keigo takami (hawks) x journalist fem!reader
🪽 older pro hero hawks, reader is a 21yo sweet journalist, keigo is flirty! fluff!
you couldn’t believe your agency had finally managed to schedule an interview with him, after months and months of delays.
you sat at the edge of your chair, too stiff to feel comfortable, too nervous to be excited. the conference room was too quiet, too empty, smelling of coffee and fresh, warm paper. the back of your heels clicked with a anxious pace against the polished marbled floor, and you kept glancing towards the entry. smoothing the hem of your skirt for the fifth time, you let out a small breath — your pen, pink and glittery, twirled nervously between your fingers.
the little notepad on your lap was already filled with scribbled questions, questions you’d rehearsed in your head over and over already, but somehow, now that he was going to walk through that door, they felt almost invisible.
and when a flutter of feathers broke the silence, you froze, heartbeat increasing within your rib cage. then, came his voice: smooth, playful, lazy, unmistakably him.
”hope i’m not too late, couldn’t find the right cologne, my stylist scolded me already,” he chuckled, door closing right behind him, clenching like your poor heart at the sound of his tone — your stomach dropped. did he really sound like that in person? just like in television, but deeper. almost warmer.
keigo takami — Hawks, Number Two Hero, strolled in like a man who owned the entire place, if not the city. His wings rustled faintly against the air as he folded them in, feathers a dim red that gleamed under the fluorescent lights. he wore a fitted black shirt, first two buttons undone, his trademark tinted glasses pushed up into his messy hair.
either he already felt comfortable enough, or he wanted to make this interview end quickly.
“oh—“ you stood up form your chair so fast it almost creaked against the pavement, “you’re right on time, mr. takami”
his eyes set on you. glimmering like a hawk’s, sharp yet bright. like a predator expecting to find another one of his kind, instead of a little prey, in front of him.
“thank you for agreeing on meeting me— i mean, to do this interview,” you blinked at him, polite, professional, or at least, you tried to be. leaning forward, you reached out your hand, and he slowly let his eyes travel from your face, to your blouse, all the way to your hand, before slowly holding it.
warm, large. his hand felt safe against yours, rough and scarred, but grounding. and then, here it was, the slow, deliberate charming grin you’d seen on the front covers of dozens and dozens of magazines before.
“too early to thank me, dove, might spill the wrong tea,” he grinned at you, the ever so confident, charming and boyish hero.
you blinked again, feeling the familiar warmth of red spreading across your cheeks, before reluctantly letting go of his hand. you sat down, and he followed, dropping on a chair in front of yours, sprawling comfortably with one arm draped over the backrest.
taking a deep, silent breath, you gave him another smile, your signature one — sugary, reliable and tender sweet. the right amount of shyness and embarrassment behind it, yet one that felt genuine, “alright,” you cleared your throat, but could feel his piercing eyes on you. literally, all over you. as if he was curiously taking in your entire frame, clearly amused.
“this interview is for the upcoming hero feature series of our newspaper, as im sure you’ve been told. It’ll focus on your post—missions recovery efforts and—“
“uh-huh-“ hawks interrupted, stretching his wings lazily before wrapping them against his back, “post-war recovery, public trust, who I think is better and worse than me, yadda yadda. But tell me something first, baby bird,”
you froze, heart skipping a beat, and your cheeks flushed a bright red at the nickname. baby bird, it felt like velvet against your skin, the way he said that, and you could only stare at him, as he manspread, watching you with a playful glint.
“are we recording this? or is this gonna be just a chat between us?”
your fingers hesitated against the recorder, that small object inside your pocket, lingering over the start button, “only…only a part of it, sir,” you replied, softly, “the rest is just going to be used for transcription, so…”
his grin widened, but it wasn’t wicked. no, it was the kind of cooing smile that looked condescending, patronizing almost. but it looked so hot on him, you had to look down.
“only part of it, huh?” he leaned forward, elbows pressed against his parted thighs. “guess I’ll have to make sure the best parts don’t get caught on tape, huh, gorgeous?”
your glossed lips parted, closed, parted again. dumbfounded, almost ready to faint. you knew it’d be a wrong idea, choosing to interview him. they should’ve chosen any other journalist, but you happened to have the biggest crush on him since basically forever.
you knew he was teasing — Hawks was famous for this, after all — but it didn’t stop the warmth from creeping up your cheeks, painting them red, as red as his feathers. you were absolutely not immune to his charm, if anything, it was quite the opposite.
“im— im sure people who are going to read this article will want to know as much as possible about you, mr. takami,” you chirped, shyly and professional, “I apologize in advance for any odd questions, my pen wasn’t the cause of them,” you blinked your doll eyes down towards your notepad, before pressing on the record button.
“so, mr. takami, question one: how do you handle the balance between your hero duties and your personal life, now that you’ve also started male modeling?” you hoped your voice didn’t betray you, but finding yourself in front of him, seeing him in person, wasn’t helping your nerves.
he hummed, thoughtfully, gaze never leaving you — pushing his tongue against his inner cheek, he looked focused, throwing his head back, staring at the ceiling to think. your dollish eyes fell on his adam’s apple, the way it bobbed, and it made you blush, your soft face painted the same red as his feathers.
“balance, huh? that’s a tough one, especially since i’ve always got someone on my neck, but modeling has been great,” he smirked, the tip of his tongue pushing against his top teeth, “haven’t received any complains yet, just requests of being more naked. apparently girls go crazy over my wrist watch,”
you quickly cleared your throat and nodded, giving him a respectful smile, but before you could ask him another question, he interrupted you, drumming his fingers against the blue leather of his sofa chair.
“guess it helps when you’ve got someone interesting and pretty sitting in front of you during your spare time, makes it easier to forget about camera flashings, huh, birdie?”
the butterflies in your stomach ceased for a second, and you were afraid his charm would be too much for you, making you unable to keep up with that interview. wearing a soft, timid expression, you wore the purest look of innocence, maybe even insecurity. there’s nothing interesting about me, you thought.
“that’s— that’s not the case, im afraid.” you let out a soft breath, half chuckle, half shyness, but gave him the sweetest smile he’d ever seen, “but thank you, sir”
sir. oh, he loved that word. the way your gloss sparkled under the lights when you said that stirred something in him, something that made him buck his hips upwards and keep grinning at you. which made you notice how his shirt was glued to his muscular body like a second skin — each line of his chiseled, broad shoulders revealed muscles made of stone, and his arms were so fit and ripped they almost seemed heavy to look at.
his physique was so perfect, strong and muscular it was impossible not to think about how easy it’d be for him to pick you up effortlessly, carry you like when he caught civilians falling from the roof—
“okay, uhm, next question—“ you tried to focus, flipping a page, but he was faster
“tell me something first,” he interrupted again, smoothly, chin propped on his hand now, “how long have you been doing interviews like this?”
great. did that mean you were doing an horrible job?
you fiddled with your pink pen, your red cheeks growing brighter with each passing second, “oh, uhm— only a few months, im still learning”
“figures,” he said, his sardonic grin softer now, like he was cooing at a little girl, and it did sound patronizing, coming from him, but instead of irritating you, it made your legs clench together, your heart race,
he flexed his neck, spreading his wings to stretch them before rustling them back together, making tiny random feathers fall all around — one even fell right om your heel.
“you’ve got that new bird shine,” he whispered, but you caught that, and raised your brows, amused by that random comment.
“newbird?”
“yeah, gorgeous.” he said, grinning wickedly now, “still learning how to fly, how to spread her wings by herself. adorable”
you blinked — this time a bit more entertained than surprised. “you really like bird metaphors, don’t you, mr. takami?”
“well sunshine, if the feathers fit,”
you laughed before you could stop yourself, a light but chirpy giggle that you quickly tried to muffle with a hand against your mouth. oh oh. you’d have to remind yourself to edit that part and cut it off the recording.
red cheeks, wide eyes, and palm over your mouth, you gently shook your head, “sorry, didn’t mean to laugh like that, was— unprofessional,”
but he looked delighted. like he’d been expecting to get so bored during this interview, and here you are: a soft, pretty doll laughing at his stupid remarks.
“okay, so, back to where we left,” you began, forcing brightness into your tone, “since last time, your agency has announced a new mentorship initiative—”
“oh, yeah. gotta keep the fledglings flying,” he said, leaning back. he sent you a leisure, appreciative look, hawk eyes lazily roaming around your legs, your red cheeks, the glitters behind your long doll lashes, “you ever think about joining?”
what? you almost dropped your notebook, hoping your editor wouldn’t choose that exact moment to appear behind the glass and supervise your interview, “joining?”
he grinned. “sure. you could be our PR sweetheart. handle all the tough questions, maybe teach me to sit still for interviews. how to stop interrupting,” the last phrase was accentuated with a wink.
he winked at you. you swallowed, fighting down a little helpless whine, a whimper that almost came out because you wanted to run away and hide your face behind your hands.
“i—i don’t think that’s—“
“allowed?” he guessed, a heavy smirk on his lips, “yeah, that’s the story of my life, baby bird. people love to tell me what’s allowed or not.”
that caught you off guard. beneath the teasing, the flirting, there was something sharper there — a flicker of truth. his usual smirk was thinner, carrying something intense and bittersweet. you often wondered the kind of expectations and responsibilities that he tried to carry with his wings, being the n. 2 hero.
you hesitated before replying, softer this time, a sweet, understanding smile on your shiny lips. “guess we have that in common, sir.”
his eyes flicked up at that, golden and curious. “do we?”
the smallest nod from you enlightened your careful smile. with a single, quick silent glance towards the recorder, you shrugged briefly, “people telling us what to do. how, and when to do it”
he studied you for a moment, and it felt like the whole world had gone quiet. lifting his hand up, he reached out and brushed his jaw, slowly and quietly. then as if remembering himself, he chuckled lightly. “babybird is full of surprises, huh?”
tilting your head, you gave him another smile, innocent, amused, but so sweet he could taste the sugar dripping from it, “just doing my job, mr. takami. that’s all i can do”
“sure you are, sweet thing,”
there it was again — that husky, velvet amusement that made you want to forget the recorder entirely. that made you want to stand up, place the pen down and sat on his lap. his cologne would definitely smell stronger if you sat on top of him, but you always wondered if his feathers were soft, or ticklish, or rough.
burning hot, you held your notebook like your life depended on it, and desperately looked for another question, “we— we have the last question for todays special edition, sir, so, is it—“
the softest, cutest frown appeared between your brows, as your eyes ran back and forth against that random question written in a different font, black ink, not your usual blue one.
“is it true you have sharp canines—?” you whispered that question more to yourself, out of pure bewilderment, confusion. who had opened your notebook and written that embarrassing question?
hawks didn’t move, just looked at you with a surprised, amused lazy look. like he somehow found that question amusing, cheeky. but you stammered with your words, shaking your head and just letting your cheeks grow on fire. you had enough. you carefully closed the notebook.
“never mind, sir. that’ll be all for today, we- we can schedule another meeting for the remaining questions,” you couldn’t believe it. you’d made a fool out of yourself reading that silly question out loud. what kind of person decides to ask something like that, wasting precious time and opportunities to talk to a pro hero? you sighed, quickly interrupting the recorder before setting it on the nearby table.
“i apologize, sir, i had no idea—“
“relax, baby bird. people have asked me way worse questions,” he lifted a single brow, a silent double entendre that made you blush with its innuendo. giving him a thankful smile, you nodded, tucking a loose string of hair behind your ear. something shiny caught his eyes, and he saw your earring, a golden little feather.
for the occasion. cute. he could literally eat you up right there and then. you’d probably taste as sweet as you looked.
keigo stood first, stretching, feathers rustling. he waited until you started to pack your things before murmuring, so low it vibrated against your back, “cute pen, by the way, suits you.”
you opened your mouth to reply, but the door of the studio shot open, and your editor let someone in with him, someone you couldn’t quite recognize. probably keigo’s personal driver.
“well, it’s been a pleasure, baby bird,” he looked at you up and down, so tall you had to raise your head to meet his eyes.
“thank you for your time, mr. takami,” you smiled at him, innocent, dollish, a sweet blink that whispered something to him. something he was hungry for — you reached out your hand to shake his, but he quickly took it and brought it to his lips, pressing a charming kiss on the back of your hand, making your breath still for a second, cheeks flaming up, red and warm.
“see you around, baby bird. be careful, it’s sensitive,”
he winked, then was gone in a rustle of red feathers and the faintest trace of a groveling chuckle, leaving you with one trembling hand resting on your chest, a confused look and a racing heartbeat.
your editor closed the door behind him, giving you a quick, supportive smile, before leaving you all alone in the room. you waited until the sound of keigo’s wings had vanished in the corridor before turning around, and blinking down towards your closed notebook.
what did he mean by that? what was sensitive?
but the images and thoughts of him were still a confused mess of memories in your head, your cheeks hadn’t stopped burning and you felt your heart in your throat, like a schoolgirl who’d just had a meeting with her crush, the man she fangirled over.
a scattering of papers and documents laid on the table surface, and you tried to collect them all, eager to go get a refreshing drink and distract yourself from that charming, teasing hero, but as soon as you opened your notebook to fit the sheets, you froze.
a red father was cradled between two pages, the color of the sunburst desert — carefully, you picked it up with trembling fingers, and you smiled to yourself when you felt it was soft to the touch, the edge a little rougher, but it was larger than you’d expected now that you held one of his feathers up close, almost as large as your palm.
but when you flipped it over, that girlish smile quickly fell, replaced by a breathless gasp, shy, innocent.
a thin series of numbers appeared under your digits, written quickly and in haste, underneath laid one single line, a neat, looping handwriting.