Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI)Ā
Summary: Jeff Buckley and sex with a dash of a man having feelings.
Warnings: alex's pov, smut, unprotected p in v, cum play, striptease, oral (f! receiving), fingering, shower, whiskey, i literally know nothing about this man so just go with it, cello and music references
Words: 3,100
A/N: Entry #483 into Mallory adding Jeff Buckley's music into her fics. Listen to "Lover, You Should've Come Over," "Everybody Here Wants You," and "Forget Her."
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Five miles today. The sweat is stinging as it drips into Alexās eyes, his gray shirt soaked through with perspiration and effort. Heās ran farther today than he set out to, pushed himself up hills and steps, headphones blasting in his ears because the film score deadline looms, only three weeks left to compose forty minutes he's barely touchedā¦ but thatās not whatās constantly on his mind.
Itās you.
The memory of you across the room, barefoot in that silky, short robe of yours. How you left without saying goodbye, leaving him with just your name in the sex-heavy air.
He slows to a walk a block from the bungalows, tugging out his earbuds. Itās a scorcher, and the Pacific is doing nothing to cut the thick summer air. He feels disgusting, sweat drying on his skin, prickling under the sun. He needs a shower, some food he can muster out of his close-to-empty fridge, to lose himself in the stack of blank paper where music notes should be.
He slows as he approaches his place, because he hears something familiar. Your window is open, music drifting out of it that makes him halt on the sidewalk, right in front of your path. Jeff Buckleyās wailing āLover, You Shouldāve Come Over.ā The ache radiating out of the speakers matches the ache that Alex feels whenever he thinks of youā¦ that same damn feeling he just spent five miles trying to sweat out of his body.
He knows your name, heās memorized it, grunted it aloud when he used his hand to get himself off in the shower this morning. Now you're playing this song, loud enough that he still hears it as he unlocks his door.
Keys are thrown on the console table, shoes are kicked off, and he peels off his damp shirt. He rests his haggard body against the shared wall, collects himself, and listens to the song fade out before it repeats, and he hears the longing all over again. Alex Serian knows something about longing, because it seems to be the only thing heās been doing lately. He thinks about you with that dumb kid you brought home with you, in that showy vintage band tee and tattoos across his arms. Heās probably thinking about you too, thinking about how your eyes flutter open and shut when youāre close, the sweet sound of the gasp you let out before you shatter. Fuck.
He pushes himself off the wall, strips out of the rest of his sweat-soaked clothes, and heads to his black-tiled bathroom. He hisses when he steps under the cold shower head, before he lets the frigid water soothe his heat. He soaps himself, humming the melody of the song. Itāll be easy.
He changes into his customary practice clothes - only a pair of boxers - less clothing means less distractions. He pushes the blank sheet music out of the way when he sits at his computer and finds the song online.
Within an hour, he can play it. He figures out the arrangement easilyā¦ heās too good at being able to master longing and regret. The song plays through a few times as he uses his quietest bow.
Then, he waits.
The clock ticks a quarter past eleven, and he settles into his chair, facing your wall. He plays the cello, filling his home with yearning as he wills it to spill through the drywall and doesnāt stop until thereās a knock at his door.
Of course, it worked.
He gets up, checks himself in the mirror, making sure he looks perfectly casual in his sweatpants and black muscle tank before answering the door. He actually wins the fight to hide his smile as the door opens. Youāre standing there, in a teensy black dress, tiny straps across your shoulders. At your side, you have a vinyl record. You hold it up, Jeff Buckleyās photo across the cover.
"Figured we could listen and compare," you offer.
He steps back, opening the door for you to enter. "Come in."
He loves how you donāt hesitate, you just hand him the record and head to the couch.
āWant something to drink? Water, tea, whisāā
āWhiskey,ā you say from the couch.
He pours two fingers of whiskey in a tumbler. Youāre lounging back on the couch, one arm outstretched, legs crossed. Jesus, he likes looking at you in here. Your smooth curves on display against the smooth leather of his designer couch, the quiet confidence you exude in a dress that barely qualifies as clothing.
He turns to his stereo setup, complete with a vintage turntable and speakers that cost more than his first car. The needle drops, speakers crackling before the tight notes of the harmonium begin.
He sits next to you, close enough that his thigh presses against yours and hands you the tumbler. You take a drink, and he canāt look away from you, he doesnāt care if heās staring. Your lips form around the glass, and he follows the swallow down your throat, thinking about how youād look swallowing his cum. Heās trying to play it cool. Tries to treat it like itās just another collaborative listen, peer to peer and all that. Just connoisseurs of fine heartbreak and timbre.
Buckley sings about being too young to know better, and you turn to him, hooking your leg over his to settle across his lap. His exhalation is totally involuntary, body instantly tightening as you straddle him. You lean forward, tip the tumbler in his direction, whiskey sloshing forward as it goes to his lips. He sees the glint in your eyes as he wraps his mouth around the glass and you tilt it just enough to let him drink. He swallows, staring into your eyes as the whiskey stings his throat. You take one last drink from the tumbler, and deposit it on the side table, then post your hands on his shoulders. He stares up at you, almost in awe, like youāre the physical manifestation of a beautiful song. He knows you can see it, how the wanting is probably written all over his face. His big, brown eyes have always gotten him in trouble.
You begin to move, atop him, hips rolling against him, keeping time with the pulse of the music. You tilt closer, lips against his ear. āI love this song,ā you growl.
He goes to grab your hips, but you catch his hands and send them back to the couch with a knowing smirk. He doesnāt fight you. He gets the message. Your hands are the ones to roam across your body, up your hips, over your ribs, up your throat. Youāre showing off, back arching, lip caught between your teeth as you writhe atop him. Can you feel how hard heās growing beneath you? Can you tell how much he aches to have you under him?
He thinks you can.
You grip his hair, yank it a little, and tilt his head up, letting your neck press against his lips. He licks and sucks, breathing in the floral and citrus scent of your skin. You let out a small moan, your nails dragging across his scalp, and his groan matches yours.
The song ends. Thereās just the crackling whirr of the spinning record. Then, a bass line beats a sultry rhythm.
You pull away and look at him like youāve engineered the whole thing. Maybe you did. You pull your hands down your chest, over your hips, and stand all full of grace and intent. āYouāve performed for me,ā you say. āLet me perform for you.ā
Twenty nine pearls in your kiss
Alex sits back on the couch, lets his knees spread, and watches, full attention as you begin to sway in between his legs. You're moving like you know exactly what youāre doing, and heās mesmerized, absolutely caught up, as your hips roll slowly to the music.
Your flame in me
Alex is strung tight, and his eyes begin to water from not blinking, especially when you turn, bend, and reach for the ground. He leans forward, leather crinkling as he moves on instinct, just to get a closer look as the hem of your little black dress rides higher and higher. He swallows a thick movement of need at the curve of your ass bordered by silky black. You reach and sway, dress riding all the way up, giving him a full look at your ass swaying, and he wonders how your skin tastes, how itād feel to run his tongue along your smooth legs, across the curves of your ass.
Heās fucking hypnotized by you, his neighbor, dancing for him in his living room. All he can do is stare at the space between your thighs, mesmerized by the slick heat thatās glistening and gleaming between your legs. He wants to taste you. Wants to put his hands on you, wants your sweat and your cunt in his mouth, wants to see if you taste as sweet as you smell tonight. Heās played at Carnegie, the Musikverein, the fucking Philharmonie in Berlin, and heās never been more focused than now: all of his energy straining into the few feet between your body and his lap.
Such a thing of wonder in this crowd
Your hips roll, hands ghosting up your thighs, skating over your smooth, bare skin. Heās aching, cock twitching in his tented sweatpants and when you face him, he sucks in a breath. Youāre so fucking gorgeous. Your eyes are lust dark and hooded, lips parted, silky dress bunched around your thighs, and he can see just the hint of what heās about to lose his mind over.
I know everybody here wants you
You climb onto the coffee tableāsome walnut piece from Herman Miller he splurged on to impress that actressālike you were made for a stage, so close now that Alex could touch you if he wanted to. He wants to, so fucking bad, but instead, he fists his hands atop his sweatpanted thighs, lets the burning heat pool in his belly, mouth hanging open as you arch your back and glide your hands over your body while the record spins on.
I know everybody here thinks he needs you
You anoint him with the most beautiful view as you roll the thin silk of your dress up your body, tugging it up and over your head. A shiverāa goddamn shiver in the middle of the summerāspasms through him, chest to groin, at the sight of you. You toss your dress at him, and he actually manages to catch it, bringing the warm silk to his nose and inhaling the scent of you.
Youāre the hottest goddamn thing heās ever seen, seducing him with every hypnotic bump of your hips. He thinks he can almost see the heat haloing off your skin as you move, keeping with the pulse of the music, body bare and beautiful.
And Iāll rise like an ember in your name
Youāre performing, but even as you keep your eyes on his, Alex knows youāre only dancing for yourself, like some sort of temptress that just happens to live across the yard from him. You grind your hips into the air, hands cupping your tits, your nipples are so tight and sweet looking, inviting his tongue. You tug them both, twisting in time with the song, and the low moan you make, as you stare him down, makes him want to throw all of his self-restraint away. All he can think about is that small taste of you last time, how badly he wants to devour your cunt, make you scream his name.
Iāll be waitinā right here just to show you
You donāt bother to warn himāyou just step directly from the table onto the couch, both feet bracketing his thighs as the cushion dips. You roll your hips, slick and pretty cunt at his eye level, and the soft heat of you being so close almost undoes him right there. You cord your fingers through his hair, tugging at the roots to tilt his head all the way back. His eyes meet yours, and he swallows. The way youāre looking at him, like heās all youāve been thinking about, is so fucking hot, it makes him almost dizzy.
Your hands flow down the lines of his face, settling on the edges of his jaw, and you guide him right where he wants to be, pressing his face right into your wet cunt. He breathes you in, opens his mouth, tongue tasting the first strip of you.
āFuck,ā you gasp, grinding slow against his mouth. So wet. So in control. So fucking perfect. His nose presses against your swollen, soaked skin and he licks, circles, and dashes his tongue against your clit. Youāve got both hands gripping his hair, making little shuddering sounds, and he wants to make you cum like thisāwants to play you to the very end.
Your legs begin to wobble, and he anchors you with his hands, sliding them up your thighs, thumbs digging in to your flesh to hold you still and open. He can hear you panting over the flick of the record, over the greedy sounds heās making as he finally gets to taste you proper. He finds your rhythm, playing along to it, swirling his tongue, pressing it inside, bowing long and slow, then short and urgent. He feels the seismic shiver of you vibrating against his hands and tongue. Youāre pulsing, reaching the crescendo of your orgasm, and he drinks you down, hands stretched across the globes of your ass, pushing you further and further against him. Youāre moaning so sweet, so loud, so perfect, he wishes he could hit repeat on each breath that escapes you.
You have to steady yourself with both hands on his skull, hands grasping his hair. He licks you softer now, a gentle cleaning, giving himself one last taste as your hips roll one last time. He leans back, breathless, face wet, and looks up at you. Thereās a thing called musicianās pride after an amazing performance, a natural high when the final ovation is taken, and he feels that right now. You look absolutely fucked.
Your body melts, knees giving out, and you slump down into his lap, chest to his chest. He throws his shirt off, needing to feel your skin sear his as you shudder with the aftershocks. Every part of Alex is thrumming, pulse loud in his ears, cock aching in its cage of designer knit. He holds youānot for long enoughāuntil you pull away and smile, all feline and sexy and cool. Your knees pin his thighs, the heat of your cunt is so fucking close from the straining line of his cock. He wonders if youāll notice the damp spread at the front of his sweats.
The songās changed, long ago, and he only just notices it, heās been so lost in you. Alex Serian prides himself on how finely tuned his body is, how he takes care of it like an instrument, but once you touch him, he feels like a student again, all inelegant and full of pleading tension. Your hand threads down his body, and when you palm his cock, he whimpers a delightedly shocked sound, and if he wasnāt so fucking horny and needy for you, heād be ashamed. You hmph a soft smug sound in response and squeeze his cotton-shrouded cock.
You rise a little, and he tries to keep his composure no matter how much he feels like heās shaking, as you grip the waistband of his sweats and tug. He lifts his hips obligingly, letting his hard cock escape the cotton. You lean back and look down, eyes on how hard his dick is jutting between you, leaking and desperate for attention. You drag one nail up the underside of him, and all he wants is for you to wrap your hand around it and play him.
You do, your thumb circling the head and you fist him. Alex jerks forward at the wristy rhythm, moaning and groaning, an unknowable relief of feeling your touch again. Itās been too many days of thinking about you, of trying to forget you, of knowing thereās just a thin wall between you and his growing want for you. He brags about self-control, but with you, he feels it depleting each time youāre near him.
Heās leaking all over your hand, and heās not sure if itās sweat or precum. You seem to not mind the sticky mess heās making at all. No, in fact, you welcome it. You glide the head of his cock against your cunt, swirling it against your eager entrance before you let the heat of you envelop his cock. You both gasp at the same time as you seat yourself all the way down, and you rock, adjusting to the size of him and the way he impales you.
You look like a fucking goddess atop him, and he groans, hands fisting against your hips, burying his face against your breast because he canāt look at you any longer, canāt cope with how much he wants you. Alex doesnāt know what the fuck this is, how it can feel so good with someone he barely knows. The most you two share is a wall and this hedonistic pleasure, and heās so fucking lost in it. Youāre so sure of yourself, never shy, not with the way youāre gripping his shoulders, working your hips, grinding your cunt along his cock.
Heās fucked, and youāre too busy fucking yourself on him, using his body like an instrument, to notice any of his inner desperation. You ride him, tempo wavering, like youāre testing the ranges of what either of you can stand. He hears it all. The beat of his heart, the rush of his own breath, the musicās still playing on the record player, Jeff Buckley singing to āForget Her.ā How could he? How could he ever move on from you? From this. From this need.
He wants you closer, wants to fuck you harder and make you remember that nobody else but Alex Serian can make you feel this way. He lifts you, arms around you tight, and half stands so he can lay you down on the cold wood of the coffee table. Your back arches in surprise, and he presses forward, still inside you, and fucks into you slow, letting himself leave the velvet warmth of you before shrouding himself back in your heat with long strokes. He searches for the cadence that makes you curl your fingers into his shoulders. Thereās something almost holy in the way you look up at him, heavy-eyed, lips open, sweat making your skin glow in the late summer heat.
He reaches under your head, palm cradling the back of your head, anchoring himself and grounding you down. He can now fuck you with a new, desperate force the slap of his body against yours is louder than the music that spills out of his speakers. His forehead meets yours, slick skin against skin, bridge of his nose dragging a line along your cheekbone, and he loses himself.
Your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his skin, and he grunts. His back is slick with sweat, and the pads of your feet are sticky against his skin. You squeeze him tight, harder, and he pistons into you, over and over, but you still want and moan for more, demanding, tilting your body up to meet him.
The coffee table squeaks beneath you, and he tries to keep his eyes open, stop them from rolling back in pleasure at the squeeze and pulse of your cunt. He wants to watch every flicker of your lashes, the slack of your jaw when his cock spears you deep. He wants to imprint on you, to have only his name and the memory of his cock stretching you echo through your memory. He grunts your name over and over, hissing, almost stuttering on lust, as he worships you and curses your pussy for being so perfect for him.
Heās so fucking close, gone is his button-up composure. His teeth grit as he presses into you and tries to stop the spread of ecstasy, but itās too fucking late. He pulls out on reflex, barely makes it to the curve of your belly before he cums across your skin. His whole body burns with each sputter and shot of thick, white pearlescence that pulses out of him. He strokes himself, watching the mess pool beneath your navel.
He can barely think for himself, but he knows the performance isnāt over. You still need your finale. Alex slides to the floor, knees against the hand-knotted area rug, and drags you to the edge of the table. He wants to admire you like this, his hands wrapped around your thighs spreading them open, your heat and scent on full display for all of his senses, his own cum smeared across your skin. Heās wild, almost reckless as he gazes down at you, one hand running down your body. Youāre writhing, hips undulating, trembling, and he canāt wait any longer. He buries his face in you, mouth wide open, tonguing you deep, lapping up every drop of desire youāre leaking for him.
Youāre a symphony of noises, needy and high meeting melting and low. Itās almost musical, and Alex learns the notes of what makes you gasp and scream. He gives you two of his fingers, curling and dragging as he tongues your clit. Then, he gives you three, leaning back just enough so he can watch your body try to swallow his hand.
Your hands run along your body, smearing the mess heās made on your skin, rubbing his drying cum across your body, pulling it up to your tits and smearing it all over your curves. He can feel you getting close, your pussy clamping his fingers, your breaths quickening. He doesnāt let you have it. Not yet. He goes slow, gently licking you with a soft reverence, lets you fall back down, then gets you right back to needy again, working you up, making you scream his name.
Youāre wound so tight, and heās tuning you to the right tension, building your pleasure with his lips and fingers. He lets you shatter for him, and you cum so hard your whole body shakes as you spill, pulse, and grind into his face. Your moan is a long, almost layered glissando that makes Alex think heās found the answer to the weeks of uninspired scoring. Itās the best sound heās heard. Nothing in Buckleyās catalog, not Bach, not even the ovation from the crowd at his last āRite of Spring.ā
Heās grinning when he peels away from you, and wipes his chin with his wrist. Youāre a mess on the table, catching your breath, pleasure drunk across mahogany. He runs his hand along your body, hoping you wonāt kick him off for touching you like this, gently, softly, as you gather yourself.
Fuck. He doesnāt want the night to end.
He stands, bends and scoops you up, arms around your back and under your knees, and youāre either too cum drunk, or you just donāt care as he lifts you from the table and carries you down the hallway to his bathroom. He sets you down on the countertop, the mirror against the black tile reflecting your overwhelmed body, you look ruinedā¦ but happy and satiated as he starts the shower.
You stand, still wobbling back and forth as he helps you in the shower, stepping in behind. The steam swallows your bodies, and you lean back against his chest, his hands and the water wash away the sweat and cum and music and sex of the night. You let him, humming low, eyes watching his reflection in the glass. When heās done, he turns off the water and wraps you in his towel.
He doesnāt bother asking you to stay. He just walks you to his bedroom and peels back the sheets. Itās not lost on him how your apartment is just past the wall. That you could, if you wanted, grab your dress and walk across the thin patch of grass and be back in your space. But you donāt. Instead, you climb under the sheets, and he joins you. He thinks about the last time he let anyone sleep here, itās been literal years, and here he is with his fucking neighbor.
Heās tentative when he brings his arm around your waist, and he almost wants to be angry at how well you fit against him when you settle. You fall asleep quickly, and he stays awake, listening to your soft breathing.
He watches you sleep, body curled and peaceful against the white of his sheets. He holds you for a long time, chest to your back. Heās not used to this. Not since it was enough to be good at things only for himself.
You hum a quiet mmm in your sleep, and he instantly recognizes it, the same timbre, same vibration as the drawn-out moan from earlier. He lies there listening and remembering until the pieces of melody begin to assemble. You exhale, shift, and he hears it again. Itās not a song yet, just a collection of notes.
He detangles from your sleepy warmth, sits up, grabs the legal pad and pencil that he always keeps in the bedside drawer. He sits, hunched, back to the headboard, one leg crossed across his knee, supporting the legal pad. He writes the hum, and then a harmony from it. Then a contour of your moan, and how it would sound on the cello, longer and drawn out. He writes your name at the top. The director and no one at the studio needs to know the piece is about you. Heāll just call it āIntermezzoā or āMotive (Theme in G)ā or whatever simple title theyāll accept.
He works for an hour, then sets the pencil down, re-reads what heās got. It might be the best sequence heās written in years. He glances from the yellow paper of the pad to you, how tangled up in his sheets you are. Even now, the smallest sound from you alters his pulse, making him want to pin you back under him.
When the melody feels just right along his annotations and sides of notes, he sets the pad on his table and lies back. The bed welcomes his body, and he scoots closer to you, propping his thigh against yours. Thereās nowhere left for his arm but to drop it over your belly, and he blames the too-late-hour on the tenderness overcoming him. He drifts off, letting the presence of you help him fall asleep.
That damn loud bird shrieks right outside his window, and he wrenches up in a confused bobble. Heās on his stomach, lines across his cheek from the pillow. He turns over, expecting you, but all that remains is the valley left by your body. He sits up, gets out of the bed, not even grabbing his robe and strides into his living room stark naked. Your dress is gone, and the recordās been taken out of the player.
Heās not sure what he expectedā¦ certainly not that youād make him breakfast or stick around to wake him. Hell, he prefers whomever he brings home to leave easily and quietly. And yet, your disappearance seems to bruise him.
He goes back to his room, picks up the legal pad, and reads over the notes. Thanks to you, heās finally figured it out. Heās never been more inspired in his life.
Fun Fact! If you tap your knuckles against your knights chestplate and ask who their heart beats for, themselves or you, you can stun-lock them long enough to kiss the side of their helm without protest!
Mammal in a Sunday Dress explores the uneasy relationship between femininity, civilisation, and the animal body. At first glance, the figure appears modest and withdrawn. Her posture is composed, her gaze seemingly lowered towards her bare feet, recalling the conventions of nineteenth-century portraiture where women were often depicted as passive objects of observation. Yet as the viewer moves closer, the illusion collapses. Her eyes are not lowered at all. She is looking directly back.
The delayed eye contact transforms the encounter. The viewer approaches believing they are safely observing a woman; instead, they realise they have been observed themselves. The work refuses the traditional power dynamic of portraiture, denying the comfort of anonymous spectatorship. Looking becomes a reciprocal act.
For Cox, the painting considers humanity's persistent desire to separate itself from the rest of the animal kingdom. The title quietly undermines this distinction. A "mammal" is not another creatureāit is us. The Sunday dress, rich with cultural associations of femininity, morality, and respectability, becomes an attempt to distinguish ourselves from nature. Yet clothing cannot alter biology. Beneath lace and ritual remains the same vulnerable animal body.
The work also reflects on the historical relationship between women and nature. Across art, religion, and philosophy, women have repeatedly been positioned as closer to instinct, emotion, reproduction, and the body itself, while men have been aligned with reason, culture, and civilisation. Mammal in a Sunday Dress does not reject this comparison. Instead, it questions why proximity to nature has so often been treated as something lesser.
Chiaroscuro isolates the figure within darkness, allowing the luminous dress to symbolise the performance of civilisation while the bare feet quietly return the body to the earth. Neither is presented as more truthful than the other. The painting exists in the tension between performance and instinct, refinement and biology.
Mammal in a Sunday Dress ultimately asks a simple but unsettling question: if every layer of culture were stripped away, what would remain? Not a king. Not a saint. Not a gentleman or a lady. Only another mammal, looking back.
attention fic authors that want to write for hispanic characters!!18+
if u find urself typing out "bad Spanish" in the warning for ur fic, don't! do research!! it can alienate latino/hispanic/Spanish speaking readers to read incorrect Spanish or to read things along the lines of "they whispered something in Spanish that you wish you could understand," we do understand!
here are some tips for sexy talk in Spanish!!
concha, coƱo, panocha, cuca, toto ā pussy
or at least not really, these are rough, slangy ways to refer to it, like saying your snatch or twat. it's not sexy at all!! in LatAm we don't really use coƱo to mean pussy tbh it's like saying fuck.
- if u want to say pussy I'd go for more poetic ways to say it!!
- esta flor (this flower), gatita (literally pussy, like little cat), fruits!! (in Spanish obvs) like the connotation that it's something juicy and sweet and sticky is so sexy
- or bypass words entirely and say cosita/cosa which means thing. it sounds bad in english but "que cosa mas linda" is so fucking sexy actually (translates roughly to what a pretty thing)
pene does mean penis but again pene is more vulgar/clinical than sexy, we refer more to actions and talk about the body part rather than name it I think. u can talk about how big it is, how hard, rather than say the word pene
some vocab words/phrases!!
jugoso/jugosa - juicy
mojada/mojadita/mojado/mojadito - wet
mojadisima/o- super wet
que pasĆ³ - what happened; what's wrong
que pasa - what's happening; what's wrong
que te pasa - what's wrong/up with you (kinda mean)
mierda - shit
coƱo - fuck
puta - whore, usually used for slut but it kinda means prostitute
duro - hard
lento - slow
suave - gentle
damelo - give it to me (can also be used as fuck me)
tomalo - take it
ya/ no mas, ya. no mas - can be used together or separate, means enough (ya) no more (no mas) eg. "ya, ya, no mas por favor ya"
que cosa/cosita mas linda - what a pretty/pretty little thing (would actually fucking kill me)
por favor - please
boca - mouth
labios - lips
culo - ass
mĆrame - look at me
tĆ³came - touch me
lengua - tongue
sentirte - feel you
quiero - i want
necesito - i need
bello/bella - beautiful
linda/lindo - pretty
dulce - sweet
delicioso - delicious
sabroso - delicious, flavorful
mio - mine (mi used before something to indicate possession, eg. mi culo=my ass)
ay - oh or ugh; whine/moan sound when used in a sexual context, not always sexual! eg. "ay dios(oh god)" can be sexual or nonsexual
hazme el amor - make love to me
pet name 101
obviously your character/s could be from any of 20/22 spanish speaking countries globally and have their own region specific pet names, but here are some I'm familiar with (porfis comentan si saben mas!!)
beba / bebo / bebe - baby
tesoro - treasure [can also be used to refer to genitals! tu tesoro/tesorito]
bebita / bebito - baby in a sweet cutesy way (can also be in a condescending way if ur into thatš)
mi cielo - my sky/heaven
mi sol - my sun
mi rey / mi reina - my king/queen (doesn't need to be in a worshipping dommy way, we use this so casually)
mi amor - my love
all the mi ____ ones can also be reversed if u find it getting repetitive or just wanna switch up! amor mio, cielo/cielito mio, sol mio, amorcita mia, reina mia
amorcito/a - diminutive of my love
papi/mami - interchangeably mommy/daddy and babygirl/baby boy!! little known fact but this is the most important one to me bc in sub!man character fics I'd love to see papi used in the baby way!!
pobrecito/pobrecita/pobre - poor thing (pobre is gender neutral and is used for any gender!!)
preciosa/precioso - precious
principe/princesa - prince/princess
cosa linda - pretty thing (fem typically)
papĆ”/mamĆ”ā daddy/mommy, it's like papa/mama(american pronunciation, usually more loving/doting than sexual)
nene ā baby(sexy) it means kid
link to another post of mine answering an ask abt degradation specifically!!
Ty for the Spanish tips post. Would you agree what's "not at all sexy" can be a matter of reader preference / writer intent? For example, ro
please message or comment if u have questions or additions !!
"I call [stretch marks] my tiger stripes. I've always appreciated them on women, men. I always thought they looked really cool." -- Hudson Williams for Men's Health
Iāve got a lot of Thoughts(tm) about The Odyssey at the moment, but damnit Blum Iām an archer, not a film critic, so hereās something in my lane!
A Little Hyperfixation. As A Treat. @elshoopacabra - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
