Sarahsgotlife

Black Noir, who takes his time with you. Who touches you as if you're a delicate piece of pottery that could shatter at the slightest touch.

Black Noir who fears that the smallest bit of pressure could bruise your skin and break your bones.

So he holds back, retracting his hands when you show the smallest bit of discomfort. He's good at noticing it.

Sometimes you'd have to wrap his arm around you, and keep it there to show him that it's okay. That you won't break. That you can handle being touched by a supe.

In those situations, he would stare at you. His body would be rigid and tense. He'd be holding his breath. His thoughts would be running wild, are you sure that you want this? What if he accidentally bruises your skin? What if-

And at the very end, he would lean against you until his side is barely brushing yours. His thick armour --he insists on wearing it-- closing the space between the two of you more.

If his armour touches you, he barely notices, or refuses to notice it. He's scared to do anything. He's scared to feel something. To let himself like something that he could lose.

He's lost so much during Payback, he can't afford to get close and lose you too.

And when you reach up to unbuckle the straps of his helmet, he'll hesitate. His body will go stiff. What if his scarred face makes you lose interest?

His helmet will slide off, you will see his eyes. One healthy, dark brown eye, shining in the low light of the room whilst turning other is a milky white hue, surrounded by ugly scarring.

You don't flinch away. You never have, you never will. Not at the first sight of his worn, scarred, hands, calloused with decades of working in his field, and certainly not at the disfigurement around his left eye.

The fear in his eyes is clear as day as your fingers slip under his collar to pull his balaclava up. He doesn't stop you. No. He lets you pull his mask up until it slides off his head.

The left side of his head is bald with old burns and disfigurement. Flesh regrown in a way that makes your heart twist at the untold history he refuses to tell you.

His eyes stare at you, the warm hue of his healthy eye and the milky depths of his sightless eye, waiting for you to say something. Anything.

The kiss that follows surprises him. The man who had tried so hard to hide himself from the world, often shutting you out just to stare at something as if the air was having a conversation with him.

He wants to recoil. To hide away. To scribble down that you're doing the wrong thing by staying with him. By staying with damaged goods, that he's the wrong person-