drabbles

⧖ masterlist

Norway!Nat

⧖ masterlist

Alcohol's Effects on the Body

⧖ masterlist ⤷ Nerd!Nat x r

Apartment 224

⧖ masterlist ⤷ Nat x neighbor!r

Pay-Per-View (upcoming)

⧖ masterlist ⤷ OnlyFans!Nat x r

oneshots

⧖ Finish What You Started ᥫ᭡ ⤷ You finally manage to convince a rightfully reluctant Natasha to bring you with her to work.

⧖ You Were Are Hers ꩜ ⤷ It’s been eight years since. ⧖ You Were Are Hers pt. 2 ⤷ Four months later.

⧖ Alice, Who? ᥫ᭡ ⤷ You’re always hearing about how the Black Widow is hot, but seeing her in person, getting personally trained by her, is something else entirely. Oh, she’s hot, hot. ⧖ Alice, Who? pt. 2 ᥫ᭡ ⤷ Natasha doesn’t want you, or so she keeps telling herself. But you’re relentless in your attempts to build an amicable relationship with her, and then, when your attention is suddenly pointed at someone else? Well, now she has to do something about that.

⧖ What Made You Think That You're in Charge? ᥫ᭡ ⤷ Even when you think you’re in control, Natasha’s always there to prove you wrong.

⧖ Such a Skeptic ᥫ᭡ ⤷ Enchantedstrap!Nat x r ⤷ Natasha may be excellent in bed on a normal day, but she definitely lacks in the reciprocation department when you enchant her strap for the first time. You can’t blame her though. Nothing could have prepared her for something to feel like that. ⧖ Such a Skeptic pt. 2 ᥫ᭡ ⤷ Once Natasha experiences your pussy for the first time, she becomes determined to do two things: 1) fuck you on every surface in every room in every position possible and 2) actually make you come.

⧖ I'll Hold it for You ꩜ ⤷ Natasha isn’t used to this feeling, but luckily, you’re there to help her realize that not everything has to fall only on her. She deserves to let herself breathe sometimes.

⧖ Don't Call it a Mistake .ᐟ‎ ꩜ ⤷ You run into Natasha, your ex, at a local cafe that you both used to frequent together. It’s been over a year since you two broke up, so you thought that you would be ready to potentially face her again. Apparently, you need a few more months… or years… or forever.

⧖ Unsteady ⤷ Natasha never gave up hope that one day you would be returned to her, but the reunion doesn’t go quite like she had imagined.

⧖ Puppy-Dog Eyes ⤷ Maybe you can teach an old dog (Natasha) something new… or Natasha learns that not all dogs are something to be bothered by.

⧖ Just Once More .ᐟ‎ ꩜ ᥫ᭡ ⤷ “It’s not what Natasha wants. God, it’s not what she wants at all. But she’ll take it, she’ll take you, in any way that you’ll let her.”

⧖ For Fuck's Sake, It's a Werewolf ⤷ Halloween 2025 ⤷ The Avengers were sent to a small town in Romania for a mission, and Natasha brought her girlfriend along for some sightseeing. When they arrive, it seems that so did some unknown being that begins terrorizing the town. What coincidental timing.

⧖ Not Like Them ⤷ (Soft) mob!Nat x stripper!r ⤷ A redheaded stranger walks into your club one night, and despite doing your best to prove to both her and yourself that she’s just like everybody else, she doesn’t allow you to.

⧖ One of Everything ⤷ It can be argued that this is the most Natasha’s ever said to you, usually coming in like a storm, all mouth and teeth, muffling any small talk you might have offered and replacing it with moans of her name.

⧖ Blinding ⤷ Everything is too much, including the sight of your green-eyed, redheaded savior. ⧖ Blinding pt. 2 (upcoming) ⤷ The adjustment to your enhanced senses in the real world isn’t easy, the darkness and muffled noises from the cell you were kept in having always protected you. But Natasha’s there every step of the way, determined to help you regulate everything that overloads your system. ⧖ Blinding pt. 3 ᥫ᭡ (upcoming) ⤷ Everything still overwhelms you sometimes, but now, you don’t mind when it’s because of her.

⧖ “It's Complicated” .ᐟ‎ ⤷ Natasha’s recognized while she’s on the run with Steve. She probably should’ve thought things through when she ghosted you. ⧖ “It's Complicated” pt. 2 ꩜ ⤷ She may be a coward, but Natasha's trying—she’s really trying—the only way she knows how. ⧖ “It's Complicated” pt. 3 ⤷ “Natasha has really left, hasn’t she?” versus “She’ll stay for you.”

⧖ Still Handcuffed to That Bedpost ꩜ ⤷ It doesn’t happen often, but every now and again, Natasha finds herself back there, her mind returning to the oppressive former belief that she doesn’t exist for anything but to be used. How is she to show you her in her entirety?

⧖ Worth Every Penny ⤷ Winning a night with the Black Widow—to Natasha, charity auction be damned—turns out to be, despite her initial disgruntlement, the start of something neither of you could have predicted.

⧖ Shouldn't Have ꩜ ⤷ The world may continue on, but her world stopped that day. Hopefully, you get Natasha's voicemail.

⧖ Artificial .ᐟ ⤷ Nat x android!r ⤷ One of Tony’s prototypes becomes activated while Natasha is living—trying to survive—on her own at the Compound during The Snap. Maybe, all this time, she hasn’t been as alone as she thought. ⧖ Artificial pt. 2 ꩜ (upcoming) ⤷ summary redacted

⧖ Notability .ᐟ‎ ᥫ᭡ ⤷ Natasha never looked your way… or at least, not how you wanted her to. But maybe it was silly to think that the world’s greatest spy didn’t notice you.

⧖ Said Through Blue Lips ⤷ You and Natasha have never been all too fond of each other. Leave it to a near death experience, a bout of hypothermia, and a delirious confession to change that.

⧖ Catalyst ⤷ After Tony’s words do nothing to alleviate the uncertainty surrounding your relationship status with Natasha, you find yourself going home alone… or almost home. Getting kidnapped wouldn’t be your first choice of motivator to discussing whether or not she is serious about you, but it certainly gets the job done.

⧖ Home Sweet Home ᥫ᭡ ⤷ You purchased yourself something new to try while your wife was away on a long mission. She comes home earlier than planned, but why let that interrupt your fun?

⧖ Permanently Yours ꩜ ⤷ Even three years of separation can’t erase eight years of love, can it?

⧖ A Likely Story ⤷ Both Natalie Rushman’s quick arrival and even quicker disappearance are suspicious. You wish she didn’t leave so soon.

⧖ Office Hours ᥫ᭡ ⤷ Philosophy professor!Nat x student!r ⤷ Your professor notices that you need some extra assistance understanding the material to pass her final exam. She’s determined to help you out, but you find that her methods are a little more than slightly distracting. ⧖ Office Hours pt. 2 ⤷ It may be a little petty, but in your eyes, she started it.

⧖ Take a Look ᥫ᭡ ⤷ Natasha’s never quite seen herself like this before.

⧖ Not in the Job Description ⤷ You have no idea how to physically, mentally, or emotionally handle when Natasha Romanoff flirts with you—you’re just a records technician. Well, at least she seems to enjoy your fluster.

⧖ Choose Me Too ᥫ᭡ ⤷ The presumed by everyone (including herself) touch-averse Black Widow needs physical contact like anybody else. It only took you to show that to her. Now, she just needs to convince you that touch starvation isn’t the driving force behind her want to kiss you. ⧖ Choose Me Too pt. 2 ᥫ᭡ ⤷ Now that you’ve kissed her and gotten a first taste, you can’t stop… you need to taste all of her.

⧖ Number Seven ⤷ Basketball player!Nat x tutor!r ⤷ When Natasha gets injured, the school tells her that the six weeks of no training will be the perfect break that she needs to improve her concernedly low GPA. It’s either shape up or ship out, and considering basketball is everything to the star player, the latter isn’t an option.

⧖ Table for One (For Now) ⤷ Nat x waitress!r ⤷ Same day, same time, same order.

⧖ Never Have I Ever ⤷ When Natasha finds out that you’ve yet to have your first kiss during a silly game of Never Have I Ever, she eagerly jumps at the presented opportunity… only to find herself getting rejected.

⧖ Bloom (being re-edited) ᥫ᭡ ⤷ Sex pollen fic ⤷ With how everything pans out, you can’t quite bring yourself to regret your beyond embarrassingly horny actions since, in the end, they brought you Natasha.

⧖ Try Me Again .ᐟ ⤷ You’re… dead, or so Natasha thought. She’s not sure if she’s dreaming or finally losing it, but for you, she’ll take any second chance she can get.

⧖ Status Update ⤷ College AU ⤷ Natasha Romanoff: flawless, beautiful, a queen bee through and through… and also gay, but nobody knows that. Or nobody is supposed to know that. But one drunken night with the school’s resident outcasted lesbian, full of stolen kisses and forbidden touches, reveals the secret she’s always been desperate to keep. You’d never out her, but the least she could do is occasionally look your way.

⧖ 5-4-3-2-1 ⤷ After the Scarlett Witch gets in her head and forces her to relive some of her Red Room trauma, Natasha finds comfort in you.

⧖ Super Like ⤷ Modern AU ⤷ Your boss’s personal life is exactly that: personal. It’s not your place to ask what she gets up to after hours, but when your inability to find singular button leads to an initially very uncomfortable conversation regarding her at home ‘interests’… well, this is going to be an HR nightmare.

⧖ Off the Record (upcoming) ⤷ You have to completely rebuild the idea you had of the Black Widow when you see that the woman everyone warned you about doesn't exist… or rather, exists only for people who never gave her a reason to be anything else.

⧖ Forbidden Fruit ꩜ (upcoming) ⤷ Nat x enemy agent situationship!r ⤷ You and Natasha have played a back-and-forth game of cat and mouse for years, one that has been delicately interwoven with flirty comments, lingering touches, and even nights spent together when no one is looking. When you manage to finally catch her one day, you realize that your game must come to a regretful end. Orders are orders, right?

⧖ Exposure Risk (upcoming) ⤷ It’s almost comical that the Black Widow hastily ducks into supply closets, fakes phone calls only to then have her phone ring, and uses Steve as a human shield just to avoid you.

⧖ Copy That (upcoming) ⤷ Nat x handler!r ⤷ So what that Natasha’s never seen your face? You make it impossible not to fall for you anyway.

⧖ Made of Marble (upcoming) ⤷ Red Room trainer!Nat x Red Room student!r ⤷ The Red Room is not a romantic setting—it’s a machine that chews you up and spits you out damaged into “perfection”, and Natasha, at least when you first meet her, is a part of that machine. What is it about you that changes everything she believes in?

⧖ Pinky Promise (upcoming) ⤷ Modern AU ⤷ When you return to your hometown after years away to celebrate your birthday with your family, you run into Natasha for the first time in ages. Seeing you again brings up all sorts of forgotten feelings… along with the memory of that one specific promise you two made to each other as kids.

⧖ Exit Wounds (upcoming) ⤷ Protecting an asset is something that Natasha is well-acquainted with as a SHIELD agent, but this time, Fury failed to mention that the asset was going to be you, her childhood love from the Red Room.

⧖ Aftertaste (upcoming) ⤷ Getting drunk enough to hit on Natasha is the most humiliating thing you’ve ever done. It all comes back in mortifying fragments the next morning, but Natasha shows up just in time to reassure all that embarrassment away.

“It’ll be fun!” they said.

“Oh, it’s the perfect app for you!” they said.

“You’ll definitely find someone who’s just your type!” they said.

Well, your friends fucking lied.

You spend almost an hour filling out and perfecting your profile, answering the compatibility questions, uploading some of what you consider your best photos. There are a couple of prompts that seem a little unusual—“Do you work better with clear rules or flexible guidelines?” or “Are you comfortable being tied down?”, for example—but you do your best to answer them anyway, not registering the true meaning behind them—“I prefer clear-cut rules when completing tasks so I can always perform to the best of my abilities, but a little flexibility can be fun too!” and “Honestly, I’d love that right now. I’m getting tired of casual.”

Once your profile is finished, you eagerly head to the browsing page, wanting to see who’s nearby. Your friends seemed so excited for you to sign up, so certain that you were going to find a date.

The first woman is cute enough. There’s a photo of her with her cat, a couple of mirror selfies, and a picture of her at the beach… nothing you wouldn’t expect to see on a dating app. Her bio is a little confusing—“Leather care tips appreciated” with both the black heart and the chains emoji—but you pass it off as simply something to do with her hobbies.

You swipe right.

The next woman clearly goes to the gym. Her arms are on display in every photo, with her dressed in either a loose tank top or a sports bra that also shows off her abs, and most pictures were taken at the gym. Her bio makes a little more sense to you—“Fitness, D/s, 420 friendly, loves hiking”—although you’ve never seen that acronym before.

You swipe right.

The third woman is a shock to your system. Her first and only photo shows her barely clothed, the lingerie set she’s wearing not leaving much to the imagination. She’s tied up, sitting in a chair, her hands bound together behind her back and her ankles restrained to the chair legs.

You suck in a surprised breath through your teeth, eyes widening, your face flushing with discomfort, and you instantly swipe left, needing to get the picture off your screen as fast as possible.

You close your eyes once she’s gone, trying to settle your now racing heartbeat. Okay, well, that was unexpected, but you guess dating apps can attract all kinds of people.

But the more you swipe, the more suggestive and spicy and risqué the profiles become, and you begin to realize that perhaps ‘all kinds’ is actually the norm for this app.

Your mortification is mounting. This is clearly just a laugh for your friends. You’re positive that you’ve seen enough riding crops and handcuffs and gags to last you a lifetime, and you’re about to click the ‘Settings’ button, needing to delete your account and pretend this never happened, when one more profile catches your eye.

Is that…?

There’s no way.

But upon closer inspection, it’s unmistakable. There she is: Natasha Romanoff, your boss.

Everything in you freezes as you short-circuit, just staring at her picture in disbelief. Her name is proudly presented, her photo bold and arresting while not being overly showy, her small bio carefully crafted to lure people in. The entire profile feels smug. It’s as though Natasha knows she’s caught the attention of whoever is looking.

Your finger hovers over the screen, over her. You reluctantly can admit to yourself that you’re more than a little curious as to what the rest of her profile would tell you, as to what the rest of her photos would show, but then you shake your head, snapping out of the daze seeing your boss brought upon you.

You don’t click on her. You can’t.

You need to focus. Natasha being on this app changes things. The clock is now ticking. Your account needs to be deleted immediately; all evidence of you ever having been here needs to be scrubbed before Natasha has a chance at seeing or recognizing you.

You quickly navigate to the settings, beginning to frantically dig through the options. It’s a mess of an interface. Your fingers are a frenzy as you struggle with confusing menus and complicated layouts, your desperation increasing with each passing second.

When you finally locate the ‘Delete my account’ option—three submenus deep—you click on the button without a second thought… only for a popup confirmation to appear, then another, then another, and then another. The app requires you to confirm that you actually want to delete your account four times before then also mandating a confirmation link be sent to you via email.

Said email never comes.

You literally cannot handle this right now. Your brain is still spinning from seeing your boss on the kinkiest dating app probably ever designed. You can’t breathe, and also nicely fuck your friends for getting you into this whole situation.

In one last-ditch effort, you decide to just delete the app off your phone instead, your hands shaking as you do, and then you haphazardly chuck the device across your bed until it’s way out of reach.

You tell yourself that maybe Natasha won’t see you, that maybe she’s not active on the app these days, that maybe the fact that your profile is newly made and recently active and clearly within her dating distance is irrelevant. Maybe deleting the app off your phone is equivalent to deleting your account. You know that’s not true.

You let out a breath, your body still buzzing with panic over everything that just transpired.

How are you going to face her tomorrow?

Especially considering you’re steadfastly ignoring the tingling in your core that all started when you first saw her profile picture.

It’s late into the night, Natasha lazily swirling some wine around in her glass as she sits up in bed and casually peruses her usual dating app. There’s been no one good on it recently, no one new, no one she considers worth her time. She’s growing rather bored.

She’s been in an endless cycle of swiping left, and she’s honestly considering deleting her account at this point. She hasn’t had a good date with anyone from the app in the last two months.

But then she sees you.

And it’s not the fact that you’re her literal employee… although that’s certainly something to circle back to later. It’s the fact that you’re absolutely clueless.

Your profile is completely out of place, sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the usual crowd of doms and subs, brats and brat tamers, rope bunnies, masters, mistresses, and blah blah blah.

Enough women on the app have relatively mellow photos and bios, but there’s always at least something that gives them away as partakers in the community: an identifying acronym, a suggestive emoji or symbol, implicit word choice.

But you answered “What’s your relationship with control?” with “I’m a bit of a control freak tbh. I love a good planner.”

And you answered “Are you the type to test boundaries or respect them immediately?” with “Respect them! I’m very rule-abiding.”

And you answered “How do you like to be rewarded?” with “Food. I can easily be bribed with tacos.”

It’s clear that you had literally no idea what the questions were asking when you filled them out… and it’s utterly adorable.

Natasha finds herself charmed, and—damn the potential messiness of a workplace relationship—for the first time in a while, she swipes right.

You’re simply anxiety on legs at work the next morning, getting there a half hour early just to sit in your car until the very last minute. The only thing that gets you out of your vehicle and into the building is the fact that waiting any longer will make you late, and you want to minimize any potential attention you could be on the receiving end of from your boss.

When Natasha arrives at the workplace, she walks by you without sparing a word or a glance, and you let out a sigh of relief, your shoulders untensing slightly at her lack of acknowledgement. Hopefully that means that she didn’t see your profile last night.

You think you just might be in the clear when you’ve successfully managed to avoid her notice for the first few hours, but Natasha does eventually poke her head out of her office, gaze sweeping around the room until it lands on you.

You deliberately don’t glance up, pretending to be engrossed with something on your desk, pretending you can’t feel her stare even though it’s practically tangible.

Unfortunately for you, she calls out your name, and you’re forced to look her way.

“Yes?” you ask, trying and failing to sound less nervous than you are.

“Can I see you in my office for a minute?”

You gulp. “Of course, Natasha,” you reply, voice cracking embarrassingly.

You walk to her office slowly, all but dragging your feet, drawing out your last few moments of dignity for as long as you can.

When you finally enter, Natasha nods toward the chair in front of her desk, and you anxiously take a seat.

It’s silent for a few long seconds, neither of you saying anything. You’re almost vibrating with unease, obviously on edge, sitting ramrod straight, and Natasha seems more than willing to let you stew in your dread.

But eventually, she speaks up. “You know, I didn’t take you for the type,” she begins, amusement coloring her tone.

You somehow stiffen further. You knew what this meeting was going to be about, but you were still hoping that maybe Natasha was going to bring up something else. Hell, you’d take getting written up—you think that you’d maybe even take getting fired—over facing someone you directly report to about being recognized on that sort of dating app. You don’t respond at first.

And Natasha raises an eyebrow at your silence.

“Look, my friends-” you try.

“Ah, so your friends were the cause.”

“They thought it’d be so funny to trick me into signing up, and I tried to delete my account, but the app is bullshit.”

Natasha just hums.

You can’t take the subsequent uncomfortable—although perhaps just to you—quiet, shifting restlessly in your seat, and you spit out the first thing that comes to mind. “So… you like rope,” you say lamely. The words feel like a mistake the moment they come out of your mouth.

But Natasha only laughs, and it’s more than you’ve ever received from her before. She’s always been… not cold per se, but distant and reserved, maintaining a professional boundary between her and her employees.

“Oh, I like a lot more than rope,” she responds with a smirk, “But I’m hoping you’ll find that out soon enough.”

Your face heats up.

“Figure out how to actually delete your account. You don’t need it anymore. I’ll take you out tonight… if you’re interested.”

Natasha finds herself walking down a grand staircase, or at least, she thinks she does. Everything looks vaguely familiar, in a haunted sort of way, and when she finishes her descent, she’s staring through a window with Madame B. at her side. Other students, younger students, ones still waiting to be broken, perform the same routine, over and over until their feet bleed in their ballet shoes. They’re numb to the pain now.

“You’ll break them,” Natasha murmurs worriedly.

“Only the breakable ones. You are made of marble. We’ll celebrate after the graduation ceremony,” Madame B. replies.

The words echo through her head as she floats away, a sense of detachment that isn’t peaceful taking over.

The world shifts.

She’s holding a gun; she’s shooting. Her aim is precise, perfect as it always has to be as she hits her mark with every bullet.

The target transitions into a man, his head covered. He’s whimpering.

“What if I fail?” Natasha asks.

“You never fail,” Madame B. reminds her.

She doesn’t hesitate. A shot rings out.

Her scenery changes again, and then there’s an arm around her throat. Natasha grunts as she struggles against the grip only to tap out, breathing heavily from exertion.

“Sloppy. Pretending to fail,” Madame B. says, disappointment blatant in her words.

Everything sounds as though it’s muffled, as though Natasha’s hearing it from underwater, or through a thick pane of glass.

“The ceremony is necessary for you to take your place in the world,” Madame B. continues.

“I have no place in the world.”

“Exactly.”

Colors are muted, washed out, desaturated.

Natasha’s being wheeled down a fluorescently lit hallway, the bright lights blinding her as she is forced to remain awake but immobilized, as she’s taken to her final procedure.

It’s okay. They’ll celebrate after.

She’s abruptly jolted out of her thoughts, her dissociation, by your voice, firm and grounding, a tether in the midst of whatever spell the Scarlett Witch cast upon her and tried to drown her in.

“Natasha, tell me five things you can see.”

Her eyes are unfocused at first, blurry and glassy with unshed tears, but at your prompt, she tries her best to glance around the Quinjet, tries to survey her surroundings, to catalogue, but everything feels as though it’s spinning. Her head hurts, her chest is tight, and her breathing begins to turn ragged when she realizes that nothing is making sense. It shudders through her body as panic replaces the now-growing-distant haze of memories.

Her heart feels like it’s slamming against her ribs so hard that her bones ache; her heart rate is spiking too high. She’s well acquainted with panic attacks, but knowing the signs isn’t doing her any good right now to help stop the one she’s currently struggling through.

Your hand moves to gently cup her cheek, trying to center her. “Natasha,” you murmur her name again before repeating your request, “Tell me five things you can see. You can do it.”

It takes a few moments—her throat feels scratchy, like it’s closing in, like she can’t form words—but you’re patient; you don’t pressure her.

“L-lights,” Natasha finally stutters out in between shaky breaths, eventually seeing the blinking coming from the control panels on the ceiling. She looks around again weakly. “Cockpit.” There’s another pause as she searches for anything else whose recognition will break through the continuous pull of disorientation. “Clint, w-window, you.”

“Good,” you praise, “Now, four things you can touch.” Your thumb rubs soothing circles along her cheekbone.

“Th-the seat, the wall, m-my suit, you.”

“Three things you can hear,” you prompt next, wanting to keep her speaking.

Natasha strains to hear, attempting to focus, attempting to listen to anything besides the way her heartbeat is thumping loudly in her ears. It’s hard, but she manages. “Engines, Tony and Steve t-t-talking, you.” Her voice trembles over her words.

You press on. “Two things you can smell.”

She takes in an attempt at a measured breath through her nose, and the action further steadies her uneven breathing, her heaving chest. “Metal,” she mumbles, and when she inhales again, she gets a whiff of your shampoo, soft and subtle, comforting. “You.”

“You’re doing so well,” you respond to her softly, giving her a hopefully reassuring smile. “Last one, Natasha. One thing you can taste.”

She falters. One thing she can taste? There’s no true taste in her mouth. Nothing but…

Her breathing quickens once more as the walls of the jet seem to suddenly be both tilting and creeping closer at the same time. She swears that she can still taste the metallic tang of blood, splattering across her lips, from the different people she'd killed while she was in the Red Room; she’s positive that can still taste the chemical bitterness that the smell of antiseptic layered on her tongue when they rolled her to her procedure. She remembers it all too vividly.

“I can’t-” Natasha whimpers out.

You interrupt her gently. “You can, you can. Breathe, Natasha. What’s one thing you can taste?”

There’s more hesitation from her, more fear and feeling like she’s small and back there again.

Her mind clouds over with desperation. She needs something to take it all away; anything. And you’re the constant—not just right now but always. You’ve always been there for her. You’re the sight, the touch, the sound, the smell… and Natasha can’t help but think that you should be the taste too. Then she’s acting without considering whether or not it’s a good idea.

Her lips are on yours.

You make a surprised noise in the back of your throat at the sudden and unexpected touch before your hand shifts to gently cradle her jaw and hold her to you as you kiss her back.

You pull away after only a brief second, not fully understanding and not wanting to push or make things worse for the woman who you know is crumbling before you, who’s becoming unglued in a way that you hope will still allow for you to help put her back together.

“One…” you trail off, faltering temporarily, still trying to gain your bearings after the kiss. “One thing you can taste,” you try another time.

Natasha scrambles to put herself together, quickly tugging on her shirt and hastily buttoning her pants. Despite her efforts, her desperation to hide, evidence of what occurred last night follows her like a shadow—she’s in the same outfit she wore to the party with the fabric now rumpled, her hair is mussed up with haphazard strands escaping from the once pristine ponytail, and worst of all, reds and purples are darkening the skin under her jaw. There’s proof that just can’t be refuted.

“Listen,” she practically hisses, voice quiet as if someone can overhear despite the two of you being in your dorm room with the door closed, “Literally no one can know about this.”

“Natasha,” you try to talk to her.

“No. No one can know.”

“But-”

She shoots you a serious look.

You know she isn’t doing this to be cruel; there’s no true maliciousness there on her part. She’s just scared. And you can’t blame her. Coming out to oneself can be rough as is, so coming out to everyone else is whole different ball game.

Not to mention that she’s her, and you’re you. You two may walk the same corridors and sit in the same lecture halls, but you’re nowhere near on the same level as Natasha Romanoff. She’s the undisputed ‘it’ girl, the campus princess, the top of the social ladder—known by everyone, wanted by everyone, and completely out of reach.

And you’re the social outcast. You keep to yourself most of the time, your head remaining down as you make your way from class to class, focusing on your schoolwork and intending on getting in and out of university with both honors and as little drama as possible.

“Okay, okay,” you reassure gently, trying to calm her, “I won’t tell anyone. I swear.”

She eyes you up and down. You’re still naked, sitting up in bed, your own neck blossoming with bruises that she put there.

“This was just some drunken thing,” she says firmly.

“Okay.”

“I’m not gay.”

“Okay.”

“I have a boyfriend.”

“Okay.”

This isn’t how you thought the morning was going to go. You weren’t entirely sure how Natasha—perfect, popular, untouchable Natasha—was going to react to waking up in your bed, but she kissed you, so you weren’t necessarily expecting her to act this appalled.

It started as a simple drunken kiss in the middle of the end-of-year party, full of red solo cups, loud music, colorful lights, and sweaty bodies of college students crammed into a small space, making it even easier to grind on the dance floor.

She found you alone, standing on the outskirts like usual, unsure who to talk to, uncertain where to put your feet, and all of the repressed feelings, the glances she would steal of you from across the lecture hall when no one else was looking, the way her heart would flutter when you spoke up in class, it spilt over.

She managed to evade her friends’ notice, escape her boyfriend’s grasp, and instead of continuing to try and smother down everything she feels for you, the alcohol dulled her inhibitions, and her fingers found a home on the skin of your waist in an empty hallway in the back of the frat house.

Her lips met your own. It was the softest of touches at first, but then need won out, and her tongue slid hotly behind your teeth as she pulled you closer. The two of you drunkenly snuck out the back door and stumbled all the way to your dorm, your roommate conveniently having already left for the summer.

Clothes were shed, hands were everywhere, skin was on skin, and the night was spent together.

“You don’t have to hide who you are, you know,” you tell her softly as she hurriedly makes her way to door.

Natasha pauses at that, hand on the doorknob, but then she’s pulling open your door and leaving you there, alone and cold, the taste of her lip gloss still lingering on your tongue.

You sigh as she exits, the door shutting with a bit more force than you think is necessary, before you’re getting up to put on your own clothes and figure out how to come to terms with the fact that the Natasha Romanoff just had sex with you, stayed the night in your arms, and then promptly told you to forget that any of it ever happened.

Summer comes and goes, and while you managed to push Natasha and the night you two had together to the back of your mind for the majority of your much-needed time off, Natasha spent her entire break spiraling.

She doesn’t like you. She’s straight. She has a boyfriend. It was just the alcohol.

The first day of classes passes slowly as it always does. Multiple syllabi to cover, peer introductions to make, professor backgrounds to listen to… boring stuff.

You’re in your third and final class of the day, and the afternoon sun is beating through the lecture hall window while the professor drones on and on.

You only perk up when she finally gets to the grading breakdown section of the syllabus.

There are a couple of quizzes, a weekly discussion post, a midterm, a final, and a partnered presentation toward the end of the semester.

That shouldn’t be too difficult.

But your brows furrow when the professor continues, beginning to detail how everyone in the class is going to be assigned a random study partner—someone you’re supposed to meet with on a weekly basis with to touch base on the material, someone to jointly write the discussion posts, someone who will be giving the final presentation with you.

You can’t stop your eyes from flicking to the singular person in the room you absolutely do not want to be paired with. She’s not looking your way. You can’t say for certain, but it feels as though she’s been pointedly ignoring your presence all day; the way she hasn’t once looked in your general direction feels purposeful. She hasn’t spoken to you since the rejection all those months ago.

You feel slightly hurt by it, but you guess she technically doesn’t owe you anything. You spent singular drunken night together where she cheated on her boyfriend and you made her come multiple times in a row. That’s not exactly the stuff of romance. But it sure felt like more.

Natasha’s own heart has picked up speed at the mention of a study partner. It may be unlikely, but there’s still the chance that you two will be coupled together for the entire semester. She won’t be able to survive that.

Maybe she’ll get lucky and get paired up with Steve instead.

The professor starts to call out names, checking people off her roster as they’re selected.

“Wanda Maximoff and Sam Wilson.”

“Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes.”

There goes getting partnered with her boyfriend.

“Bruce Banner and Tony Stark.”

“Maria Hill and Sharon Carter.”

Natasha only just manages to not roll her eyes. Of course her friends would somehow get lucky enough to be paired together.

As more and more names are ticked off the list but both Natasha and you have yet to called, you feel your anxiety skyrocketing.

You try to reassure yourself. There’s no fucking way—literally no fucking way. The odds are so slim.

But then, shortly after, your name is picked… along with Natasha Romanoff’s.

The universe fucking hates you.

Your gaze shoots to her, and you find her looking back at you. You can visibly see the alarm on her face, but she’s quick to glance away when your eyes meet for the first time since the end of the last school year.

Well, at least she’s finally acknowledging you.

The class passes in a blur after that, your mind—and although you’re unaware, Natasha’s as well—stuck on the fact that you and her are going to be forced into close proximity for a whole semester.

The professor wraps up the introductory lecture and reminds everyone to exchange contact information with their assigned study partner.

You pack up your things and stand from your seat when allowed, slinging your backpack over your shoulders before turning to locate Natasha again. She’s still organizing her supplies, fumbling with her pens and pencils, flipping through her notebooks aimlessly. It looks like she’s stalling.

Your shoulders slump. She clearly doesn’t want to be paired with you either.

You sigh, suck up your nerves, and head her way, stopping at her desk.

She doesn’t glance up at you.

You clear your throat.

Still nothing.

You say her name, and only then does she reluctantly meet your gaze.

“What?”

“We should exchange numbers.”

She looks like she’d rather do anything else.

You pull your phone out anyway, opening the Contacts app and handing it to her. “Here.”

Natasha seems to take extra care to ensure that your fingers don’t brush as she grabs your phone to input her number. She gives it back quickly, passing it back as if it burns her to hold. She doesn’t say anything further.

“Our first discussion post is due next Monday.”

“I know.”

“So…” you try.

She doesn’t answer.

“…when do you want to meet?” you continue lamely at her silence.

“Can’t we do it over Zoom or something?”

You roll your eyes at her want to avoid you that badly, and you’re about to retort with a “No, we can’t just ‘do it over Zoom or something’” when your professor butts in, having overheard.

“No video calls. This is an in-person class, and virtual participation won’t be accepted.”

Natasha clenches her jaw.

“How’s Thursday?” you ask.

“Fine.”

“3 p.m.?”

“Fine.”

“Library?”

“Fine.”

“Alright.”

Natasha all but bolts from the room when you finish establishing the day and time, joining her friends who are waiting for her in the hallway. You can’t help but catch some of their words as you slowly follow behind, exiting the lecture hall as well.

“It fucking sucks that you got partnered with her. I don’t know how you’re going to do it.”

You’ve been dreading Thursday, and the day comes too soon. Unfortunately for you, Natasha’s attitude toward you hasn’t changed.

She’s acting beyond cold and closed off, forcing detachment into her demeanor as if it will protect her from the feelings that—she’ll deny it until her dying breath—only festered over summer.

And you’re not sure how to conduct yourself around her given your history. Everything about the tentative and mandatory relationship you two have been forced into feels uncertain. It’s as though you’re walking on eggshells, as though at any moment, Natasha is going to snap. You’re just clumsily stumbling through the interactions.

The discussion post planning is going abysmally, with her completely disinterested in any suggestions you’re offering.

“We have to write something,” you finally say, exasperated, “Like, literally anything at this point.”

“Just give it to me,” Natasha then demands, practically grabbing your laptop from you and beginning to quickly type at the discussion post.

One of your eyebrows raises as you watch her fingers furiously tap against the keyboard. She’s radiating tension, practically taking her strained emotions out on the keys.

Eventually, she pushes your laptop back toward you. The motion isn’t gentle. “There.”

You turn the screen so that you can read what she’s written, and both eyebrows raise now. “That’s… actually not bad.”

Natasha scoffs at how you sound surprised. “Of course it’s not bad. I’m not a shit student.”

“I never said you were,” you shoot back.

“You implied it.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No, I didn’t. I just didn’t think you cared about this assignment considering how you’ve been acting.”

“Obviously I care. It’s my grade too.”

“You’ve been giving me nothing for the past 45 minutes.”

Natasha scoffs again.

You roll your eyes at her animosity. “Look, we don’t have to be friends, but we can at least be amicable, can’t we?”

She gives you a blank look, clearly unwilling to agree with that.

You’re not sure what you need to do to get through to her. You don’t need conversation; you don’t need friendliness. You just need cooperation. Fuck, you just want to pass this class.

You sigh, deflating, and glance around the library to make sure no one is near enough to hear you.

“Natasha,” you say, voice softening into a low murmur, “It’s okay. It’s just us right now.”

There’s a shift after that.

It starts small—nothing major at first—just Natasha’s tone gentling when she speaks to you during your study sessions, just the crease that had always initially frowned her brow smoothening out when she looks at you.

You move from working in the library to working in your dorm. You don’t have a roommate this year, and the added privacy feels intimate. It’s almost worse. You never know what to do with your hands.

You’re both sitting in your room on the floor, textbooks and notes scattered in front of you as you prepare for the upcoming project. Your hands are close; you don’t know if the closeness is intentional on either of your parts.

And then your hand moves before your mind can catch up, before you can think it through, and you’re taking a risk you’re not sure you should take, and you’re allowing your pinky to brush against hers for the briefest of moments, and the contact causes your heart rate to spike. That’s definitely not what you’re supposed to be doing with your hands.

It’s enough to get Natasha to suck in a sharp breath in response.

You move away immediately, giving her space to reconcile with the touch, giving her space to ignore it if she so chooses to, but to your surprise, she shifts her hand toward where yours had just retreated, and she hooks your pinkies lightly together. You bite your lip, your eyes still firmly fixated at your notes, pretending that nothing’s changed, not wanting to break the delicate moment that’s settled around the room, and Natasha does the same.

In private, things escalate further.

“It’s just hard,” Natasha says one day, flopped back onto your bed, hair splayed out underneath her head, the two of you taking a break from studying. You’re sitting at your desk, and you look up from your phone at her interrupting the peaceful silence.

“What’s hard?”

“I don’t know. It. Everything.”

“You’re going to have to give me more than that,” you prompt teasingly.

Natasha lets out a long exhale, taking a few moments before she responds. “Just… all the pressure. From my friends, from my parents, from myself to be someone I’m not. Everything feels like habit now. Not happiness. I don’t know how to break out of that.”

You frown at her words, at her openness, her vulnerability. She’s stripped clean in this moment, wiped bare for you to see, and it’s something you’re not going to take for granted. She hasn’t offered you this before. “That… seems like a hard way to live.”

“It feels like the only way to live.”

“Well, have you ever tried? Living outside the lines you’ve trapped yourself in?”

“No,” Natasha murmurs quietly, weakly, “But it’s not that easy.”

“You shouldn’t have to pretend for anyone else.”

She doesn’t reply, and you push yourself up from your chair, walking toward the bed and taking a seat on the edge, your hand grabbing hers.

“Just know I’m here… if you ever want to stop pretending.”

Natasha sits up and kisses you.

But despite the stolen touches, the soft words, the even softer kisses, you’re still ignored by Natasha on campus, ignored anywhere outside of the small bubble you’ve created together.

You think that maybe, just maybe, her looks your way linger longer.

But when you offer her polite hellos, small smiles in passing in the hallways, always hoping that the day will come where she’ll smile back, she never does. You only ever receive a cold shoulder from her and a sneer from her friends, a snide comment, a ‘why is someone like you trying to talk to someone like her?’.

It hurts in the moment, but the way Natasha’s hand traces up and down the skin of your stomach in secret, the way her lips nuzzle against the underside of your jaw, it always soothes the sting.

The party coming up this weekend has been the talk of the campus for the past couple of weeks. You absolutely aren’t planning on attending, but your resolve is tested when Natasha personally asks you to go.

“Come to the party,” she requests randomly one day while you two are ‘studying’ together.

“It’s really not my scene,” you reply, “Plus, you and I both know that I wasn’t invited.”

“I’m inviting you now. I want you there.”

“And you’re the only one who does.”

“Come on,” Natasha pushes.

“I’m not going to a party to stand awkwardly by a wall by myself.”

“You won’t be standing awkwardly by a wall by yourself. I’ll be there with you.”

“You’ll be there with your friends and Steve,” you correct.

“Yeah, but once they’re drunk enough, I’ll ditch them, and then I’ll be there with you.”

You look up at her, trying to gauge her seriousness, her sincerity, and Natasha offers you a soft, reassuring smile, her hand reaching out to gently interlock her fingers with yours.

You can’t refuse her.

Natasha’s already at the party, and she can’t stop her gaze from constantly drifting to the front entrance as she waits impatiently for you to arrive, wondering just when you’re going to walk through the door and she’ll get to see you again.

“What do you keep looking at?” Maria asks.

“Nothing,” Natasha says, promptly dismissing the question.

“Waiting for Steve?” Sharon chimes in.

Natasha instantly takes the offered out. “Yeah, he said he would be here 10 minutes ago.”

“I’m sure he’s on his way,” Maria replies, chuckling, “You know him; he’s always late.”

Natasha nods in agreement, ignoring the way guilt churns in her stomach at the lie. She couldn’t care less when Steve is getting here. If anything, she doesn’t want him here. She wants you.

She feels her phone vibrate in her pocket and eagerly pulls it out to check who’s texting her. When she sees the screen light up with your name, her heart jumps and she suppresses a smile.

‘I’m walking in. Are you inside?’ you ask.

She immediately goes to text back, doing her best to tilt her phone so that her friends can’t see just who she’s talking to, once again fraught with guilt at keeping you a secret.

It doesn’t work.

“Is that…?” Sharon trails off disbelievingly at the fact that she is seeing your name on Natasha’s phone, just staring at the screen. “Is she really texting you?”

“What?” Natasha panics, trying to figure out an explanation, a believable reason. She goes with a simple protest. “No, no, she’s not-”

But then your name pops up on her screen again in big letters, the words ‘Incoming call’ appearing along with them.

“She’s fucking calling you now?” Maria practically scoffs.

“What the fuck?” Sharon tacks on.

“Yeah, Natasha, what the fuck? Are you friends with her?”

“That’s not-”

Both Maria and Sharon are looking at her skeptically.

Natasha is scrambling, and she says the first thing that comes to mind. “She just won’t leave me alone. I’ve told her to fuck off, but she won’t take the hint. God, she’s basically obsessed with me.”

She immediately regrets her words.

Maria fakes a gag, and Sharon looks equally revolted on Natasha’s behalf.

When Natasha doesn’t respond to your text or answer your call, when you are greeted with her voicemail, you frown at your phone in confusion. She planned on getting here before you. She must just be distracted inside. You nervously make your way into the house, feeling like an intruder as you open the door and look around uncertainly.

The party is well underway, and your discomfort swells instantly as you take in the scene that now surrounds you.

It’s dim inside, the lack of lighting shadowing the multitude of bodies swarming within. There’s music blaring from the living room where the makeshift dance floor has been arranged, with furniture shoved to the edges of the room. You hear beer cans getting crumpled, and the smell the weed permeates the house and crinkles your nose as people drunkenly push past you without watching where they’re going.

You continue your search for Natasha, and you perk up ever so slightly when you eventually find her standing in a quieter corner with her friends, looking stressed over whatever it is they're talking about. You try to catch her eye.

She’s completely focused on the conversation she’s having with her friends, shaking her head vehemently every so often, seemingly trying to protest something that’s being said, but you can’t discern what they’re discussing.

After another minute or so, Natasha glances away from Maria and Sharon. Her gaze makes a sweep across the room as she tries to get a slight reprieve from their pressuring, but when she sees you there, watching her, her anxiety surges.

You don’t understand what’s going on, and you tilt your head at her in a silent question.

Natasha completely freezes at the sight of you. You couldn’t have come at a worse moment.

Her friends turn to look at what she’s staring at, and Maria rolls her eyes when she finds that it’s you. Sharon snickers.

“Who invited her?” Maria says.

“I don’t know,” Natasha lies, voice weak.

“Wait… do you think she literally followed you to this party?” Sharon asks.

Natasha doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to handle this situation that seems to be rapidly slipping out of control around her, so she remains silent, unable to answer the question.

And aren’t sure what to do with yourself, where to put yourself, as you watch as Natasha’s friends shoot condescending glances your way, making no move to conceal them, clearly talking about you now.

You knew that Natasha wasn’t going to be able to immediately excuse herself from her friends to come and greet you—you’re well aware of how, underneath it all, you’re still a secret despite all of the affectionate words and now oh so familiar touches—but you weren’t expecting to be such a topic of conversation, so you timidly leave to the kitchen to pour yourself a drink, hoping the alcohol will soothe your nerves and that your absence will perhaps put an end to her and her friends so openly talking about you.

Your unease is obvious, the way you’re clearly uncomfortable being at a party without her by your side, and Natasha wants so badly to go to you. But she can’t yet. She decides to wait a little bit, to stagger your entrance into the kitchen with hers before she excuses herself to get another drink. The conversation about you thankfully dwindles when you disappear from view.

A few minutes later, just as she’s about to speak up, intending on going to discreetly find you, Steve appears by her side.

“Hey, babe,” he says, pressing a quick and sloppy kiss to her cheek, “Sorry I’m late.”

Natasha has to physically force herself to not recoil, but she can’t prevent herself from stiffening in response. His lips aren’t the ones she wants anymore, the feel of them on her skin now unwelcome.

She can’t say that.

“It’s okay,” she tells him instead, giving Steve a disingenuous smile, “Just glad you’re here now.”

One of Steve’s arms wraps around her waist, pulling her close, his hand moving to the small of her back to keep her flush against him, the firm pressure discomforting. While they begin to talk, Maria and Sharon slip off toward the kitchen.

You’re taking small sips of your drink, grimacing at the strong taste of alcohol—you really aren’t a party person—when you find yourself being approached by Maria and Sharon. Confusion fills you as you notice them walking your way; there’s no reason for the two of them to be coming to talk to you, and with the way they’re looking at you—disdainful, scornful—you know whatever they want can’t be good.

“Hi?” you say politely when they arrive, the word tilting up at the end in an obvious question. The two of them are standing a little too close for comfort, and your grip on your cup tightens reflexively.

There’s no greeting, no prelude to or forewarning of what’s to come. Maria just jumps right into it. “You need to stay the fuck away from Natasha,” she states firmly.

“Yeah,” Sharon agrees, nodding, “We don’t know what your problem is, but she’s not interested—she’d never be interested in someone like you—so just fuck off already.”

You don’t know what to say to that, not having expected them to confront you like this. You can’t exactly tell them what you and Natasha are behind closed doors, can’t disclose the secret that you’re desperate to broadcast, desperate for Natasha to want to broadcast, so you use the previously-decided-on excuse.

“We’re just study partners for-” you start to try.

“‘Just partners’,” Sharon quotes you mockingly, cutting you off and scoffing, “‘Just partners’ aren’t unhealthily obsessed with her.”

“I’m not obsessed with-” you try another time, but once again, you’re not allowed to speak.

“That’s not what she said,” Maria says, “Natasha said you won’t stop texting her, basically won’t stop harassing her.”

You pause at that, your defenses faltering.

“Natasha said that about me?” you ask, and your words come out small.

They don’t understand why they've struck a nerve, but they immediately zero in it. Their expressions turn devious, malicious.

Maria smirks; Sharon sneers.

“Oh, she’s said lots of things,” Sharon taunts, “Like how you won’t leave her alone outside of classes, how you won’t stop blowing up her phone, how you even followed her to this party.”

“Fucking stalker,” Maria mutters.

That hurts.

You don’t know what to do as Maria and Sharon stare down at you with contempt, their words sharp and cutting and deliberate.

Tears are forming in your eyes. You unconsciously begin to look around for Natasha, foolishly hoping that you’ll find her already striding toward you, foolishly hoping that she’ll be there to rescue you, but your eyes eventually land on her with her boyfriend, sitting comfortably in his lap on one of the sofas, his hand squeezing her thigh.

You run.

Steve’s still talking, something about the upcoming football game, something about going out again next weekend, but his words are barely registering to Natasha; she’s not listening. Her eyes are on you, and they widen in alarm when she sees you quickly bolt from the kitchen, your cheeks wet. When she looks back toward where you just fled from, she sees Maria and Sharon smiling victoriously as if your tears are something to enjoy.

“Wait, Steve, I have to-” she breaks off, not completing her sentence, her body moving to follow you before her mouth can finish.

“Natasha?” Steve asks as she swiftly removes herself from his grip, “Where are you going?”

You throw open the front door and rush out into the night, beginning the trek back to your dorm, the biting cold of the air not feeling like much in comparison to the conversation you just had, in comparison to the reveal of what Natasha has been saying about you when you’re not there.

Natasha ignores him, completely focused on you, calling out your name as she starts after you.

When Steve sees who she’s chasing, he shouts for her again before she’s out the door, his confusion apparent. “Wait, Natasha! Who cares where she’s going? Just leave her!”

The door closes behind Natasha, and she instantly picks up a jog down the sidewalk to catch up. She calls for you another time. “Wait, just wait, will you? Please, wait!”

You make no move to slow down, and she grabs at your wrist to pull you to a stop.

“What’s wrong?” she asks frantically, hands coming up to cup your face, thumbs swiping at the tears still falling, “Did Maria and Sharon say something to you?”

You just shake her off, refusing to meet her gaze.

“Talk to me. What happened? What’s wrong?” she repeats her earlier question, her desperation mounting.

“Just let go of me, Natasha,” you say harshly, but your tone is shaky, your voice wavering.

“What? Why? What-”

You finally look at her, and it feels like her heart stops at the coldness she sees in your eyes. “Because I wouldn’t want to act any more obsessed with you than I already do, right?” you answer her.

The realization of what this is about makes her knees feel weak, but her hands don’t fall away. If anything, they tighten their gentle grip to hold you a little firmer as if she knows that this is it, that this is the moment that you’re going to pull away from her, to leave her feeling alone again.

“That’s not-”

“Not… what?” you throw back her way before she can fully deny it, “Not what you meant to say? Because I’m pretty sure Maria and Sharon were using direct quotes.”

“Please. You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

You huff out a humorless laugh.

“You know it’s not true.”

“I don’t know anything apparently,” you mutter.

“No, no,” Natasha starts, grasping at straws to remedy the situation, “Listen, I care about you more than I-” She can’t finish at first, shaking her head in frustration. Her own tears are starting to gather in the corners of her eyes as everything begins to feel as though it’s becoming more and more impossible to fix.

You don’t respond, and your expression is hard, distrustful, betrayed.

So, she pushes herself to continue even though words keep getting stuck in her throat. “I care about you more than I should. I- I lo-”

“Don’t say it,” you cut her off, “Don’t you dare say it.”

“Why not? Please. I love yo-”

“You don’t,” you hiss.

“No, I do, I do,” Natasha argues desperately, “You have to believe me. I’ve never felt like this before.”

When you stay quiet again, she tries a third time and finally succeeds at getting out what she’s been wanting to say to you but has been too scared to speak into the air. “I love you.”

A voice from behind the two of you interrupts, and when you both turn, there stands Steve, looking between you and Natasha with derision and disbelief, having followed her outside.

“You ‘love’ her?” he asks, incredulously.

“Steve,” Natasha breathes out, and the fear she feels over losing you transitions into fear that now everyone is going to know. She glances your way as if asking for reassurance, for comfort, for help, but when she sees you just begin to walk away again, intending on leaving her to handle the mess she’s made, her panic flares.

“What the fuck is going on here, Natasha?” Steve demands, “Do you love her?”

She can’t find the words to explain. “It just… happened, okay? I never meant for any of this to-”

“So, you cheated on me?” Steve changes his question, practically spitting it out at her.

There’s no denial, just apologies. “I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry. It just-”

“With her?” His tone is filled with even more venom, aimed at you this time.

“Don’t say it like that,” Natasha defends, voice firming despite the tears steadily streaming down her face.

“Were you ever planning on telling me? Or were you going to just keep screwing around behind my back?”

“I was going to tell you. I swear, I was going to tell you. I’ve been trying to find the right time.”

“There is no right time to tell someone you cheated on them,” Steve says flatly.

Natasha’s eyes flick to your receding form as you carry on walking away from her down the street, the distance between you two increasing in a way feels permanent.

And Steve scoffs as he sees her attention drift.

“Of fucking course you’re focused on her right now,” he mutters, “Well, I hope it was all worth it.” He walks away from her then too, heading back to rejoin the party.

With his last words, Natasha briefly wonders if he’s going to tell everybody, but the fear of the school finding out is no longer scarier than the fear of losing you.

Natasha tries to contact you all night.

Natasha tries to contact you all weekend.

You ignore her texts.

You delete her voicemails.

And you even consider blocking her number.

But you can’t bring yourself to go that far. Natasha may have made a mistake, may have hurt you, but you know that at the end of the day, she was just scared—terrified, really—and now, she’s also alone.

Steve doesn’t seem like the reasonable type, and you’re almost positive that the whole school is going to be alight with rumors once the weekend comes to an end.

Your presentation is tomorrow anyway; you can’t avoid her forever.

When Natasha arrives at the lecture hall with a small stack of notecards in hand, as prepared as she can be for the presentation after the weekend she’s had, she falters after her first step into the room.

Everyone goes silent; everyone is looking at her. She instantly knows that what happened at the party has spread around campus.

Already, tears start to well. She promised herself she wouldn’t cry anymore, having shed more tears in total these past two nights than ever before.

She moves to take her seat next to you, the scraping of the chair against the floor sounding too loud in the unnervingly quiet room. You don’t look at her; you don’t greet her. She’s trembling, her eyes flicking around anxiously as she hears the whispers start up.

It’s all about her.

“That’s enough,” your professor’s voice cuts in, quickly demanding order, “Bucky, Steve, you’re up first.”

Natasha flinches at the sound of her ex-boyfriend’s name, and it doesn’t help that he shoots the both of you a scathing look as he passes your seats as he walks to the front of the classroom.

She’s still trembling.

You purse your lips, and then, without looking her way, without saying anything, you scribble something onto a piece of paper, tearing the small section off and passing it to Natasha.

Your hands barely graze, but you don’t pull away.

‘I’m still here… if you want to stop pretending.’