...

source

I wouldn't say it has evolved much other than the natural writing progression everyone goes through, because I've always written weird, ominous, flowery garbage. in creative writing classes I was always told my writing was 'unique' and I think that's their way of saying that they have no idea what I'm writing about, and to be honest with myself I don't know either.

source

tough one but I'd have to say post-season 3 (my version of it...) because it puts Noir in a vulnerable spot that can slot him into an allegiance. being forgiven by Vought and solidified back into his eternal role as their puppet, or picked up by a group like The Boys and made into an attack dog of worse proportions. simply giving up and becoming a recluse, or even hatching a revenge mission of his own. a personal mission motivated by no one but himself.

source

hmm... I tend to post headcanons as I think of them, or think of a good way to write them, so at the moment there isn't many. I do have some posts in the works but it would be pointless of me to talk about what they are here rather than just finishing them!

one minute, he had felt nothing. a punch from his fellow supes had been nothing a gentle poke to him, the ice cold winds of antartica itself wouldn't have sent so much as a shiver down his spise, and a burning building would've been incapable of even making him sweat. yet here he was, on his back in a caved in spot on the street, panting to catch his breath, the warm smoke-filled air around him from the blast making him cough as it hurt just to try to push himself up from all the rubble he lied in. his face felt numb and swollen. something he hadn't felt since he was a child, used as target practice with the most damaging weapons they could find. that had been painful. like this. but even then, the pain had quickly subsided. well... the physical pain, anyway... but now? now it lingered. why?why did it linger? why didn't he heal?

he's still disoriented and confused and not quite understanding yet what had happened to him, he pushes himself up on his feet, blood trickling down his nose and forehead, teeth gritted, eyes frantically searching for his attackers, but all he could see around him was startled bypassers trying to get away from whatever the hell had been happening inside that building strong enough to knock out even homelander himself.

Oh, to abandon him now! The building sobs around the strength of the explosion in its walls, the high-pitched wail of shattered glass hailing down past the lobby floors. Noir hasn't made it past the sliding doors before the somber song settles and he's left with a choice to make. (“We t - t - t - talked about this, Earving! Running won't get you anywhere.”) Assuming Buster to talk about the explosion itself was wishful thinking; as curiosity pushes him to the dwelling dust and the gathering crowds, he is on the hunt for a shield.

He finds it in the splayed boots and the dropped lids. The sirens whirring and Vought's presence being tilted up into chaos as the hero they'd masqueraded as their best lay unconscious on the street. Dead, dead, Noir wants to hope, but there is a beating heart. He can hardly hear it over his own. Noir takes three steps back and bumps into something, spinning around to blue and red in more places than one.

(There is a wave of gasps.)

Homelander doesn't smell, sound or look right. He is meant to be red as the flag but not like the body; what business does his blood have being there? Between the looming presence of the body ticking away on a timer and the idea that he'd fled Homelander a second time, Noir considers taking a chance to flee. Vought Tower pleads him not to, and the cloudy look in what should've been Homelander's sure gaze gives Noir a second thought.

Burns's tight, cold smile morphs into a warm but ugly grin. His teeth are white and shiny; his whole face is practically glowing, illuminated by flames of his own creation. Some people panic in a burning building. Burns feels as close as he can get to peace. Burns doesn't have time for this. He and Harry, who's still downstairs, they have a job to do, supply to pick up. None of their contacts gave any sort of warning about a Supe in tactical gear - a fucking boss fight to slow down two good, entrepreneurial boys before they obtain what's theirs. Is it wrong that Burns kind of likes the smell of burning fabric, of charred flesh? Oh, don't answer that. He knows the answer. He just doesn't, you know, give a shit. Anyways - Noir should have hit the ground by now, right? Unable to hold up him own weight. Immolation, stage one or two. Instead, Noir only creeps closer. His blade, what's left of it, clatters. Is the smoke not getting to him? Burns isn't grinning anymore. He holds up his hands, fire dancing on his palms and fingertips. Harris, despite reason, bounds up the stairs, towards the worst of the fire. "GET THE FUCK BACK, SICKO," Burns commands. "I'M NOT FUCKIN' PLAYING."

This is not the first time palms have been shown. [... mercy! Uncle! Parlay! Stop! ...] And Black Noir has heard them all, but there is only one voice that matters when the target has been set. This strange man's voice grates and churns and hisses and cracks, like the spit of a flame without the beauty and boldness to match. His skin is tightening, constricting, coiling and chattering away with the pops of his own suit, but Noir ignores them. [ ... I can give you anything. What do you want? Money? ... ] The strange man isn't asking what his hands are, a match and a matchbox discordant from eachother. The Vought logo slapped on the grid front has a permanent smile.

One step, one inch forwards his arm comes, with a hand ready to lock and squeeze. Step step step. The flames hush their breathing; there is someone else stealing their oxygen. Noir snaps his attention the doorway, he sees what he hears in an outline thickly veiled by too-loud oranges and reds. The smoke is scrubbing at his lungs like a dirty, dirty sponge or the blade of a sword sharpened and sharpened because it will never be sharp enough.

(Buster looks at him behind the glass. His little paws are pressed to the window. Come out. The smoke isn't good for you!)