Barcelona hadn’t felt like home yet.
You were still moving around the city with the wide-eyed clumsiness of someone trying not to look lost, but always somehow ending up on the wrong metro line. Your Spanish was good enough, Catalan… barely there. Most days you kept your head down, your headphones in, and told yourself that adjusting just took time.
Your apartment, at least, was something you could make your own. It was small, but the ceilings were high and the light came in warm in the afternoons. And the balcony— it wasn’t big,but not small either —had sold you on the place the second you stepped into it. Just enough space for a chair, small coffee table, probably small couch in future and the quiet hope that maybe you'd start to feel like yourself again, even so far from what used to be familiar.
Your schedule was still awkward. Architecture classes were long and intense, all theory and pressure, with just enough free time to make you guilty for not doing more. You spent your mornings on campus, your afternoons sketching—or pretending to—and your evenings curled up on the bed, half-listening to music as you convinced yourself to work.
The first week went by like that. Quiet. Uneventful. No real contact with anyone besides classmates and your advisor. You’d seen glimpses of neighbors, sure—someone carrying a bike upstairs, an older woman with laundry baskets and bright pink slippers—but no one close enough to say hello to.
Your own balcony faced another. Separated by a thin divider, waist-high, painted in the same tired white as the rest of the complex. You’d never seen anyone out there. Maybe the apartment next to yours was empty.
So when you stepped into your living room that afternoon, barefoot, cup of tea in hand, the last thing you expected was to find a massive black cat staring at you like he’d been there the whole time.
You froze mid-step. Tea sloshed dangerously close to the rim.
He was sitting perfectly still by the sliding glass door, halfway between inside and out, tail curled neatly around his paws. The kind of black that looked almost blue in the sunlight. Broad head, golden eyes. Quiet confidence.
“…Where the hell did you come from?”
No collar. No sound. He blinked once, like you were the one being strange.
Then, without hesitation, he stepped fully into your apartment.
You stood there, mouth slightly open, as he padded across the wooden floor like it belonged to him. No rush, no nerves. Just… calm. Like this was a routine visit.
You turned slowly to follow him with your eyes. “Okay.. Great.”
He paused near your low coffee table, sniffed your sketchbook, and then—because apparently this was his home now—curled up in the warm square of light spilling in through the window.
“I didn’t even… I didn’t leave food out or anything.” You rubbed a hand over your face. “You just—broke in?”
The cat lifted his head slightly, then lowered it again with a deep, satisfied sigh. He was clearly not going anywhere.
You hesitated for a few seconds longer“Okay” you muttered, “Make yourself at home.”
After that first afternoon, you expected the cat to disappear.
Barcelona didn’t feel like the kind of city where things just showed up and stayed. Everything here moved too fast. The days bled together in a haze of heat, noise, and effort—so many things to learn, so much to adapt to. And yet, the next day, at exactly the same time, cat returned.
You’d barely noticed the sound—a soft scratch against the tile, the faint thump of paws—but there he was again, settling into the same pool of afternoon light by your bookshelf with a long, theatrical sigh.
You stared at him for a moment from behind your laptop. “You’re serious about this, huh?”
He didn’t answer. Just flicked his tail once and closed his eyes.
And so, day after day, he came back.
Sometimes earlier, sometimes later, but always after noon and always alone. You started expecting him. Started leaving the balcony door open just wide enough. Started refilling the little water bowl by the couch.
By day three, you’d caught yourself talking to him out loud. Not full conversations, but soft comments here and there as you worked through sketches and models. Your studio space was small, and quiet, and cat filled it with a presence that didn’t demand anything from you—which, weirdly, made it easier to think.
He wasn’t affectionate. Not exactly. He’d occasionally brush against your ankle or curl beside you on the couch, but mostly he existed like a shadow—steady and unbothered. You grew used to the shape of him in your space. Like a black spill of ink across the light. Like something that made your borrowed apartment feel a little more like home.
You wondered where he came from. Who he belonged to. But there hadn’t been any notes, no one knocking at your door, no complaints. Just the occasional sound from the balcony next door—faint music, the clink of a cup, a brief laugh that disappeared too quickly to hold onto.
Whoever lived there wasn’t nosy. Or maybe they just didn’t care.
Still, you caught yourself glancing over the divider more and more often.
The mystery of it made your chest itch.
On the fifth day, you came back late from a critique session and found him already waiting. He was sitting neatly just outside the door, staring in like you were the one running late. You let out a soft, surprised laugh and opened it without thinking.
Cat walked in like he owned the place.
That night, he stayed longer than usual. You worked on your laptop while he snored softly under the window. And for the first time since you’d moved here, you didn’t feel the weight of distance as heavily as before.
On the sixth day, it rained.
You thought maybe that would break the pattern. Maybe you’d just imagined this weird ritual into something bigger than it was. But around four in the afternoon, when the skies were a dull, relentless gray and your mood was worse, you heard the faintest sound by the window.
You turned. And there he was.
Drenched. Displeased. Regal.
You hurried to open the door, and he padded in without hesitation, shaking droplets onto your floor like a dog.
“Oh my god,” you muttered, grabbing a towel. “You’re going to ruin my landlord’s precious fake wood flooring.”
He tolerated your fussing for about ten seconds, then walked off to dry himself on your throw blanket anyway.
That night, you boiled some pasta and set a small plate of plain tuna down beside your chair. You didn’t know if cats were supposed to eat tuna that often, but he was a guest. And honestly? He’d earned it.
You were stretched out on the balcony floor, cat a warm weight against your thigh, the sky above painted that deep indigo right before full night. It was finally quiet. No metro, no street shouting, just the hum of the city settling and the occasional flick of Bagheera’s tail.
You scratched gently behind his ears. “You really know how to pick a spot, huh?”
He purred like he agreed.
A voice. From just over the divider.
“Baaagheeera, don’t make me come get you again,” the voice added, more amused now. “I’m not in the mood to scale balconies tonight.”
You blinked. Slowly turned your head toward the divider.
Bagheera lifted his head too, alert.
Then a soft scuff—bare feet?—and a shape appeared, leaning lazily over the railing.
God. She was something else. Messy bun, oversized hoodie, sharp jawline catching the light from her apartment behind her. Her eyes found yours instantly, like she’d been expecting you.
You said nothing. Too busy trying to remember how to function.
“Oh,” she said, a little grin curling one side of her mouth. “So you’re the one he’s been cheating on me with.”
You made a noise. Somewhere between a laugh and a choke.
She nodded toward cat, apparently named Bagheera. “He’s got a routine, you know. Leaves after lunch, comes back smelling like someone else’s couch.”
You looked down at the cat, who offered exactly zero shame.
“I… didn’t know he had an owner,” you said finally, voice embarrassingly small.
“Hmm. He does. Kind of.” She studied you for a second. “You live alone?”
She tilted her head, eyes flicking over you once—bare legs, oversized T-shirt, tea mug next to you—then back up, more amused now.
You didn’t know what to say to that. The silence buzzed between you, charged.
Then she smirked. “Guess I’ll be seeing you around, vecina.”
She turned like that was it, already stepping back.
But you were still staring. Still holding her cat. Still… breathless.
She reappeared two seconds later with a blanket and leaned on the railing again, clearly not in a rush.
“You can breathe, you know,” she said. “I don’t bite.”
You flushed. “Sorry. You just—caught me off guard.”
“Yeah?” Her grin widened. “Guess I should’ve knocked first.”
“You’re technically outside.”
She extended her hand. “I’m Mapi.”
You took it, still dazed. “I’m Y/N.”
She held your hand half a second longer than necessary, then let go and nodded to Bagheera.
And then she took him, her fingers brushing your arm with a warmth that lingered too long. No goodbye, no explanation—just a casual glance and a crooked smile before she slipped back through the sliding door like she hadn’t just turned your entire night upside down.
You sat there on the balcony for a long time after that.
The city quiet, your tea cold, your heart kind of wrecked in the nicest way.
It had been nearly a week since you’d seen Mapi.
Not that you were counting. Well. You were. A little.
After that first late afternoon—her standing barefoot and casual, Bagheera perched smugly in her arms, you still reeling from the fact that your mystery cat belonged to a very real, very attractive woman next door—she hadn’t come out again. Or maybe she had, just not when you were looking. Which was often.
Bagheera, on the other hand, had shown up daily. Like clockwork. Stretching across your floor like he paid rent. Following you from room to room. Sleeping beside your sketchbooks, stepping directly on your laptop keyboard, watching your every move with that regal, unbothered confidence.
You didn’t mind. He was company. Soft, quiet, steady.
And lately, your tiny balcony had started to feel like your favorite place to be.
A few days ago, you’d found a secondhand couch at a weekend market. The kind that looked like it was made for coffee shops and long conversations. A little beat up, perfectly squishy, and just narrow enough to wedge against your balcony wall beneath the window. The vendor helped you carry it home in exchange for a pastry and a grateful smile.
Now it lived out there permanently—blanketed and pillowed, sun-warmed in the day, breezy at night.
Tonight, you were curled into it, wine in hand, legs tucked beneath you as Bagheera snoozed along the backrest like a lazy panther.
The city hummed low around you. A breeze tugged at your hair. Your laptop was perched on a tray beside you, the screen casting soft light against the growing dark. Blue Is the Warmest Color played quietly. A movie you’d seen before, sure, but never on a night like this. Never while pressed into a couch under stars, with red wine on your tongue and the soft weight of a cat warming your side.
You didn’t mean to get so into it. But it sucked you in. The tension, the push and pull, the way longing built in silences more than words. Your glass was half-full and forgotten. Your eyes stayed glued to the screen.
And then the scene started.
You felt the shift before it even happened. The way they looked at each other, breath shallow, eyes dark. The room blurred. Their fingers found each other slowly, reverently.
You swallowed. Shifted. The wine hit your bloodstream just enough to make the air feel heavier.
Onscreen, their mouths met. The first touch. Hands roaming, desperate and searching. The intimacy of it—raw, unhurried—tangled something low in your stomach.
You sat forward slightly, breathing shallow. Bagheera stretched, oblivious.
“Well,” a voice said lightly from the darkness, “this got interesting fast.”
You jumped so hard you nearly kicked your wine over.
Your head snapped toward the divider.
Leaning over the railing like she’d been there the whole time. Hair pulled into a messy knot, arms fully tattooed, tank top hanging loose off one shoulder. Lit faintly by the golden glow from inside her apartment. A crooked smirk curving her lips.
You froze. Completely and totally frozen.
She tilted her chin toward your screen. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Looked like things were getting pretty… intense.”
You scrambled to pause the movie. The frozen frame was ridiculous. You slammed your laptop shut and threw your arm over it like a teen caught watching porn in a rom-com.
“I—I didn’t hear you,” you stammered, fully mortified.
Mapi grinned wider. “Clearly.”
You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “You can’t just do that,.”
“Do what?” she asked innocently. “Existing?”
“Appearing out of thin air mid-sex scene!”
She laughed then. A full, rich sound that bounced between the walls. “In my defense,” she said, “you’re the one watching lesbian cinema with the volume at emotional devastation.”
You stared at her. “That’s not a genre.”
Bagheera let out a dramatic yawn and stretched between you, like this entire conversation bored him.
Mapi leaned on the railing, still smiling. “I came out to call him, actually. Didn’t expect the free entertainment.”
You narrowed your eyes. “He’s ignoring you on purpose.”
“He’s got a type, apparently.”
You arched a brow. “Sarcastic neighbors who ruin perfectly good wine-fueled movie nights?”
She laughed again, and this time it wasn’t teasing—it was soft. A little warm.
“No,” she said, quieter now. “People who talk to him like he’s understands what they’re saying.”
You blinked at that. Your face warmed. “He can.”
Mapi smiles. “Most people treat animals like accessories. You don’t. He likes that.”
You looked down at Bagheera. He blinked slowly at you, then flopped back onto his side like he was too cool for this moment.
“So…” Mapi said after a beat, nodding toward your mostly-full wine glass. “You always drink alone on your balcony and get emotionally destroyed by French cinema?”
You gave her a dry look. “Only when I’m not being publicly humiliated by my neighbor.”
“That’s a shame,” she said, already stepping back inside. “I’ve got a bottle of rosé that could pair perfectly with your mortification.”
You blinked. “Wait—what?”
She reappeared a second later with two glasses in one hand and a bottle in the other.
Bagheera let out a little trill of approval.
“Move over,” Mapi said, gesturing to the couch as she stepped over the divider like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You stared. Then you moved.
You stared as Mapi steeped over the divider. Literally.
One leg, then the other, barefoot and all like this was normal behavior and not a moment of sheer insanity. Her wine bottle tilted dangerously as she landed lightly on your balcony floor, casual as hell, like she hadn’t just scaled your wall like a hot lesbian raccoon.
“Jesus Christ,” you muttered
“Relax,” she said with a grin, “the wall’s barely above my waist.”
Mapi handed you a new glass. “Then what is the point?”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. You looked at her, then at the wine, then at Bagheera who was now purring and rubbing against her ankle like she hadn’t abandoned him days ago. Traitor.
“I could be a serial killer,” you finally said.
Mapi poured. “You’re watching Blue Is the Warmest Color and drinking wine out of a stemmed glass on a couch you probably named. You’re not a serial killer.”
You stared at her. “You don’t know that.”
She lifted her brows, looking around at the pillows and the carefully draped blanket, the way you’d strung up two paper lanterns that swayed lazily in the breeze.
“Okay, fair. You’re an aesthetically pleasing serial killer.”
You took the wine and muttered, “That’s better.”
Bagheera jumped onto the couch between you like he’d been waiting for her to sit down all along. He promptly flopped onto her lap. She stroked his fur like it was second nature.
You hated how domestic it looked.
“Fine,” you said after a long sip, “you can stay. But you’re not allowed to judge me.”
She raised a brow. “For what, exactly?”
You gestured vaguely at the laptop, which was now partially hidden under a blanket out of sheer embarrassment.
Mapi smirked. “For the record, I wasn’t judging. That scene’s a masterpiece.”
“Like—cinematically,” she clarified. “Lighting, pacing, tension—ten out of ten. Should be studied.”
You choked on your wine. “You’re not helping.”
“Just saying. Could’ve picked something much worse. Imagine if I’d popped in during—what’s that one? ‘Below Her Mouth’?”
You slapped a hand over your face. “Please stop talking.”
She laughed, full-bodied and delighted. “Hey, I’m just trying to help you feel less mortified.”
“Good. You’re cute when you’re flustered.”
Your brain short-circuited.
Your entire nervous system blinked like a neon sign: Did she say that? Did she actually say that?
Mapi just sipped her wine, looking completely unbothered.
You cleared your throat, trying to act like your pulse hadn’t just gone into cardiac arrest. “So, you’re just… crashing balconies now?”
She shrugged. “Yours looked better than mine.”
“You don’t even know what mine looks like.”
“I do now,” she said, eyes scanning over the setup again. “Cozy. Thoughtful. Very queer. It’s giving…” She waved her glass around. “Main character energy.”
You gave her a look. “You’re ridiculous.”
Mapi beamed. “You like it.”
You didn’t answer. Mostly because she was right and you didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. The silence stretched for a second, the clink of her glass against yours echoing in the small space. The city below murmured on.
Then, out of nowhere “Wait,” she said suddenly, squinting at your face. “Are you the one who sings to Bagheera sometimes?”
Your whole body seized. “No.”
“You are!” she said, grinning wide. “I knew it. He comes back humming.”
“I do not—I don’t hum to him.”
“Swear to god,” she said, nodding seriously, “last week he was practically purring in tune.”
“Don’t worry. It’s cute.”
“Can’t. It keeps being true.”
You groaned and leaned back into the cushions, covering your face. Mapi shifted beside you, stretching her legs out, her thigh brushing against yours with the easy confidence of someone who had zero awareness of personal space—or maybe just no intention of respecting it.
You peeked at her through your fingers. “Do you flirt like this with everyone?”
Mapi turned her head lazily toward you. “No. Just the ones who name couches and get emotionally devastated by French girls in beanies.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it again.
“Speechless twice in one night,” she said, smirking. “I’m on fire.”
You stared at her. Warm skin, wine-stained lips, eyes like she already knew your answer to questions she hadn’t even asked yet.
The worst part? She was on fire. And you were probably about to get burned.
Three days later You’re halfway through folding laundry on the balcony couch when Mapi’s voice floats up.
“Didn’t take you for the kind of girl who folds underwear in public.”
You nearly drop your panties off the railing.
You glare over at her—barefoot, tank top, leaning on her balcony door with a popsicle in her mouth like she’s the main character in a queer fever dream.
“These are boxer briefs,” you say coolly.
Mapi licks her popsicle slowly. “Even better.”
Day after that, You’re watering your plants in your sports bra. It’s hot. You’re sweaty. You forgot your neighbor exists.
Mapi leans over the balcony ledge. “Careful, cariño. That basil’s not the only thing getting wet right now.”
You choke on air. The basil is fine. Your self-control is not.
Once,You're lying on the balcony couch in a hoodie and nothing else, trying to ignore the sound of someone doing things to someone in a nearby apartment. It's loud. Too loud. The cat’s tail twitches.
Then Mapi’s voice cuts through “Either that’s a really good time, or someone’s watching your movie again.”
She’s holding popcorn. And a glass of rosé. And she’s already climbing over the railing.
You blink. “You can’t just climb into my apartment.”
Not long after that, You’re adjusting your top. You weren’t expecting anyone. Mapi shows up leaning backwards over the divider like she’s bored and accidentally hot.
“Wanna see my new tattoo?”
You raise a brow. “What if I say yes?”
She smirks. “Then I’ll show you the one under my shirt too.”
Bagheera knocks over your wineglass like he’s had enough.
Once,You hear a weird tapping sound. Look up. Mapi’s trying to throw pistachio shells onto your balcony.
When she finally hits you in the forehead, she yells, “Gotcha!”
You shout back, “That’s assault.”
She grins. “You like it rough anyway.”
You do not respond. You cannot respond.
Bagheera meows. Even he’s judging you.
Another time,You’re on the couch in silk pajama shorts. You stretch without thinking. Legs out. Head back. The laptop’s on your chest.
Mapi leans over and whistles. “I don’t know what’s shinier—your laptop or your thighs.”
Then—“I was gonna ask if you wanted to come over, but now I think I’m gonna climb down instead.”
You stop breathing. She doesn’t climb. Yet.
Rain hit your windows in a steady rhythm, soft and hypnotic. Your lights were off—only the warm glow of your laptop screen lighting up your room, flickering over the walls like some low-budget art film.
You were in bed, sprawled under a blanket with a glass of wine balanced on your stomach, your legs slightly parted and your focus absolutely glued to the screen.
And below your blanket… well. Let’s just say, ovulation had you in a chokehold.
You weren’t even embarrassed about it. Not until—
The sex scene was peaking. Literally.
You blinked, leaned to the side, and slowly turned your head toward your balcony door.
Mapi León stood outside. Soaked. Hoodie sticking to her frame. Hair dripping onto her shoulders. And worst of all—smirking.
You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t explain why there was a half-empty bottle of wine on your nightstand and a woman literally getting railed on your screen.
You didn’t even press pause.
Mapi raised her eyebrows. Then, she pointed at the laptop, mouthed, “Seriously?”, and tapped again.
You scrambled up, tripped on the blanket, slammed the laptop shut so hard it clapped like a gunshot.
“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, rushing to the door.
You unlocked it, slid it open, and hissed, “What the hell are you doing?”
Mapi, absolutely unfazed, stepped inside your room like it was hers. “It’s raining. I brought wine. And your curtains were open. What was I supposed to do—ignore the live screening of lesbian porn?”
“It’s not porn, it’s art.”
She plopped down onto the foot of your bed, kicked off her soaked socks, and wiggled her eyebrows. “Right. Art that makes you squirm and squeeze your thighs together every five minutes.”
Right here. In your room. In your underwear.
She glanced at the laptop. “You didn’t even pause it.”
Mapi leaned back on her hands, cocky and dripping onto your sheets. “You always this worked up on a Tuesday, or is it just that time?”
You groaned. “Get out of my room.”
“No.” She grinned. “I brought good wine, you’ve got good taste in movies, and that scene was getting interesting.”
“You climbed between balconies in the rain to crash my alone time.”
“I was bored. And wet. And curious.” She dragged her eyes over you—your flushed cheeks, your hoodie, the exposed strip of your thigh where the blanket had fallen. “And I’m very glad I did.”
You stared at her. “You’re actually insane.”
“And you,” she said, reaching to pull your blanket back over your legs like she owned them, “are dangerously cute when you’re flustered.”
You squinted at her, lips twitching. “What’s your plan, exactly? Seduce me over wine and stolen porn?”
She handed you the bottle and shrugged. “Depends. You gonna let me stay?”
The rain kept falling. Your heart kept racing. And your laptop, halfway closed, was still playing muffled moans you both ignored.
You took a sip of wine. “Fine. But don’t touch anything.”
Mapi grinned and slid up beside you in bed, whispering, “No promises, cariño.”
You’re trying to focus on the movie. Really. You are. You’ve even repositioned yourself twice—propped up against your pillows, blanket pulled to your waist, one leg curled beneath you like that’ll help. It doesn’t. Nothing helps.
Mapi stretches like a cat, elbow grazing yours, and doesn’t apologize when she settles again with a satisfied sigh. Her bare leg brushes against yours with each small shift, warm and smooth where your knees touch under the blanket. Every movement she makes feels exaggerated, deliberate. Even when she’s quiet, she’s loud.
You’re painfully aware of her wine-stained lips and the way her shirt clings to her shoulder, slipping just slightly lower as she leans forward to grab the bottle. She does it slowly, like she’s giving you time to look. And maybe you do—just for a second. Just to feel the sharp sting of want rise in your throat.
She pours, not into her glass, but straight into her mouth, tilting the bottle back with a grin. Some of it dribbles down her chin, and she wipes it with the back of her hand, catching you staring.
“What?” she says, voice lazy, knowing.
You blink fast, looking away. “Nothing.”
She hums, the sound low and amused. “Thought so.”
“Why do they always make lesbian sex scenes look like a perfume ad?” Mapi mutters suddenly, breaking the quiet.
You snort, grateful for the interruption and the fact that she said something. “You complaining?”
“Not at all,” she says, head turning toward you. Her hair is still damp from the rain, curling slightly at the ends, and it smells like your shampoo now. Her eyes meet yours and stay there, steady and unblinking. “I just think we could do better.”
Your stomach flips. Your mouth opens, then closes again. You pretend to sip your wine, even though your glass has been empty for a while. She watches you do it like she knows.
Mapi leans her head on her hand, propped up by her elbow. Her fingers—rings cold against her skin—start idly playing with a strand of your hair.
“You’re really into this movie, huh?”
You try to sound casual. “It’s a good one.”
“Hmm,” she hums, like she agrees. But she’s not looking at the screen. She’s watching your mouth.
Her fingers move from your hair to the side of your neck, brushing barely there touches down the line of your jaw before pulling back just enough to rest again between you, dangerously close.
“Relax,” she murmurs, voice low, warm, and threaded with amusement. “You’re tense.”
You scoff, trying not to let your body betray you. “I’m not.”
“You are,” she says, her voice dipping lower. Her hand moves again, drifting across your forearm, her nails soft against your skin. The touch is featherlight—meaningless on its own, but combined with the look in her eyes and the curve of her smirk, it short-circuits your brain.
She’s not doing anything wrong. Technically. But your whole body reacts like she is.
Her hand finds your knee under the blanket and settles there like it belongs. She doesn’t move it, doesn’t squeeze. Just rests it. Warm and solid. Like a placeholder for something more.
“Do you always watch this kind of stuff alone?” she asks, voice teasing, like she’s trying to distract you.
You glare. “Do you always break into your neighbor’s apartment to flirt in the middle of a storm?”
Mapi leans in slightly, close enough that her breath tickles your cheek. “Only when they look this good doing nothing.”
You roll your eyes, but the heat crawling up your neck betrays you.
On the screen, the tension builds between the characters—slow touches, quiet gasps, hands moving beneath clothes. Mapi doesn’t look away. But not at the movie. At you.
“You think that’s how we’d do it?” she asks softly.
You blink, trying to gather words.
“That,” she says, nodding slightly toward the screen. “Would you let me take my time like that?”
Your pulse spikes. Her voice is silk-dipped sin. Casual, almost. But it lands hard. Heavy.
You try to keep it together. “Depends.”
“Whether you’re all talk.”
That gets you a slow, dangerous smile. Mapi shifts closer, until your thighs are pressed together. Her hand trails up slightly, fingers tapping once on the inside of your knee.
“You think I’m just teasing?” she whispers.
You nod, defiant. “I know you are.”
“Maybe,” she says, brushing a thumb along the seam of your shorts, just enough to make your breath catch. “But you like it.”
The characters on screen are moaning once again —soft, practiced sounds. In your room, it’s quiet except for the hum of rain against the window and the sound of your own heart pounding in your ears.
She doesn’t move her hand any higher.
She just turns her attention back to the screen, like nothing’s happened, and starts sipping her wine again. But her fingers remain where they are—teasing, barely moving, still making those slow little circles on your thigh like she’s marking time.
You stay perfectly still, gripping your wineglass, pretending you’re not losing your mind.
And she sits there, smug and satisfied, like she’s got all night.
You’d barely restarted the next movie—a dirtier one this time, something more explicit, something neither of you pretended wasn’t intentional—when Mapi moved again.
She didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate.
She just repositioned herself behind you, like it was the most natural thing in the world—pulling you back against her chest, wrapping you up in the blanket and her arms, her legs bracketing yours as her chin dropped to your shoulder.
You could feel the shape of her body pressed into yours. The slow, deliberate way her hand slid across your stomach under the blanket. Her breath was warm against your neck. She said nothing—but every part of her touch said everything.
You stared at the screen, but you didn’t see anything.
On screen, the characters were tangled together—no build-up this time, just raw sex. Wet, slow, aching. No soft filters or background music. Just skin on skin, bodies grinding, the sound of breath catching and whispered, needy pleas.
And then—Mapi’s hand moved.
Her fingers slid under the hem of your shirt, just brushing your stomach. Light. Curious. Intimate.
You tensed instinctively—but she didn’t stop.
“Don’t worry,” she whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Just focus on the movie.”
Your breath caught in your throat. You didn’t dare to look at her.
She dragged her fingers lower, pausing at your waistband. Not pushing, just tracing. Her touch so light it drove you crazy.
“You’re good at that” she murmured.
You swallowed. “At what?”
Her hand dipped beneath the band of your shorts.
“Pretending you don’t want this.”
Your body twitched at the first proper touch—her fingers stroking you over your underwear, slow and unbothered, like she was just warming up.
“You’re soaked,” she whispered, tone rough now. “And I haven’t even kissed you yet.”
You gripped the blanket tighter, head falling back slightly against her shoulder.
She didn’t wait for an answer this time.
Her hand slipped beneath your underwear, fingers gliding through slick heat, parting you with the same careful patience you’d seen her use on the pitch—measured, sure, deadly.
The moans from the movie only got louder. Dirtier. One of the characters gasped something desperate, breathless.
Mapi’s fingers slid deeper, just enough to make your breath hitch and your hips stutter forward.
She groaned low, right in your ear. “You hear that? That sound she’s making?”
“She’s not even close to how good you’re gonna sound.”
Her hand on your stomach flexed slightly—possessive, steady—while the one between your legs moved with maddening control. She didn’t rush. Didn’t chase. She teased. She ruined.
“Focus on the movie,” she whispered, dragging her fingers slow and slick through your folds, circling but never giving you exactly what you needed. “Watch. Let it build.”
You tried. You really did.
But your eyes fluttered half shut, lashes brushing your cheeks as your whole body tilted toward her, open, aching.
“Don’t close your eyes,” she murmured. “You’ll miss the best part.”
She smirked against your neck. “You want it? Then take it. I’m right here.”
Her hand slid lower again, dipping in just the slightest bit, enough to make you twitch.
Just rested her fingers there.
“You’re gonna come for me,” she whispered. “But not yet.”
And then she pulled her hand out entirely.
You gasped in protest, hips jerking involuntarily—but she just held you tighter, lips brushing the shell of your ear as she reached for her wine again with the same lazy calm she always had.
She sipped. Settled. Pressed her mouth to your jaw.
“Next scene’s coming up,” she said, tone wicked and smooth. “If you’re good, maybe I’ll let you ride my fingers when it starts.”
You didn’t trust yourself to speak.
Like she was already planning exactly how slow she’d ruin you next.
The next scene started soft—just breathy kisses and hands sliding under clothes—but you knew what was coming.
She shifted behind you again, legs snug against yours, blanket slipping slightly as she pushed your shirt up with both hands, slowly, exposing your stomach to the cool air.
“You still pretending to care about the plot?” she asked, her voice already thicker, lower.
“Liar,” she said, and her hand slid back between your legs.
This time, she didn’t waste any time teasing.
Her fingers found you fast—slick, warm, desperate—and she groaned under her breath.
“You’re dripping,” she whispered. “All over me.”
You whimpered, back arching against her.
“Shh,” she murmured, kissing the curve of your jaw. “Just stay still.”
Her hand worked you slow at first, deliberately matching the pace on screen. The characters were grinding now, panting, the kind of sex that was all friction and hunger and heat.
And Mapi let you feel every second of it.
“Ride my fingers,” she whispered. “Go on. Take what you want.”
She didn’t repeat herself. Just slipped two fingers inside, deep and sure, her other hand sliding up to cup your chest, dragging your back harder against her.
She wanted you loud. She wanted to feel every sound in your throat before you could even make it.
And you tried, you really did—but the way her fingers curled inside you, the way her palm ground against you on every slow thrust forward—you couldn’t help the way your hips started moving, chasing it, riding her hand like it was the only thing tethering you to the moment.
“That’s it,” she said, tone impossibly dark. “Just like that. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”
Her fingers moved deeper, sharper, filling you with purpose—while her lips dragged slow down your neck, biting softly, possessive.
The movie faded completely. You couldn’t see the screen anymore. You didn’t care.
Your whole body was centered on the rhythm of her—inside you, against you, around you.
You moaned, louder this time, and she just smiled, her breath hot in your ear.
“You wanna come, don’t you?”
She slowed her hand again—just enough to make you cry out in frustration.
“Not yet,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I want you begging first.”
You almost cursed at her.
But her fingers curled just right, and all that came out was a strangled moan.
She chuckled low, lips ghosting over your cheek. “Yeah. Just like that.”
“You wanna come, don’t you?” she whispered again, slower now—almost sweet.
You nodded. Frantic. Shamefully desperate. You couldn’t speak.
“Then ask nicely,” she said, and she stilled her hand entirely.
You gasped like the air had been stolen from your lungs. “Mapi—”
“Uh-uh,” she smirked, brushing her nose against your cheek, her breath hot and wicked. “Use your words, cariño. You were doing so well.”
Her fingers didn’t move. They stayed buried inside you, hot and still and maddening, like a threat and a promise at once. The only movement came from her other hand, the one now tracing lazy circles across your nipple through the fabric of your shirt. And the soft drag of her teeth against your neck.
“Please,” you managed, barely more than a whisper. “I need—fuck—I need it.”
She hummed, pleased. “Need what, baby?”
You could hear the smile in her voice.
“You. Your hand. I need you to—”
Mapi laughed, low and dark. “Qué guarra.” Her hand moved again. Finally.
She rocked her fingers inside you with obscene patience, dragging against the spot that made your toes curl, but never quite fast enough—never enough to let you tip over.
You were moaning now. Quiet at first. Then louder. Whining into your empty wineglass like it might hide the sounds falling from your mouth.
And Mapi was eating it up.
“Look at you,” she muttered, her fingers pressing deeper. “Fucking dripping, shaking, grinding all over me—just from my fingers.”
Your hand shot down to grab her wrist, trying to force her to move faster. She let you. For a second.
Then she stopped again. Completely.
“Mapi,” you whined, hips moving helplessly.
Her mouth was at your ear in a second, voice all gravel and heat.
Your whole body was shaking now, thighs trembling, your orgasm so close you could taste it.
“I’m begging,” you gasped. “Please, please—let me come.”
And finally—finally—her rhythm returned, harder this time, relentless, each thrust perfectly angled, her palm slick and fast against your clit now.
“Good girl,” she whispered. “That’s what I wanted.”
The movie was long forgotten. All you could hear was your own ragged breathing, the wet sounds of her fingers working you open, the filthy praise in her voice as she pushed you closer and closer.
“Come for me,” she growled, right into your skin. “Now.”
Your whole body tensed, then shattered, collapsing back against her with a sound you didn’t even recognize as yours. The kind of orgasm that stole your voice. Stole everything.
She worked you through it, coaxing every last twitch and whimper from your oversensitive body, until you had to physically grab her hand to make her stop.
She finally pulled her fingers from you, slow and smug, and wrapped her arms tight around your waist, kissing the back of your shoulder like nothing had just happened.
“Still your favorite genre?” she asked, voice playful.
You couldn’t speak. You could only nod.
Mapi grinned against your skin.
“Good,” she murmured. “Because I’ve got another one queued up.”
She doesn’t say anything at first. Just kisses the base of your neck, then lower, and lower—her breath dragging down your spine in lazy, warm waves. Her hands anchor you, one still pressing your thigh open, the other running possessively down your side. You’re trembling now, fully at her mercy, the movie long forgotten. There’s only her.
When her mouth reaches your waistband, she pauses. She kisses just above it, then nudges your shorts down with her nose, her hands making quick work of the rest. You lift your hips without needing to be asked. You’d let her do anything right now.
“You’re so wet for me,” she murmurs, voice low, dark with amusement, and fuck, you are. She smiles like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you. Because she does.
And then she doesn’t wait.
She buries her face between your thighs, and it’s immediate—hot and wet and intense. Her tongue moves with precision, like she’s mapped every reaction you’ve ever had and memorized the blueprint. She licks slowly at first, savoring you, dragging it out, teasing the edges before circling in.
Your back arches off the bed. You grip the sheets. You moan—helplessly, desperately—as she groans against you like she can’t get enough.
Every movement is practiced. Confident. She works you open with her tongue, flicking, pressing, sucking just enough to make you shudder. Her grip tightens on your hips, holding you down when you try to writhe away from the intensity.
“Stay still,” she growls against your skin. “Let me taste you properly.”
It’s filthy. It’s everything.
And then she pushes two fingers into you, slow but deliberate, curling just right, just enough. You choke on your breath. Her pace doesn’t falter. Mouth and fingers moving in tandem, dragging you higher and higher, building pressure like she’s tuning an instrument only she can play.
You’re not going to last. You know it. She knows it.
Your thighs start to tremble. Your moans turn breathless. Her name spills from your lips like a prayer.
Mapi just smirks, glancing up through her lashes like she’s still got so much more planned.
Your thighs are shaking uncontrollably now, and Mapi loves it. You can feel it in the way her mouth moves even slower, savoring every sound you make, every twitch of your hips she forces you to hold back.
She presses her tongue flat against your clit, dragging it slowly upwards, making you whimper into the dark room. Then she pulls back just enough to let her breath wash over your soaked skin — cool, teasing — before she licks into you again with a filthy groan that vibrates through your whole body.
"Fuck, you taste good," she mutters, voice wrecked, almost feral.
And then she sinks her fingers deeper, curling them deliberately, expertly, finding that spot inside you that makes you sob without shame. You clench around her and she just laughs—low and cocky—and pushes in harder, like she’s trying to ruin you on her hand alone.
Your head thuds back against the pillows. Your fingers find her hair, grabbing blindly for something to ground yourself. She lets you, lets you tug her closer, like she wants you desperate for her, wants you to lose control completely.
"You wanted to watch dirty movies," Mapi says roughly, pulling her mouth away just enough to smirk against your inner thigh. "Guess you're living one now, princesa."
You can't even form words anymore. You're too busy panting, trembling, so fucking close it hurts.
She doesn't let up. Her tongue flicks back to your clit, fast and rhythmic now, perfectly timed with the relentless thrust of her fingers inside you. Every drag of her tongue feels like lightning under your skin. Every curl of her fingers punches another gasp from your throat.
And she keeps talking, filthy and low, right against you
"Bet you wish they showed this in those movies, huh?" she murmurs. "This is how it’s supposed to be. Someone making you fucking beg."
Your stomach knots impossibly tight. Your whole body locks up, trembling violently. You're seconds away from falling apart, and she fucking knows it.
"Cum for me, baby," she whispers against your soaked skin. "Let go. Let me hear you."
Her fingers slam into you just right. Her mouth clamps down on your clit, sucking hard, greedy, dirty.
You cry out, clenching so hard around her fingers it almost hurts, your whole body jerking helplessly as she works you through it, not stopping, not slowing down until you’re sobbing from the overstimulation.
Only then — only then — does Mapi finally pull away, licking her lips like she’s tasting something addictive, dragging her fingers out of you slow and deliberate, watching you with dark, blown pupils like you’re the most perfect thing she’s ever seen.
She crawls up your body, presses a slow, dirty kiss against your open, gasping mouth, and grins against your lips.
“Told you we could do better than the movie.”
Not long after that she whispers, lips brushing your ear. “You okay?”
You nod. “Yeah. Just… fuck.”
She chuckles quietly, pleased, but there’s no smugness in it now. Just affection. That slow, lazy sweetness that only comes out once she’s had her fill of teasing.
“Come here,” she says, and you don’t need to roll over—because she’s already shifting you herself, hands guiding you onto your side, pulling your back into her chest again. She curls around you like she was made to fit there, strong arms wrapping tightly around your waist, her thigh tucking between yours.
The storm is still going outside, rain tapping gently against the glass doors. The movie has long since faded into the background, the screen now just flickering light that dances across the messy sheets and your bare skin.
Mapi presses a kiss to your shoulder. Then your neck. Then the back of your head.
You feel her reach for something, and a second later, a warm cloth touches between your legs — slow, careful, her hand steady as she cleans you up. She doesn’t say much. Just breathes with you. Focuses on you. Every movement quiet and sure, like it’s second nature.
“I got you,” she murmurs.
When she’s done, she tosses the cloth aside and gathers you closer, pulling the blanket up over both your bodies. You press your face into her arm, and she hooks her chin over your head, fingers drawing soft, lazy shapes into your stomach.
Neither of you talks for a while.
Just the quiet rise and fall of your breathing, the beat of the rain, the gentle weight of her touch grounding you like a heartbeat.
“That was better than the movie,” she says eventually, voice a little smug again.
You huff out a laugh. “You think?”
“Should’ve gotten an Oscar for that performance.”
You roll your eyes and elbow her gently. “You’re insufferable.”
You don’t say it out loud. Not yet. But the way your fingers lace with hers under the blanket says enough.
She kisses your shoulder again, softer this time. “I guess we both agree that Next time,” she whispers, “I’m choosing the movie.”
You snort. “As long as you don’t talk through the sex scenes again.”
She grins against your skin. “No promises.”
