Takami X Reader - Blog Posts

“Hero Duty Never Sleeps”

It was 3:17 a.m.

The apartment was dark, still, quiet… until it wasn’t.

A familiar wail echoed down the hallway, slicing through the silence like a siren call.

You groaned softly into your pillow, one eye cracking open. “Your turn.”

Keigo didn’t move.

You nudged him.

“…Birdbrain.”

“Okay, okay—!” he mumbled, flopping dramatically onto his back and groaning like he’d just been asked to fly to the moon. “Operation Diaper Storm is a go.”

You sat up with him, both of you bleary-eyed but weirdly in sync, shuffling down the hallway together like zombies on a mission. Soraya’s cries grew louder the closer you got.

“I got wipes and a fresh sleeper,” you said, grabbing things from the drawer with one hand while tying your hair back with the other.

Keigo scooped Soraya up from her crib, already whispering in his softest dad-voice. “Hey, hey… baby bird, relax. Backup’s here.”

Her face was red, tiny fists flailing. Definitely not in the mood for sweet talk.

They say real love is patient.

But real, real love is holding your baby’s ankles in one hand while wiping a disaster zone at 3 a.m. with the other, all while your partner tosses dirty clothes into the laundry bin and tries to get a onesie on without snapping off their own sanity.

“Why do baby legs have the strength of a pro wrestler during diaper changes?” Keigo hissed.

“Because she knows we’re vulnerable,” you muttered. “She smells fear.”

Soraya let out a high-pitched hiccup-cry and then—without warning—peed straight up into the air.

“WHOA—” Keigo dodged like he was in combat. “Direct hit! I repeat, I’ve been hit!”

You burst out laughing as he held his hands up in surrender, damp shirt clinging to his chest. “She’s got a hell of an aim.”

“She’s got your attitude,” he shot back, peeling his shirt off and grabbing a clean towel.

Still half-laughing, you finally got the fresh diaper on her, slipped her into a clean sleeper, and scooped her into your arms.

Almost instantly… she stopped crying.

Keigo stared at her, blinking. “…That was all just for fun, wasn’t it?”

Soraya blinked back, now completely serene. Possibly smug.

You leaned into him, baby tucked between you both now. “Mission complete?”

He sighed, already guiding you back to bed. “Until the next alarm goes off.”

“She’s totally gonna be a villain in the morning,” you said through a yawn.

“She’s gonna be a CEO in the morning,” he muttered. “This kid already runs the whole house.”

---

Later…

Back in bed, Keigo pressed a soft kiss to Soraya’s hair, then to your cheek.

“You know,” he whispered, eyes heavy with sleep, “even like this… I’ve never felt more like a hero.”

You smiled against his chest. “You’re not alone, birdbrain.”

"First Flight"

The world found out in the quietest, most intimate way possible.

No live stream.

No statement.

Just a photo.

Posted to Hawks’ official social media, it was timestamped at 2:17 AM.

The image was simple — raw and honest. A newborn baby lay peacefully in a clear hospital bassinet, swaddled in a pale cream blanket, her tiny hand peeking out just enough to show the faintest hint of a feather-soft birthmark on her wrist.

The hospital tag on her ankle read:

Takami, Soraya

DOB: April 8th, 2:03 AM

Perched on the edge of the bassinet was one single crimson feather — unmistakably Hawks’.

No faces. No filters.

Just a baby, a feather, and the beginning of everything.

The caption read:

> “Welcome to the world, little bird.

Born strong, born free.

#SorayaTakami #OurGreatestFlight”

---

Hours Earlier…

You were exhausted, glowing with post-birth adrenaline and relief, curled up in the hospital bed with Soraya asleep in your arms. Keigo stood nearby, looking down at you both like he couldn’t believe this was real.

“She’s perfect,” he whispered, brushing a kiss to your forehead.

You smiled sleepily. “You say that like it’s surprising.”

He chuckled. “I knew she'd be beautiful if she looked like you. But I didn’t expect her to already have my pout when she’s hungry.”

You laughed softly, then watched as he slowly walked over to the bassinet. Carefully, reverently, he placed one of his feathers beside her — not for show, not for symbolism.

But to protect.

He stepped back and lifted his phone, hesitating.

“You think… it’s time?” he asked, golden eyes uncertain. “Not for attention. Just… to share her.”

You nodded. “If you’re ready, I’m ready.”

He smiled, the kind of smile only you ever got to see — pure, unguarded, full of love. Then he snapped the photo and sat down beside you, your fingers threading together.

“I never thought I’d care this much about a post,” he whispered.

“Because it’s not a post,” you replied. “It’s a piece of her story.”

---

Moments Later, Online…

Trending Tags:

#SorayaTakami

#BabyBird

#HawksFirstFlight

#HeroDad

Fans were stunned.

The feather. The name. The stillness of the moment. It wasn’t loud or flashy — it was Hawks, but stripped down to his core: a man who had spent his life flying solo, finally grounded by love.

Even fellow heroes responded:

Best Jeanist: “Fashionably wrapped and absolutely precious.”

Fat Gum: “Protect her at all costs. Congrats, featherhead.”

Mt. Lady: “I’m not crying. You’re crying.”

---

Back in the Hospital Room…

Keigo turned off his phone and climbed into bed beside you, careful not to wake the baby in your arms.

“Think she knows she already changed the world?”

You looked down at Soraya’s tiny, sleeping face.

“She changed ours first.”

Keigo smiled, resting his forehead to yours. “She’s our best flight yet.”

alley rose | k. takami

you know he's not yours, but you'd still pick him in every lifetime. the worst part? he'd let you. (2785 words)

you never meant to fall into it.

and maybe that's the problem.

because things that fall tend to break, and you? you've never been particularly good at knowing when to catch yourself.

it starts with nothing. not even a spark, not a clear moment. no dramatic beginning. no pivotal shift in atmosphere. he just... shows up one night. stands in the doorway of your apartment with wind in his hair and fatigue under his eyes and a grin that looks like it's trying to apologize for both.

you don't remember who invited him. maybe he just appeared. you wouldn't put it past him.

you only remember letting him in.

he takes up space easily. like he's always belonged there. like the couch remembers his weight. like your walls never had a choice in loving the sound of his voice.

he doesn't say much. he never really has to.

he leans against the kitchen counter while you make tea, not even asking what kind, just accepting the mug with his usual crooked smile and a quiet, "you're a saint."

he doesn't drink it.

he just holds it between his hands, steam rising between his fingers like an offering he doesn't quite believe he deserves.

you sit in silence for a while. the kind of silence that feels earned. he doesn't fill it with nonsense. he lets it exist between you, thick and soft and settled like dust on a bookshelf no one has the heart to clean.

"you don't sleep much, huh?" he says eventually, with the kind of voice that makes the night lean in to listen.

you shrug. "not when the world's this loud."

he nods like he understands. like he feels it too. maybe he does.

he spends the night—not in your bed, never in your bed—but on the couch. boots off, one arm lazily thrown over his eyes like the darkness is too much. there's tension in his shoulders even when he sleeps.

you watch him from the doorway longer than you should. tell yourself it's because he's in your home. that you're being cautious.

it's not that.

it's never that.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ

he returns three nights later.

you don't ask why.

he starts showing up regularly. not every night, but often enough that you start leaving the door unlocked out of habit. he never uses a key. he always knocks, even when it's past midnight, even when you're both pretending he hasn't been there three times this week.

he doesn't talk about work. never talks about heroes or headlines or what happens after he walks out of your door and lets the world chew him up again.

you don't ask.

you offer him a space. warmth. the silence he pretends not to need.

he offers... something else. something half-shaped. a hand on your back when you pass each other in the kitchen. a smirk when you call him out on it. snacks left on the counter. a blanket draped over your shoulders when you fall asleep on the couch, though he'll swear it wasn't him.

and one night, when you're both sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor with half a bottle of something nameless between you, he leans in and kisses you.

it's not hungry. not sharp. not even all that deep.

it's lazy. gentle. like he forgot himself and remembered you in the same breath.

when he pulls back, he just grins. "nice lips," he murmurs. "don't let anyone tell you different."

and then he's gone.

you press your fingers to your mouth and pretend it didn't mean anything. pretend it was just a drunk impulse. a thing he does. a fluke.

you tell yourself it won't happen again.

it does.

not the kiss—but the weight of it. the imprint.

the moments start to blur together. late night dinners. half-slept mornings. you learn the exact sound his jacket makes when it hits your couch. the rhythm of his breath when he falls asleep sitting up. the way his voice drops when he's tired, softening like he's forgotten he's not supposed to be real around you.

you learn how to love him without touching him.

he makes it easy.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ

you don't talk about what this is.

not once.

not when he brings you takeout and eats with you in silence. not when he falls asleep with his head on your shoulder. not when he disappears for four days and comes back without a word and looks at you like he never left.

you tell yourself it doesn't matter.

because he's not cruel.

he never leads you on—not really. never calls you his. never asks you to stay. never says he loves you.

he just makes it feel like he does.

and maybe that's worse.

maybe if he'd been colder, you would've walked away by now. maybe if he'd kissed you like he didn't mean it, you wouldn't still taste him in your coffee. maybe if he didn't smile like you were the only person in the room—maybe then you'd be able to sleep at night without checking your phone for his name.

but he does. and you can't.

you try to pretend it's fine.

you're adults. capable of detachment. you know how this goes. some people just need somewhere to land. someone who doesn't ask questions. someone who lets them rest.

you can be that.

and for a while, you convince yourself you're okay with it.

because sometimes he looks at you and you think—maybe.

maybe this could be something.

maybe he just needs time.

maybe you're the only one who sees him like this—tired and soft and human.

maybe that matters.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ

one night, he cooks for you.

it's a disaster. the pasta overboils, the sauce burns, and he sets off your smoke alarm because he forgets how sensitive it is.

you sit on the floor with him, coughing and laughing, fanning smoke with a magazine while he yells at your ceiling.

when it finally clears, he sits beside you. knees touching. arms brushing. smelling like burnt garlic and relief.

he doesn't kiss you that night.

but he falls asleep in your lap, and you thread your fingers through his hair and pretend he's yours.

he's not.

but he lets you pretend.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ

"you're good at this," he says once, curled up in your blanket, the ends of his hair brushing your collarbone.

"what?"

"letting me stay."

you don't answer.

he doesn't expect you to.

˚⊹ ᰔ

you kiss again, weeks later.

it's different.

it's not light or easy or careless. it's slow. warm. aching.

he holds your face like it's glass. kisses you like he's afraid to stop. touches you like he's saying something he doesn't have the words for.

and afterward, he rests his forehead against yours and murmurs, "you always feel like home."

and you wonder if maybe this is something.

maybe this is real.

but then he gets up. leaves without looking back. and you stay awake all night, staring at the ceiling, wondering what you did wrong.

˚⊹ ᰔ

your friends start to notice.

"you've been distracted," one of them says.

"i'm fine," you lie.

they don't press. but they look at you like they know.

you delete the messages you want to send him. never hit call. never ask where he is when he disappears for days, weeks, reappears with new bruises and an easy smile and nothing in his eyes.

you pretend not to care.

but your hands shake when you wash his mug.

˚⊹ ᰔ

he shows up again.

you open the door. he looks tired.

you don't ask why.

he leans against the frame like he belongs there. like he knows you'll let him in.

and you do.

he doesn't kiss you this time. doesn't speak.

he just lays beside you on the couch. not touching. not sleeping. just breathing.

you turn your head.

he doesn't look at you.

you wonder if he's already left.

˚⊹ ᰔ

you don't remember the last time he said your name.

you don't remember the last time you said no.

˚⊹ ᰔ

there's no end. not yet.

there's just the quiet stretch of something wearing thin. the slow suffocation of wanting too much from someone who never offered you anything in the first place.

you tell yourself it's fine.

you knew what this was.

he never said it would be more.

but you wish—god, you wish—he hadn't made it feel so much like love.

because now, you don't know how to unfeel it.

you don't know how to stop opening the door when he knocks. how to stop hearing your name in the silence between his sentences. how to stop hoping.

and worst of all?

you don't want to.

not yet.

maybe not ever.

˚⊹ ᰔ

you don't talk about it.

the situation. the dynamic. the... thing between you.

there's no language for it. not really.

it's not a relationship. not a friendship. not even a fling.

but it's something. it has weight. it has presence. it takes up room in your life and your chest and your plans and your future in the way real things are supposed to. only it doesn't behave like something real. it behaves like a ghost with too much nerve. a shadow that leaves fingerprints on your heart but disappears when the light comes on.

you try to explain it to a friend once. someone who notices the way you pause when your phone buzzes. the way your smile flickers when it doesn't.

"is it serious?" they ask.

you open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

because how do you explain it? how do you articulate the emotional toll of being almost loved?

so you shrug. "it's nothing."

you lie.

but you shouldn't have to.

˚⊹ ᰔ

hawks—no, keigo, because he insists you call him that when you're alone, like that somehow makes him more honest—isn't cruel.

that's what you keep coming back to.

he never promises you anything. never strings you along with declarations or dates or matching mugs in the cupboard. he doesn't label this. doesn't even try.

but he lets you sit close. lets you hold his wrist when he's pacing and won't tell you what's wrong. lets you run your fingers through his hair when he comes back with blood under his nails.

he lets you treat him like someone you love.

and in return?

he lets you pretend he loves you back.

˚⊹ ᰔ

you try to find clarity in the small things.

like in the way he leans toward you in crowds. the way his eyes soften when he hands you a drink. the way he listens when you talk about things that don't matter.

but the truth is, affection doesn't equal intention.

and you're tired of translating his silence into possibility.

˚⊹ ᰔ

he disappears for two weeks.

no warning. no explanation. just gone.

the first few days you check your phone constantly. reread old messages. try to remember if you said something wrong. if you asked for too much. if he finally got bored of the emotional middle ground you let him live in.

the silence grows louder.

by the time the seventh day passes, it becomes a roar in your head.

you don't call. you don't text.

you tell yourself it's a boundary.

it's not. it's fear.

because if you reach out first, you won't like the answer.

˚⊹ ᰔ

he shows up on a tuesday.

doesn't knock. just opens your door like nothing's happened. like it hasn't been days since he last looked at you. like he didn't vanish into the wind and leave you to rot in your own expectations.

he drops his bag by the couch. throws himself down and stretches like a cat, muscles flexing under his shirt, wings shifting slightly.

"miss me?" he says with a grin.

your heart cracks. so quietly, so precisely, you barely feel it.

you sit beside him. don't say anything.

he throws an arm around your shoulder like this is normal. like you're normal.

"sorry," he says casually. "work stuff."

you nod.

he doesn't elaborate.

you don't ask.

and the silence between you stops being safe. it becomes suffocating.

˚⊹ ᰔ

you start pulling away in increments.

you don't make him tea anymore when he shows up. you don't wait for him to call. you stop folding his jacket when he leaves it draped over your chair. you stop making room in your drawer for the little things he forgets behind.

and he notices. of course he does.

he notices the tension in your jaw when he touches you. the fact that you turn your face away when he leans in like he might kiss you. the way you no longer meet his eyes when you say goodnight.

he doesn't say anything.

but one night, when you're both watching some movie neither of you are paying attention to, he speaks into the dark.

"you okay?"

you hesitate.

then: "i'm tired."

he hums. "long day?"

you don't answer, and he doesn't ask again.

˚⊹ ᰔ

your friends start asking questions. real ones.

"is this working for you?" "what do you want out of this?" "are you happy?"

you laugh them off.

but the ache in your chest lingers.

because no. you're not happy. not really.

you're in love with someone who only shows up when it's convenient. who never shares the parts of himself that matter. who touches you with familiar hands but guards his heart like it's state property.

and you? you've built a home out of his shadows. you've memorized a version of him that doesn't even belong to you.

you don't want to do this anymore.

˚⊹ ᰔ

but you still do.

because it's better than nothing.

because the alternative is letting him go.

and that feels like losing something you never got to keep in the first place.

˚⊹ ᰔ

then one night, it changes.

not loudly. not dramatically.

just... changes.

you're sitting on the floor again, legs stretched in front of you, a blanket around your shoulders and the tv on low. keigo's beside you, but not touching. for once, there's real distance.

you glance at him.

he's staring at the screen, eyes unfocused.

you don't recognize his expression.

you whisper, "why do you keep coming here?"

he blinks. looks at you. "what do you mean?"

you shrug. "i mean... you never talk. you disappear. you show up without warning. and i let you. every time. i don't ask for anything, and you know that."

he stays quiet.

"so why do you keep coming back?"

the silence stretches. you think maybe he won't answer.

then he says, soft: "because you're the only place i don't have to lie."

your stomach twists.

because that should mean something. it almost does.

but then you realize—

he's not saying he wants you. he's saying he likes what you give him.

peace. comfort. quiet.

you're not a person to him. you're a haven.

and he never had any intention of staying.

you breathe in, slowly, and nod.

"okay."

he looks at you, confused. "okay?"

you stand. your knees ache. your chest does too.

"you can go now."

he rises slowly, uncertainty flickering across his face for the first time. "what?"

you repeat it. "you can go."

he studies you. then smiles, like it's a joke. "don't be dramatic."

you stare at him. "i'm not."

something in his expression falters. "look," he says. "i didn't mean to—"

"i know," you say. "that's the problem."

he goes quiet again.

you continue, softer now. "you didn't mean to kiss me. or stay. or sleep here. or come back. or look at me like that. or make me feel like you wanted something real. and you think that's enough. that because you never said you cared, you didn't have to."

his mouth opens, then closes.

you're tired. so, so tired.

"you never had to lie to hurt me, keigo," you whisper. "you just had to let me believe you wanted me here."

he doesn't argue. he doesn't reach for you. he just stands there.

quiet.

just like always.

you don't ask him again to leave.

he just does. eventually.

without slamming the door. without saying goodbye.

and maybe that's what breaks you.

because there's nothing dramatic to hold on to. no final fight. no angry words. no declarations.

just absence.

and that hurts more than anything else.

˚⊹ ᰔ

you sit in the quiet after he's gone. your blanket falls off your shoulders and you don't pick it up. you sit there until the sun starts to rise.

and when your phone buzzes hours later, you don't check it.

because you already know—

it's not him.

it never really was.

signed, sealed, unprofessional | k. takami

in which your job is to manage keigo takami's modeling career, not his flirtation habit—but unfortunately, he's extremely good at both.