MarDloves162

That was the first greeting of many. The memory has your cheeks heating when you replay it. The embarrassment keeping you up at night at how you acted. Nothing like words had left your mouth as you accepted her homemade gift. She thew you off balance, and it was blatantly obvious you didn't know how to handle it. She had a calm stance, spoke evenly. Not too warm, not too distant. Just… comfortable, in that way people are when they’ve already figured themselves out. You, meanwhile, had forgotten how to form a full sentence.

You nodded. Maybe smiled. You can’t quite remember. You only remember that you took the plate from her and stood awkwardly in the doorway, feeling like you were still mid-move, mid-adjustment, mid-something. She didn’t seem to mind. Just said something about how everyone on the street usually dropped something off when someone new moved in, and how she thought it was nice to keep the tradition going. You might’ve mumbled a thank-you. Or just said it too quietly. Either way, she gave a small nod and left it at that—turned and walked back down the steps, robe sleeve tugged slightly by the breeze.

The greetings got easier, though. Short conversations in passing—when you were heading out to run errands, or at the grocery store, or just bringing the trash out at the same time. You started to have little things to catch up on, like whether the bakery she recommended actually lived up to the hype, or how it was seeing your old friend again in the city. Nothing deep. Just simple check-ins that felt easy. Familiar.

Your interactions through the next month—through the slow shift from fall to early winter—were steady and quiet. A calm rhythm. You didn’t overthink them as much anymore. You stopped trying to say the right thing, and just said what you meant.

That was until now.

Now, you’re standing outside her front door, your heart racing, fist paused mid-air before knocking. Breath visible in the cold December air, palms sweating in your coat pockets, even though you told yourself this wasn’t a big deal.

But it is.

Because this isn’t a passing wave on the sidewalk. This time, you’re here on purpose.

You bring your hand up to knock softly against the burgundy wood, heart rushing as you wait for her to answer. Footsteps were heard before the door squeaks open. Before she could get a word out you blurt, "could I borrow some vanilla extract?"

She laughs softly, "of course you may. Here, come in."

She steps back, giving you room to step in past the doorway. It's a first, you've never seen her home before. It's full of warm colors, books, candles. Very autumn, almost witch like. You follow behind her to the kitchen where she steps into her pantry for a second.

She returns with the small bottle in hand, holding it out to you without hesitation.

“You baking this late?” she asks, eyebrows raised just slightly.

You thank her, taking it, "tried a new recipe. Got halfway through before realizing I was missing the one thing I actually needed.”

Wanda smiles like she’s heard that before, "happens to the best of us.”

There’s a brief pause, not uncomfortable, just quiet. Her kitchen smells faintly of cloves and something citrusy, like she’d just finished making tea or simmering something on the stove. You glance around without meaning to. Her space feels lived-in. Intentional.

You linger with the bottle in your hand, "I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”

“No rush,” she says. “Really.”

She’s still watching you, calm and easy like always. You’re not sure what else to say, and maybe you don’t need to say anything. You give a small nod, almost a thank-you, and turn toward the door.

"We," she says, pausing until she sees you stop, "the neighborhood has a Halloween party, we'd love for you to join."

"When is it?"

"This upcoming Monday."

You smile back at her, "I'll be there."

Monday comes faster than expected.

The Halloween party’s being held at a house a few streets over in someone’s backyard and living room strung with orange lights, carved pumpkins lining the walkway. There’s a folding table near the porch with snacks, a cooler half-filled with drinks, and a slow cooker of cider giving off steam. You can hear kids laughing before you even reach the gate.

No one’s in costume, not really. Just a few themed sweaters, some plastic spider rings, face paint here and there. Parents standing in loose circles, holding paper plates. It’s casual. Familiar. You almost feel out of place for how nervous you’d been walking over.

You spot Wanda near the back patio, talking with someone while holding a cup in both hands. She’s dressed the same way she always seems to be. Layered and comfortable, in deep colors that catch the porch light in soft ways. She glances up as you step into the yard, and her expression shifts instantly into something easy. Welcoming.

You give a small wave, and she excuses herself from the conversation before walking over to meet you.

“Hey,” she says, stepping beside you. “You made it.”

You nod. “Figured I should show face before everyone starts comparing notes about the new neighbor.”

She laughs softly, like she gets it. “You’re safe. They’re mostly distracted by sugar and their kids running into furniture.”

You both glance around. A kid in a skeleton hoodie is chasing someone with a glowstick. A folding chair tips over. No one seems to care.

Wanda gestures toward the table. “There’s cider. It's not terrible.”

When you don’t say no, she guides you over, pouring you a glass from the slow cooker and handing it to you. It’s warm in your hands, smells like cinnamon and something faintly burnt. Probably the bottom of the batch, but not in a bad way.

“You weren’t kidding,” you say after a sip. “Not terrible.”

Wanda smirks. “High praise. I’ll be sure to let the cider committee know.”

You huff a small laugh and lean back a little, letting the noise of the party settle around you. The backyard lights cast everything in a soft orange glow. Wanda leans beside you against the porch railing, cup still in hand.

“So,” she says, “do you always wait until the last minute to ask for ingredients, or was I just lucky that night?”

You blink, caught off guard for a second. “I—oh well, I'm usually I’m more prepared.”

She hums. “Shame. I didn’t mind the surprise.”

You glance over. She’s looking straight ahead, not at you, but there’s a quiet curve to her mouth. It’s nothing dramatic, nothing heavy-handed, but something in the way she says it makes you feel it just under the surface.

You take another sip, maybe to give yourself a second. Maybe because if you spoke now you'd give away the shake in your voice. “Well. I’ll try to be unprepared more often, then.”

Winter had ended. The snow was long gone, the streets finally dry again, and the trees were just starting to green at the tips. You had the windows open, letting the breeze cut through the stillness of the house as you cleaned. Music played low in the background, the scent of lemon cleaner clinging to your sleeves.

You were in the kitchen, on your toes trying to wipe the top of one of the cabinets. Half-balanced on a chair you definitely shouldn’t be standing on when you heard the creak of the front door.

“Hello?”

Wanda’s voice, casual, like she’d been there a hundred times.

You turned slightly, still reaching. “Door's open!"

“I noticed,” she said, stepping inside. “Didn’t expect to find you risking your life over dust.”

“Part of my spring reset,” you said, grunting as you reached further. “Death by Windex.”

She was laughing softly as she entered the kitchen, just as your hand slipped. The cloth fell from your fingers, and your foot shifted awkwardly on the edge of the chair.

You started to fall back.

But before panic could even set in, Wanda was there—hands catching your waist, solid and quick. You landed against her, her body steady behind yours, breath knocked out of you more from surprise than anything else. There was a beat of stillness. Her hands still at your waist. Yours gripping the edge of the counter in front of you.

“You really shouldn’t use spinning chairs for this,” she murmured.

You glanced down, breath shaky. Her fingers pressed slightly into your sides and it had your mind short-circuiting. You looked over your shoulder, meaning to say something light. Something to break the tension. But you caught her looking at your mouth. Just briefly. Then up, meeting your eyes. Her grip tightened. Barely, but enough that you felt it, the shift. Your pulse kicked up in your ears.

“Thanks,” you said, quietly.

Her voice was just as soft. “Yeah.”

Before anything could happen, a knock at the door broke the moment—another neighbor stopping by, pulling both of you back to the everyday. But something had shifted. After that night, Wanda grew a little more touchy, and you didn’t even realize it until someone else pointed it out at a gathering. Since then, you’ve been aware too, the brief brush of her hand when she passes you something, the quiet warmth that spreads through your chest whenever she rests a hand on your back to guide you somewhere.

You felt it. You knew. You weren’t born yesterday.

Sometimes you’d find yourself at her place way too late, leaning back against the kitchen counter, eyes locked on hers in a way that was anything but innocent. Your voices low, barely above a whisper, carrying on long into the night as you both nursed glasses of wine, caught in conversations that felt like something more.

Another night, you found yourselves sitting side by side on her porch swing, the chill of the evening wrapped in the soft glow of string lights overhead. The quiet between you stretched comfortably until she reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The simple touch sent a ripple through you, and when your eyes met hers, the air thickened. Her hand lingered on your cheek, fingers tracing the curve just long enough to make your breath hitch.

You didn’t pull away. You leaned in, and she did too, your heart pounding loud in your ears. Then it just happened. Your lips met hers, eyes squeezed shut as you savored the moment. Her soft hand stayed on your cheek as her lips moved against yours, gentle and slow. When she pulled back, her breath came steady but deliberate, like a line had been crossed. Suddenly, everything felt sharper, more fragile. Whatever this was becoming, it was dangerous. You couldn’t fall for her. Not like this. And surely, she hadn’t fallen for you. It was a mess waiting to happen. Your mind spun, and without thinking, you pulled away and ran, ignoring her soft voice calling your name behind you.

Avoiding her was easier than you thought it’d be. You learned her schedule, timing your days to keep indoors when you knew she’d be outside. But late at night, under your covers, your lips still burned. Memories of that day flashed in your mind, relentless and vivid. You told yourself it was a bad idea—a really bad idea, for too many reasons. You couldn’t get involved with her.

Still, avoidance only worked for so long. In a small town like this, it’s hard to stay away forever.

The farmers’ market was bustling with summer’s full energy—bright stalls, chatter, the scent of fresh fruit and herbs thick in the air. You moved through the crowd, eyes mostly on the ground, trying to avoid running into her. Your steps were purposeful but slow, as if hoping the noise and people around you would somehow shield you.

But then you heard the familiar voice, quiet but clear beside you.

“You like peaches?”

You glanced sideways, spotting her just a few steps away, leaning casually against a crate, one brow slightly raised as if daring you to respond. You barely nodded, hoping to keep it simple, to not give her more than she was asking for.

She smiled, that slight, knowing smile that made your stomach twist. “You always this quiet? Or just when you don’t want to talk to me?”

You shrugged, picking up a peach and turning it in your hand, your fingers tracing the fuzzy skin. “Maybe I don’t feel like talking.”

Her eyes softened for a moment, then she leaned in a little, voice dropping to a near whisper, as if sharing a secret meant only for you.

“Or maybe you’re avoiding me.”

You looked away quickly, swallowing the sudden tightness in your throat. “I’m not.”

But the words felt hollow, even to you. Because deep down, you knew that was exactly what you’d been doing—dodging her calls, avoiding her eyes, pretending that distance would make the feelings fade.

“Yeah? Because it feels like you’ve been dodging every chance to actually see me.”

You bit your lip, frustration bubbling under the surface. “Maybe I just like my space.”

Her eyes held yours, steady and calm. “Or maybe you’re scared. Scared of what this could be.”

You shook your head, heart picking up pace. “Again, I’m not.”

You tried to keep your focus on the peaches, on the weight of the fruit in your hand, but the space between you and her felt charged, like a silent conversation neither of you wanted to fully voice. The noise of the market buzzed around you both, but it was distant—everything except her voice seemed to fade. A crack of thunder cut through the summer air, sharp and close. The sky darkened quickly, the clouds rolling in like a warning. People around you looked up, hurriedly gathering their things, voices rising with urgent goodbyes. Then the rain came, fat drops splattering against the pavement and the stalls, pushing the crowd to scatter in all directions. You froze for a moment, caught off guard and suddenly very exposed.

Her hand brushed your arm, light but firm. “Come on. You’re not walking home in this.”

You hesitated, swallowing the lump forming in your throat, wanting to say no, to insist you’d be fine, but before the words could form, she was already unlocking her car. You followed silently, the steady rhythm of the rain loud against the roof of the car as you slid inside. The warmth was immediate, but so was the weight of the silence settling between you. She glanced at you in the rearview mirror, eyes searching, steady. You couldn’t meet them, not yet. The road back was slow, the raindrops blurring the world outside, as if time itself had slowed just for this ride. The quiet stretched between you, thick with things unsaid.

When she pulled into your driveway, you stepped out into the cool air, soaked and shivering, the chill seeping through your clothes. She folded her arms, gaze drifting down the street like she was deciding how much more to say. Then her eyes locked onto yours, calm but serious.

“If you close that door," she said quietly, low and done, "I won’t knock again.”

Her words hung heavy in the humid night air, a challenge and a plea all at once. You swallowed hard, the weight of everything pressing down on you, but before the silence could stretch any further, you reached across the center console, caught her hand, and without thinking twice, leaned in and kissed her. It was your answer, your choice.

Your heated kisses in the car soon became a mess on your bed. Your hands fumbling with the keys as you open the front door. Her hands all over you, wet clothes discarded as you slowly make your way to your room due to the make out sessions against the wall. Your arms circling her neck, hers around your waist sliding up your cold skin.

"Need you," she'd murmur hotly against your lips between kisses. "Missed you."

"Shit, I missed you... Missed you so much. I was scared Wanda, I-Like you. i like you so much.”

You fall back onto the bed, swollen lips gasping for air as she kisses down your jaw. Her hands working your legs apart, wrapping them around her waist. A gasp escapes you as she reaches a hand down quick, sliding it through your wet folds. You scratch the back of her neck, keening as she starts to rub her hand in circles over your cunt, smearing your wetness all over.

"Shh, I know. I know”

She teases while also maintaining a fast pace. It's her first time with you, but she's acting as if your body isn't a virgin to her touch. She knows where to press, where to rub to have you falling apart under her.

Her voice has goosebumps lining your skin when she whispers against your neck, "can you take a finger for me? or will you be too tight, mm?"

You shake your head, "no… no promise.. please I can take one."

She hums, sliding one in and cursing under her breath at how tight you are. Only one finger and you're gripping her like a vice. She speaks into your ear again, "said you could take one, but you're clenching around it. Did you lie to me?"

You shake your head, mind fuzzy, "no, promise. I promise. Please move."

A choked moan escapes you when she begins to thrust her finger in and out. Her finger drags against your inner walls, curling upwards to tease that spot inside you. Her eyes darting between where she's fucking you and your face, watching your expressions and how you're starting to fall apart.

"Can you be a good girl and take another?"

You nod and she gently slaps your thigh with her other hand, "tell me."

"Yes! Yes, I can! Please!”

When she adds another, she presses them apart to scissor you open.

"So damn tight," she says against your neck as she moves them again. The sound of her fingers fucking you has your cheeks heating, embarrassingly enough it turns you on all the more. With her thumb circling your clit and her fingers deep inside you, you're arching your back already. Body squirming as you chase an orgasm. All the while Wanda's only doing this to stretch you out, prepare you for what's to come. Just as you're clenching erratically, thighs begging to close, gasps higher pitched, her fingers pull out.

She tuts at your whine, shushing you. Wanda leans down, hovering over your heat before letting her spit dribble onto your clit, her lips hinting to smile at your little sensitive jump. She rubs her fingers over your clit, smiling down at you as she edges you. Keeping you on the brink, but never letting you over.

"You want more, don't you?"

You shake your head yes, eyes shut. Takes you too long to realize she gets off the bed, stepping off to the side for a second to grab something. When she returns and your eyes rest upon what's now strapped between her thighs, a new heat settles between your legs and on your cheeks. You shut your eyes, looking away.

"Wanda-!"

She crawls on top of you, lips finding your neck, "mm? What is it? Are you getting shy?"

You place your hands on her shoulders, scoffing in a whiny tone, "no…?"

Wanda drags the length between your folds, brushing it against your clit and you moan. Your legs spreading to welcome the feeling. She licks up to your ear, "how'd you like it, darlin?"

You look to her eyes, eyebrows furrowed, "mm? Like what…?"

“What position?”

“Oh—” your cheeks flushed, brain sluggish from the pleasure pulsing through you. “This… this is fine. It's great. Please just like this."

As soon as you felt the head on your entrance, you shut down. "You okay?"

When you nodded, mumbling a quick okay, she began to sink each and every inch in. She was captured by the sight of you sucking her in, how it disappeared inside you. You whine against her neck, hands in her hair, whimpering her name. She shushed you, "you can take it, you're so good for me."

Once you nodded and she felt the movement against her neck, she pulls her hips back and the sound you made when she pushed back in made her want to marry you rigth then and there. You were loud, and on top of the bed squeaking and headboard banging from her thrusts, she couldn't have you attracting the whole neighborhood. She pulled your bottom lip down, and when you opened your mouth she pushed her fingers in. Muffling your sounds.

It was a sight to see. Your body under hers, jostling from her thrusts, almost limp with how she was making you feel. Add her fingers finding your clit again and you were gone, pleas and her name falling from your lips like a mantra.

"Please… Wands, oh fuck… Please! Don't stop!"

She didn't. Not after you came the first time, not after the second, not after the third. Not until all you were thinking of was her. Finishing a round just to flip Wanda on her back and beg for another.