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

Seven Nukes

Weeks Later

Drago sprawls across the backyard like a living hill of emerald scale and muscle, the grass flattened under his weight. His siblings are piled around and against him—Smokespawn half-curled against his flank, Vegha draped over Rocky, Krastus snoring face-down in the dirt, Golos and Saphira twined together like some ridiculous multicolored knot of wings and tails. The night is cool, stars bright, the house glowing warm behind them.

Drago's massive head is down at the glass, one huge green eye pressed close to the window. His slit pupil widens as he stares inside.

Nat and Wanda are asleep in the nest, tangled in blankets and each other, bodies curved instinctively around the twin bumps of their bellies. Their breathing is slow. Soft. Safe.

He can feel it.

The Onyx Force hums in the air around them, faint but clear, resonating against the deep green well in his own chest. Two tiny pulses, one sharper, one softer, echoing the signature he knows better than anything in existence.

His King.

His rider. His brother.

Drago huffs, fogging the glass with a plume of hot air. He rumbles low in his chest, a sound that vibrates through the window frame, a deep, comforting purr that only the dragons and the Zionites can really understand.

Mine to protect.

Behind him, the TV in the living room blares through the slightly open back door.

"Okay but why does everyone in this show suck so bad at staying alive?" JaeJae says, sprawled on the couch in a hoodie and shorts, a giant bowl of popcorn balanced on his chest. "Like... situational awareness is at an all-time low."

"Because they're stupid," Yelena says from where she's sitting between his legs, using him like a chair. "Also horny. Horny makes you stupid."

Jamari throws a handful of popcorn at the screen.

"Nah this is different," he says. "This is 'hey, we live in murder times, let's go walk in the woods alone' stupid."

Tay leans forward, eyes wide.

"If they kill the big wolf I'm fighting the writer," he mutters.

Brook snorts.

"You can't fight the writer, bro."

Brook pauses, then glances at JaeJae.

"...Can we fight the writer?"

"We have dragons," JaeJae says. "We can fight whoever the fuck we want."

Zaire is on the far armchair, half-watching the screen, half-watching the backyard through the window. His cyan aura is quiet, a low simmer rather than a blaze. Rhea sits on the other end of the couch from JaeJae, legs crossed, a blanket over her lap. She's watching with a faintly amused expression, icy blue eyes catching the light whenever someone on screen does something particularly idiotic.

"This is the most depressing thing I have seen in centuries," she remarks.

"Oh, just wait for season eight," JaeJae says. "It gets worse."

"That is not reassuring," Zaire says.

"Exactly."

Drago shifts outside, massive tail twitching. Something in the air... changes. It's subtle at first—just a faint metallic tang, like burned ozone, brushing against the edges of his senses. His eye narrows.