angeastrd

[angeastrd]

. . . late night calls .ᐟ

natasha romanoff x fem! reader. fluff!

after a hard mission, all she wants to do is talk to her girlfriend

“Did I wake you up?” The hoarse voice of Natasha Romanoff is the first thing you hear in your bleary haze, as you blink, willing yourself to wake up. You stare at the unknown number on your screen – burner phone. She wasn’t supposed to communicate with you during missions.

“. . . Huh?” you mumble. Your eyes glance over to the clock; 2:14 A.M. glares back at you, as you focus back on the voice crackling through your phone. You shake your head, before seeming to remember that she can’t see you on the other side of the line. “No,” you correct, perhaps a little too delayed. “You didn’t wake me. Been up. For a while,” you lie. She snorts. She still didn’t understand why you tried to lie to her– she was a professional spy, for god's sake. She was always going to know. Still you liked to try. 

She doesn’t comment, instead admitting, “I needed to hear your voice.” She pauses. Was that too vulnerable? Sometimes Natasha worries that you may be in love with the Black Widow the world sees, and not the broken-down, morally gray Natasha Romanoff. She was a fragmented soul, and she dreaded the day that you would gain clarity of that and take your leave. Being with an Avenger already wasn’t easy work – hell, the title had at least a decade of trauma attached to it. It probably was in the contract. Being with the Black Widow? That was more trouble than she was worth.

“I missed you too,” you responded simply, and she was thankful that you were able to read in between the lines of what she was not brave enough to say. “I’m sorry for waking you up,” she starts, and before you can reassure her, she continues, words flowing now that she had begun, “I had to exterminate a target today. He was a HYDRA agent. He had a picture of his kids in his wallet,” she confesses, voice cracking as she tries to recompose herself. “You probably think I’m being ridiculous. Having more empathy for this random man than he had for everything I stand in,” she mutters. 

“I don’t think you’re ridiculous, Natasha. I’ve never thought that,” and you can picture the way her shoulders relax at your words. She had always worried that her flaws were too varied – and her strengths too lacking. “I think you’re incredibly strong, especially to feel so much empathy over someone who was not on your side. I love you,” you tack on, almost like a reminder that she's allowed to feel with you – she’s allowed to admit things and be vulnerable and it's okay. 

She clears her throat, and your heart aches for her. Long distance truly never got easier, but absence did make the heart fonder. “When do you come home?” you offer. Natashas' window of vulnerability had closed by now. But every time, that window got a little longer (for you. The S.H.I.E.L.D. appointed therapist still didn’t even have a window). 

She hums at that, and you can hear ruffling on the other line – she liked to talk to you before bed. It was her version of long distance pillowtalk. “Should be home tomorrow night.” she answers, as a yawn escapes your lips. “You’re tired,” she notes, and there's a hint of apology in her words. 

“‘M not even tired,” you mutter in protest, “I have never yawned in my life. Swear,” you grouse, and she lets out a soft laugh at your words. Your lips curve up at that. You always liked being able to make her laugh; she didn’t laugh unless it was genuinely funny. She laughed with you quite a lot.

“You’re a liar,” she chides. “And you snore. I miss your snoring,” she admits.

“That's gay,” you mumble, head lolling against the pillow. 

“So was the phone sex we had last night?” she counters, and you both delve into giggles. Even though the two of you were apart, you can tell that she muffled her laughs in her pillow – just like you did. 

“Shut up. I need to go to bed,” you mutter, trying to change the topic. You would probably never get used to how easy it was to talk to her. “Stay on the phone. Don’t hang up”

“Needy. Have I ever hung up on you?” she asks, the indulgence in her voice ridiculously evident. “One time your phone died,” you retort, before letting out a big yawn. “Tell me about the rest of your day” Mid-way through her story, she hears a soft snore crackle through the line. “Are you asleep right now?” 

“. . .” 

If you were awake, you’d be able to visualize the fond look on her face. “Goodnight. I love you. Sleep well,” she whispers. 

[angeastrd]

astrid. wannabe writer. lover. woc. she/her. music enthusiast. minor. literature enjoyer. lesbian. documenting my thoughts. digital diary.

⭑ : likes: caitlyn kiramman. the pitt. mcu. natasha romanoff. victoria neuman. women. watercolor. medicine. math. gym. flowers. makeup.

⭑ : dislikes/dni: homophobic, racist, maga, xenophobic, transphobic, etc. i am not afraid to block, please be mindful that i am a person.

[angeastrd]

thinking about caitlyn indulging spoiled! reader. . .

Letting you rest your head on her chest, after she had completely ruined you, lithe fingers traveling through your hair. She had cleaned you up, as she always did, and put you in a monogrammed Kiramman house robe. She had made you sit against the headboard while she had done your elaborate skincare routine for you - she had called it ridiculous, but she still made sure to do it correctly, step-by-step. You had recently convinced her to get proper reading glasses (she used to just squint at the words and insist that she could see just fine! Stubborn girl). The silence is comforting, broken only by the flipping of pages, until you mumble a soft, "'m tired," against her boob, and she snorts. "Then shut up and sleep," she mutters dryly, entirely unhelpful, before adding. "You're tired? I'm the one who was inside of you for at least 2 hours. What work did you put in, hm?" she adds. She attempts to sound peeved, but its bellied by the way that she adjusts your neck against her boob, muttering something or the other about "sleep posture."

She'd never admit just how much she enjoyed these quiet moments with you, having you alone. Where she does not have to be Caitlyn Kiramman, head of the Kiramman household, but she can just be Cait. Your Cait.

As much as she liked to complain about how high maintenance you were, she was basically your enabler; a couple weeks into dating, and she had ordered all your skincare and haircare products to be kept in her bathroom, alongside the sink that was unofficially yours. Occasionally, you would find a new makeup product that she had picked out for you, sitting on the countertop.

And of course, you would wake up to her side of the bed empty - she had an early start to her mornings - yet you can't find it in yourself to mind. Not when theres fresh flowers on your (unofficial) nightstand, with a note signed "i love you," in her perfect script. And fresh muffins on the island, and a smoothie in the fridge. Just because.