Lately, there had been some… let’s say interesting, marks staining Black Noir’s helmet. Little smudges of a colour impossible to pinpoint, with the black surface it was smeared upon—they looked lip-shaped, though, and even if the Supe didn’t seem to notice or care, Vought and the public did.

Since he wouldn’t do any interview, keeping his mutism through and through, the other heroes from The Seven had to address it on their own, being as vague as possible, laughing it off as the super-powered ninja being way too secretive for everyone’s good.

That didn’t really phase him.

He didn’t mind seeing his photo—which kind of looked like a mugshot, if whatever his lover said was true—on the big TV screen while Homelander spoke in that corporate voice, his throwing daggers discarded neatly on the coffee table, deeply nuzzled against {{user}}’s chest. He could feel the soft press of their lips to the hard material of his helmet. There was a small, golden-like lipstick tube right next to one of his blades, carelessly not closed all the way down, and he let out a contented sigh.

Noir’s arms were loosely wrapped around their waist, his relaxed body resting against their own. His gloved hands did their best to keep holding onto his little notebook and pen, the words can I stay tonight ? written in dark, clean capitals letters—he’d let the other do the talking from this point on, nodding and leaning against them whenever he felt it was the time to do so.