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taniabrodbeam · 17 days ago

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Seymour Birkhoff x reader One shot

Heyyy!!! Since Aaron Stanford is hands-down my favorite actor ever and I’m completely obsessed with all his characters, here’s a fanfic about Seymour Birkhoff from Nikita! my absolute fave from the show. I swear, I can never find any fics about him (tragic, honestly), so… I made one myself. 😌 It’s on the longer side (I got way too inspired), but I really hope you’ll enjoy it! (It take place during season 2!!)

See you soon & Enjoy!! 💻🖤

Breaking point

Everything’s quiet in the secondary residence that serves as a safehouse and base for Nikita and her team. The vibe is calm : no black box alerts, no last-minute missions.

Y/n is in the living room, hanging from the makeshift pull-up bar wedged into the doorframe, fully focused on her set. The only sounds breaking the silence are her steady breathing, soft grunts of effort, the quiet hum of electronics, and the rapid-fire typing coming from the corner.

As for the only other person in the room...

“Hey, bodybuilder,” Birkhoff says flatly, eyes still on his screen. “I get that you field agents are all about keeping fit, but I didn’t blow thousands in untraceable cash on this place just so the gym could be a damn aesthetic.”

You don’t answer him right away, too focused on finishing your set and beating your personal record. “And… 100!”

you breathe out with a satisfied sigh, dropping back to the floor.

“ Drop the act, nerd.”

you say as you stroll over to his setup and snatch the Red Bull can right out of his hand.

“Deep down, I know you’re thrilled someone on this team’s actually crazy enough to hang out with you on purpose.”

You take a sip without missing a beat, completely ignoring his indignant, “Hey!”

“By the way,” you say, slipping into a slightly condescending tone, “it’s by training this killer body that I’m actually effective in the field… you know, breaking Division knees and all.”

“Yeah, sure… and also to charm anything that moves, right?” Birkhoff grumbles.

A sly smile tugs at your lips.

“Oh? Does it work on you?”

Birkhoff lets out a little choke, nearly coughing on the chips he just shoved in his mouth, making you laugh as he tries to play it cool, his face burning red. He shoots you a fake offended look, stammering a comeback that’s more sad than savage.

“W-with you?”

He blinks, trying to hide how awkward he feels behind a crooked grin.

“Come on, don’t get your hopes up. But hey, I’ll take that accidental compliment.”

You lean in a little more, bracing your hands on the arms of his gaming chair, a playful grin tugging at your lips. Your face is just inches from his.

“...Really, Seymour ?”

The tech genius completely freezes, caught off guard and clearly glitching. He tries to stammer out a response, but all that comes out are weird little noises. He clears his throat, cheeks blazing, eyes darting anywhere but you — now looking like a guy whose brain just blue-screened.

You pull back, giving him some breathing room as a quiet laugh escapes you.

“Aww, is the geek sulking ‘cause I’m not flirting with him enough?”

Birkhoff stays quiet for a beat, mouth hanging open like he’s just lost his train of thought. Then he shakes it off, gives you a gentle shove with his elbow, and grumbles,

« Yeah, yeah, keep dreaming, heartbreaker. »

He ducks behind his screen, muttering under his breath,

« Completely nuts, you crazy woman... »

You can’t help but grin, eyes shining with satisfaction just as the front door swings open.

Nikita and Michael stroll into the room, holding hands. Nikita shoots you both a raised eyebrow.

« So, lovebirds, between your awful flirting attempts, got any updates? »

« Would’ve been nice, but your friend here’s a walking sexual hazard, Nikki. I’m just one guy, I can’t handle surveillance and temptation at the same time ! »

Birkhoff complains, all overly dramatic.

You flash your most innocent look.

« Hm... doesn’t seem to bother you much, judging by how you’ve been acting. »

Michael sighs, shaking his head with a half-smile.

« When you’re done playing around, Birkhoff... take a look at the Division’s cameras. »

He folds his arms.

« Three days of total silence. That’s definitely not a good thing. »

The mood drops instantly at those words. Despite the good vibes and the rare moments when you can finally let your guard down, the shadow of the Division still hangs heavy over you all.

You step away from the desk, letting Birkhoff settle back in and dive into his screens. Him, Michael, and Nikita start talking strategy , not really your thing. Too much thinking involved.

You’re a woman of action: you act first, think later. One mission, one target, one plan, and you get it done, no questions asked.

You grit your teeth thinking about it. You’re still working like an agent of the Division.

Still just the machine they built.

Back then, you were just a lost kid. A teenager abandoned by a broken system and by parents who were never there, two alcoholics caught in an endless loop of relapse, drowning their problems in pills.

You had nothing. No education, no guidance, no goals… except one: your little brother, Jordan.

It’s for him that you got tangled in the drug game. Not to use, no… to sell, to make money. To give him what you never had: good food, decent clothes, a proper education.

And for a while, you made it. You even earned a name back then: “The Tenacious One” , small but fierce, and tough as nails.

But, like always, the fall was inevitable. You got caught. The cops hauled you in… but before you even got to the station, everything went black.

You wake up in a white room, all alone… before meeting her for the first time.

A “kind” gaze, a voice as sweet and charming as a snake’s hiss: Amanda.

She’d been drilling it into your head. Promising you’d be fighting to save the innocent, protecting those who deserved it, and most of all, keeping your brother safe. Honestly, that was the only thing that really convinced you.

Then came “the surgery.” You don’t remember much from that time. your brain probably wiped it clean to protect you.

The only thing that stayed crystal clear was the pain.

After that, Y/n was dead. All that was left was the Division’s new toy.

An assassin. No feelings, no morals, just facts. One mission, one target, one plan. And you carried it out. End of story.

You’d become Percy and Amanda’s killing machine. Kept separate from the other recruits, barely any contact.

They’d hand you a file, sometimes an agent to guide you, then it was mission accomplished and back to base.

You knew nothing about the so-called “legend,” Nikita.

Later, for reasons you never really understood, the bosses let you mix in with the others agents.

Alex was the first one you met. She slowly planted the seed, making you doubt, stirring up the part of you that had been buried.

Then you caught sight of him—the Division’s lead engineer, Percy’s tech whiz.

Birkhoff.

You weren’t close, not by a long shot.

Not the sarcastic genius with the huge heart you’d come to know among the rebels.

Back then, he was just an arrogant kid, cocky as hell, fully aware of his talents and not shy about showing off. A brat who deserved a good lesson.

And you gave it to him. More than once, on the training mat, knocking the “final boss” down and reminding him that victory isn’t just about screens.

But even then, you had to admit : if things had been different, you might have wanted to get to know him better.

Then the Nikita storm came back, tearing through everything, even your certainty.

That’s when you realized your choice was made : protect the innocent from the real enemy ,the Division.

Protect your brother from those monsters.

If Nikita managed to escape and carve her own path, why couldn’t you?

Alex stayed with Amanda, but you followed the woman you now see as the mother you never had.

Then Michael came along, then Birkhoff.

And here you are now,

Slowly setting up the fall of those who stole your lives and shattered your existence.

You step away from the group and find yourself standing by the window, staring out at the beach. Your gaze drifts over the endless ocean, but your thoughts keep circling back to one person : Jordan

That pure kid you’ve protected, still protect, and will protect with everything you’ve got, until your last breath. A kid with a heart of gold who, even though he can’t see you anymore, even though everyone tells him you’re “dead,” never stopped waiting, never stopped hoping. He deserves all the happiness in the world—and you’re damn well going to give it to him.

He was seven when you disappeared, now he’s seventeen and about to start his final year of high school. Smart kid, with a bright future ahead. You know it because, even though you never reply, he leaves you a voicemail every day, telling you about his day. He wants to join the police academy, become a detective, and, in his words, “do better than those losers who abandoned you.” That made you smile.

Speaking of calls, your phone buzzes. Like every day, you let it ring, waiting for whoever it is to hang up. A few minutes later, you pull out your phone and check your voicemail. A new message. You smile softly and bring your phone to your ear.

Your brother’s voice fills the speaker, asking how you’re doing, how your day went, sharing his own. “Hey Y/N… sorry, not much to say today… just… I miss you… a lot. I really wish I could see you, at least once. Stay safe and I… I lov—BOUUUUUMM!”

A deafening blast shatters your ear, so loud it bursts your eardrum. You drop your phone, which crashes hard against the floor.

Startled by the noise, the three of them immediately look up at you. Nikita rushes over, her face a mix of worry and a kind of motherly concern. She grabs your shoulders firmly, trying to steady you. « Y/n, are you okay? Talk to me. What happened? » You stay silent, your eyes fixed on your phone, a heavy weight sinking in your gut, your blood running cold, a horrible feeling creeping into your mind.

Nikita shakes you gently, but you can feel the urgency in her movements.

« Hey, Y/n, answer me! What’s going on? »

Her voice snaps you back to reality.

« Birkhoff, check the security cams at 742 Evergreen Terrace, Springfield. »

Your voice is barely a whisper, almost lost.

« What? » « Check the cameras at 742 Evergreen Terrace, Springfield! »

This time, your voice is sharper, louder—dry and harsh, filled with the panic clawing at every fiber of your being.

You pull away from Nikita’s grip and almost sprint to the desk.

Birkhoff wastes no time, pulling up the footage.

And then, the nightmare.

742 Evergreen Terrace doesn’t exist anymore in Springfield. Only rubble and flames. Nothing but flames. Your childhood home reduced to ashes... and your brother was inside.

A heavy silence falls over the room. Your breaths catch, eyes glued to the screen. The cameras show fire trucks rushing in, trying to save whatever they can, searching for survivors.

But the three of you know there will be none.

Sure, it could’ve been a simple accident : a gas leak, a faulty wire, a spark… and then boom. But you also know who’s a master at turning murders into accidents.

You feel Nikita’s gaze on you, probably sizing up your reaction. You won’t lie, the shock is real. Your mind goes blank, nothing but the looping footage running through your head.

« What the hell is this… »

Birkhoff’s voice pulls you back as multiple windows pop up on his screens.

After a few quick moves, he cracks the code of an incoming call. He looks to Nikita, who nods — green light. Birkhoff clicks, and there he is.

« Good morning, Nikita. » There he is. Staring back at you all from the comfort of his screen.

Percy.

You freeze. He did it. He actually escaped Division.

« Judging by your expressions, I assume my return comes as...unexpected. Frankly, it stings a little. I didn’t think you held me in such low regard. »

"What the hell are you playing at, Percy?"

Nikita cuts him off mid-monologue, her voice taut with restrained fury.

He smiles. That subtle, infuriating curve of the lips that always precedes something venomous.

« Always so impatient. But no, I didn’t come to fight. I came to offer my sincerest apologies. » His gaze drifts, settling on you. « To you, Miss Y/N, in particular. I imagine your brother’s last message wasn’t quite what you were hoping for. »

You want to scream, curse him, shatter the screen — but only one word escapes. « Why? »

He tilts his head gently, as if genuinely regretful. « Believe me when I say — your brother was an unfortunate casualty. Collateral damage, nothing more. I am truly sorry for your loss, and you have my deepest condolences. »

The way he says it, with that refined, condescending polish — he might as well be reading a weather report. You know damn well he doesn’t mean a word.

« But drastic measures were necessary. I had to send a message. Loud enough to cut through the noise. To get your attention, Nikita — yours most of all. »

The rest becomes a blur. Background static. Your mind spirals. All this… Just to draw them out. Your brother is gone, forever… for that.

« You have three days, Nikita. » A digital map flashes on Birkhoff’s screen, showing a rundown part of New York. South Bronx. The camera zooms in on a single blinking point.

« I’ll be waiting. Alone. Three days to deliver the plutonium. Fail to do so... and another of your loved ones will suffer the consequences of your cowardice. And incompetence. »

Then, with a courteous nod, « Looking forward to doing business with you, Nikita. I expect your response... very soon. »

The screen goes black. And silence falls. Heavy. Suffocating.

You feel the weight of everyone's attention quietly shifting to you.

But you say nothing. Your eyes remain fixed on the screen where Percy’s face had just disappeared. Everything is still blurry in your mind, like your brain refuses to put the pieces in the right order.

But one thing is crystal clear.

Revenge.

"Y/N… no." Nikita’s voice pulls you back. Her hand on your shoulder—steady, worried.

"What?" "I know what you're thinking, Y/N. And it's not the answer."

There it is. The lecture. The call for reason, for patience, for control—when all you want is to make that bastard suffer. Now. Brutally. For every life he’s destroyed.

"I’m going to kill him, Nikita."

"I know. And believe me, I won’t stop you. But not yet. Not like this. You’re not thinking straight. We need more information."

She steps closer, slides her hand to the back of your neck, then gently presses her forehead against yours.

"We’ll make him pay. I promise you. We’ll avenge your brother… just like we’ll avenge everyone he took away from us. But we’re going to do this right. Okay?"

You don’t answer. But you nod.

She gives you a small, soft smile and squeezes the back of your neck supportively before letting go. She and Michael are already talking tactics, working through possible plans to outsmart Percy.

You say nothing. Your mind is elsewhere.

Back among the ashes. Back at your brother’s grave.

Seconds pass. Then minutes. And the longer time stretches, the more reality sinks in.

Your brother is dead. Gone. Forever.

He didn’t even get to tell you he loved you. You didn’t even get to say goodbye.

He was taken away from you before you could speak a single word. The shock has passed. The denial is over, whether you were ready or not.

Now only one thing remains.

Rage. No—hatred. Raw and deep. The kind that burns everything it touches.

For the man who thinks he’s God, playing with the lives of innocent people.

You’ve made your decision.

You rise silently from your chair and murmur that you’re going to your room. The others acknowledge it with small nods and tired, mournful smiles.

You walk away. But only one thought drives you forward.

You will kill him. With them, or without them.

And you don’t notice the worried eyes of your national genius quietly following you as you leave.

You did exactly what Nikita asked of you: nothing.

For two days, you stayed silent. You only spoke of it when asked, playing the role of the grieving sister. And you are. Deeply. But mourning time is over.

Now, it's time to move.

So you waited. Held back. Let them think you were breaking. Let their guard down.

2 a.m.

You haven’t slept. Not for a second.

You listened—every door clicking shut, every lock turning, every breath slowing with sleep. And when silence finally took over the house… that’s when you moved.

Like a shadow.

You slip into dark clothes. Neutral, flexible. Easy to move in. Easy to disappear.

The armory is your next stop. Suppressor. Glock. Tranquilizer rounds. Taser. Extra mags for each. Everything in your bag, arranged with care. You turn to the knives. Throwing blades, close-range weapons. Every piece of steel has its place on you.

Hair up. Tight bun. No loose strands. No distractions.

You’re ready.

You move through the hallway like a ghost, toward the living room. You didn’t just remember the address. You took it, snapped a picture while Birkhoff was too busy shoving a burger into his face to notice.

Just one second of inattention. That’s all it took.

South Bronx is waiting.

You’re heading for the door, silent as ever.

« That’s walking right into a mess. »

You freeze for a beat, then let out a slow breath, eyes closed, still facing the door, not looking back at the guy who was supposed to be asleep and giving you some peace.

A beep and the click of an electronic lock snap you back, and you curse silently. Great, now you’ve gotta find a way around this... wasting time, and you don’t have much left.

You turn around, slowly. In the dim light, leaning against his console with his arms crossed, Birkhoff’s watching you, his face serious — no jokes this time.

« Let me guess… Nikita put you on babysitting duty and you snuck in here to rig a baby monitor in my room? » He steps into the light, eyes sharp.

« Nah, she didn’t ask me. I’m here all on my own, big boy style. And nope, there’s nothing planted in your room — you know I’m not that kinda guy. Call it a hunch, but I knew you were gonna try something. Haven’t caught more than a couple hours of sleep in two nights, and I was wondering when you’d try to sneak off. »

You don’t say a word.

Your eyes are blank, but focused — betraying the storm raging just beneath the surface. You’re calculating, planning, burning with impatience. The urge to run straight to Percy, to make him pay, to tear him apart piece by piece is eating you alive.

And him… that damn nerd is standing in your way

The worst part? You know he means well. You know he's just trying to protect you. But you don’t care. Not now. Not when every second feels like a lifetime wasted.

You take a step forward . Sharp, purposeful toward the console. If the door won’t open for you, you’ll force it. End of story.

But he sees it coming. Moves fast. Too fast. Blocks you.

Your voice comes low, through clenched teeth.

“Get out of my way, Birkhoff.”

« Why? So I can just stand here and watch you charge straight into a goddamn trap? March off to face the psycho who blew your brother up like a pawn in some sick chess game? No. Nope. Not tonight. I may be a lot of things, Y/n, but the kind of guy who lets his friends get themselves killed because they think they’ve got nothing left? That’s not one of them. »

Your jaw clenches, fists tightening at your sides. Rage and frustration flare in your eyes. Birkhoff rakes a shaky hand through his hair, clearly rattled, gaze flicking away for just a second.

« Look, Y/n… I’m… I’m really sorry about your brother. I mean it. I get what you’re going th- »

« Shut up. »

The words slice through the air. He freezes.

« Just shut the hell up, Birkhoff. All of you with your pretty little speeches. You’ve still got the people you care about, safe and sound, locked away behind a thousand firewalls and bulletproof doors. Nikita might’ve lost Daniel, but she’s got Michael. Michael might’ve lost his family, but he’s got Nikita. And he’s got you. Me? What do I have, huh? I had my brother. And now he’s dead. DEAD. Because some twisted bastard thought it’d be fun to play goddamn war games with real lives. »

You let out a bitter laugh, shaky, almost unhinged.

« So yeah. Maybe I’ll die. But at least it won’t be for nothing. And honestly… I’ve got nothing left to lose. So if you’re REALLY my friend like you say you are, then you’ll open that damn door. And let me finish this. »

You stare him down, fury shaking every inch of you. He doesn’t flinch. He looks right back—his eyes softer now. Sadder.

« Birkhoff, I really… really don’t have time for this. The clock’s ticking. If you can’t do it out of principle, then get out of my way and I’ll do it myself. »

You step toward the desk. He moves too, blocking your path again. Now you’re just a few feet apart.

« Birkhoff. Move. »

« No. »

« MOVE! »

« No. »

His voice is calm. Too calm. And his eyes… there’s something in them you can’t quite place. Sadness? Pity? You don’t want his pity. You just want him to let you go.

Neither of you moves. Neither of you backs down. You stare at each other. One second. Then two. Then three.

You lunge for the console. Your finger barely brushes the keys when a hand clamps hard around your wrist. He spins with your momentum, using it against you, and yanks you backward. You stumble, but catch yourself and twist. You strike back instantly.

A sharp elbow aimed at his ribs — he narrowly dodges. His face tightens, surprised by how fast you moved. You follow up with a sweep to his legs. He staggers but doesn’t fall. He’s not built for close combat, but he holds on with a maddening kind of resolve.

« Y/n, stop! Come on! »

You don’t.

You throw yourself at him again. He blocks, arms tangled with yours, and suddenly you’re locked together, struggling, breathless. He tears the weapons bag from you — it skids across the floor. You curse.

Goddamn it !

He tries to pin your shoulders. You twist, slip out, go for a throw. He plants his feet. Stops you. He’s not trying to win. Just trying to stop you.

« I’m not letting you do this, dammit! »

You shove him off hard. He stumbles back. You charge. This time, he anticipates it , and you both go crashing to the floor in a messy tangle.

He ends up on top, one knee down, both hands locking your wrists to the ground. Silence.

Your breaths are ragged. Your eyes burn. He’s right there, inches away, eyes locked on yours.

« I’m sorry, Y/n… but I won’t let you die. Not like this. »

Your breathing turns frantic. You can’t get enough air. The fury inside you peaks.

You can’t stop now. Not when you were so close. You planned for this. You needed this. Your one shot. While you still had the nerve.

Your face twists with rage and desperation. « LET. ME. GO! »

You slam your head forward. It crashes into his with a sickening crack. Your vision blurs. He winces, stunned — but he doesn’t let go. Neither do you.

You plant your feet on his chest, brace, and shove. He flies over your head and lands hard, gasping.

A second of stillness. You freeze.

Then bolt upright.

Your legs wobble, your balance is shot, but you’re up.

You stumble, grab the bag, dive for the console. The lock beeps. The door unlocks with a metallic click.

You did it.

It’s done.

You won.

The relief floods you so fast it makes you dizzy. You don’t even think to look behind you.

But he’s fast, too.

And adrenaline makes you do crazy things.

Just as you go to cross the threshold, something slams into you. A full-body hit. You crash to the floor, breath knocked out of you. But even as you land, you realize. He twisted mid-air, took the brunt of it. Protected you.

Birkhoff clenches his jaw. He has to stop you.

Before you can move, arms wrap tight around you. A raw, choking grip. He catches you from behind, drags you against his chest, your back crushed to him. One arm locks tight across your chest. His legs tangle with yours, pinning you. You can’t kick. You can’t breathe. His other hand clamps your wrist. Shaking. Trembling.

You fight. Everything you have. A hand, a knee, anything. But it’s no use.

You’re trapped.

And everything inside you shatters.

Rage. Panic. Grief. So close to the door. So close to revenge. And now — gone. All of it, gone.

Screw precision. Screw training. You lose it.

You scream. You claw. You bite his arm. You try to break his nose with the back of your skull.

He just tightens his grip. « Stop, Y/n - goddamn it, stop! »

You twist, your wrist grinding in his hand. He holds on. « It’s me! It’s just me! Breathe! Please—! »

You don’t. You can’t.

His breath is ragged against your neck.

« Is this what your brother would've wanted? You think he loved you all those years just so you could throw yourself at death like this? »

His voice cracks. Strained. Panicked.

« You think he’d want you to die like a rookie?! »

You scream until your throat tears. And still, he holds on.

« Please, Y/n… please. Stop. »

And finally… you break.

It’s his voice. The fear in it. The anger. The grief. But also the care. The loyalty. The refusal to let go.

You break.

You’re still screaming, yes. But the sobs take over.

Rage. Pain. Loss.

You cry for your brother. For the failure. For the life you can’t seem to reclaim.

You’re still fighting, but your strength falters. Blows turn sloppy. Movements dull. Your body, like your heart, just… gives up.

And Birkhoff feels it.

Feels the way your spine sags into his. The screams fading into choking sobs. The way your breath skips and stutters.

So he loosens his hold. Not enough to let you go. Just enough to let you fall.

Footsteps rush in. He looks up.

Nikita and Michael burst in, messy hair, pajamas, guns drawn. Their eyes scan the wreckage — overturned chairs, busted furniture, scattered weapons, then freeze.

There, near the door.

Birkhoff, breathless, holding you. And you, shattered, slumped in his arms. The rage has burned out. You’re limp. Hollow.

But the panic stays.

Your heart’s racing. Breathing’s all over the place. You’re barely breathing at all.

Nikita doesn't wait. She bolts to the med cabinet, grabs a mild tranquilizer — not enough to knock you out. Just enough to stop your body from imploding.

She kneels next to you both.

« Hold her. »

A command. Simple. He obeys.

You whimper, shaking your head, whispering, no, no, no as the needle approaches.

But Birkhoff holds you tighter. Gently, he props your head back against his shoulder. Murmurs nonsense in your ear, meaningless words said soft and slow, like maybe they’ll help.

You barely feel the injection.

But you feel your body let go. All at once.

Muscles loosen. The fight drains out of you. And finally… finally… he can hold you. Not to stop you. But to keep you.

He speaks. Barely above a whisper. « I got you, Y/n… »

His arms are no longer a restraint. They’re an anchor. The only thing holding you to what’s left of this world.

« It’s over now, okay? It’s over. »

His voice is wrecked. Raw. He pulls you just a little closer. Just enough. Like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t.

« I’m not letting go. Even if you hate me for it… I’m not letting go. »

He leans in. His mouth by your ear. A vow.

« We’ll kill that bastard. I swear on my life, Y/n. Together. He’ll pay for what he did. For your brother. I promise. »

Then nothing. Just his voice in your ear, soft, murmuring incoherent things that don’t mean anything… and mean everything.

Because he knows.

Right now, you don’t need a plan. You don’t need a mission. You just need someone who stays.

And Birkhoff… He stays.

#fanfiction #aaron stanford #seymour birkhoff #nikita mears #michael bishop #Seymour Birkhoff x reader #Birkhoff

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taniabrodbeam · 20 days ago

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first request (JohnAllerdyce xreader)

I've just finished my first request! (yees!!) for @caroa8!! It's really long but I was inspired ^^'. Also, I've started writing in english not long ago so I hope it will make sense ^^'

Still, I really hope you'll like it and that it’s what you were looking for! Enjoy!! <3

DRAWN TO YOU

Night had fallen over Xavier's Institute, and everything was calm. The mansion was cloaked in darkness; the students had long since retreated to their rooms. All except one.

In the library, curled up in one of the many armchairs, you were drawing. Your eyes were glued to your sketchbook, all your attention focused on the figure coming to life, line after line, on the page. For as long as you could remember, you had always drawn. Your parents used to proudly say to anyone who would listen that you were the next Picasso... Proudly... That was before they noticed you were... "different." Before the Institute.

You gave your head a slight shake, trying to chase away the wave of melancholy that threatened to wash over you, and refocused on your sketchbook. Anyway, the point is—drawing had always been your escape. When everything got too heavy and your mind felt like it was going to explode, this was your sanctuary. Here, alone in the calm, with only the crackling of the fireplace and the scratch of your pencil on paper to keep you company.

Except, you weren’t really alone—far from it. You’d actually fit in pretty quickly and got along with almost everyone, especially Kitty, Rogue, Bobby… and John.

John.

You couldn’t help the strange feeling you got whenever you thought of his name. Whenever you thought of him.

You remembered the first time you met. It was your first day at the Institute, your first class. Bobby had been kind, inviting you to sit with him and his group. Everyone had been really welcoming… except him. Off to the side, fiddling absently with a lighter, eyes locked on you like he was sizing you up from a distance. And when you’d tried to push past your nerves to greet him, he’d given you nothing but a nod and a little smirk.

God, that smirk.

Things had changed since then. Now, John talked to you just as much as the rest of the group—still his usual sarcastic, snarky self, always teasing you for your shyness. Some might’ve called it mean, but truth be told, he was the one you felt closest to. You couldn’t really explain why. Maybe it was because opposites attract, and his fiery personality helped pull you out of your shell. And honestly, it worked. You’d gotten used to it, learned how to fire back at his provocations, pile onto his terrible jokes, and play along when he flirted with you.

It was just a joke between friends… right?

But the more time passed, the less it felt like a joke to you. The way his eyes locked with yours, intense and unreadable. His smiles that lingered a little too long. The way he’d brush against your hand or shoulder "by accident" or lean in just a bit too close to whisper some dumb joke during class that always made you laugh.

Of course, you weren’t delusional—you knew it was just fun to him. He’d never see you as anything more than a friend.

Still… you couldn’t help but hope.

Click—click—swoosh!

A small metallic sound rang out like a gunshot in the stillness of the room, and you let out a startled gasp, jumping slightly. You snapped your sketchbook shut and looked up, eyes locking on the silhouette leaning against the wall across from you.

“Dammit, John!”

He didn’t even try to look sorry—just laughed.

“What? I wasn’t exactly trying to be sneaky. I called you a few times, not my fault you were so into… whatever that is,” he said, nodding toward your sketchbook.

You stared at him, heat rising to your cheeks at being caught so off guard.

“Lucky it’s me. Pretty sure Storm wouldn’t be thrilled to catch you still up at…” He glanced over your shoulder at the large clock on the wall. “…past 2 a.m.”

“It’s Professor Monroe, John…” you corrected automatically.

He shrugged with a dramatic eye-roll. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

“What are you even doing here?” you asked.

��Right back at you, princess.”

Princess. The nickname he’d decided to give you a few weeks after you arrived. You raised an eyebrow and lifted your sketchbook slightly in response, a silent but obvious answer.

He scoffed lightly through his nose. “Yeah, I figured that. Not what I meant.” His gaze sharpened. “I meant, what are you doing up wandering the halls at 2 a.m.?”

“Am I asking why you’re wandering the halls past two in the morning?”

He gave you that infamous little smirk.

“Fair enough.”

A few seconds passed.

Or minutes. It was hard to tell, the silence stretching thin except for the soft snap of his lighter opening and closing, again and again, until he finally broke it.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“…Same.”

Not a lie. Just not the whole truth.

He watched you for a beat longer before walking over and dropping into a chair across from you, arms draped over the backrest, eyes on you.

“If we’re both up, might as well be up together.”

He nodded toward your sketchbook again. “Go ahead. I won’t bother you.”

Then he turned his attention to the fire, idly toying with the flames, making them dance and rise with the flick of his fingers.

You stared at him for a moment before slowly reopening your sketchbook and picking your pencil back up. You glanced down at the last page… and your heart skipped a beat.

John.

You’d drawn him. Without thinking. Instinctively. You quickly flipped the page to a blank one, praying he hadn’t seen.

The nights passed, and so did the days. Without either of you realizing it, this became a habit. You waited for the mansion to fall silent, then met in the library. John would reignite the fire if it had gone out or rekindled it when it was about to die. You’d settle into your spot on the couch, open your sketchbook, and draw. He’d take his chair, sit backwards on it, arms over the top, playing with the flames in quiet concentration.

The silence between you didn’t feel awkward anymore—it had become... comforting.

And without a single word about it, those nighttime meetings started to change something in both of you.

When he wasn’t staring into the fire, John would sneak glances at you. Watching the way your brow furrowed in focus, how your lips parted ever so slightly, how the firelight played over your features. He even caught himself shifting the flame's reflections on your skin—just to see how the light moved with you.

And you? You just kept drawing—trying not to get caught staring back.

Over time, what started as a quiet nighttime ritual began to leave traces in broad daylight. Ever since those late-night meetings at the library, something had shifted. At first, it was subtle — a glance that lingered just a second too long, a smirk he seemed to reserve only for you. But now, it’s becoming impossible to ignore. Even the others have started to notice.

Bobby raised an eyebrow the other day when John leaned in and murmured a soft “see you tonight” before leaving class. Kitty had pulled you aside afterward, curiosity twinkling in her eyes. “So… what’s going on with you and Johnny?” she asked, trying to sound casual. You just shrugged and muttered something about inside jokes, your heart pounding harder than it should. Even Rogue had chimed in with a smirk, half-teasing, half-serious: “Just jokes, huh?”

But today? Today is too much.

It’s Friday, right before the weekend, and for the entire day, John has been pushing every one of your buttons — staring from across the room, flashing that grin, teasing you in ways that feel a little too personal now. And of course, the rest of the group just won’t let it go. Like you’re supposed to have all the answers — when even you have no idea what the hell is happening.

How are you supposed to explain something you don’t understand yourself? He’s messing with your head during the day, then watching you in silence at night like nothing ever happened. It makes no sense. Either he knows exactly what he’s doing… or he’s completely blind. Either way, you’re tired.

And unfortunately for her, it’s Kitty who takes the hit.

You shove your things into your bag, eager to escape and make it back to your room — anywhere quiet, where you can clear your head… and wait for night to fall, to fall back into your routine. But Kitty tries again.

“Okay, Y/N, come on. You can't keep dodging this — there’s obviously something going on with you and Johnny. You two are practically undressing each other with your eyes when the other isn’t looking. You can tell me, I won’t ju—"

“I. Don’t. Know. Okay?”

Your voice snaps through the hallway before you can stop it. Kitty flinches slightly at the sharpness of it, stunned into silence. Instantly, you regret it. She doesn’t deserve that.

You exhale, softening.

“I… I’m sorry. It’s not about you, Kitty, really. I just…” You sigh, eyes on the floor. “I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know if he’s joking, if it’s just some stupid game for him, or if I’m completely imagining things. So how am I supposed to explain it to anyone else when I can’t even explain it to myself?”

There’s a pause. Your voice comes out quieter, now more tired than angry.

“So yeah. If you and the others could maybe chill out with the constant questions and stop acting like I’m the latest episode of mutant reality TV… I’d really appreciate it.”

You don’t wait for a response. You turn on your heel and head toward the front hall, desperate to disappear — to get somewhere, anywhere else.

What you don’t notice, though, is that your bag wasn’t fully zipped. That your precious sketchbook slipped free and hit the floor. And most importantly — that someone picked it up.

Night had fallen. Despite everything that had happened during the day, you couldn’t help but feel that same quiet anticipation bubbling under your skin. But... there was a problem.

You reached into your bag to grab your sketchbook, fingers already itching to draw—and froze.

It wasn’t there.

Panic hit you like a punch to the stomach. “Shit, no no no... please tell me this is a joke.”

You never took it out of your bag. Ever. Which meant one terrifying thing: someone must have taken it.

Your eyes started to sting. It wasn’t just a sketchbook—it was everything. It held your thoughts, your feelings... and lately, well—him.

What would they think when they saw it? When they realized who had started showing up on every other page?

You sat on your bed in stunned silence, your heart racing, your inspiration completely gone. The thought of going to the library tonight felt suddenly unbearable.

And then—your phone buzzed.

Johnny: “What the hell, princess? You coming or what?”

You closed your eyes, took a deep breath. It’s just a sketchbook. You have others. It’s not the end of the world.

But the tight knot in your throat said otherwise.

You walk in silence, your steps heavy, every one of them dragging like weights tied to your ankles. The door to the library is already open. A warm glow spills into the hallway—soft light and the familiar crackling of flames dancing in the fireplace.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, rehearsing the mask of everything’s fine one last time. “Hey, sorry I’m late, I was just—”

You stop dead in your tracks.

There he is. John.

Sitting on your couch. The one you always curl up in when you draw.

And in his hands, Your sketchbook.

He’s flipping through it slowly. Page by page.

Your heart. Your secrets. Him.

You freeze in the doorway, breath caught in your throat. John is there, sitting in your chair — the one you always curl up in to draw — legs stretched out, your sketchbook in his hands.

The room glows softly under the flickering firelight, and he's flipping through the pages slowly, not even looking up.

“You know, if you wanted me to model for you, you could’ve just asked.”

His tone is light, teasing — classic John. But there’s something tight in his jaw, something careful in the way he keeps his eyes on the page.

“Didn’t know I looked that good on paper.”

This time, he looks up. His gaze locks with yours, and for a moment, neither of you moves. The silence stretches, heavy and electric.

You don’t say a word. You can’t. You’re not even sure you’re breathing.

His eyes drop back to the sketchbook, and that’s when you see it. He’s on that page.

That portrait. The one you drew without thinking, without planning, the one where he looks like himself. Not the snarky, flirty, firestarter version of him everyone else sees. Just John.

He’s laughing in the drawing, caught mid-smile, his eyes bright with something real. His features are soft, relaxed, unguarded — the mask he wears in public nowhere in sight. His fingers are mid-motion, playing with his lighter, and you’d spent extra time there, capturing the way the firelight danced across his hands, the flicker of movement, the quiet familiarity. There’s a warmth to it, a kind of intimacy no one else would pick up on — a glimpse of the boy behind the bravado. His thumb brushes along the edge of the page, slow and thoughtful. And when he speaks again, his voice is quieter. More real.

“You’ve been drawing me... why?”

No smirk. No sarcasm. Just a question, low and almost hesitant.

You bite your lip, words stuck somewhere between your chest and your throat. But you know he’s not asking for a joke. He’s asking for the truth.

You stare at him, desperately trying to come up with something to say. That’s it. It’s over. You ruined everything before it even had the chance to start. Your mouth opens, then closes again, the words stuck somewhere in your throat.

Seeing your panicked silence, he gets up, walking toward you with that same teasing, but unexpectedly soft smile. “Relax. I’m not mad,” he says, gently closing the sketchbook. “Kinda flattered, actually.”

He doesn’t stop. Keeps walking, until he’s standing just a few steps away.

“But I gotta ask... why would someone like you draw someone like me?”

He tries to keep his usual cocky tone, but even you can hear the hesitation in his voice, see the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. If you didn’t know him, you might even say he looked... like a little kid waiting to find out if he broke something that mattered. You swallow hard, and when you finally speak, your voice is barely louder than a whisper.

“Because... you’re a good person. And I think good people deserve to be seen.”

John doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are locked on yours, searching, like he’s trying to figure out if you’re actually serious. You glance away, suddenly too aware of how close he is. Of how quiet the room’s gotten. Then he takes another step.

“That’s... probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” he says quietly, like he’s not sure he’s supposed to hear it out loud. “You really see me like that?”

You nod. Slowly. This time, you don’t look away.

“I’m not stupid, John. I see the way you look at Bobby when Rogue’s in his arms... or when a teacher praises him. How you flinch when someone points out your attitude, or when students make space like you’re some kind of walking threat.” You exhale a soft breath. “The way you stare at the family photos he has on his wall. And I don’t judge you for any of that. Because I get it. And, believe it or not, I think Bobby does too. Even if he doesn’t know how to say it.”

You let out a tiny, nervous laugh before growing serious again.

“I know you see yourself as a monster... or the villain of the story. But I wish you could see yourself the way other people do. The way I do. You’re the guy made of fire, yeah. Maybe dangerous. But only when the people you care about are threatened. The one who’d throw himself into the flames if it meant making a difference.”

You lower your eyes once more.

Come on t/n... now or never.

You mumble quickly, barely letting yourself think:

“...the guy I’m in love with.”

He smiles—just a little—but this one’s real. Quiet and warm.

“You always draw what you feel?”

You hesitate, then nod again.

“Only when I can’t say it out loud.”

He stays quiet. But the silence between you isn’t heavy anymore. It’s soft. Careful. Precious. And then, slowly, he reaches out—his fingers brushing against your wrist like he’s asking for permission.

“Then maybe you should draw me again. But this time... while I’m watching.”

Your eyes shoot up, startled.

Did he just—? Wait. Did he mean—? Are you dreaming??

He’s watching you. You’re watching him. Neither of you move. It’s like time holds its breath.

And then he steps in. Closer. Until your faces are only inches apart, his breath ghosting across your lips. His eyes flick down, from yours to your mouth. A silent question.

You nod. Just once. Because you honestly can’t speak.

Holy shit. It’s happening. It’s actually—

And then his lips are on yours.

At first, you freeze. Then instinct takes over. You melt into it, unsure of what to do with your hands... until he gently takes them, placing one around his neck and guiding the other into his hair. His hands settle on your waist. The kiss that started out tentative quickly turns more intense. His hands travel from your waist up to your neck, like he’s trying to keep you there, to hold on. As if he’s scared you’ll vanish. Your own fingers tighten in his hair, pulling slightly. He lets out a low groan. You whimper in response. It’s the need for air that finally forces you apart—barely. His forehead rests against yours, both your breaths short and uneven.

“...wow,” is all you manage to whisper.

He looks at you, his gaze burning.

“Fuck. If you knew how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

You swallow, summoning every ounce of courage you have.

“...you can do it again. If you want.”

He lifts his head, a relieved smile on his lips… quickly replaced by his usual grin.

“So... you really thought about me that much, princess?” he teases, nodding toward the sketchbook tossed on the armchair, then his eyes return to yours. “Or do you just like drawing me shirtless?”

Your cheeks turn crimson in under a second... because oh god, you remember exactly how many not-so-innocent sketches are in there. You clear your throat, trying to look confident.

“...maybe both.”

His eyes darken instantly, desire flickering in his expression.

“Still doesn’t compare to the real thing... Wanna see for yourself, princess?”

Your breath catches.

Oh god.

Come on, y/n... don’t back down now.

“Okay... but the princess wants a kiss first.”

A slow, wolfish grin spreads across his face as his hands gently cup your cheeks.

“Gladly.”

Morning comes. Classes blur one after the other, the day moves on — and with it, John’s attention toward you grows. More frequent. More intense. More pointed. Until the final bell rings, signaling the end of the school day. Evening creeps in. Homework. Dinner. And then… time to go to bed.

Across the table in the cafeteria, you and John exchange a glance — one filled with unspoken understanding… and something else entirely. Then suddenly, both of you shoot up from your seats.

He’s the first to mumble a barely audible, “’Night,” before power-walking toward the boys' dorms. You blurt out something about “having homework to finish”, then practically sprint toward the girls' wing.

At the table, Kitty, Rogue, and Bobby just stare at the exit.

“…Do we even want to know—” “No.” “Definitely not.” “That’s what I thought.”

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