched off the bed and you squirmed under him as your juices spurted from you and onto his tongue.

“That’s my good girl, only I can make you squirt like that. Brandon wishes,” he scoffed.

A soft whimper left your lips as he stood up, pumping his hard and thick cock. He was hard the moment he tasted you.

Before he began fucking you, he lifted you up by your neck, making you look out the window.

“There’s the asshole,” he chuckled, making you look at Brandon walking towards the house, “I’m gonna make sure he hears me fucking you, gonna make sure he hears you fucking scream my name.”

You couldn’t believe the words leaving your sweet Nicholas’ lips. It was like the jealousy overtook him, awakening something feral inside him. It left you absolutely throbbing.

“P-please fuck me,” you whispered so quietly, he almost missed it.

“What’d you say angel? A little louder.”

“Please fuck me, Nick, I need you so bad, I need you to fuck me,” you begged.

“How obedient,” he chuckled, “anything for my sweet girlfriend.”

He pressed you onto the bed by your neck again, his hand remaining around it as he slipped inside you fully, giving you no time to adjust. You gasped at the intrusion, grabbing on to his hand and he immediately halted.

“Are you okay angel? Do you want me to stop? I-it’s okay if you want me to stop,” he said, a panicked look overtaking him as he cupped your cheeks looking into his eyes.

“No, I don’t want you to stop, please don’t stop,” you pleaded, grabbing his hand and putting it back around your throat.

His demeanor shifted again, and he began moving inside you. His hips thrusted fast, pounding inside you with his hand wrapped around your throat. You could barely contain your whiny mewls as each thrust made him press against your clit.

“You fucking like that? You like when I’m fucking you with everyone here? Tell me,” he demanded.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes!” you screamed, your moans surely to be heard across the frat house.

“That’s it princess, that’s exactly how I want you.” He began pounding into you harder, his moans growing louder as your walls clamped around him tightly. You wrapped your legs around him, grinding as he slammed into you.

“I can feel it princess, cum for me, cum for daddy.” He had a shocked expression on his face the minute the word left his lips and so did you. It was quickly replaced my pleasure as you immediately came on his cock. He was shocked he would ever refer to himself as ‘daddy’ the term never seeming to resonate in his sexual encounters with you until that very moment. A part of him was almost embarrassed, but the way your walls clenched around him the minute he said it and you squirting on his cock erased any lingering embarrassment.

“You’re so naughty, you really liked that didn’t you? You want me to be your daddy? Hm?” he asked, still pounding into you.

“Yes, be my daddy,” you cried.

He smirked and lifted you up, hooking his arms under your legs as he stood up and started slamming you on his hard cock.

“Scream for me baby, let that fucking asshole hear that he’ll never have you like this, let him hear that he’ll never have you the way I do,” he panted.

“Daddy!” you cried out, feeling Nicholas slam you harshly on his cock. Your body quivered and you knew before long you’d be coming again.

“You wanna cum angel? The only way you’re gonna cum is if you tell me who you belong to,” he breathed, his hands tightly gripped your ass as he thrusted up into you.

“I’m yours Nick, all yours, I belong to you, please let me cum,” you screamed.

“Good girl, good fucking girl, cum on my cock, cum on daddy’s cock.”

His movements becoming more intense and the air in the room was thick with passion. Lost in the intensity of the moment, you felt yourself reaching the tipping point, his name falling from your lips loudly as the sensation built. When you finally reached that breaking point, a rush of pleasure hit you, pulling a cry from you that filled the room and echoed through the hallway. You clung to him, and he held you close, pressing gentle kisses to your forehead as you caught your breath, completely wrapped up in him as he continued thrusting up into you.

From the muffled laughs and hollers you heard from outside, you realized the entire frat house had definitely heard. Nicholas just smiled, the slightest hint of pride in his eyes as he brushed his thumb over your cheek. “I want them to hear,” he whispered, pulling you into his arms. “You’re mine, and I don’t mind if everyone knows it.”

He lay on the bed, positioning you on top of him to straddle him. “Ride me baby, please,” he whimpered. His demeanor had shifted once again, his eyes growing needy and his lips pouting as his balls were swollen with cum fighting to spurt out.

You smirked, sinking down into his cock as you both gasped. “Fuck,” you moaned in unison, the sound of your pussy squelching loud in the room.

Your knees were on either side of him, bouncing up and down roughly, chasing your own orgasm again and making him chase his.

“I’m yours, yeah? Never forget that baby,” you whispered, snaking your hand around his neck.

He moaned in response, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as you moved your hips in a circular motion, riding him.

“You’re so big,” you screamed, his hips beginning to meet your thrusts as he practically hit your cervix continuously.

You heard muffled cheers outside the room, but you decided to focus on the both of you, making a mental note to cuss them out later for standing outside.

“F-fuck baby, I’m gonna cum so hard,” he cried, the sensitivity becoming too much for him.

“It’s okay baby, cum for me, I’m yours, cum inside your pussy.”

Moaning each other’s names, you held each other close, both your bodies shaking as you came simultaneously.

“You’re filling me up so much,” you moaned, feeling him spurt deep inside you. You stayed like that for a few minutes, his cock throbbing inside you as you both slowly came down from your high.

He lay you down, still holding you close as he kissed you all over your face.

“I’m sorry if that was too much angel, something just— just took me over, I don’t know what—”

You shut him up with a passionate kiss. “I enjoyed that so much sweetheart, that was so hot. Don’t apologize, you had every right to be jealous, but always remember there’s no other man for me but you. Brandon or anyone else could never have me the way you do. I’m yours and yours only.”

“All mine,” he smiled, sweetly.

Snapping you out of your moment, there was a pounding at the door. “Are you guys finished obliterating each other at 3 in the fucking afternoon? Goddamn Chavez, you’re a beast!” the voice yelled, followed by cheers and laughter. Then looking out the window, you saw the flustered figure of Brandon hurrying away.