How they react to when You get Involved in a Gang Fight // Tokyo Revengers

Charakters: Mikey, Draken, Mitsuya, Chifuyu, Izana, Ran, Rindou, Hanma, Kazutora, Sanzu

Synopsis: When you throw yourself into the chaos of a gang fight to protect someone you care about or to stand your ground, the men who love you — hardened delinquents and broken boys with blood on their hands — are forced to confront the one thing they fear most: losing you.

CW: violence, blood, injury, gang activity, emotional distress, and possessive/protective behavior, intense emotional reactions,yelling, panic, or obsessive tendencies.

Mikey (Majiro Sano):

It happens fast.

One moment Mikey is in the middle of the fight, throwing punches like it’s second nature, and the next—he hears your voice. A shout. A warning. And then you’re there, right in it. Swinging. Blocking. Bleeding.

His heart stops.

Everything slows. The noise, the chaos, the adrenaline—it all fades into static. He sees you take a hit and it’s like someone reached into his chest and ripped something out. For a second, he doesn’t even move. He just stares. It’s not until someone lunges toward you that his body reacts—pure instinct.

He’s on them in seconds. Cold, brutal, efficient. He tears through anyone in his way, eyes dark with something unnameable. Not rage. Not fear. Something deeper. Desperation.

When he finally reaches you, he grabs your wrist, yanks you back behind him, and growls, “What the hell are you doing here?” His voice is low, shaking. His usual calm is gone. You try to answer, but he’s already turning, shielding you with his own body, finishing the fight like a machine programmed to destroy anything that comes close to you.

Once it’s over, he doesn't say anything. He grabs your hand—tight—and walks you away from the mess. His grip is trembling, but he won’t let go. Not until you’re somewhere quiet. Safe.

Then he turns to you.

“Are you hurt?” His voice cracks. He cups your face in both hands, tilting your head gently, scanning you for blood, bruises, broken bones. His touch is careful, reverent, almost like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he blinks.

You try to say you're fine, but he leans in and kisses you—hard.

It’s not a soft kiss. It’s urgent. Messy. His hands are in your hair, on your back, pulling you as close as he physically can. He kisses you like he’s afraid this might be the last time. Like he needs to taste the proof that you’re alive, that you’re his, that he didn’t just watch you get torn away from him.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. He’s breathing hard. Still shaking.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he whispers, almost broken. “Don’t throw yourself into something like that. Not when I’m here. Not when I could’ve—” His voice cuts off.

You kiss him softly this time. Once. Then twice. Then again, brushing your lips over his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. You feel him exhale shakily, eyes fluttering closed under your touch.

“I was trying to help,” you whisper.

“I know,” he breathes back. “But you’re not just anyone. You’re mine.” His thumb strokes over your cheek as he leans in again, pressing his lips to your temple, your nose, your lips—everywhere he can reach. "You don’t get to risk yourself like that. Not for them. Not even for me."

He kisses you again—slow this time. Deep. Like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. His hands slide down your sides, grounding himself in the feel of you.

“You’re the only thing that still feels real to me,” he murmurs against your skin. “Don’t make me watch you get hurt. I wouldn’t come back from that.”

You wrap your arms around him, bury your face in his neck, and he just holds you. Tight. Fiercely. He doesn't speak for a long while—he just kisses the top of your head, your shoulder, your hairline, over and over like a silent vow.

After that day, Mikey doesn’t stop you from being involved—he knows better than to try to cage your fire—but he never lets you out of his sight during a fight. He keeps you close. Touches you constantly. A hand on your back. Fingers brushing yours. His way of silently saying: I’m here. I’ve got you. Stay with me.

And every time it ends, no matter how small the fight was, you can count on it—

Mikey’s hands on your cheeks. His lips on yours. Again. And again. And again. Because he needs to feel you alive to believe he still is.

___________________________________________________________________________

Draken:

He sees you before you see him.

In the middle of the chaos—bodies colliding, fists flying—his eyes lock onto you. And his heart drops. Because you’re fighting. Not watching. Not hiding. Fighting. You’re right there in the thick of it, punching someone twice your size, moving fast, fierce, and fearless.

And Draken? He panics.

Not on the outside, of course. Outwardly, he looks composed—focused. But inside, he's unraveling. His chest tightens. The world narrows until there’s just you, and all he can think is: No. Not them. Not here. Not like this.

He cuts through the fight like a storm—quick, brutal, efficient. He’s not fighting to win. He’s fighting to get to you. The second someone takes a swing at you, Draken intercepts it without thinking, blocking the blow with his own body. He throws the guy back with a glare that could kill.

And then he turns to you. “Are you outta your mind?!”

His voice is loud, but it’s not anger. It’s fear. Raw, sharp-edged fear.

You try to explain—I had to help, I couldn’t just watch—but he’s already scanning you, hands touching your arms, your waist, your face like he needs to check you’re all there. There’s blood. Yours? Someone else’s? He doesn’t know. Doesn’t care. His hands shake as they frame your face.

“You don’t do that. You don’t do that, baby.” His forehead drops against yours, breathing fast. “You could’ve gotten seriously hurt. What were you thinking?”

You open your mouth to answer, but he silences you with a kiss. Rough at first—full of adrenaline and terror and too many feelings he hasn’t sorted out yet. His hands pull you closer like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

He kisses you again. Slower. Longer. His lips linger like he’s trying to erase the memory of you in danger.

“I get it,” he mutters between kisses. “You’re strong. Brave. I know that. But I almost lost my mind out there watching you fight.”

Another kiss. This one to your forehead. Then one to your temple. Then your cheek. Each one slower, softer, more deliberate than the last.

“I don’t ever want to see you in the middle of that again,” he says, his voice low, breaking slightly. “I can’t focus. I can't breathe. You're all I think about when you’re out there. And if something happened to you…” He trails off, jaw tightening. “I’d lose it.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, and he melts into you. His hands find your lower back, holding you close like he's anchoring himself to the feel of you. You can feel the rapid beat of his heart against yours.

After a moment, he pulls back just enough to look at you, brushing a thumb under your eye. “Next time, stay back. Or stay beside me. But don’t do that again—not alone.”

And then he kisses you again. Gentle this time. Tender. With that mix of frustration and adoration that only Draken can pull off. The kind of kiss that says, You scared the hell out of me, but I love you more than anything.

Later, when it’s over and you’re somewhere private, he’ll sit you down, clean up your cuts himself, and kiss every bandage he places. Not because he’s trying to be romantic— But because that’s the only way he knows how to say I love you. I need you safe. I don’t want to do this life without you.

And from then on, every time you’re near a fight, his arm will find your waist. His eyes will never leave you. Because Draken doesn’t just fight to win. He fights to protect you. Even from yourself, if he has to.

___________________________________________________________________________

Mitsuya Takashi:

Mitsuya doesn’t raise his voice.

Even when he sees you in the middle of a gang fight, trading blows and ducking punches like it’s second nature—he doesn’t shout. Doesn’t panic.

But something in his eyes changes.

He sees you before you see him. The second your fist connects with someone’s jaw, his stomach knots. Your stance is decent, your movement sharp, but it doesn’t matter. It’s not about whether you can handle yourself—it’s about the fact that you shouldn’t have to.

You’re the one thing in his world that isn’t built on violence. The person he comes home to, not the one he has to protect in the middle of a battlefield. And seeing you in it now? Bloody knuckles, scraped cheek, panting for breath—it hits him like a punch to the chest.

He gets to you fast, intercepting a guy about to land a blow on your side. He moves clean, precise—like he always does—but there’s an edge to it this time. Quiet fury.

When the fight’s over, he doesn't speak right away. Just pulls you into him, arms wrapping tight around your waist like he needs to feel your heartbeat against his. He presses his forehead into your shoulder and holds you there.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” he murmurs finally, voice low. “You shouldn’t have been in that.”

You try to protest—I had to help, I couldn’t just stand by—but he pulls back slightly, cups your cheeks with those calloused hands, and kisses you. Soft. Slow. The kind of kiss that says you scared the hell out of me, but I missed you even while you were standing right in front of me.

“You’re incredible,” he says against your lips. “You really are. Brave, strong... but this world? It’s ugly. I didn’t want it touching you.”

Another kiss. This one a little longer. His hands slide into your hair, fingertips brushing gently along the back of your neck like he’s memorizing the feel of you again.

“I trust you,” he adds, eyes scanning your face. “But I can’t pretend it doesn’t tear me apart when I see you bleed.”

He starts checking you over, inspecting every scratch like he’s tailoring something delicate. His thumbs brush over your bruised knuckles. He lifts your hand to his mouth and kisses your fingers, one by one. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs. “Adrenaline?”

You nod.

He nods too, presses his lips to your forehead, and holds you a little tighter.

“You’re amazing,” he says quietly, resting his chin on your head. “But you’re also mine. And that means your pain is my pain. Your bruises are mine to carry.”

He walks you home that night with your hand in his, knuckles still scraped, silence between you filled with the warmth of shared breath and quiet glances. And later—when you’re alone—he tends to every wound like he’s patching up fabric, precise and gentle.

With every bandage, he kisses the skin underneath. With every sigh, he tells you in his own quiet way—Please don’t put yourself in danger. Let me stand between you and the world.

And before you fall asleep in his arms, he kisses your temple and whispers, “If you ever step into a fight again… Let me be right beside you. I’d rather take the hit than live without you.”

___________________________________________________________________________

Chifuyu Matsuno:

He doesn’t expect to see you.

Chifuyu’s in the thick of it—dodging swings, throwing punches, watching his friends’ backs like he always does—when he hears your voice. A shout. His head snaps around so fast it nearly gives him whiplash.

And there you are. Fighting. For real. Not just yelling, not just standing back, but in it—elbows flying, face set in pure determination.

His blood runs cold.

Everything else fades. His instincts scream to move—to get to you—but the crowd swallows the space between you like a wall of chaos. He barrels through anyway. He doesn’t care who’s in the way. Doesn’t care if he takes a hit. He just knows he has to reach you before something goes wrong.

When he finally gets to you, you're breathless, bruised, and bleeding just a little—lip split, hair messy, eyes fierce. You're still standing. Still fighting. But the second you see him, something in you softens.

“Are you serious right now?!” he snaps, grabbing your arm and dragging you behind him. “What were you thinking?!” His voice cracks—not from anger, but fear. “You could’ve—what if you—”

You try to answer, but he pulls you in and kisses you. Hard. Quick. Almost desperate.

He breaks the kiss with his forehead against yours, panting, hands gripping your shoulders like he needs to feel you're really there. “You don’t do that to me,” he whispers. “Not you. Not ever.”

You go quiet. You’ve never seen him like this—so wide-eyed, so shaken.

“I thought—” He pauses. Swallows hard. “I thought I was gonna watch you get hurt and not be able to do anything. And I can’t—” His voice cracks again. He presses another kiss to your lips, gentler this time, lingering like he’s grounding himself in your warmth.

“You’re my person,” he murmurs against your mouth. “The only one I don’t wanna see covered in bruises. The one I fight to protect. And now you’re out here fighting too?” He pulls back and cups your face in both hands, brushing his thumbs across your cheeks. “You're tough, I know. Brave as hell. But... I need you safe. Please.”

He kisses your temple. Then your forehead. Then your lips again. A dozen soft kisses follow, like he's trying to apologize for yelling. Like he's checking every part of you to make sure you’re still whole.

You whisper, “I just wanted to help.”

“I know,” he says, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “But next time… stay close to me, okay? Let me fight with you. Or for you. Just… don’t go into it alone.”

Later, when the adrenaline fades, he’s by your side—cleaning your wounds with hands that are too gentle for someone who’s so good at fighting. Every time he presses antiseptic to your skin, he follows it with a kiss. To your cheek. Your fingers. Your shoulder. Your lips.

“You’re reckless,” he teases, finally smiling. “But you’re mine.”

And from then on, Chifuyu never fights without glancing back to check where you are. Because you might be strong—but in his eyes, you’ll always be the one worth protecting.

__________________________________________________________________________

Izana Kurokawa:

Izana doesn’t react right away.

At first, he thinks he’s imagining it—your silhouette moving in the chaos of fists and shouting and broken glass. But when you swing your leg and land a kick that sends someone crashing into a wall, something inside him snaps.

His heart doesn’t race. His blood doesn’t boil. It freezes.

Because for a split second, he’s not the Tenjiku leader anymore. He’s just a boy who’s lost too many people. And now you—you—are in the middle of the violence he tried so hard to keep separate from the parts of his life that feel real.

He’s across the space in seconds.

The people around you don't even see it coming. Izana moves like he always does—lethal and elegant—but this time, there’s no smirk. No joy. No satisfaction. Just cold precision. His eyes never leave you.

By the time he’s cleared a path to your side, you’ve got blood on your lip and your breathing is ragged—but you’re standing. Still defiant. Still fighting.

“You idiot,” he says, voice terrifyingly soft. “What the hell are you doing?”

You start to answer, but Izana doesn't let you. He grabs your wrist and yanks you close. He stares at you like he’s trying to burn your image into his brain. And then—without warning—he crashes his lips to yours.

It’s a kiss that tastes like fear and fire.

Desperate. Hard. Messy. His hand slides up to cup the back of your neck, pulling you impossibly close. He doesn’t care that people are watching. He doesn’t care that the fight isn’t technically over. He only cares that you're here—alive, warm, real—and not lying in a pool of blood because of a stupid decision.

“Do you think you’re untouchable?” he growls against your mouth. “Do you want to die in a back alley like every other idiot in this world?”

You glare up at him, panting. “I was trying to help.”

His expression twists—equal parts anger and heartbreak. He touches your face again, but this time, his fingers are trembling. “No. You don’t get to help like this. Not you. You’re not supposed to bleed for this world.”

You soften. “I was worried about you.”

That sentence breaks him.

He exhales, shaky, and rests his forehead against yours. “You’re the only thing in this whole damn life that doesn’t feel like it’s going to disappear. I can’t—” His voice cracks. “I can’t lose you.”

Then the kisses start again. Softer now. Slower. One at a time. To your lips. Your nose. Your cheeks. Your jaw. As if he’s making up for every second he spent terrified while you were out there fighting.

Later—when it’s quiet—he sits beside you, hands gentle as he cleans your wounds. His thumb brushes over a bruise on your shoulder, and he leans down to kiss it. Then your hand. Then your temple. Each kiss is an apology. A promise. A prayer.

“I’m not like the others,” he whispers into your skin. “You know that, right?”

You nod. “I know.”

“I destroy things. I ruin people.” He pulls back to look you in the eyes. “But you? You’re the one thing I want to protect, not break.”

He kisses you again, soft and reverent.

And from that night on, Izana changes. He doesn’t try to lock you away or keep you out—but when he fights, you’re always behind him. Always in reach. And if anyone so much as touches you, he ends it before the fight even starts.

Because in a world Izana built on violence and control, you are the one thing he refuses to lose.

___________________________________________________________________________

Ran Haitani:

Ran’s not easy to shake.

He’s the kind of man who watches fights with a lazy smirk, twirling his baton and humming while the world burns around him. He’s calm, cocky, calculated — until he sees you in the middle of a fight.

Then all that chill?

Gone.

He freezes when he spots you — your fists up, blood on your cheek, going toe-to-toe with someone twice your size. At first, he thinks he’s hallucinating. You’re not supposed to be here. You’re not supposed to be fighting.

And then he sees someone swing at you.

Something inside him snaps.

The smirk vanishes. The baton swings.

He’s across the street in seconds — fast, brutal, and silent. No flashy remarks. No warnings. Just clean, cold violence until the people around you are either unconscious or running for their lives. When it’s over, his chest is heaving, hair wild, eyes dark as a storm.

“Y’know,” he says, voice dangerously calm as he strides toward you, “I’m trying really hard not to lose my f*cking mind right now.”

You barely open your mouth before he grabs you — arm around your waist, hand in your hair — and kisses you.

Hard. Hot. Angry.

It’s not romantic. It’s not gentle. It’s desperate. Like he needs to remind himself that you’re alive. That your lips still work. That your body is still warm.

When he pulls back, he stares at you for a second, chest still heaving. “Are you insane?” he breathes. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed.”

You glare. “I can handle myself—”

He kisses you again. Just to shut you up.

“Don’t care,” he mutters against your lips. “Don’t wanna watch you handle yourself like that. Not in the middle of all this.”

His fingers brush the blood at your temple. His jaw clenches.

“Sht, you’re bleeding.” He kisses it. “Right here.” He kisses again, softer this time. Then your cheek. Then your neck. Then back to your lips. “Every fcking bruise on you makes me wanna burn this whole street down.”

You wrap your arms around him and feel how tight he’s holding you. How shaken he really is beneath all that silk and swagger.

“I was scared,” he admits into your skin. “Didn’t like that.”

You soften instantly. “I’m sorry.”

He sighs and leans his forehead against yours. “You’re lucky I love you more than I love violence.”

Another kiss. Slower now. Lingering. His hand moves to cradle your cheek as if to say, Don’t ever do that again. But he doesn’t say it. Because he knows you. Knows how stubborn you are. How loyal.

So instead he whispers, “Next time, if you have to fight… I’m at your side. You don’t go in without me, got it?”

You nod, and he smiles — just a little — before kissing you again. Not because he wants to tease, or seduce, or win. Because he needs to feel you’re still his.

Later, when it’s just the two of you, he’ll run a bath for you like nothing happened. He’ll hum while cleaning your cuts. He’ll kiss every one like it’s sacred.

But every now and then, you’ll catch the way his hand grips your wrist just a bit tighter. The way he stares at your bruises like they’re personal insults. Because Ran Haitani might laugh at the world, but he will never laugh at the idea of losing you.

And God help anyone who ever puts you in danger again.

__________________________________________________________________________

Rindou Haitani:

Rindou’s not loud. He doesn’t scream when he sees you throw a punch. He doesn’t panic. He just goes still.

Like something inside him flatlined.

His violet eyes track you across the chaos like a sniper — watching the way your body moves, the way you block, dodge, fight like someone who's seen too much and won't back down.

And Rindou wants to be proud. He really does. You’re fierce. Brave. You don’t flinch.

But all he can feel is fear.

And beneath it, rage.

Because you weren’t supposed to be here. You were supposed to be the one thing he could come home to after hell — not the one in the middle of it.

The second someone grabs your arm mid-swing, he’s there. His baton comes down like thunder — fast, hard, merciless. The guy hits the pavement and doesn’t get back up.

Then Rindou turns to you.

“You lost your mind or somethin’?” he asks, voice flat, deceptively calm.

You try to explain — I had to help, they were outnumbered — but he just pulls you in without a word and kisses you.

Not soft. Not sweet. This is the kind of kiss that steals your breath. The kind that says you could’ve been gone, and don’t you ever do that again.

When he pulls back, his hand stays curled at your jaw, fingers firm but careful. His forehead leans into yours as he closes his eyes for a beat, grounding himself in the feel of you, the heat of your skin, the proof that you're alive.

“You get that I’m not mad ‘cause you fought,” he mutters. “I’m mad ‘cause I looked up and saw someone swinging at you, and I couldn’t reach you in time.”

His thumb brushes your cheek, tracing the blood there. Then he leans down and kisses the spot, gentle, reverent. “This? I hate this. Hate seeing you like this.”

You whisper that you’re okay, and he lets out a breath — one that’s too shaky for someone who’s usually unreadable. “No, you’re not. You’re bleeding. You’re shaking. And I’m losing my goddamn mind just looking at you.”

He kisses you again. And again. Each kiss slower than the last. One to your lips. One to your temple. Your shoulder. Your scraped knuckles. “Don’t do that again. Not without me. I mean it.”

When the adrenaline dies down, he takes your hand — clutching it tight — and doesn’t let go. Even when you’re out of danger. Even when you’re back home. Even as he kneels in front of you and tends to every bruise like he’s fixing a cracked porcelain doll.

“I’m not Ran,” he says quietly, wiping dried blood from your lip. “I don’t flirt through everything. I don’t act like it’s all a game. When I say I love you, I f*cking mean it.”

He kisses you again, softer than ever. His lips press against yours like a silent vow.

“You’re mine. You hear me?” Another kiss. “And I protect what’s mine.”

After that, Rindou never lets you walk into a fight without him again. And if you try? He kisses you until you forget what you were even arguing about.

___________________________________________________________________________

Hanma Shuji:

At first, he laughs.

That wild, unhinged laugh that makes everyone freeze up because they can never tell if he’s about to kiss someone or kill them. He’s spinning his fists like a conductor conducting a symphony of violence — and then he spots you.

Right in the middle of the fight.

And you’re not frozen or afraid — you’re swinging.

Your fist connects with someone’s jaw, and Hanma pauses mid-brawl.

The laugh dies.

His grin stays, but it shifts — not playful, not amused. Something darker. Sharper. Dangerous.

He watches for a moment — eyes locked on your form, the way your chest rises and falls, the blood on your lip, the grit in your expression. You’re beautiful, furious, reckless.

And then someone comes at you with a pipe.

Before they can land a single hit, Hanma’s there.

Crack.

Pipe drops. Attacker collapses. Hanma doesn’t even blink.

Then he turns to you.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, baby?” he says, voice honey-slick and terrifyingly soft.

You open your mouth to argue, but you don’t get the chance.

He grabs you — not rough, but firm. Possessive. His hand curls around your waist, the other around the back of your neck. And then he kisses you.

Hard. Brutal. Bruising.

It’s a kiss that tastes like metal and heat and panic — not yours. His.

Because Hanma doesn’t feel fear often. But when he saw you in the middle of that chaos? He remembered what it meant to be scared. To need someone. To lose.

When he finally pulls away, your lips are swollen, and you’re breathless.

“I love a little chaos,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “But not you in it. That’s not part of the game.”

“You were outnumbered,” you protest, stubborn as ever. “I wasn’t gonna sit back and—”

“Shh.” He kisses you again. Slower this time. Deeper. His hand tightens in your hair. “You fight with me, sweetheart. Not in front of me. Not alone.”

You feel him shaking — just a little. Only because you're close enough to notice.

“You're bleeding,” he says, staring at a cut on your shoulder. “My favorite f*cking person in the world, and you're out here getting hurt like you're disposable.” His voice drops lower, more dangerous. “Do I need to break every bone in their bodies to get the message across?”

He kisses the cut. Then your collarbone. Then the corner of your mouth. Each kiss a contradiction — violent in its need, but careful in its touch.

Later, when the fighting's done and it's just the two of you, he’s not laughing anymore. He sits you down, grabs some gauze and antiseptic, and tends to you with surprising gentleness. All while muttering:

“Crazy, crazy girl. Driving me f*cking insane.”

When you ask if he’s mad, he looks you dead in the eye.

“Mad? Baby, I worship you. But if you scare me like that again, I might kiss you so hard we both forget how to breathe.”

And he does. Over and over.

Because for a man like Hanma — who lives in violence and chaos — you are the only thing he ever truly wants to protect.

___________________________________________________________________________

Kazutora Hanemiya:

Kazutora doesn’t notice at first.

He’s busy — fists flying, body moving on instinct, eyes scanning for danger. The kind of fight where the world blurs and all he can hear is the sound of skin hitting skin and distant sirens.

But then, through the chaos, someone shouts your name. And it’s like the air is sucked out of the world.

He whips around.

And sees you.

Fighting.

Bleeding.

Dodging a punch that came way too close.

His heart doesn’t stop — it shatters.

For a second, his body locks up. Like he’s been hit by a ghost. Something dark flashes behind his eyes — the memory of loss, of helplessness, of watching someone important vanish in an instant.

And then he snaps.

Kazutora’s chaos is usually wild and unpredictable, but now? He’s focused. Every punch is for the bastard who dared to put you in danger. Every movement cuts a path to you.

By the time he reaches your side, your lip is split and you’re breathing hard — but you’re standing. You look at him like you’re not sure if he’s about to yell or fall apart.

He does neither.

He drops his weapon, grabs your face in both hands, and kisses you.

Hard. Messy. Like it’s the only way he knows how to stay alive in that moment.

When he pulls back, his voice is hoarse. “What the hell are you doing, baby?”

You try to explain — “They needed help, I couldn’t just stand back—”

He shakes his head, forehead pressed to yours. “No. No, no, no.” His hands are shaking. “You can’t be part of this. Not like this.”

“You don’t get to protect me from everything,” you whisper.

His jaw clenches. “I know. But f*ck, if I lose you… if I have to watch something happen to you while I’m right there…” His voice breaks. “I wouldn’t survive that. I know I wouldn’t.”

You touch his cheek. “But I’m here. I’m okay.”

He kisses you again — slower this time. Softer. Like he’s saying thank you for living without using words. His arms wrap tightly around your waist, as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go for even a second.

He kisses your forehead. Your nose. The bruised corner of your mouth.

“Next time,” he murmurs, voice trembling, “you stay behind me. Just for once. Let me be the one to get hurt.”

You smile gently. “But I love you too much to do that.”

And he breaks — just a little. His breath hitches, his head drops to your shoulder, and he holds you tighter than ever before.

That night, he won’t stop touching you. Not in a needy way — in a reassuring way. His fingers trace over every cut, every bruise, and he kisses each one like it’s sacred.

Because Kazutora doesn’t believe he deserves good things. But you? You’re the one thing he’s terrified to lose. And he’ll fight anyone, even you, if it means keeping you safe.

___________________________________________________________________________

Sanzu Haruchiyo:

He sees you before anyone else does.

You're in the middle of it — fists flying, hair tangled, blood on your face that might be yours. Sanzu’s in the thick of the fight too, laughing like a man possessed, until his eyes catch the shape of you — dodging, swinging, surviving.

And suddenly, the world goes quiet.

He stops laughing.

Stops breathing.

Time slows down around him.

No one touches what’s his. No one. And you — you — are the one beautiful thing he never thought he could have. And now you're here, bleeding, and for a horrifying moment he thinks: This is how I lose you.

The rage comes first.

It's not just anger — it's pure destruction. He doesn’t just fight — he erupts.

Anyone near you is torn down like paper. He doesn’t care who they are. Doesn’t care if they beg or bleed. They touched you. They endangered you. That’s enough.

Then, once the smoke clears, he’s in front of you — grabbing your wrist, pulling you in roughly but not cruelly, eyes wide and unhinged.

“What the f*ck were you thinking?” he demands. His voice is high, hoarse — frantic. “Are you trying to die? You think this is a joke?”

You try to answer, but he kisses you before you can even speak.

It’s not gentle.

It’s raw.

It’s teeth and breath and shaking hands gripping your face like he’s terrified you’ll disappear the second he lets go. His lips are desperate — not for passion, but for proof.

Proof you’re alive.

“You don’t do that,” he gasps between kisses. “You don’t jump in like that. You’re not— You’re not supposed to get hurt.”

You whisper, “I can handle myself—”

“No, no, you don’t get it,” he growls. “You’re not me. You’re not some f*cked-up freak who doesn’t care if they live or die.”

He presses his forehead to yours. Blood runs down his cheek — you don’t know if it’s his or someone else’s. His eyes are wild, frantic, devastated.

“I care. I care so much it hurts. And seeing you in the middle of that?” His voice breaks. “I’ve killed for less. Don’t make me bury the one person I actually love.”

You freeze.

He never says that. Not out loud. Not like this.

He pulls you in again, wrapping his arms around your body and kissing you softer now. Reverently. As if each kiss is a prayer, a plea, a promise.

Later, when he’s patched you up — and his hands are steady again — he lays beside you in silence. His fingers trace your skin, checking every mark like he’s memorizing it.

“I’ll kill anyone who ever drags you into that again,” he whispers. “Even if it’s you.”

But when you touch his cheek and smile, he breaks again — in a quiet, aching kind of way.

And kisses you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

Because in his twisted, bloody life, you are the only thing that's real.

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

ᡣ𐭩 ft: ran haitani, rindou haitani, hanma shuji, izana kurokawa, kakucho hitto

ᡣ𐭩 notes: just thinking about the tokyo rev boys having the biggest crush on you but being too scared to say it out loud, so they show it instead; in the things they do for you, in the effort they’ll never talk about & in the way they care without calling it love 🥹

✧ RAN HAITANI ✧

𖥔 ran will say “you’re so troublesome,” but his hand’s already brushing your hair behind your ear, especially when it’s gotten all messy from the wind.

𖥔 he pretends he’s uninterested, but somehow you never pay for your own food when he’s around. and when you ask why, he just leans back in his seat, eyes half-lidded and says, “..what? i was hungry anyway. so i paid for us both.”

𖥔 you once complain about having headaches and then the next day, there’s already a new bottle of meds sitting on your desk with a note that says: ‘don’t forget to take this.’

𖥔 ran flirts like he’s playing around, but the truth is; he shows love through the little things he does. it’s in the routines he builds around you, the things he quietly manages so you never have to ask twice, or at all.

✧ RINDOU HAITANI ✧

𖥔 rindou won’t admit that he has a crush on you, he’ll just sit beside you in silence with his hand resting close to yours while secretly hoping that you feel the same way as he does.

𖥔 he keeps a playlist on his phone titled with your initials— filled with songs that remind him of you. he listens to it alone, usually late at night, but he’ll never let you see it.

𖥔 the moment he notices that you’re shivering even just a little, his hoodie is already off and over your shoulders before you can say a word.

𖥔 and if you cry? he won’t ask why. he’ll just hold you tighter until you’re ready to speak.

but if it turns out some guy was the reason??? ohhh… he better count his days. because rindou haitani doesn’t just get even, he makes sure they regret ever hurting you.

✧ HANMA SHUJI ✧

𖥔 hanma calls you annoying with that familiar grin but he knows your iced coffee order by heart, right down to your sugar level preference and the exact swirl of syrup you like.

𖥔 he always says he hates coming to school, always complains about how pointless it is but still shows up every single day just to see you. and the one time you didn’t come for three days in a row???? he didn’t ask around— he simply investigated. found whatever scraps of information he could just to figure out where you were, what happened, and why he felt so restless not knowing.

𖥔 he’s the type to roll his eyes, call you a brat, throw in a “whatever” but his gaze always finds you first no matter how crowded the room is.

𖥔 and if you ever get hurt? that’s when you’ll really see it. because hanma’s love shows up fastest when fear does, and whoever touched you??? they’ll wish they were never born.

✧ IZANA KUROKAWA ✧

𖥔 izana never tells people you’re off-limits. infact he doesn’t have to as they already see it in the way he watches you; it’s an unspoken rule that you’re untouchable.

𖥔 he never says “you’re beautiful.” instead, he just stares at you whenever he thinks you’re not looking. he memorizes the shape of your tired eyes, your laugh, the way your hands move when you’re ranting about something small. and you’ll catch him staring sometimes, but he’ll immediately look away.

𖥔 when you’re sick, he paces the room like a ghost— wiping your sweat, changing out towels, muttering “idiot” under his breath to cover the quiet panic in his chest.

𖥔 he keeps telling himself it isn’t love, but he still makes sure you’re safe. still checks that you’re okay. because if he can’t give you the kind of joy he thinks you deserve, he’ll protect your peace in every quiet way only he knows how.

✧ KAKUCHO HITTO ✧

𖥔 kakucho memorizes the sound of your sighs; the ones that mean you’re drained, the ones laced with frustration, and the quietest one of all, the ones that mean you’re just pretending to be fine even when you’re not.

he doesn’t ask right away, he waits until there’s no one else around and then softly says, “talk to me, okay?”

𖥔 the moment you fall asleep on him, he freezes. not out of discomfort, but because something in his chest shifts. but he doesn’t move away even when his arm goes numb.

𖥔 he might not always know the right words to say. but when you’re upset, he brings your comfort food and wipes your tears in silence. because if he can’t fix it, he wants to at least be there and help you get through it.

𖥔 he might not be the type for grand gestures, but when he murmurs “get home safe,” it’s his own way of saying you matter to him more than you know.

© itoshiierae 2025 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ please do not modify or repost my content onto any other platforms.

I just know Rindou is clingy as hell.

(Slightly suggestive)

He tries SO HARD to act tough, all smirks and "me, whipped? Yeah right." but this man can’t sleep without cuddling you.

Taking too long in the bathroom before bed? He’s wrapping his arms around your waist from behind, mumbling complaints in your neck about you "spending hours in the bathroom" (it’s been 10 minutes)

The thing is, he’d rather die than admit it. Worse, his friends CANT know about this, not even his brother.

He’ll act tough when you cling to him in public, teasing you about how cuddly you are, but the second you two are alone, he’s not letting you go.

Kisses, also. Lots of it. Your neck is always covered in marks, not because he’s rough, but because he’s been sucking the same spot for 10 minutes. If you complain about it in the morning, he shrugs, nipping that spot again for good measure.

If you’re the one kissing and marking him, he’ll grumble about you being needy, while his cheeks are turning rosy. But once again, he’ll never admit he likes it.

Youre coming home later than usual?

- "where you at"

- "text me when you leave"

Hesitated to send a third, but didn’t want to admit he missed you.

When YOU text him? He suddenly leaves, telling his buddies "something came up", they all know what came up and they’re laughing about it to his face.

Lazy mornings? His personal favorite. It’s already close to noon, you try to slip out of bed to get water, but his strong arms are already encircling your waist, dragging your ass back to bed.

"Where you goin’…" He’d mumble, his hand already slipping between your thigh.

(Hehe I’ll probably write morning sex with him later…)

They like to hold your face when they kiss you. They think there’s something inherently romantic and soft about having their hands on your cheeks. They would come up to you, hold your face like you’re made of glass and start by a soft kiss on your forehead before kissing your lips gently. They like how cute you look when they do it.

Takemichi, Chifuyu, Kokonoi, Mucho, Angry, Benkei, Hakkai, Hinata, Kisaki, Emma

They like to hold your waist when they kiss you. It just feels so close and intimate. It makes it easier to pull you closer. They like to come from behind and hold your waist before turning you to kiss you. They would rub slow circles with their thumb and kiss you slow like you mean the world to them, because you do.

Mitsuya, Kazutora, Sanzu, Rindou, Inui, Shion, Taiju, Kakucho, Shinichiro, Yuzuha, Takeomi

They like to hold your hips when they kiss you. Not because they’re perverts (even though some of them kinda are), they just love to feel the dip above your thighs, the softness there. And yeah, sometimes it’s because they like to drift off to your ass.

Mikey, Draken, Pah Chin, Smiley, Hanma, Ran, Rindou (again), Wakasa, South, Mochi

They don’t care about all that. They’ll kiss you while having their hands wherever, the only thing that matter is that they’re holding you. They would often wrap their arms around you and not let you go for a small while. The kisses are just as passionate, and you can be sure they won’t pull away after.

Izana, Senju, Peh Yan, Baji

Haitani brother's main contribution to the story

(NSFW warning)

Is it obvious I’m obsessed with him?..

unrecognized, part 3

kenma kozume x fem!reader

genre: fluff, romance

tags: kenma x fem!reader, univ setting, fluffy ! DAMN KENMA (yes that's a tag)

notes: i think you'll be a bit lost if you haven't read the first two parts so i recommend you to please do so ! links are highlighted in the summary in numbers 1 & 2. this is the final part of unrecognized, i hope you guys like it <3 nothing left to say teehee

“again.”

you don’t even get the chance to respond before he leans in once more, brushing his lips against yours like it's the easiest thing in the world.

he tilts his head slightly to the side, deepening the kiss with slow, unhurried intent. his hand lifts to cradle your face gently—his thumb strokes the curve of your cheek, grounding you even as the world around you seems to melt into a hazy blur.

unrecognized, part 2

kenma kozume x fem!reader

genre: fluff, slow burn, lighthearted romance

tags: kenma x fem!reader, univ setting, fluffy, pining!! yearning!!!

notes: might be ooc! this is now less introspective and more just some fluffy fluff and my bestie theme, pining <3 we're just exploring how yn and kenma will develop their rs teehee i hope you guys like it! I HOPE I CARRIED AHHHH

you think you’re going crazy. no—scratch that. you are out of your mind.

why are you doing this? sitting here, fumbling with controls, trying to play a game you know absolutely nothing about? and for what?

“how do you… do this…” you mutter, squinting at the screen. you move your character forward—only to be eliminated again.

This still one of the coolest things they've done with the covers, Shinichiro fixing the bike (aka starting something) then Takemichi with the finished bike (ending things). Like the time leaps, it's another way they're linked.

I cant believe this is my first post on this account...

(Tag this as ship, and i will gut you like a fish)

I AM SERIOUS. DO NOT TAG AS SHIP.

i can’t wait for when chatGPT and ai image generation also crashes and each prompt cost $50 an attempt. oh you can’t get your stolen big tiddy anime ghibli art for free anymore? you want to buy real big boy art from real artists now? beg for it. beg for it like a dog.

Fugitive Hanma freaks out the first time he realizes he loves you.

It comes suddenly, like a punch would, as he watches you doing something mundane and boring. Tossing pasta in a pan and grating cheese, asking if he wants a side of salad or if he'd prefer fries and he stands in the doorway like you've delivered a blow to his chest. You're saying there's cake for dessert, that you're thinking of making something more ambitious this weekend, blind to that fear stricken look in his eyes as he stands like a deer in headlights in the doorway.

Lunch is quiet after that, and you're filling the silence with chatter, aware acutely of the fact that he can't seem to look in your eye, and that his jokes seem to have dimmed, like there's something on his mind that he can't talk about. You ask if he's okay and even reach to feel his forehead and he stiffens when your soft hand meets his skin and says he's fine, that he's just tired and that you oughtn't to worry. You put it down to exactly that and drop the subject.

He's terrified, deathly afraid. He loves you and it feels like a mistake, like he's signing a contract that means the end of everything. Because it does actually, How much has to change now that he loves you?

You clear the plates, tell him you're going to shower and he says he's going to take a walk, buy some cigarettes, anything to put some distance between you while he thinks, while he works out what this means for both of you.

So he walks, and keeps walking, head down and hood pulled up, chewing on the cigarette dangling from his lips, and heart quailing and a stone dropping in his stomach at how much he's messed up, how much complicated he's made things by falling for you like this, when he never intended to stay longer than the night in the first place.

He's overstayed his welcome hasn't he? Maybe It's best he leaves you behind now, saves the both of you from the inevitable trouble of himself later. You'll cry, you'll call incessantly, you'll beg in fact, and he'll swallow against the lump in his throat when he watches the texts pour in, watches you fall apart trying to come after him.

Maybe it's better this way, he's only bound to ruin you further if he stays.

"empowering women by sending katy perry to space for 2 minutes" shut the fuck up. samantha cristoforetti was the first female commander of the international space station and she became an astronaut because of star trek. and there is a real chance she is a kirk/spock shipper

and they say white people can’t cook