Jun 16
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We are pyrovings feed us
Exposure 𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋ Black Noir x f!journalist reader
main masterlist
contents: sad noir :(, comfort, happyish ending
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You sink into the couch, fingers diving into a bowl of warm popcorn as Vought’s advertisements abruptly interrupt your show. You wouldn’t complain though—especially not with him on the screen. Black Noir crouched to clasp the small hands of a mute boy, the child’s broad grin mirroring his joy as they lock eyes through the mask. A smile spreads across your face—you’ve stared at Noir just like that, every time you stood beside your cameraman during interviews with him, that moment his gentle hand brushed your wrist at the A-Train vs. Shockwave race, guiding you away from a drunken attendee.
It made you even happier knowing you were special—not only because Black Noir hated all interviewers but you. Having his number in your phone after dressing up specially for the Dawn of the Seven premiere, despite being behind the camera with a microphone the whole time, felt like a secret victory. Then, later his hand found you, settling low on your waist as you walked toward the theater, your fingers tracing the solid muscle of his bicep. Then being invited to The Seven’s meeting room felt like a dream. But the real highlight? Noir’s silent, watchful presence when The Deep tried to flirt—his masked gaze sharp, a quiet warning that made you smile.
The TV screen flickers to life, and the news anchor’s voice cuts through the room like a knife. “We have some major breaking news,” he says, brows furrowed, eyes locked on the camera. “Superheroes are not born—they’re made. In fact, created by a chemical serum, Compound V, produced and administered by Vought International…”
Your breath hitches. No, no, this can’t be true. You shake your head violently, as if that could erase the words. Their powers are a gift from a higher being, a divine spark. How dare they reduce something so sacred to a chemical?
You sit up straighter, fists clenched, but the anchor’s voice continues, relentless. “This revelation shakes the foundation of everything we thought we knew about these so-called heroes.”
A cold knot forms in your stomach. Black Noir. The thought hits you like a punch to the gut. You can’t imagine how he’s feeling right now—betrayed, discarded, a mere tool in Vought’s game. Your heart aches for him, and for yourself.
You glance at your phone, already anticipating the notification. Of course. Your boss will want you to cover this story. Anything but this. You could make up an excuse, or go on holiday. Anything other than facing the truth head-on.
Three sharp knocks jolt through the quiet. You freeze, the news broadcast’s static still buzzing in your ears. Shoulders tight with residual stress, you stride to the window—each step echoing the weight in your chest. When you pull back the curtain, Black Noir crouches on the sill. His shoulders gleam with raindrops and his posture screams avoidance: head bowed, gaze locked on some invisible flaw in the wood below.
You slide the window open, and he steps inside like a ghost. The air thickens with unspoken words as he shifts, fingers twitching at his sides. “Noir,” you murmur, voice softer than the rain outside. He doesn’t look up.
Then—a choked sniffle. Raw. Human. Your heart lurches.
“Hey,” you say, closing the distance. “It’s okay.”
His arms snap around your waist before you even touch him, fingers digging in like anchors. The sniffles fracture into quiet sobs, muffled by the mask but so audible in the silence. You press your palm to the back of his neck, guiding his masked face into your shoulder.
“Shhh,” you whisper, lips brushing the cold metal of his temple. “I’ve got you.”
The rain hammers the roof as his breath hitches. For the first time, you see the cracks in his armor—not just in the mask, but in the way he leans into you, trembling.
Black Noir’s sobs gradually subside, leaving only the occasional quiet sniffle that echoes in the dimly lit room. Your hands glide slowly up and down his back, carefully avoiding the throwing knives embedded into his suit—each one a silent reminder of the violence he’s dished out, and endured. You pull away gently, taking his gloved hand in yours, and turn off the news broadcast still flickering on the screen. The sterile voices of Vought’s PR team feel like a cruel mockery now.
You guide him to your bedroom, the soft carpet muffling your steps. Sitting beside him on the edge of the bed, you rest your hand over his, feeling the tremor beneath the leather. “I’m so sorry, Noir,” you whisper, your voice thick with empathy. “This is just… awful. Vought acting like they weren’t making superheroes, then letting it all leak? It’s so cruel.” You shake your head, unable to fathom how they could exploit his pain for profit.
He shifts slightly, his gaze darting toward the bedside table. You understand without words. Reaching over, you pull out a notebook and pen, placing them in his lap. His fingers clutch the pen tightly as he begins to scribble, the shaky lines forming the words: ‘Not your fault.’ The raw vulnerability in his handwriting cuts deeper than any scream ever could.
You squeeze his hand, letting the silence speak for what words cannot. In this moment, the weight of his world feels lighter, just for a breath.
You nod slowly, your voice barely above a whisper, "I know, but I feel terrible. You’ve spent your whole life believing you’re a gift from God…" His sniffles deepen instantly, a raw, broken sound that claws at your heart. You freeze, regret slamming into you like a physical blow. "I’m so sorry," you rush out, shuffling closer until your thighs brush against his. He collapses into your arms, his head finding its way to your chest, and his arms wrap around you with desperate intensity. You close your eyes, pressing your face gently against the cool surface of his mask. A soft, shuddering sob escapes him, his shoulders trembling against you. "It’s okay, baby," you murmur, your nails tracing soothing circles up and down his forearm. At the nickname, he buries his face deeper into your neck, a silent plea for comfort that resonates through every nerve in your body.
"Whether those powers are natural or not, you’re still incredible—a true hero. And after everything you’ve done for Vought, I can’t believe they’d let you get hurt like this," you say softly, your voice laced with concern.
Black Noir lets out a choked sob, his shoulders shaking. You frown, reaching out to gently tilt his head up so he meets your gaze. "Look at me," you whisper. He hesitates, then nods, his eyes searching yours for reassurance.
You brush a thumb against his cheek. He looks away and scratches the pen into paper. He tilts the notebook towards you, and you frown at the words. ‘Do you see me differently now?’
You shake your head firmly. "Never. Powers, natural or not—even if you had none at all—I’d still be here for you. Always."
He nods reluctantly, clutching the notebook like a lifeline. "I’m always here for you, Noir. Whatever you need."
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never wrote for him before but I absolutely love n adore him 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯
DON'T TOUCH MAH CHILD!!!!!!!!!
hey kid
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
I am so fucking tired of the wasted potential that is Black Noir. He is a character that constantly gets fucked over by his peers and when he tries to stand up for himself against the abuse he faced, he is immediately killed for it. Both Earving and Justin were actors who got their careers ruined by their white colleagues who were jealous of them and were betrayed by their only best friends who they thought they could depend on and trust. Justin unknownly went through the same abuse as his predecessor, he was someone trying to play a role to perfection only to get fucked over for it and when he tried to get an acting job that would help him escape Vought, The Deep had to ruin his chances by killing Bourke, sabotaging his dreams. Soldier Boy did the same thing by making up shit about Earving so he doesn't get the role only to beat him senselessly. Earving's face got completely disfigured stripped of the ability to speak while Justin's throat was slit by the one person he thought he could trust.
It's really annoying that Noir II forgot he could fly and didn't try to fight back because he would have killed The Deep in seconds if he locked in. It's a shame that this season completely disregarded the past between Black Noir and Soldier Boy and didn't have SB acknowledge the replacement to the very Noir Homelander claimed he killed. It would have caused him serious PTSD but it was shelved in favour of this V1 plot and for Stormfront which is just meh but I digress. It's tragic that Justin's story has to end the same way as Earving's who never got a chance to get his revenge because his life was taken from him. Justin at least got to use his voice to mock and belittle The Deep before his death while Earving didn't have a voice. The Deep tried to emulate those around him like Homelander and Soldier Boy and it led to him losing his best friend because of his sheer jealousy.
The Deep killing Noir II parallels the way Homelander killed the first Noir because they were both seeking the approval of more powerful figures they were afraid of. A-Train literally points out this hypocrisy when he mentions how Homelander killed the first Noir and how The Deep is afraid of Homelander. The Deep is literally fucking over those around him including Noir to earn Homelander's approval and he has fully stepped into his leader's shoes by being the one to kill him. The Deep is becoming Homelander because he has fully embraced violence as a tool to take power over weak individuals and the reason he has survived so long is because he is a cockroach who gets away with fucking people over (him sexually assaulting Starlight in S1, killing sea creatures like eating Timothy and Ambrosia). He is a pathetic joke that gets every opportunity to change but he tries to get redemption but he falls one step short and always ends up back in the shithole where he started compared to A-Train who learns from his mistakes and dies genuinely changed for the better because he stood up to Homelander right to his face. The Deep tried to measure his dick up to Soldier Boy because he felt threatened by his masculinity and now he essentially stepped into his role when it came to hurting Noir. The Deep is someone who will never change and he deserves to die a pathetic death for trying to become the people he is afraid of.
There is a repeating cycle that comes with taking up the mantle of Black Noir, wearing a mask that hides an actor's face and suppresses their voice and identity only for the people around them to fuck them over so that voice can never be heard.
the deep needs to fucking go im sick of his ass