My fav screenshots of #10 suit Hoshina from last episode
'cause I know we need those references don't we? *cough* for reasons...
also don't mind my giggling. they added cyan glowing stripes to his design. You know who else has cyan glowing stripes in his design, don't you? *happy jumpies* WELL I DO. I don't have actual theories about the why, for now I just love that their colour palettes match even better now.
I really thought he would get a red suit in the anime, but I'm actually glad they changed back to the manga template here. The violet one is *mwah* chef's kisses.
I feel like the no. 10 T-shirt gag is a bit of a visual pun done by Matsumoto. (Also the kind of lowkey shit I would do myself ahaha) basically a kanji for 10 is 十. Do you see it?
An accident leaves Natasha without her memories, without anyone to guide her, and the Red Room chasing after her, the odds are not in her favour… unless those that love her find her first.
Whumptober 2025: Day 10 - secrets
Warnings: car accident/autoinjector
Word Count: 1.5k
Summary: Clint and Yelena try and find Natasha.
Whumptober Masterlist/Masterlist of Fic / ao3
.
LONDON / OCTOBER 03 / 05:45AM
It's been too long, Clint thinks, as he wakes.
His body is stiff and joint ache.
Natasha is his second thought, and Yelena his third.
She hasn't killed him at least.
"Yelena?" he calls out, wondering if she too, fell asleep.
He can’t see her, and she doesn't respond.
He checks the front room and the other bedroom, and nothing.
Clint frowns.
She came after him, there's no way she would have just left.
"Yelena?" he calls again.
"Keep your pants on, Clint Barton," she replies, emerging from the bathroom.
"You're bleeding," he tells her, looking at her leg.
She looks down.
"Shit."
He leaves her to go back into the bedroom and finds some of Natasha’s clothing and returns to find her pantless.
"Oh.." he pauses, looking away.
"It’s not like you haven't seen a woman pantless before," she says, not even looking at him.
"No. But.. Never mind. Here's some pants, and clothing. How'd you get it anyway?"
She gives him a look and he shrugs.
"Just making conversation."
"They plant trackers on us."
Clint leans on the door jamb, watching her clean it with water and check the part that's bleeding.
"I cut it out, when I escaped. The one on my shoulder too."
She turns to show him. This wound looks worse, red and sore, the lines jagged where a knife had been taken to it.
"Oh."
She pulls Natasha's pants on and he hands her a t-shirt and hoodie.
"Any other wounds that I should know about?"
"No."
She says it quickly.
"Does it hurt?"
Yelena looks at him with a mocking smile and rolls her eyes.
"Do you think they're looking for you too?"
Yelena looks at herself in the mirror, and catches Clint in her peripheral view.
"I don’t know," she lies.
.
Four widows dead replaced with four newly arrived.
Two with injuries now sent back.
One defected.
One not captured.
She feels fear in the pit of her stomach.
Ysabel looks at the correspondence from the Red Room and sighs. Dreykov was going to send them back to the pits.
Back to reconditioning.
She didn’t like to lose this many widows all at once.
Her phone buzzes and she almost snarls at the number.
"Report," it orders.
She doesn't want to. What good would it do?
The widows that had been shipped back and the ones now looking up to her, she doesn't want to be responsible for them.
She doesn't want to be responsible for anyone.
The chemical controls override her wants and needs and she answers mechanically.
"Widows have arrived. We have no status update on the Black Widow. Belova is still missing."
She feels like she's betraying Yelena.
She'd promised as much leeway as she could.
"Take the next dose."
The next order comes.
She stares that the injector.
She belongs to the Red Room.
Placing the injector on her skin, she partially injects it. Her hand shakes as she pulls it away.
She has no free will, no ability to say no.
"It's done," she reports, she'd done it, she'd taken the next dose. She dampens the panic and hopes for the best.
"Split the team. Send two for Belova and two for Romanoff," the mechanical voice orders.
"Confirmed," she reports, feeling any semblance of herself recede.
.
“Where do we start?”
Clint looks at Yelena. They’re still in the safe house, showered and somewhat rested. Both stare waiting for the other to begin.
Anger in anticipation, Yelena rolls her sleeves up and pulls out a map.
“We need to find their base. They won’t have shipped her out yet, I think that probably they’ll try in the next twenty four hours. The explosions, they’ll want to lay low until the news cycle changes.”
She circles four places.
“They’ll need to ship her and the other widows, likely from an airfield.”
Consternation crosses her face.
Clint’s eyes narrows.
“How do you know?”
“What?”
Yelena looks annoyed.
“How do you know, that they wont have taken her?”
“It’s not protocol.”
She folds the map.
“We need a car.”
Clint folds his arms.
“And how do you know they’re not going to take her,” he demands catching her arm.
She blanches and throws him off.
“Oh Clint Barton, you can’t take me, even if you wanted to.”
She touches her arm where he grabbed her and swipes at the feeling he left on her arm.
“I don’t know. I’m not 100% sure of anything and I only have a vague sense of they’ll do, because it’s what I would do, of what I’ve been trained to do,” she admits.
She pauses.
“We aren't immune to happenings in the world. We need to find an airfield. They’d hold her there until…”
“Until what?” Clint asks.
Yelena makes the gesture for a plane taking off and rolls her eyes.
Clint rolls his eyes back in annoyance, and grabs a bag, throwing her a gun and a backpack.
“Just trust me, Clint Barton,” she offers.
“I know them better than you, and I know how they work. It’s what I would do.”
Yelena leads the way out of the safe house and points to a beat up red Corolla.
“That one,” she orders.
Dutifully, Clint hot-wires the older car, taking a couple of minutes whilst Yelena checks her gun.
“Four locations,” she tells him, getting into the driver seat.
“One of them has Natasha.”
Clint nods.
“I guess we’d better go get her.”
.
The first location is a bust. There’s no one, and nothing around.
“What made you think it would be this place?” Clint asks carefully.
He doesn’t want to accuse the widow who clearly seems on edge already.
She stalks off, gun tapping against her leg, the movement jarring for Clint as he wonders how stable she is.
“There’s three other locations,” Yelena tells him, getting back into the car and slamming the door.
Clint follows her, his own gun holstered but ready as he reaches for his seatbelt, letting it click into place as he hears Yelena’s do the same.
“It’s just odds,” she rants, frustration clear as she grips the steering wheel and turns the car on. “They’re not in this one so therefore…”
But her hypothesis is unknown as another car barrels into them.
The car is bigger than theirs but somehow the little corolla holds it’s own, rolling protectively like a shelled bug.
Smoke billows and Clint coughs, thankful that he’d put his seatbelt on moments before.
“Fuck,” he hears, the swearing explosive in Russian.
“Clint Barton are you alive?”
He almost laughs at the worry in her voice.
“Alive and angry,” he replies.
“Are these your girls?”
More swearing in Russian and Clint assumes that it’s affirmative.
She’s already fighting by the time he gets himself out of the car, as he approaches he sees the ferocity in which she fights, how like Natasha it is.
He doesn’t like the parallels as he feels more and more obligated to this woman and making sure she’s alive for Natasha’s sake.
He shoots at the ground.
“Don’t kill them,” Yelena warns, punching one of the girls so hard in the chest that she takes two steps back.
“Just disarm.”
He wasn’t going to, his shot had given an opening to kick one of the girls away and into the smoking car. With two strides forward, he knocks her on her ass, and then with the butt if his gun pistol whips her into unconsciousness.
Yelena seems to be having a harder time, the woman she’s fighting attacks with no preservation of self. She scratches and screams and hits out in such wild ways that even Clint can’t restrain her.
A bullet to the leg does nothing, and Yelena’s eyes are wide.
A second bullet to the shoulder only seats her for a minute, before she’s fighting again, this time attacking Clint.
“What do you want me to do?!” he asks her, defending himself but not attacking.
The widow screams in his face, rabid is the only word Clint can think.
Two shots and she’s dead.
Yelena holds her gun, and looks at the widow sorrowfully as she goes to her and lays her next to the broken car.
“I’m sorry,” she tells the dying woman.
Clint leaves to restrain the other widow, still passed out and unaware.
Her grief is her own, he thinks, tying knots to make escape impossible.
She doesn’t owe it to him and he feels she wouldn’t want him to witness it either.
“What was that?” he asks slowly, as Yelena approaches him. She’d made the decision to kill so quickly, he feels there must be something more.
Something he’s missing.
“The chemical conditioning. Sometimes. Sometimes it goes wrong. The say it alters brain functions, sometimes it makes you.. Them… crazy. Can’t think. Can’t feel. Can’t get out.”
She looks back.
“She was dead anyway.”
She stands over the other widow, pulling out her knife.
She stabs her in the thigh, and with no hesitation makes a hole and sticks her fingers in it.
Clint looks at her shocked.
He starts to say something before she pulls out a little red tracker, and stamps on it with her full weight.
“We need to leave,” she says, looking around.
“We need to steal another car, and then we can get all the secrets she knows out of her.”
There is something wrong with Wild. He knows they think this; he sees it in the way their stares linger as he walks, the conversations stalling until he leaves the room. He knows there’s something broken within him, matter stuffed into his body where a soul is missing.
He knew this the day he woke from the tomb that held the Hero’s body, a voice saying he was the kingdom’s last hope. Walking out of the cave that holds the Resurrection Shrine, endless land stretching before him, new and unfamiliar, beautiful as it was frightening, he knew it would be kinder if he stayed dead.
His body produces no heat, his eyes glow in the dark, and his canines are a bit sharper than normal. He belongs in the wilderness, inhuman and feral as he is. The Goddess assures him that he is Her hero, Her champion. The Old Gods may have proclaimed him as their own, but Her’s is a claim that will never fade.
He is a hero, even if the others may treat him differently. He is wrong; he is light; he is darkness. He is the in-between, clinging between death and life; savage and civility are the tightrope he struggles to balance on.
The only one who seems to understand is Twilight. Blessed by the light but embraced by darkness, he runs between the lines with a fluidity that Wild envies at times. Like two peas in a pod, they stick by each other. The wolf and the eldritch, beast and ghost. Monsters in one perspective, protectors in the other.
This is my first time writing a Batfam fic with just the characters. Hopefully I did somewhat okay!
When Jason willingly showed up to the manor, Dick thought he was hallucinating again. Then, when Jason spent the night just as willingly, Dick was convinced he was going crazy. It was only when he caught Jason sleeping in until evening that he realized something else might be going on.
He gingerly knocked on the door.
“Little wing, you know Alfred’s making cookies, right?” he called, “you’re gonna miss them if you don’t get up.”
There was no answer. Dick was respecting Jason’s privacy by knocking first, and he was exercising his seniority as an older brother by opening the door anyway. When he stepped inside, he found a shivering mound of blankets on the floor, surrounded by fallen pillows and half of the bedsheets.
“Jason!?”
A groan came out from under the shivery lump. Dick pulled back the covers and saw his brother’s flushed face, glassy eyes flickering green, and hair damp with sweat.
“G-get back!” Jason shouted suddenly.
He pushed at Dick with seemingly all his strength. It was pretty feeble.
“Hey, easy,” Dick said, “it’s me. You don’t look so good. How ‘bout we get you to the med bay and-”
“Batman’s coming for me,” Jason panted, “then you’ll be sorry!”
Oh !@#$.
“Jason, you’re not back there. You’re in the manor. It’s me, Dick.”
Footsteps sounded outside the room.
“Tch. What has Todd done to himself this time?”
Despite Jason’s struggles and protests, Dick put the back of his hand to his brother’s forehead. He nearly recoiled at the heat he felt there.
“Damian, tell Alfred to prep the med bay. Help me get Jason down there.”
Jason fought them every step of the way. Kicking, punching, even biting.
Tim was at the bat computer, working on a case. He turned towards the commotion coming through the cave.
“What the-”
Dick slammed Jason on the med bay cot, holding him down by the chest while Damian pinned his legs.
“We. Are. Trying. To. Help!”
Tim shuffled over, and Jason nearly socked him on the jaw. Tim immediately went to grab a syringe, but Dick glared at him.
“We’re not putting him under,” he said.
“You wanna deal with the Tasmanian Devil then?”
Jason froze, getting a good look at Tim.
“No no no no no no-”
He began fighting with renewed fervor.
“Richard, I suggest we inject him with the sedative now,” Damian said, hanging on for dear life.
“…Fine.”
Jason saw the syringe coming closer.
“No! I don’t want it! Get away from me! You’re sick!”
“Actually, you’re the one who’s sick,” Tim remarked, jabbing him in the shoulder.
It was only when Jason’s struggles died down and his eyes fluttered shut did Dick and Damian release him. They and Tim let out a collective sigh of relief.
Alfred came down the stairs.
“Might I be of some assistance, Master Dick?”
“Alfred, Jason’s sick. We need to figure out what he’s got.” Dick said.
“I understand.”
Dick watched as Alfred started running the necessary tests on Jason. It was strange, he looked so peaceful like this, as if everything was fine in the family, and that night in the warehouse had never happened, and Dick had actually intervened like he was supposed to, and-
Dick felt a small hand land on his shoulder. He glanced down at Damian.
“You are ruminating, Richard. It is not helping.”
Dick chuckled, plastering on a smile and ruffling Damian’s hair.
“I’m fine. It’s Jason that needs the help.”
Damian wasn’t convinced, but he said nothing further on the matter. Open communication wasn’t this family’s strong suit. They trusted each other with their lives, but not with their feelings. Alfred got Jason hooked up to an IV with medicine and fluids. Hopefully, he would be more lucid when he woke up.
