Marvel's Reaper ( Male reader x Natasha Romanoff x Wanda Maximoff )

Beacons

Weeks Later

Nat lies on her side in the nest, one hand tucked under her head, the other resting on the small but unmistakable swell of her stomach. The blankets around them still smell like him—ozone and smoke and that weirdly comforting scent of dragon fire—and she hates that it's starting to fade.

Wanda is curled facing her, knees drawn up, their foreheads almost touching. She has one palm on Nat's bump and the other on her own, thumb stroking absently in slow circles. Outside the open balcony doors, the sky rumbles with low dragon roars, shadows circling above the lake and the trees, restless.

"I swear they're louder every day," Nat mutters softly, eyes flicking toward the ceiling like she can see Drago and the others through stone and Uru.

"They're anxious," Wanda says, voice just as soft. "They miss him too."

Nat looks back at her. Wanda's eyes are glowing faint red at the edges, just a whisper of power that never really goes away now. Nat shifts closer, their bumps brushing, and Wanda lets out a tiny laugh at the contact.

"You good?" Nat asks.

"Your son just kicked my hand," Wanda says, a small smile curving her lips. "Rude little dragon."

Nat raises a brow.

"Takes after his father," she says.

Wanda huffs a quiet laugh and then the smile crumples a bit. Her eyes get glassy, and she blinks fast like she's mad at herself for it.

Nat's hand comes up immediately, thumb rubbing under her eye.

"Hey," Nat whispers. "No, no crying. We already hit our weekly quota yesterday."

"That was your weekly quota," Wanda counters weakly. "I am Eastern European and pregnant, I get unlimited crying."

Nat snorts, then sighs and leans in, pressing their foreheads together properly. For a moment they just breathe, synced.

"I miss him," Wanda whispers, the words barely air.

Nat's jaw flexes. She swallows, because if she doesn't, it's going to be sobs instead of words.

"Yeah," she says. "Me too, love."

There's a beat of silence. Outside, something huge dives through the clouds, a distant roar followed by a crack of green fire lighting up the sky. Vegha or Smokespawn, by the color. Their dragons have been circling the mansion almost constantly, like they expect him to walk out of the front door any second if they just keep watch long enough.

Her hand moves from her stomach to Wanda's, covering it, fingers splayed over where Wanda's baby sits low and steady.

"How's the little Princess?" Nat asks, voice gentler.

Wanda smiles again. This smile sticks better.

"Judgy," she says. "Very judgy. She kicks when I eat pickles with ice cream."

"That's because that's insane behavior," Nat deadpans.

"You ate an entire jar of olives at three in the morning," Wanda fires back.

"Look, your nephew—"

"Our son," Wanda corrects automatically.

Nat's lips twitch.

"—our son—has exquisite taste," Nat says. "She wanted salt. It was a mission. I was answering the call, Maximoff."

Wanda's eyes soften at the phrase "our son." Her hand moves in a slow circle over her belly like she's trying to calm something inside.