HEATWAVE
MEN AND MINORS DNI !!!
Pairing: Femme!Wanda x Intersex!Butch!Reader
Summery: The heat in the apartment is stifling, but it’s nothing compared to the suffocating tension simmering between you and Wanda. Trapped in a mid-summer slump and desperate for an escape, you decide to test the waters of a dangerous, flirtatious game. What starts as a shared moment of boredom quickly spirals into a raw, unfiltered exploration of desire, testing boundaries you both previously thought were set in stone. As the afternoon air grows heavy and stagnant, Wanda decides it’s time to stop ignoring the obvious, pulling you into a reclamation of intimacy that is as possessive as it is transformative.
Warnings: Intersex reader, butch/femme dynamics, sexual tension, power dynamics, explicit sexual content, shower sex, slight emotional dominance, submissive tendencies in an otherwise butch partner (we love submissive butches!), genital focus.
The fan in the corner is on its highest setting, churning warm air in lazy, pointless loops. Wanda’s skin feels slick. The thin cotton shorts she’s wearing have twisted around her hips, so she tugs at the fabric where it clings to the small of her back. A bead of sweat trails down between her breasts, following that gentle curve, and she swipes it away with her hand. You’re draped over the couch, one leg hooked over the armrest, thumb barely moving as you scroll through your phone. Your shirt is rolled up behind your head as a makeshift pillow, and the late afternoon sun slices through the blinds, making the sheen on your chest shimmer. Wanda has been pretending not to watch your stomach rise and fall with every breath, pretending not as successfully as she wishes, admittedly.
“I swear she did this on purpose,” Wanda groans, dropping her head back against the granite counter. The stone is cool against her bare shoulders, one of the few reliefs this place still offers. “The AC panel, the lock, the timing. All of it.”
You don’t even look up. “She’s creative, I’ll give her that.”
“She’s a nightmare,” she snaps. “A heat wave with a grudge.” She rakes her fingers through her damp hair and lifts it off her neck so the fan’s weak breeze can reach the sweat there. “My brain is literally cooking in my skull.”
The ice maker clinks more cubes down the chute. Outside, a car alarm wails and then stops. Through the kitchen window, the neighbour’s pool glints invitingly. They’re out of town this week. You joked about sneaking in earlier, but the padlock on the fence made the risk feel too real when you were both upright and coherent.
“Remember when it was just boring?” She tilts her head to look at you upside down from where she’s leaning on the island. “Before it was hot and boring?”
“Vaguely,” you admit. Your thumb stops. You’re staring at the ceiling now, phone resting on your chest.
Wanda pushes herself up onto the counter, the granite cool against the backs of her thighs, and crosses her ankles so her feet dangle. Her shorts pull tight across her hips, and she doesn’t bother to adjust them. “If I were alone right now,” she says, voice light like she’s discussing pizza toppings, “I’d have my ass in the freezer with a bag of peas.” Deadpan.
You laugh, slow and amused. “You’d last thirty seconds before whining about freezer burn.”
“Thirty-five,” she counters.
“Optimistic.”
“I’ve built resilience.”
“You cried because your iced coffee wasn’t cold enough yesterday.”
“I was making a point.”
“You were making a scene.”
Wanda can’t help grinning. Around you both, the apartment settles with creaks as the sun presses harder against the windows. Even the fan groans.
She dips a hand into the fruit bowl and fishes out one of the melting ice cubes she dumped there earlier. It’s half its original size. She presses it to the back of her neck, desperate to find some kind of relief from the heat.
“Oh…” She closes her eyes. “There it is.”
You watch, amused. The cube slips, tracing a cold line down between her shoulder blades before she loses her grip. It skitters beneath her tank top, against her skin, and she sighs as the cold seeps in. She doesn’t care that she’s probably going to end up looking like she just walked off a wet-T-shirt contest stage. She grabs another handful of cubes and presses them against the curve of her ribs. A soft moan escapes her.
“Wow. That good, huh? Maybe I should try.” You’re careful to keep your gaze above her neck.
“Honestly, it’s so good I take back the ass in the freezer plan. If I were alone, my hand wouldn’t be in the freezer, it’d be down my pants.”
Your thumb hovers over your phone. “What?”
“Too hot to move, too hot to think, too hot to do anything productive. If it were just me, I’d lie on my bed and get myself off. Pass the time. Cool down. Get some release.” She shrugs, watching your face.
The fan clicks. The freezer cycles. A bass-heavy car rolls by outside.
You push yourself up, moving to sit on the couch so you’re facing her. There’s something in your expression, seriousness, curiosity…and something else she can’t put her finger on. Yet. “You’re telling me this because…” You trail off, brow raised.
“Because I’m not alone,” she spreads her hands. “And neither are you. We’re both sweating through our clothes, trapped in an oven of an apartment with nothing to do and nowhere to go.” Her feet swing, heels tapping the cabinet beneath. “Getting off doesn’t have to be a solo sport.”
You sit up straighter. Your phone clatters onto the cushion. Your eyes roam over her face, pausing on her chest then landing to where her legs hang open, then back up. She allows her knees to fall open just a bit more, while holding back a smirk. “You’re serious.”
“Dead serious.” She leans back on her palms, arching her chest so her damp tank clings to her curves. “You stroke yourself, I finger myself, and we both have something productive to do besides die of heatstroke.” She lets the words hang. “Or,” she adds, letting her voice soften into what hopefully sounds seductive, “we help each other. You know, if you’re into that idea.”
The ice maker drops another batch.
You stand, deliberately. She watches the muscles in your stomach flex as you walk toward her, stopping just a foot away, close enough to smell the salt on your skin, the faint scent of deodorant.
“Help each other,” you echo, your voice now sounding thicker than before.
“That’s what I said.” She uncrosses her ankles. Her left thigh brushes your hip, the heat of you sparking through her. “Your hands are right here,” she taps her own thigh, “and mine are right there. Seems a shame not to share.”
You reach out, fingers brushing her knee, thumb tracing a gentle circle. Your touch is warm yet still uncertain. She watches the movement in an almost distant way, noticing how her breath suddenly becomes shallow.
“You’ve been thinking about this,” you say. You look at her through half-closed eyes, not quite shy but guarded nonetheless. She can feel the conflict between your hesitation and your desire. She’d be lying if she said it didn’t turn her on more.
“Since the moment you took your shirt off,” she admits, eyes on your hand.
Wanda uncrosses her arms and takes a beat, letting anticipation lap at the silence before reaching for your wrist. Her fingers wrap easily around it. You're warm, almost feverish to the touch, and she feels the hidden stiffness of your pulse jumping against her palm. There's a faint sheen of sweat on your forearm, and the contact gives a static little crackle up her own skin. For a second, she just holds you there, measuring the distance between want and permission, and then she guides your hand up the length of her thigh.
The movement is slow, unhurried, like she's giving you a chance to second-guess her, to pull away if this is all just talk and no follow-through. But you don't. Your eyes pin to hers, now fully open, looking to make sure she’s not about to tell you that all of this is just a joke. She meets yours without hesitation, letting you see for yourself just how serious she truly is. Your palm floats over her knee and up the curve to bare skin, your fingers tracing the damp line where her shorts rode up and stuck there, then higher, over the slick, swollen skin, until your fingertips catch the hem. She puts her own hand over yours, both of you pressing, and the fabric gives easily. She can feel your knuckles, your fingers splayed across the thin cotton, and the pressure makes her gasp, sharper than she means to.
"See?" she says, but her voice is already gravelly, husked out by the sensation. "Not a solo activity."
You step in, closing the space between you, and suddenly there's nowhere to look but at you. You're tall enough that, even sitting on the island, her line of sight runs straight into your collarbone, dusted with freckles and glistening with sweat. Your chest is flushed, as is hers, and she becomes fully aware of every place your bodies are about to touch.
Your free hand travels up her waist and pauses at her ribs, thumb pressing on a strip of bare skin between her tank and her shorts. The pressure is proprietary but gentle, a kind of claim she didn't know she longed to feel. The other hand, the one she guided, is still resting right between her legs, index finger curling reflexively. She rocks forward, trying to get more friction, and you oblige by pressing in and up, the fabric yielding with a wet sound that seems to echo in the heat-locked stillness of the room.
Her hand is still on yours, guiding, but she's shaking a little, whether from adrenaline or want she can't tell. She sees your mouth tick up in a crooked smile and you let out a slow, long exhale.
"You're really—" you start, but she cuts you off.
"Yeah," she says. "Really." She arches her hips, dragging your finger along the seam, letting you feel exactly how wet she is. You steady yourself against the counter with one hand and use the other to rub small, insistent circles over the spot that makes her clench around nothing. Her head tips back involuntarily, pressing into the cold countertop, and she lets out a low, helpless sound that seems to vibrate up from the base of her spine.
You're watching her face, focused. When she opens her eyes, your gaze is all the way there, so intent it feels like electricity. Your hair has gone damp at the temples and your breath is picking up, ragged around the edges. There's a new kind of tension in your jaw, a held-backness that makes her want to push harder, to see what will happen if you stop holding back.
The hand at her hip slides lower, bunching the waistband of her shorts, thumb brushing the sensitive skin just above the elastic. You play with the fabric, rolling it between your fingers, and then you hook two fingers underneath and pull, just enough to expose the smallest band of skin. Her stomach tightens. She shifts her weight, opening her legs wider. The action is an invitation but also a dare.
Still, you wait. Frustratingly so. You look at her like you're waiting for something, permission, or maybe just to see if she'll lose her nerve. If she'll take it all back. She doesn't. She looks right at you, holds your gaze, and then reaches for the button on your jeans, popping it open with a practised flick of her thumb. The zipper drags down, loud and serrated, and she feels the flush rise up her neck.
Wanda reaches out and, guided by the familiar weight of your form against your boxers, she moves with intent. You’re already hard, so hard it almost surprises her, and the heat coming off your skin is intense, burning, desperate, like you’ve been holding this in since the first time you made eye contact. She strokes you, just enough to feel how much you want this, and you push into her hand with a low, choked groan.
She licks her lips as she thinks about getting down on her knees right here, the cold marble of the kitchen tiles against her legs, your hands in her hair. She wants to take you in her mouth and ruin you for the rest of the afternoon, but the heat is so suffocating, so omnipresent, that even the thought of kneeling is too much. Instead, she lets go and presses her forehead to your stomach, lips grazing the sharp ridge of muscle there, breathing in the salt and sun baked into your skin.
"Fuck," you say, almost softly, and it makes her smile. She likes hearing you unspool a little.
Your hand is still at the junction of her thighs, but now you use your knuckles, brushing them over the seam until you find the edge and slip beneath. Your touch is tentative at first, barely there, as if you're surprised at how easily you can slide your fingers inside. But when you feel how wet she is, how ready, you groan again, this time louder, and cup your palm over her, rubbing slow and steady.
She lets her legs dangle, heels thumping the cabinet, and then she hooks one foot around the back of your knee, pulling you closer. The move is greedy and obvious, but she doesn't care. It's too hot for games. She wants this, wants you, and she wants you to know.
You slide your fingers back and forth, learning the rhythm of her breath, her hips. When you get it right she gasps, biting her lower lip, and you press your thumb harder, circling until she nearly sobs with relief. Her hands clench the edge of the counter, white-knuckled, and she lets out a helpless, helpless sound.
Then she sees it, the flash of blue from the neighbor's pool, a glint through the slats in the blinds. The sight yanks her back to the first, more innocent idea she'd had for relief, and the bitterness of its inaccessibility is almost comical now, considering what's happening. The pool is closed to you both, locked behind a fence, but the thought of immersion, of being submerged, lingers at the edges of her brain. She wants to be drowned in sensation, in you.
She looks up at you, hair sticking to her cheeks, and she sees that you’re just as undone as she is, pupils blown wide, jaw rigid. For a split second, she chickens out and wants to say something clever, make it a joke, remind you both that it’s just heat and boredom, not some deeper thing. But the joke won’t come. Instead, she wants more. And she thinks you do too.
She slides off the counter, landing almost weightless on her feet, and presses herself against you. Her hands go to your hips, and she tugs your jeans down, letting them puddle around your ankles. You step out of them, not taking your eyes off her.
"Wait," she says, and you freeze, uncertainty flickering across your features for the first time. She runs her hands up your chest, thumb tracing the line between your pecs, and then she cups your jaw in both hands and kisses you. It's not delicate. It's not tentative. It's open-mouthed and wet and desperate and all the things she's been refusing herself since you broke up with her roommate six months ago. She pretended to like that you stayed friends after, but the truth is, she’s always wanted more. Thought you deserved better. She guesses thinking maybe you deserved… her.
You kiss her back, one hand tangling in her hair, the other gripping her ass. You stagger backwards, breaking apart only to breathe, and then she feels the urge to escalate, to take it somewhere less exposed, less vulnerable. The kitchen is too bright, too open; she wants shadows and echoing tile and the hum of old pipes.
"Come with me," she says, and tugs your hand. Wanda leads you down the narrow hallway, skin sticking to the plaster where she brushes past. The bathroom is small, tiled in white, the shower stall narrow with clear glass doors. She reaches in and twists the faucet, and the pipes shudder before water drums against tile.
She pulls her tank top over her head, arms crossing, fabric catching on damp skin. The cotton shorts come next, peeling down, and she steps out of them, leaving both in a heap on the bathmat. You shove your shorts down your hips, kick them aside, and then it's just you both and the sound of water hitting porcelain.
She steps in first. The water is cool at best, the building's ancient plumbing struggling, but it's better than hot stagnant air. It runs down her shoulders, her spine, pooling at the small of her back. You follow her in, and the stall shrinks around you, your chest close enough that water channels between your bodies.
She turns around. Water hits the back of her neck and runs down between her shoulder blades, and she presses two fingers into the center of your chest and walks you backward until the tile catches you. Your eyes don't leave hers. She lowers herself down, one knee at a time to the floor of the stall.
She looks up at you and takes her time, her hand first, exploring you, and she watches your stomach tighten before she's even done anything. Your hand drops to her hair, not directing, just needing somewhere to be. She leans in and kisses the inside of your thigh, then looks up with a grin, feeling the shudder move through your whole body.
Then she takes you in, her mouth working with a hunger that matches the heat of the room. She goes easy at first, lips dragging, tongue working in slow rolls, and the sounds she makes are low and unhurried. Your fingers curl tighter in her hair. She feels your thigh go rigid under her palm and she presses into it, feeling the muscle jump. Water runs down her face and into her mouth and she tastes you and tap water and salt all at once and she wants more of it. She picks up the pace and your hips cant forward, her throat opening to take you deeper.
"Christ—" It comes out of you like something torn loose, and she feels it in her chest.
You pull her up by the arms, almost rough, and your mouth hits hers, open, immediate. You turn her so her palms find the glass door. She drops her head against the cool glass, arches her back and waits, her pussy dripping with need.
You sink down behind her.
Your thumbs press in and open her and then your mouth is there, no preamble, no teasing, just the broad flat of your tongue pushing upward, and her fingers curl against nothing. The glass gives her no grip. A loud moan charges through her and she fights the feeling of her knees starting to buckle.
You're relentless. Deliciously so. Your tongue circles her clit, then dips lower, pushing into her, and the sound she makes bounces off the tile. Your fingers dig into her hips, holding her still while your mouth works, and she can feel the hunger in it, the way you press your face into her like you're trying to crawl inside. Like you need this more than she does, and that thought takes her right up to the edge, causing her to whimper loudly when you suddenly stop your glorious oral manipulations on her pussy.
You stand, your hands steadying her hips before she feels you pressing against her. Your hands guide her hips, and you push in with one long stroke. Her palms slide on the glass. The fullness of you stretches her open, and she groans, low and desperate. You pull back, almost all the way out, and then you drive forward, and the glass door rattles in its frame.
You fuck her like that, pressed against the shower glass, water streaming over both of you. Each thrust pushes her body forward, her nipples dragging against the slick surface, and your hand comes up to cup her breast, fingers pinching her nipple. Your other hand stays on her hip, gripping hard as you increase the pace.
But there's something else. Between the hard strokes, your mouth finds the back of her neck, and you kiss her there, soft, your lips lingering along her spine. Your rhythm slows for a moment, deep and grinding, and your forehead rests against her shoulder blade. It's tender. Almost, dare she say, loving. It catches her off guard, and something in her chest cracks open.
Then you speed up again, and she quickly loses her ability to form thoughts.
The orgasm builds from thick and deep, coiling tight at her center, and she pushes back against you, her teeth clenched as she meets each thrust. "There—right there—" and your angle shifts, and she comes apart. Her whole body seizes, clenching around you, and she cries out, the sound raw and echoing before telling you it’s your turn.
“Cum for me. Please. Give it to me. I know you want to. Give me your cum. Now!”
Wanda doesn’t have to ask you twice. Your release hits hard, your hips stuttering, your hand squeezing her breast, a groan tearing from your throat that she feels vibrate through both your wet, naked bodies.
You stay like that, water still running cold, both of you breathing hard. Then you pull out slowly before turning her around. Your mouth finds hers in a deep kiss once more. The kiss is slow this time, relaxed, lazy, your hands cupping her face like she's something worth holding.
"You’re right, you know," you say, the cool water streaming down your faces. “It doesn’t have to be a solo sport.”
Wanda laughs, breathless, and kisses you again.
“See? I told you,” she giggles. And the best part? Summer has only just begun.
