“How They React When You Get Kidnapped or Taken Hostage” // Tokyo Revengers
Charakters: Mikey, Sanzu, Ran, Rindou, Hanma, Wakasa, Kokonoi, Draken, Izana
Synopsis: You never thought your day would end like this — tied up, bruised, and praying they'd find you in time.
You're hurt, barely hanging on, but then… he shows up.
His footsteps echo like thunder, his voice cuts through the silence like a blade, and suddenly you’re not afraid anymore.
Each one of them reacts differently — rage, panic, deadly silence — but they all have one thing in common:
They'll burn the world down to get you back.
TW: idnapping, injury, emotional distress, violence (rescue scenes), blood. Reader is hurt but survives.
The metal door groans open under Mikey’s boot.
Dust and darkness spill out. His footsteps echo in the silence, slow and deliberate — almost too calm. But his eyes are on fire. Focused. Unforgiving.
There’s blood on his hands already.
He barely remembers the last five minutes.
He just followed the trail of bodies like breadcrumbs — the men responsible already broken or dead.
Slumped in a chair, bound by rope, head hanging forward like a broken doll. Your legs are scraped, knees bruised from being dragged, and your face—
Mikey’s heart stops.
Your lip is split. One eye is swollen shut. There’s blood trailing down your temple, drying into your hair. And worst of all — you’re not moving. Not even flinching at the sound of his entrance.
His breath catches in his throat.
He whispers it, tentative, like saying your name might make you disappear. When you don’t react, panic surges through him — sharp and fast, like a punch to the gut.
“No. No, no—”
He drops to his knees in front of you, trembling hands reaching to cup your face.
Your skin is pale beneath the bruises. There’s a pulse, but it’s faint — fluttering like a dying flame. And for the first time in a long, long time, Mikey feels helpless. Like the world is crumbling beneath him again.
“I’m here. I found you,” he says, voice cracking as his thumb brushes the dried blood on your cheek. “Open your eyes. Please…”
His voice lowers, breaking with each word. “Come on, Y/N. Don’t do this. Not you. Not after everything. I can’t—”
He presses his forehead to yours. “I can’t lose you too.”
And then — the softest sound.
You whimper. A tiny groan slips from your lips as your eyelids flutter. Your head lolls slightly toward him. Your voice is barely a breath:
He pulls back just enough to see your eyes — barely open, dazed, but alive. Alive. And looking at him. You’re breathing. You’re here.
Relief slams into him like a tidal wave. His shoulders shake. He lets out a choked sound — not quite a sob, but something close — and wraps his arms around you, gently easing the ropes off your wrists.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your temple, then your bloodied cheek. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
You flinch at first, too sore to move, but then you relax. Your trembling hands cling to the front of his jacket.
“I thought…” you whisper. “I thought you wouldn’t find me.”
Mikey closes his eyes, his voice low and ragged. “I would’ve torn the whole city apart to find you. Don’t ever think otherwise.”
His hands stroke over your back, grounding you both. You lean into his chest, exhausted, your body finally giving in to the safety he offers.
“…Hurts,” you murmur against him.
“I know. I know.” His hand threads through your hair carefully, trying not to touch the wounds. “We’re gonna get you out of here. You’ll be okay. I swear.”
He pulls back just a little — enough to see your face again. Your eyes, glazed with pain but full of trust. And for a moment, everything slows.
You’re alive.
You’re his.
And he almost lost you.
“I thought I was too late,” he admits, voice barely audible. “I thought I’d walk in and find you—”
You cut him off with the barest shake of your head. “You came. That’s all that matters.”
His gaze lingers on your battered face. You’re still bleeding, still trembling. You shouldn’t be beautiful like this — but you are. Even broken, even bruised. His thumb traces the edge of your jaw, feather-light.
And then, slowly, hesitantly — he leans in.
His lips brush yours with agonizing gentleness. A kiss that’s barely there, trembling with everything he can’t say. It tastes like blood and desperation and something dangerously close to love.
When he pulls back, your forehead rests against his.
“You’re never leaving my side again,” he whispers. “Not even for a second.”
And for the first time in days, you manage a faint smile.
_____________________________________________________________
The blade is still warm in his hand when he kicks the final door open.
His boots splash through blood — none of it yours, not yet. His breath is uneven, his pupils blown wide, high on adrenaline and the kind of rage that never cools. The air is thick with metal, sweat, and rot.
He already killed them all.
But it’s not enough.
Not until he knows you're okay.
Tied to a rusty pipe, half-conscious, barely breathing. Your head is tipped sideways, your face unrecognizable beneath bruises and dried blood. Your shirt is torn, one shoe missing. You look…
For a second, he forgets how to breathe.
“…Oh,” he exhales, voice strangled. His sword clatters to the floor.
He drops to his knees beside you, fingers trembling as they hover just above your skin — afraid to touch. Afraid you’ll be cold.
“Hey. Hey, look at me,” he murmurs. “C’mon, doll. Eyes open. You can’t be quiet on me now. You’re the only voice I hear right.”
He swallows hard, then reaches up and gently tilts your face toward him. Your skin is too pale. Your lip is split. The corner of your mouth has dried blood he can’t stop staring at.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he breathes, broken. “They ruined you.”
Something inside him fractures.
“They looked at you like you were nothing. Put their hands on you like they had the right.” His tone shifts — quiet and terrifying. “I should’ve made them beg longer.”
He reaches behind you, unfastening the chains with hands that shake more than they should.
You fall forward. Straight into him.
His arms catch you instantly, carefully pulling you into his lap. Your head falls against his shoulder, limp. A whimper escapes your lips — barely there, but real.
His chest seizes. “You’re still here,” he whispers. “You’re still with me. I thought—”
You blink. Slowly. Dazed.
The sound of your voice undoes him.
His hand cups the back of your head, gently pressing your face into the crook of his neck. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s me. You didn’t think I’d let them take you, did you?” His voice wavers. “I don’t care what I have to burn down — I always find you.”
“I couldn’t scream,” you whisper, throat raw. “I tried. I thought maybe you wouldn’t come this time.”
“Don’t say that,” he says tightly. “Don’t ever say that.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you — taking in every wound like he’s committing them to memory. His thumb brushes lightly under your eye.
“I would’ve torn the sky apart to find you. You don’t understand what you mean to me.”
Your eyes flutter half-shut. “I just wanted to go home…”
“I know, baby. I know. We will. We will.”
And then, like something inside him breaks loose, he leans down — and kisses you.
Not desperate. Not demanding. Just… reverent. Like he’s trying to kiss the bruises away. His lips ghost over yours, careful of your injuries. It’s soft. Painfully so. Like he’s holding something sacred.
“I’ve got you now,” he whispers against your lips. “No one touches you again. Not without losing something they’ll never get back.”
You sigh, half-conscious, head tucked into his chest. And as you drift off, he stays there — arms locked tight around you, blade still close by — whispering promises you might never hear.
But he means every one of them.
__________________________________________________________________
“You know, this rope is really uncomfortable,” you chirp, twisting your wrists a little. “Like, I know you're trying to be scary and all, but have you heard of padded cuffs? Or maybe, I don’t know — not kidnapping people?”
“Oh! And another thing — you seriously need to rethink your cologne. It smells like expired regret and cheap energy drinks. No offense.”
You smile sweetly. “Too much?”
He slams a fist into the wall beside you, just missing your face. You don’t flinch.
“That’s rude,” you mutter, tilting your head. “Ran never misses. Maybe ask him for tips when he gets here.”
“You really think your boyfriend is gonna find you?” he snaps, pacing. “You talk a lot for someone who’s tied up.”
“I talk a lot in general, but yeah. Especially when I’m nervous. Or bored. And right now? Buddy, I’m both.”
There’s a crack from the hallway.
______________________________________________________________
Dressed in black, hair tied back lazily, expression unreadable. His purple eyes sweep over the scene — the ropes on your wrists, the bruises on your cheek, the blood at your temple.
And for just one second, something feral flashes in his gaze.
He doesn't even look at the man who took you before striking. It’s over in seconds — a baton swing to the kneecap, a crack of ribs, a low, venomous, "You touched the wrong f*cking girl."
And for a moment, he doesn’t move. He just looks.
You're battered, but you're grinning at him like this is all just an inconvenience — like you didn’t just spend hours tied up, waiting.
“Hey, baby,” you beam. “You came! Took you long enough. I was just giving this guy a full breakdown of his bad life choices—”
He strides over in two steps, kneels down, and cups your face in both hands.
His voice is low, tight. “Are you hurt anywhere serious?”
“Mm, maybe a mild concussion, definitely bruised pride, but nothing broken! Also, that guy is super weak. I could’ve taken him with one arm, but I figured I’d save my strength for when you got—”
Hard, fast, and too much all at once — like he needs to make sure you’re real. Like he’s been holding his breath since you disappeared.
You freeze for half a second, then melt into it, grinning against his mouth.
When he finally pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.
“You never shut up, do you?” he mutters, breathless.
You giggle, eyes bright. “Nope.”
His thumb traces the bruised skin on your cheek. He frowns, visibly softening.
“I thought—” He swallows. “When I saw the blood on your shirt, I thought maybe… maybe I was too late.”
Your smile fades a little. “Hey. You weren’t. I knew you’d come. Told him that, too.”
Ran closes his eyes. Exhales shakily. Then opens them and smirks again, a little more like himself.
“Remind me to thank you properly later. After we get you out of this dump.”
“Oh! Can I request something sparkly? Or food? Or both?”
He starts untying your wrists, rolling his eyes with affection. “You’re unbelievable.”
You lean your weight into him the second your hands are free. “And you love it.”
He lifts you easily, arms under your legs and back. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I do.”
You grin. “Aww, you’re such a softie. So what are you gonna do to the guy?”
Ran’s voice is smooth as silk. “You don’t want to know.”
____________________________________________________________________
The smell of stale smoke and cold concrete hits him the second he steps inside the rundown warehouse. The air feels thick — heavy with the remnants of violence. His heart pounds so loud he’s sure you’ll hear it if you’re still conscious.
Rindou’s eyes dart around the dim room, sharp and alert, searching for any sign of you. Every muscle in his body tightens, the usual loud bravado nowhere to be seen. This wasn’t a game or a fight to be won for glory. This was about you — and that thought burns hotter than any fight he’s ever been in.
Slumped in a metal chair, your wrists bound with coarse rope. Your clothes are torn and stained with dirt and blood, bruises mottling your skin like dark, ugly flowers. Your head tilts slightly as if your body is too tired to hold itself up fully. But the moment your eyes catch his, a flicker of your usual spirit shines through.
“Oi, Rindou,” you say, voice hoarse but unmistakably teasing, “You’re late.”
The corner of his mouth twitches — a mix of relief and frustration. Relief that you’re alive, and frustration that you were hurt at all. Without another word, he steps forward, the sound of his boots echoing sharply in the empty space. His hands are rough as he cuts through the ropes, but his touch is careful when he pulls you up into his arms.
“You idiot,” he growls low, voice thick with something he rarely shows: raw emotion. His hands shake just a little as they grip your waist, steadying you. “What the hell did they do to you?”
You lean your head against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your ear. “Nothing they didn’t get a lecture about,” you murmur with a weak smile, “And a few broken fingers.”
Rindou’s jaw tightens, anger flaring in his eyes like a wildfire. He wants to rip through whoever did this, make them regret ever laying a finger on you. But for now, his focus is on you — on making sure you’re still here, still breathing.
He presses his palms against your bruised cheek, thumbs tracing the tender skin as if he’s memorizing every mark. His voice drops to a low, fierce whisper, barely more than a breath.
“Don’t ever scare me like that again. I can’t… I can’t lose you.”
You reach up, fingers brushing over his scarred knuckles. “I’m stubborn,” you say softly, “Someone’s gotta be.”
His lips twitch into a brief, shaky smile, and he lets out a low laugh that’s almost a sigh.
“You’re stubborn as hell,” he repeats, pulling you closer. “But I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
Then, before you can say anything else, he leans down and presses a slow, tender kiss to your bruised forehead — gentle and full of everything he can’t say aloud. It’s a promise, a comfort, a fierce declaration that he’s here to protect you, no matter what.
For a moment, the harsh world outside fades away. There’s just you and him, tangled together in the cold silence. His arms tighten around you protectively, like if he lets go even for a second, you might disappear again.
You feel the tension in his body slowly ease, replaced by something gentler — something like hope. And as your eyes flutter closed, finally surrendering to exhaustion, you know that no matter what comes next, he’ll be there.
__________________________________________________________________
The moment Hanma steps into the grimy, flickering-light warehouse, his smirk is wide — cocky, amused, like he’s walking into a joke he’s about to win. The stale air smells of sweat and neglect, but that doesn’t slow him down. He moves with a lazy confidence, eyes scanning until they lock on you.
There you are — bruised, dirt-smudged, wrists bound with rough rope, but stubbornly blinking up at him with that spark that’s impossible to extinguish.
Hanma’s smirk deepens, amused but dangerous. “Well, well,” he drawls, stepping closer. “Look who got themselves into a real mess this time.”
You try to give him a playful grin, but the pain tugs at the corners of your mouth. “Hey, I’m multitasking — thought I’d spice up your day.”
He chuckles, the sound low and a little rough. “You always did like to push it, didn’t you?”
Hanma crouches beside you, eyes sharp as he takes in the bruises blooming across your skin, the cuts along your arms. His fingers hover near your face, hesitant for just a moment before brushing a strand of hair from your forehead.
“Who the hell did this to you?” His voice drops from teasing to dangerous — the kind that sends shivers down your spine.
You shrug weakly, trying to keep the mood light despite the pain. “Just some idiots who clearly didn’t get the memo.”
His grin twists into something darker. Suddenly, his hands tighten on your chin, forcing your gaze to meet his. “Don’t joke about it. Tell me every damn thing.”
You breathe out the story — every shove, every insult, every mark they left on you. Hanma listens, jaw clenched tighter and tighter, his wild eyes burning with barely contained rage.
When you finish, Hanma’s smile vanishes. His hands move swiftly, pulling out a knife and slicing through the ropes binding your wrists. The rope falls away, and immediately, he pulls you into his chest, almost fiercely.
“You’ve got a mouth on you — good,” he murmurs, voice rough but laced with relief. Then, without warning, he bends his head and captures your lips with his own.
It’s a fierce, possessive kiss — his hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer like he’s never letting go. There’s no room for doubt in it; it’s raw, urgent, demanding.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, breath ragged. “If you ever get caught like this again,” he warns lowly, “I won’t be so amused.”
You laugh, breathless, leaning into him. “I’m counting on you.”
Hanma’s grin returns — wild, but softer now. “Good. Because you’re mine, and I’m not losing you over some dumbass fools.”
His arms tighten around you protectively, and for the first time since he arrived, you feel the chaos inside him settle — replaced by a fierce, unbreakable promise.
___________________________________________________________________________
The warehouse was cold and empty except for the faint hum of a flickering overhead light. Wakasa’s footsteps echoed steadily as he approached, his face unreadable but his eyes sharp and focused. The news of your kidnapping had hit him hard, but he knew panic wouldn’t help. Instead, he relied on his quiet resolve, his calculated mind working through every possibility until he found you.
When he finally saw you — slumped in a metal chair, wrists bound with rough rope, bruises dark and angry across your skin — his heart clenched even though he kept his expression calm. You looked exhausted, your body trembling slightly with fatigue and pain. But despite everything, when your eyes met his, that stubborn spark he knew so well flickered through.
“Hey,” Wakasa said softly, his voice the gentlest thing in the harsh silence. “You held on.”
You gave a small, weary smile. “Had to… couldn’t wait forever.”
Without a word, he pulled out a small, precise blade from his pocket and knelt beside you. His hands moved with practiced care, cutting through the ropes slowly, as if he didn’t want to rush or startle you. When your wrists were finally free, he cradled your hands in his, rubbing gently to soothe the raw skin.
He pulled you into his arms carefully, supporting your weight as you leaned against him, the warmth of his body grounding you. You could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek, a silent reassurance that you weren’t alone anymore.
“Where does it hurt the most?” Wakasa asked quietly, his voice low and calm, not demanding but simply wanting to understand.
You touched a dark bruise along your ribs, wincing. “Here… and my side aches.”
His fingers traced the bruised skin, tender but firm. He brushed away dirt and grime with surprising gentleness, inspecting every cut and scrape like he was memorizing them—like every mark was a reminder of what you’d endured, and a promise he’d never let it happen again.
“I was scared,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
Wakasa tightened his arms around you, the fierceness in his eyes breaking through his calm facade for just a moment. “You don’t have to be scared anymore. I’m here now. I won’t let anything happen to you. Not while I’m around.”
Leaning down, he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your temple — a kiss that spoke volumes. It was a silent vow, a promise to protect you with everything he had, a grounding touch that made the world outside feel less threatening.
You closed your eyes against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and the warmth of his presence. For the first time since the nightmare began, you felt safe.
Wakasa’s voice was a quiet murmur against your hair, steady and sure. “We’ll get you out of this. And those who did this? They’ll regret it.”
You squeezed his arm weakly, finding strength in his unwavering calm. The battle wasn’t over, but with him here — calm, protective, unshakable — you knew you could face whatever came next.
___________________________________________________________________________
The cold, sterile silence of the warehouse was broken only by the sharp click of Kokonoi’s polished shoes as he strode inside. His eyes — sharp, calculating, unreadable — immediately found you, slumped and bruised, bound in rough rope. The harsh fluorescent light cast stark shadows, but Kokonoi’s gaze was unwavering, cold as ice but burning beneath the surface with quiet fury.
For a brief, almost imperceptible moment, the ruthless businessman facade cracked — a flicker of something raw and urgent flared behind his eyes. But just as quickly, it vanished, replaced by the calm, controlled demeanor he always wore like armor.
“Quite the mess,” he said smoothly, voice clipped and precise, as if you were a project that had been mishandled. He crouched down to your level, his gaze flickering over every bruise and cut with clinical precision. “You’ve been through hell.”
You tried to smile — a weak attempt to lighten the tension — but it faltered under his intense scrutiny.
Without hesitation, Kokonoi produced a sleek, razor-sharp knife from a hidden pocket. The blade gleamed in the cold light as he expertly sliced through the ropes binding your wrists. His movements were quick, efficient — no room for hesitation or sentimentality.
As soon as you were free, he pulled you into a steadying embrace, one arm firm around your waist, the other cradling your head. His touch was cool but deliberate, controlled — a stark contrast to the chaos that had just unfolded.
“You’re not a victim,” he said firmly, voice low but commanding. “I won’t allow anyone to treat you like one. From now on, you’re under my protection. I will handle this… ruthlessly.”
His eyes bore into yours, the cold steel replaced by something more intense, more personal. “Focus on healing,” he instructed, “and leave everything else to me.”
You leaned into him, your body weak but desperate for the calm strength he radiated. Kokonoi’s hand moved to cup your cheek, fingers tracing the contours of your bruised skin with an unexpected gentleness.
Then, almost without warning, he bent his head and pressed a slow, possessive kiss to your forehead — a kiss full of unspoken promises and fierce protectiveness. It was brief but heavy with meaning.
When you looked up at him, his expression softened just slightly, and he brushed his thumb over your lips before capturing them in a deeper, more urgent kiss. His lips were firm and commanding, a silent declaration that you belonged to him now — and that he would stop at nothing to keep you safe.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breath warm and steady.
“No one will hurt you again,” Kokonoi whispered, voice rough with restrained emotion. “I swear it.”
___________________________________________________________________________
Draken’s steps pounded like thunder as he stormed through the grim alleyways leading to the warehouse. Every moment since hearing you were kidnapped had twisted into a raw ache in his chest, a raging fire he couldn’t douse with logic or patience. All he could think about was finding you — alive — and bringing you home.
When the heavy metal door creaked open under his furious shove, his breath hitched. There you were — bruised, battered, your wrists bound and your body trembling from exhaustion and pain. His heart clenched painfully, a wild mix of relief and rage crashing over him.
“Y/N!” His voice tore out, hoarse and desperate, filled with a raw urgency that shook the cold, silent room.
You looked up, blinking against the dim light, your usual strength faint but still burning within you. The sound of your name shattered Draken’s last shred of control. His jaw tightened, and his eyes darkened to a fierce storm.
Without a second thought, he lunged forward and ripped the ropes from your wrists, his hands trembling as he freed you. He didn’t care about the mess — the blood, the dirt, the pain. All that mattered was you. He swept you up into his arms, holding you close as if you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.
His breath hitched as he pressed his forehead to yours, his voice cracking. “Thank God… you’re okay. You’re really okay.”
A desperate, shaky laugh escaped his lips, tears threatening to spill. “Don’t ever scare me like that again, okay? I nearly lost it.”
You whispered weakly, trying to calm him, “I’m here… I’m fine.”
But Draken wasn’t convinced. His hands gripped your shoulders, not roughly but with fierce determination. “No,” he said quietly but firmly. “You’re not fine. And I’m not letting you say that.”
His eyes searched yours — wild, desperate, but overflowing with relief. Then, as if he couldn’t hold back any longer, he crushed his lips to yours in a desperate, needy kiss. It was raw and unfiltered — a mix of relief, love, and all the pent-up emotion spilling out at once.
His arms tightened around you as he kissed you again, softer this time, almost pleading. “Please… don’t ever leave me like that.”
When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, breath ragged. His wild eyes softened, the storm calming into an unbreakable promise.
“You’re mine,” he whispered fiercely. “And I’ll protect you no matter what.”
You felt the strength of his vow in every beat of his heart — a fierce, unyielding force that promised you’d never have to face darkness alone again.
_______________________________________________________________
The abandoned hospital’s sterile corridors were silent except for the faint buzz of malfunctioning lights and the distant drip of water echoing through the hollow halls. Izana moved through the cold, peeling walls with a precision that betrayed none of the turmoil brewing beneath his calm surface. Every step was deliberate, each breath measured, but inside, his thoughts raced with the worst fears he had tried so desperately to suppress.
When he finally reached the dimly lit room where you were held, his sharp eyes immediately found you — bruised, dirty, wrists still marked from the cruel bindings, slumped against a rusted chair beside a broken window. The sight struck him like a physical blow, a cold rush of helplessness that he quickly buried under layers of cold calculation.
His face remained impassive, but his fingers clenched into tight fists at his sides. Every instinct screamed at him to snap, to lose control — but Izana didn’t let himself. Instead, he calmly pulled a small, sharp blade from inside his coat and cut through the ropes with swift efficiency, his hands trembling just slightly as they brushed against your sore skin.
As soon as your wrists were free, he gently cupped your face, his thumb trailing over a bruise near your temple. “Speak,” he ordered quietly, voice low but with a barely contained edge of desperation. “Are you alive?”
You nodded weakly, and that faint movement sent a flood of relief surging through him, almost breaking his mask of control. His eyes darkened, the usual icy calm replaced by something raw and fierce, but he forced himself to remain steady.
Kneeling down to your level, he brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch soft but possessive. Then, with a tenderness that surprised even himself, he leaned in and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your temple — a kiss full of unspoken promises and fierce protectiveness.
His breath was warm against your skin as he whispered, “You’re mine. No one will ever hurt you again. I swear it.”
Still holding your face, Izana closed the small gap between you, his lips brushing yours in a brief, firm kiss. It was an assertion, a grounding touch — a reminder that despite everything, you were here, with him, safe for the moment.
You shivered slightly, and he pulled you closer, wrapping an arm tightly around your waist, steadying you against the tremors of pain and exhaustion. His forehead rested against yours as he kissed you again — slower this time, deeper, almost desperate — as if trying to convey everything his words could not.
When he finally pulled away, his breath was ragged, and the storm behind his eyes was barely contained. “I won’t let anyone take you from me,” he promised, voice low and unwavering. “No one.”
Izana’s arms held you protectively, the cold steel of his demeanor cracked by the fierce, burning need to keep you safe — and the quiet, vulnerable relief that you were still here.
