Room Neighbors - Wanda Maximoff x Reader - Chapter One
Summary: A flood at the Nexus frat house requires its members to be relocated across all shared apartments of NYU. You and your roommates have a quiet routine, but everything is turned upside down when new students move in.
Warnings: enemies to lovers, langague, very brief carol danvers x reader in this, teasing, making out, nothing explict, attempt at humor.
a/n> i planned this as a small series, but i want to see if people like it first, i feel like Wanda tag is not that strong anymore. Wish we had more Wanda content.
General Masterlist | AO3 | Series Masterlist -x-
“Absolutely not.”
The words left your mouth sharper than intended - your only possible response to the utterly absurd information that had just assaulted your ears.
Thirteen hours ago, some idiot - no, some drunk, overprivileged idiot - from the most obnoxious fraternity at NYU thought it’d be hilarious to pull a prank on the Nexus dormitory. Hilarious, in the same way watching a building catch fire might be. A poorly executed stunt involving a garden hose, several buckets of who-knows-what, and - rumor had it - a very unfortunate goldfish. The aftermath? An entire floor flooded. The second floor, specifically. Half the Nexus students were left temporarily homeless.
Temporarily, as in: for the rest of the school year.
The administration’s damage control came swiftly. Desperate to appease both a horde of angry students and their even angrier millionaire parents, they decided to relocate the displaced to shared apartments on the far side of campus. Temporary housing, they called it. A community-building exercise, they claimed.
Bullshit, you thought.
Unlike your neighbors, who got the news firsthand from Dean Harkness herself, grim-faced, arms crossed, delivering the message like a sentence, you had the misfortune of being woken up from a much-needed, post-internship nap by Natasha Romanoff, specifically, by the sound of your bedroom door slamming open and her boots hitting the floor.
“We have roommates.” Her voice was sharp with disbelief, green eyes flashing with something between irritation and dread.
For a moment, your sleep-fogged brain lagged. “...What?”
“You heard me.” She crossed her arms, pacing like a caged animal. “The Nexus frat boys flooded the dorms. Half the building is uninhabitable. Admin’s cramming them wherever there’s space.” Her brows pinched together. “Including here.”
You groaned, dragging a hand down your face as you sat up, feet hitting the cold hardwood. “Please tell me this is some sick, twisted joke.”
Nat threw her hands in the air. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
Your gaze drifted toward the window, as if Columbia might materialize on the horizon like a shining, roommate-free beacon. “Is it too late to transfer?”
The snort that escaped Nat was as humorless as it was tired. “Way too late.”
It wasn’t just the two of you in this apartment anymore, and hadn’t been for over a year. Yelena, Nat’s younger sister, had moved in last fall - her humor drier than the Nevada desert and her sarcasm even sharper than her sister’s. But even with the three of you, the apartment never felt crowded. You each had your own room, your own bubble. Your one precious slice of peace amid the chaos of student life.
Now, peace was officially under threat.
“I swear to God, if some frat bro sets foot in my kitchen...” you muttered, already mentally calculating how fast you could move your sharpest knives out of reach.
“We don’t have a choice, Y/N,” Nat cut in, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Dean Harkness was pissed, but she went on about equality, community, how every student deserves a roof over their head.” Her voice dropped into a mocking imitation of the Dean’s clipped cadence. “But we both know it’s just about keeping the donors happy.”
By the time the official notices arrived - creased, hastily printed slips shoved into everyone’s mailboxes - the entire Avengers Apartment Complex was buzzing. Residents crowded the sidewalks, leaning over balconies, peeking through windows like it was a neighborhood-wide fire drill or maybe a low-budget reality show.
You sat cross-legged on the living room floor, half-heartedly packing your DVD collection into a box that felt way too small for the impending invasion of strangers. Every plastic case clacked together like a countdown.
“Maybe... they’re nice?” Peter Parker’s hopeful voice floated in from the couch. He was leaning so far toward the window that his sneakers barely touched the floor.
You didn’t even bother looking up. “Or maybe they’re even worse sober than they are at parties.”
Peter let out a nervous laugh but didn’t disagree.
From the open doorway, a grunt echoed; heavy footsteps accompanied by the clatter of wooden bed frames. Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, both hauling a disassembled bunk bed up the stairs, overheard you.
“Come on,” Steve said, wiping sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his jersey. “We should give them a chance.”
You and Peter exchanged a glance so loaded with disbelief it might as well have been written in neon lights.
“Of course you’d say that,” Peter deadpanned, elbow resting on the window frame. “You got lucky. You’re moving in with your boyfriend.”
You nodded in agreement, unable to resist the smirk tugging at your lips. “Yeah, it’s easy to be optimistic when your ‘random’ assignment sticks you with Tony.”
It was true. The apartment across from yours, which had always belonged to Peter, Steve, and Bucky, was now expanding to include Tony Stark, Sam Wilson, and, unfortunately for your eardrums, Pietro Maximoff.
And as for your own fate? Your crumpled-up assignment sheet - now tragically marinating in a puddle of spilled iced coffee at the bottom of your trash can - had revealed the names of Kate Bishop, Maria Hill, and Wanda Maximoff.
The latter being precisely why you knew the so-called “random selection” was a bigger lie than Tony Stark’s claim that he doesn’t check his reflection every time he passes a window.
Turning your attention back to the chaotic pile of DVDs and tangled game controllers in your lap, you mumbled a half-hearted goodbye when Peter excused himself to help the boys wrangle the bunk beds upstairs. The door clicked shut behind him with a soft thud, leaving behind the fading sounds of voices, laughter, and furniture scraping against tile.
For a while, the apartment settled back into its usual rhythm; the low hum of the TV blending with the rustle of pizza boxes and the occasional sarcastic comment from Yelena, who was now scrolling through her phone, boots resting on the coffee table like she paid the rent.
But the peace was shattered around dinner time.
You were halfway through a slice of greasy, slightly overcooked pepperoni pizza when a chorus of car doors slamming echoed from outside. The muffled roar of engines cut out, replaced by hurried footsteps, voices overlapping in the hallway - a symphony of chaotic energy that didn’t belong to this side of campus.
“Ah, shit...” you sighed under your breath, pausing mid-bite.
Yelena, sensing the disturbance like a bloodhound, shoved your feet off her lap without warning. “Move,” she said, brushing pizza crumbs off her sweatpants as she bolted toward the window.
“Seriously?” you groaned, wincing as your heels hit the floor. “No warning?”
“Yep,” she confirmed, pulling back the curtains with both hands like she was revealing the grand finale of a magic trick. Her pale eyes scanned the sidewalk below. “They’re here.”
Outside, a convoy of cars lined the curb - some luxury sedans, one obnoxiously large Jeep, and an aggressively blue sports car that was definitely Stark’s. A scatter of young adults shuffled between trunks and backseats, most clutching wrinkled papers - their housing assignments flapping in the evening breeze. Duffle bags were slung over shoulders; boxes balanced precariously on hips. Some faces were familiar from across campus parties; others were total strangers.
A heavy groan left your chest as you sank deeper into the couch, like maybe if you flattened yourself enough, you could merge with the furniture and disappear. The cushions swallowed you halfway as you dragged your hoodie over your head.
“God, I can’t do this,” you muttered into the fabric.
“So dramatic,” Nat chuckled from her armchair, flipping through the TV channels with that trademark unbothered look. Her legs were lazily crossed, socked foot bouncing in rhythm to the sound of ESPN commentary.
The minutes dragged until - knock knock knock.
“Oh, look alive,” Yelena chirped, practically vibrating as she stood by the door. “Showtime.”
You didn’t move. Didn’t want to move.
The door cracked open before Nat could say anything.
“Hey, I’m - ”
“Kate Bishop!” Yelena cut in, grinning like a gremlin as she yanked the door fully open. Her excitement was infectious - her hands were already reaching for the strap of Kate’s overstuffed tote bag like they were old friends. “Come on, come in. We’ve been waiting.”
“‘Waiting’ is a... bold word choice,” you mumbled from the couch, lifting a brow as you lazily took another sip of your soda. “More like... praying no one would show up.”
Nat had to stifle a laugh, hiding it behind the rim of her water bottle.
Kate definitely heard it - her smile faltered just for a moment. She stood awkwardly in the doorway, hands fidgeting with the strap of her bag, a polite flush coloring her cheeks. “Uh... yeah, fair.”
Yelena rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t detach. “Ignore them. They’re just two grumpy old ladies. Midterms fried their brains. I promise they’re marginally nicer in the summer.”
Kate huffed a laugh at that and nodded, her posture relaxing a little as Yelena tugged her deeper into the apartment, already launching into an impromptu tour that was mostly sarcastic commentary about whose room was messier.
You watched them disappear down the hall, releasing a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. But the reprieve didn’t last. The next knock was barely five minutes later.
“It’s your turn,” you said flatly, cutting Nat off before she even shifted in her chair.
With a sigh that sounded like it carried the weight of a thousand regrets, Nat rose, but not before passing you and flicking the brim of your baseball cap. “You’re insufferable.”
“Thank you for noticing,” you deadpanned, sinking further into your hoodie.
At the door stood a tall, sharp-eyed woman whose posture was military-grade stiff, her expression a careful mixture of neutral and mildly annoyed.
“Hey, you’re Maria, right?” Nat asked, slipping easily into her diplomatic tone.
The woman nodded once. “Yeah. Maria Hill.”
“Cool. I’m Natasha. That lump on the couch is Y/N.” Nat jerked a thumb your way without looking. “Come in. I’ll show you around.”
You raised a hand in a lazy greeting without peeling your gaze from the TV. “Hey.”
Maria gave you a polite nod, then stepped inside, boots thudding quietly against the hardwood. Her gaze swept the space - cool, assessing, as though calculating the exact dimensions of the apartment and every possible exit route.
She barely had time to take it all in before chaos arrived.
The door burst open mid-play - the game just coming out of halftime. Someone stumbled through, balancing a phone between shoulder and ear, speaking fast in a mixture of exasperated whispers and breathy frustration.
“Papa, I told you - I told you, Pietro is in the front apartment. Yes. No, Papa, not with me.”
Her voice was soft, melodic with a smooth Sokovian lilt that made the mundane conversation sound almost lyrical.
And unfortunately, it distracted you for exactly one second.
Just long enough to miss number twelve cutting through the defense for the most perfect touchdown pass of the entire goddamn game.
“NO!” you practically roared, bolting upright as the ball crossed the screen in glorious slow motion - just as the camera cut away.
The girl, her hand halfway to her pocket to hang up, jumped a little, blinking at you like you’d grown a second head. Her brows pinched together, expression somewhere between startled and unimpressed.
“...Right,” she mumbled into the phone. “Papa, I have to go. I’ll call you later. No-no, Pietro’s fine. He’s... right next door. Bye.”
A quiet sigh left her lips as she thumbed the phone off and shoved it into the back pocket of her jeans. Only then did her gaze return to you, curious, sharp, and far less startled now. Her head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing like she was trying to figure out whether you were a threat, a lunatic, or both.
The air shifted - tense, electric, just a fraction heavier than it had been a second ago.
And that’s when you realized - you were officially staring at Wanda Maximoff.
“Hi, my name is - ”
“Wanda Maximoff,” you cut in sharply, not bothering to hide the irritation threading your voice. “Yeah. Everyone knows you.” Your gaze stayed locked on her, flat and unimpressed. “Congratulations, by the way. You’ve been here less than five minutes and you’ve already made me miss the most important play of the season.”
A beat of stunned silence followed, then Wanda let out a dry, incredulous laugh. Her fingers twitched at her sides, then crossed tightly over her chest as if bracing against a cold wind. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, you heard me.” You finally turned away from the TV, leaning back against the worn cushions of the sofa, crossing your arms. The static of the abandoned game crackled behind you, the announcers’ distant voices now just background noise to the sudden tension flooding the room. “And let me make something very clear,” you continued, your jaw ticking as heat crawled up your neck, “just because some of your brilliant Nexus idiots thought it’d be fun to screw with the housing lottery doesn’t mean we’re about to play house together like one big happy family.” Your voice dipped, sharpened. “Nobody here forgot how your people treat the Avengers.”
For a moment, Wanda didn’t respond. Her lips parted, then pressed into a tight line, as though biting back a hundred different responses. Her posture shifted, shoulders pulling back, chin tilting upward - regal, defensive, like someone who’d spent too many years being judged before even opening her mouth. Her eyes, sharp, storm-gray with flecks of green, narrowed. Her fingers flexed, then curled into fists against her hips. The exhaustion from the day - the disastrous phone call with her father, the loss of half her belongings to the morning’s flood - boiled just beneath the surface, and this reception was gasoline tossed over open flames.
“Avengers,” she repeated, rolling the word on her tongue like something bitter. Her lips curved into a slow, cold smirk. “You still call yourselves that childish little nickname?”
Her scoff was laced with condescension, but her eyes glittered with something more volatile - hurt, maybe. Or pride bruised enough to lash out. “Tell me, what are you avenging now? The debate club lost? Or was it your soccer team getting their asses kicked - again?”
Your ears burned. You knew it was visible - the flush that crept up your throat, the way your fingers dug into the fabric of your sleeves. “Listen here, you little- ”
“Wow.” A new voice cut cleanly through the tension, cool but unmistakably amused. “Someone’s already making friends.”
Natasha’s presence entered the room, calm and collected. She strolled in with the easy confidence of someone who’d walked in on enough fights to be entirely unimpressed by this one. Behind her, Yelena and Kate followed with matching expressions of curiosity, taking in the electric standoff unfolding in front of them.
Nat moved first, stepping between you and Wanda with a practiced, neutral smile. “Wanda, right? Welcome.” She extended a hand without hesitation.
Wanda blinked, clearly thrown by the abrupt shift, but recovered fast. Her posture straightened further, smoothing her expression into something cooler, detached. Her fingers slid into Nat’s, offering a firm handshake. “Yeah. Wanda.”
“We’ll be sharing a room,” Nat added with an easy nod.
Your brows snapped together. “But I’m the one who - ” The protest caught rough in your throat, frustration splintering through you like glass.
“Y/N,” Nat interrupted smoothly, her tone edged with the warning of someone not in the mood for arguments. “Can you help Maria with the wardrobe trick? I forgot to show her.”
You clenched your jaw, grinding back the snark already forming on your tongue. Annoyance prickled under your skin like a rash - at the game, at Wanda, at Nat’s diplomatic deflection - but eventually, you sighed through your nose and shoved off the couch. “Fine.”
Maria, at least, wasn’t a walking, talking migraine.
You crossed the apartment toward the hallway, motioning for Hill to follow. Her steps were quieter, deliberate - she seemed observant, watching how everyone fit into this weird ecosystem of passive-aggressive chaos.
Once inside the bedroom, the familiar scent of cedar from the old built-in wardrobe greeted you, mingling with the faint scent of Maria’s subtle perfume - something clean, vaguely citrus. You showed her the trick: how the left hinge had to be nudged just right to get the doors to fully close.
“Yeah, it sticks,” you explained, fingers demonstrating the motion, “but once you slide the hinge here - ” click “ - good as new.”
Maria chuckled softly, smoothing her palms down her jeans. “Thanks. Organization is kind of... my coping mechanism.” Her hands gestured toward her suitcase, where everything was labeled - socks, gym stuff, electronics. “Keeps the chaos manageable.”
“Yeah,” you muttered, lips twitching despite yourself. “Chaos seems to be the theme today.”
She glanced at the logo on your sports cap and smiled. “Skrulls fan?”
Your eyes lit up. “Uh-yeah. Lifelong.”
“I’ve got a friend who’s obsessed. You’d get along.”
“Really?” you asked, a grin pulling at your mouth before you could stop it. “I mean... not gonna say no to meeting someone normal around here.”
Maria chuckled under her breath. “I’ll set it up.”
The conversation relaxed something in your chest - just enough for you to forget, momentarily, how tense the apartment felt earlier. You stepped back into the hallway, still grinning faintly, and promptly collided with someone coming from the opposite direction.
Your shoulder clipped theirs hard enough to jolt you both. You staggered, glancing up with a reflexive, “Sorry - ”
Only for your gaze to lock directly with Wanda Maximoff’s.
Of course.
Her expression flickered. First surprise, then narrowing defensiveness as though bracing for yet another round of verbal sparring. Her hands twitched at her sides, knuckles pale, but her mouth was pressed into a tight line, refusing to be the first to speak.
Your apology died halfway out of your mouth, shriveling into a reluctant, irritated grumble as you shoved your hands into your hoodie pocket and looked away. “...Figures.”
The hallway suddenly felt narrower. Warmer. Like the walls themselves leaned in to watch.
Wanda tilted her head, arms folding neatly over her chest, brows raised in wordless challenge.
Neither of you moved.
Neither of you looked away.
The tension was tangible - woven thick into the charged, heavy air between you.
“Do you mind watching where you’re going?” Wanda’s voice was sharp, but not raised - clipped, tight, threaded with the same brittle exhaustion you felt. Her eyes scanned your posture, catching the subtle shift in your shoulders, the way your jaw set like you were gearing up for round two.
A humorless laugh slipped from your lips before you could stop it. “Would you mind getting out of the way?”
The instant the words left your mouth, the air between you snapped taut, like a stretched rubber band ready to break. Wanda’s eyes darkened, and her fingers twitched - whether out of instinct to argue or pure restraint, you weren’t sure. Her lips parted as if a retort was already forming, sharp and barbed, but -
“Seriously?” Yelena’s voice sliced cleanly through the moment as her door swung open with a dramatic creak. She strode into the hallway holding one of your sweatshirts, dangling it like it was evidence in a crime. “Are you shedding your stuff all over the apartment again?”
Before you could answer, the fabric hit your chest with a soft thud, and you fumbled to catch it, startled just enough for your focus to break away from the tense standoff with Wanda. “Yelena - seriously?” you snapped, wrestling the hoodie into your arms. “It was literally on the back of the chair.”
“Well, it’s not a chair in your room,” she shot back, already turning on her heel with a dismissive wave. “Get your life together, grandma.”
“Unbelievable…” you grumbled, shaking your head as you adjusted the hoodie over your forearm.
When you finally glanced back, the hallway was emptier - Wanda had retreated, slipping into the room that was now, unfortunately, hers. You caught sight of her through the partially open door: back turned to you, her dark hair falling slightly over one shoulder as she scrolled through her phone. Her brows were knitted together, lips pursed, the glow of the screen soft against her skin. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a second before she typed something, jaw tightening like whatever conversation she was having was only adding to her growing pile of frustrations.
A reluctant, traitorous thought edged its way in before you could shove it down.
How can someone so damn irritating look that good being annoyed?
You clenched your jaw, dragging your gaze away before it lingered too long, heat creeping up the back of your neck. Huffing under your breath, you turned toward your own room, muttering, “This is gonna be a long semester.”
-&-
Falling into a normal rhythm with three new roommates - each with wildly different schedules, habits, and personalities - was… well, chaotic at best. A puzzle with half the pieces upside down.
Yelena - predictably - and now Kate were the only ones truly excited about the forced cohabitation. Honestly, you were convinced it was a first-year thing. That naive enthusiasm for everything: school, people, papers. It made you smile, though, especially when Maria, ever deadpan, casually muttered over coffee, “First-years are always so hopeful. It’s cute, in a way.”
You clicked instantly with Maria. She was calm, sarcastic in all the right ways, and - crucially - a sports fan. Out of all the girls, she was the only one willing to crash on the couch next to you, chip bag in hand, and sit through hours of game commentary. A rare, sacred bond.
Kate was a different story - an anxious ball of energy with absolutely zero concept of an indoor voice. But she was hilarious. Chaotic, but hilarious. You couldn’t even be annoyed when she paced the kitchen, rambling about existential crises and midterms like a caffeinated golden retriever.
Honestly, if it weren’t for one specific person, everything about this new arrangement would’ve been manageable. Peaceful, even.
But Wanda.
God, Wanda was like a walking glitch in the matrix of your sanity.
For the first few days, avoiding her was easy enough. She was constantly busy anyway - wrapped up in fraternity drama, a pile of meetings the principal somehow greenlit, plus cheer practice, book club, and a never-ending to-do list scribbled across the whiteboard on the fridge. You’d stopped trying to decipher it by day two. It stressed you out just looking at it.
Meanwhile, your own life wasn’t exactly a spa retreat. You were knee-deep in the final days of your Luthor Labs internship before your brief academic break. The kind of work that left your brain buzzing with experimental results and your spine questioning every life choice that led you to this moment.
When you finally dragged yourself home after your last shift - badge stuffed somewhere in your bag, exhaustion clinging to your skin like static - the only remedy was obvious: junk food and mindless TV.
Except not tonight.
Tonight was a Skrull game.
And suddenly, inviting Carol Danvers over felt like the best idea you’d had in weeks. You’d only met her recently - Maria had pulled you both into an impromptu lunch - and Carol had instantly struck you as the perfect mix of effortlessly cool and quietly hilarious. The kind of person you clicked with before the appetizers even arrived.
Text. Sent. Response. Immediate.
“Be there in ten. Don’t start without me.”
Grinning, you peeled yourself off the bed, showered off the lab grime, and pulled on your softest hoodie and your beloved Skrulls cap. Comfort mode fully activated.
True to her word, Carol arrived in record time, her own team cap already tugged low over her blonde hair as she stepped inside like she owned the place. “Didn’t peg you for someone with good taste,” she joked, nudging the bill of your cap with two fingers.
“Oh, you wound me,” you shot back, tossing her a soda from the fridge.
By the time kickoff rolled around, the coffee table was a graveyard of snack bags, pizza boxes, and open tubs of dip. The game was brutal. One of those stress-inducing, edge-of-your-seat kinds where the lead changed hands so many times it felt personal.
Between side conversations, bad jokes about the ref’s questionable eyesight, and the occasional shout of “Did you SEE that?!”, the apartment echoed with chaotic energy.
Then, the final quarter. The Skrulls were losing steam, the opposing offense relentless. You were practically vibrating with nervous energy, half-standing, half-kneeling on the couch. But then, the captain made an impossible pass. One of those jaw-dropping, physics-defying moves that would be replayed for weeks.
“YES!” you exploded, bolting upright, arms thrown high as the announcer’s voice cracked over the words, “AND IT’S A TOUCHDOWN! THE SKRULLS TAKE IT!”
Carol was right there with you, slamming her fist against the cushion in triumph, laughing so hard she nearly knocked over the soda can precariously balanced on the table. “I cannot believe they pulled that off!”
Grinning so wide it hurt, you flopped back onto the couch, catching your breath between laughs, feeling, for the first time in days, the suffocating weight of your week finally loosen.
For a moment, it was just this: loud, messy, imperfect, and good.
You didn’t notice Carol’s gaze shifting - not the subtle change in her posture, not the soft pull at the corner of her mouth, nor the brief, silent decision flickering behind her eyes. You missed every single warning sign.
So when you turned toward her - grinning, riding the high of the game, confusion barely creeping in as you realized she wasn’t cheering - you barely had time to process anything before it happened.
Her hands caught your jaw, and her mouth was on yours.
Your body jolted, a startled noise caught halfway between a gasp and a half-formed word muffled against her lips.
Oh. Oh. This is… happening.
To her credit, Carol was not a bad kisser. Not even close. She tasted like cola and salt, her lips soft but insistent. When her tongue brushed your lower lip, it dragged with it the tang of sour cream chips and something sharper - the adrenaline still buzzing between you.
Your brain scrambled. It wasn’t that you didn’t like it - it’s that you hadn’t expected it. Warmth flared in your stomach, an involuntary thrum of something fluttering and restless that made your fingers twitch against the fabric of the couch. Awkward. Shy. Completely blindsided.
Still, instinct kicked in - you kissed her back, though the hesitation lingered, tangled up with the residual shock. But Carol didn’t give you much time to overthink. Her hands grew bolder, sliding down your sides, fingers pressing into your hips, guiding you back against the cushions.
Before you realized it, you were lying down, Carol leaning over you, her cap threatening to fall off as she deepened the kiss with sudden intensity that scattered every coherent thought from your head.
“Wait - ” you barely managed between breaths, hands coming to her shoulders - half a protest, half grounding yourself. But Carol was already moving, lips tracing the line of your jaw, then lower, warm breath ghosting against your neck.
You inhaled sharply, torn between untangling yourself and freezing in sheer what-is-happening paralysis.
And then -
Click.
The front door swung open.
“Jesus, take that to the bedroom.”
Wanda’s voice was sharp, unimpressed, slicing through the room like a cold knife. She strode in with the elegance of someone who had long run out of patience, kicking the door shut behind her.
Your brain stalled.
Because - God - this was the first time you’d seen her this close in her cheer uniform. And suddenly, the crisis of Carol kissing you was temporarily downgraded to background noise compared to the fact that Wanda Maximoff, legs-for-days, ponytail swaying, was standing there glaring at you like you were something stuck to the bottom of her shoe.
You needed Carol to get off you. Immediately.
Carol just laughed, somewhere between sheepish and unapologetic, rolling off you as she adjusted her sweatshirt. “Right. Sorry. You must be Wanda.”
She offered a hand.
Wanda didn’t even look at it. Her arms crossed, one hip cocked, eyebrow arching in perfect disdain. “Yeah, no. Not touching that. God knows what it’s covered in.”
You blinked. The disbelief curdled fast into irritation, heat prickling beneath your skin. “Seriously?” you bit out. “As if you’re some kind of saint, Maximoff.”
Wanda rolled her eyes like it physically pained her to engage. “I just don’t want to walk into my apartment and find strangers having sex on the couch. Sue me.”
“Her name is Carol,” you snapped, pushing yourself upright. “And this is my apartment.”
“Oh, are we doing this again?” Wanda scoffed, voice dripping with mockery, like she was bored with your very existence. “God. Grow up.”
Your jaw clenched. “Listen here, you spoiled little brat- ”
“Okay! Nope. We’re not doing that,” Carol interrupted quickly, sliding between you like a human barrier, hands raised in peace as she tugged at your wrist. “Why don’t we go grab something to drink... and let Wanda take a shower? She just got back from practice. She’s... probably tired.”
Wanda didn’t say anything, but the look she threw at both of you was venomous. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her jaw tightening, shoulders squared like she was physically restraining herself from a verbal homicide. Her eyes lingered on you as Carol dragged you toward the door - icy, assessing, but something else flickering just behind it. Something sharp. Something almost... unsettled.
You didn’t look back until you were halfway down the block, clutching your second iced drink and pretending you didn’t still feel Wanda’s gaze burning through the back of your skull.
But even long after the ice melted in your cup, you couldn’t shake the image - the sharp set of her jaw, the stubborn crease between her brows, and the way your stupid heartbeat had kicked against your ribs the second you’d noticed how her uniform clung to her skin.
God. This was going to be a disaster.
-
Clearing things up with Carol had been surprisingly easy. Turned out, the miscommunication was almost funny in hindsight - especially once she pointed out (with a dramatic groan) that she’d been blatantly flirting the entire time and you’d been oblivious until, well… the couch incident.
You spent hours at a local pub afterward, nursing cheap drinks, laughing about how dense you both were, and cementing the agreement to stay friends. A few rounds of pool later, and exactly zero kisses, you finally headed home.
The problem was… Wanda hadn’t seen any of that.
All she knew was that the last time she saw you, Carol was practically glued to you on the couch. So, when Natasha casually asked if she’d seen you around, Wanda - being Wanda - told her exactly what she thought she’d witnessed.
Which explained why you walked through the front door only to find your best friend perched on the couch, arms crossed, waiting with the kind of expectant look that meant interrogation was imminent.
“Had fun with your girlfriend?”
“My what now?” you spluttered, half-laughing as you peeled off your jacket.
“Carol Danvers,” Natasha declared, sitting up straighter. “Don’t play dumb with me now. Hill told me she introduced you two, and Wanda said she caught you making out on the couch.”
You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “The absolute lack of privacy in this apartment, I swear.”
Kate sat at the table, headphones on, oblivious, legs kicked up as she tapped away at her laptop. The others were presumably tucked away in their rooms.
“Y/N,” Natasha called, following you as you made a beeline for the kitchen, “come on. Spill. I need details.”
You laughed under your breath, pretending to focus intently on the bread and whatever else you were scrounging for. “We just talked.”
Nat narrowed her eyes, hopping onto the counter. “Talked. Uh-huh. With or without clothes on?”
A startled laugh escaped you. “God, you’re the worst.”
“That’s not a no.”
You shook your head, biting back a grin as you layered ingredients into your sandwich. “I hate you.”
Nat kicked her heels against the cabinet. “Lies. Also, still not an answer.”
Grinning to yourself, you finished the sandwich and grabbed a glass from the shelf, stretching the moment just long enough to get an impatient groan out of her.
“Relax, Tasha,” you said finally, crouching to grab oranges and the juicer. “Carol’s just a friend.”
“Sure. Now she is.” But her tone softened, teasing giving way to something lighter.
You add: “Also, rude of you to think you wouldn’t be the first person I’d tell if it was something more.”
That made her chuckle as you sliced the oranges. "Okay, now you're just trying to deflect from the subject."
You smile before adding: “Seriously, it wasn’t complicated. We cleared it up. She’s cool. Turns out we’ve got a ton in common - movies, comics, trash-talking people who take pool too seriously - ”
“ - Sounds like a perfect girlfriend to me,” Nat cut in, smirking as she snagged a piece of your sandwich.
You rolled your eyes but didn’t fight her for it. “Shut up.”
While you juiced the oranges, you filled her in on the full story - how things escalated way faster than you expected, how the post-game adrenaline probably made it worse, how you both laughed it off once you actually talked like normal humans.
You were pouring juice into two glasses, finally ready to hammer the point home - just friends, end of story - when footsteps padded into the kitchen.
Wanda.
She was in pajamas now, and - annoyingly - you sometimes forgot how much she drove you insane when she showed up looking so soft and domestic. Of course, she was quick to remind you.
The second your eyes met, her expression hardened. You hoped - prayed - that maybe it would stop at the glare. But no. She marched right up to you and, with one sharp movement, snatched the juice right out of your hands.
“That’s my cup. You can read, right?” she snapped, irritated by your baffled expression.
You blinked, glancing down at the cup. In your distraction chatting with Nat, you hadn’t even realized you’d grabbed something from Wanda’s shelf. She, clearly, was ready to make sure you never forgot.
“Stay out of my stuff,” she hissed. “I don’t want your germs anywhere near it.”
“My germs?” you echoed with a disbelieving chuckle, but she didn’t even flinch.
“Exactly.” Her eyes narrowed. “God knows where you’ve been putting your mouth. Imagine if you gave me some kind of - ”
You didn’t even think.
In one reckless, electric heartbeat, you lunged - your hands cupping her face, your mouth pressing hard against hers.
Wanda stumbled, gasping into the kiss, caught entirely off guard. For a second - one second - you felt her body freeze… then her lips softened, just barely, against yours. Her hands twitched, like she wasn’t sure whether to push you away or pull you closer.
But as fast as it started, you pulled back.
Her face was crimson - whether from fury or something else, you couldn’t quite tell. Her chest heaved, breath coming fast, and her wide eyes locked onto yours, wild and stunned.
The apartment had gone dead silent. Somewhere behind you, someone audibly gasped.
You just grinned. Smug. Unapologetic.
“What was that about my germs?” you asked casually, letting the words drip with mock innocence. “You might wanna wash your mouth now, yeah?”
For a second, it didn’t seem like she’d move at all. Then something in her snapped.
“You - !” Wanda lunged, aiming straight for your neck, hands out like claws. Chaos exploded - someone shrieked, chairs scraped, and Natasha jumped between you.
“Alright, alright, break it up!” Nat laughed, pushing you toward the hallway while Kate and someone else tried to hold Wanda back.
You were breathless with laughter - your pulse hammering so hard it vibrated under your skin, but not from fear. From exhilaration. From her.
Wanda’s voice followed you down the hallway, shouting curses in a mix of Sokovian and English. You couldn’t stop grinning.
Nat practically shoved you into your room and shut the door behind her, still laughing. “Oh my god. You’re insane. Completely unhinged.”
You didn’t sit. Couldn’t. You were buzzing with adrenaline, pacing in a tight circle. “You think she’s gonna try to strangle me in my sleep?”
Nat shrugged, running a hand through her hair, still grinning. “Strangle? Maybe. Or poison your coffee. Either way, me and the girls are gonna have front-row seats to something.”
You laughed, tipping your head back. “I wanna say I’m sorry… but honestly? Her face? So worth it.”
Nat shook her head, nudging your shoulder. “Stay here. Let things cool off. I don’t feel like witnessing a homicide tonight.”
Grumbling, you nodded. “Fine.”
She left, closing the door behind her.
And the second she was gone, you let your forehead fall against the wood, pressing there, breathing deep. Your heart was pounding. Your lips still tingled, warm and buzzing, like Wanda’s imprint was burned into them.
God.
Kissing her… it was nothing like Carol. Not even close. It was sharper, hotter, magnetic in a way that didn’t make sense for something that lasted barely a second. Your whole body felt wired, like you were still mid-fall.
You stumbled backward, collapsing onto your bed, staring at the ceiling - and you were still smiling, stupidly, when the door to Wanda’s room slammed shut with enough force to shake the walls.
