"How They Realize They Want You as Their Future Girlfriend/Wife" // Tokyo Revengers
Charakters: Mikey, Chifuyu, Mitsuya, Ran, Rindou, Hanma, Shinichiro
Synopsis: You’re the one who laughs at their jokes, scolds them when they’re reckless, and just… exists. Quietly, subtly, you slip into their lives, and one day, they notice: the way you care, the way you tease, the way you handle chaos like it’s nothing.
And suddenly, it hits them. They don’t just like you. They want you. Mornings together, lazy nights, a life built around you.
You’re not even fully awake when the knock comes.
It’s soft at first, almost unsure. Then again – barely louder.
You sigh, push yourself out of bed and shuffle to the door, rubbing your eyes.
When you open it, the tiredness washes out of you instantly.
He stands there like he’s been through a storm. His shirt is ripped at the shoulder, there’s dirt on his knees, blood dried on his cheek. His hair is messy, sticking to his forehead from sweat. The porch light makes the bruises on his jaw stand out even more.
For a second, he just looks at you.
No joke. No grin.
Just that blank, tired stare he only gets when he’s hit his limit.
You step back immediately.
“Come in.”
He walks inside quietly, like he’s trying not to disturb anything. You watch his steps – he’s favoring one leg. Not limping exactly, but close.
You close the door, take a breath and turn to him.
He shrugs, staring at the floor.
“Fought some guys who were messing with one of my members.”
Your brows pull together.
“Was it worth it?”
You grab the first aid kit and gesture to the couch. He drops onto it, elbows on his knees, staring at his hands like he’s not sure how they got so messed up.
You sit beside him, open the kit and reach for his face.
“Hold still.”
He does.
More obediently than you expected.
You start with the cut on his cheek. It’s shallow but messy. When the disinfectant hits, he flinches slightly.
His voice is tired. Bone-deep tired.
You clean his skin slowly, working around the dirt and dried blood.
He doesn’t move. His eyes stay on yours the entire time you work.
And when you finally speak again, the words just spill out.
“You can’t keep doing this, Mikey.”
“You’re going to walk in one day with something I can’t fix.”
Your hands pause on his cheek.
“And I don’t… I don’t want that.”
His gaze shifts slightly.
“You worried?”
“Yes,” you say, louder than you mean to.
You set the cotton pad down and sit back a little.
“Of course I’m worried. You come here beat up, acting like it’s nothing. But it’s not nothing to me.”
He blinks slowly.
Like the thought is new.
You reach for his hands next. His knuckles are torn open. You take one gently, turning it palm-up to check for glass.
Your touch is careful.
You’re trying not to hurt him.
He watches you work in silence.
The room is quiet except for your soft movements and the faint rustle of bandages. The lamp casts a warm glow over both of you, making everything feel strangely calm despite the situation.
At some point, you notice your hands shaking just a little.
“Why are you shaking?” he asks softly.
You freeze.
Then you exhale.
“Because, Mikey… I never know if you’re going to walk away from a fight. And I hate waiting to find out.”
You didn’t mean to say it.
But once it’s out, you don’t take it back.
His expression changes, not dramatically, just subtly. His eyes soften, his shoulders drop a bit.
You finish wrapping his last knuckle and close the first aid kit.
He flexes his fingers slowly, looking at the white bandages with a strange, thoughtful expression.
For a long moment, neither of you speak.
Then he breaks the silence.
“You always do this,” he says quietly.
“Take care of me like this.”
You look over at him.
“And you always come here hurt.”
He huffs out a soft breath.
You stand to put things away, but Mikey reaches out and lightly grabs your wrist.
Nothing forceful.
Just enough to stop you.
Your heart jumps a little, but you turn to him.
His voice is low, calmer than before.
It’s simple.
But something about the way he says it lands deeper than any dramatic speech ever could.
You sit back down beside him. He doesn’t let go of your wrist right away, like he forgot his hand was still there. When he finally does, his fingers linger for a second longer than necessary.
The crease between your brows from worry.
The tired look in your eyes.
The way you’re sitting close enough that your knees almost touch.
And suddenly everything fits together in his head.
You opening the door for him every time he knocks.
You treating his wounds without complaint.
You scolding him but never walking away.
You staying up with him on nights like this.
He realizes he likes this.
He likes you.
Not just as someone who helps him after fights, not just as a friend.
He likes the way it feels to be cared for by you.
He likes how steady and real it is.
He likes how you look at him like a person, not a symbol.
He wants more of it.
More nights like this, except without the blood and bruises.
More mornings where you’re the first face he sees.
More days where he doesn’t have to pretend he’s fine.
He doesn’t think the word “future,” not directly.
But the feeling settles in his chest anyway, simple and quiet:
I want her around. Not just now. Not just tonight. I want her with me. For good.
He leans back on the couch, relaxing for the first time that night.
“You’re staying a little longer, right?” he asks, trying to sound casual.
You raise an eyebrow.
“Why? You scared to be alone?”
You sit beside him again, closer this time.
Mikey doesn’t say it out loud.
Not yet.
But in that small, quiet living room with your knee brushing his—
He knows.
He wants you.
Not just in this moment, not just as someone who patches up his wounds.
He wants you as the person he comes home to.
The person he trusts.
The person he chooses.
And the thought isn’t scary.
___________________________________________________________________________
It’s nothing obvious directly. Just you being… you.
You bring him leftover food because you “accidentally made too much.” You remind him to drink water when he’s studying too long.
You poke fun at him for staying up reading manga until 3 a.m.
It’s all small stuff – nothing that screams romantic.
But he notices every single thing.
The moment it hits him starts as something simple.
He’s sitting on the floor of his room, sorting through a stack of Toman paperwork and manga in a hopeless attempt at organizing both. His hair is sticking up in every direction from running his hands through it too many times.
You show up because you promised to bring him a new snack you discovered.
And you walk right in, sitting beside him like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
“Your hair is a mess,” you say, reaching over to fix it before he can protest.
He freezes.
Not because you’re touching him, you have done that before. It is because there’s something different about the moment.
You’re talking about something you saw on the way here, rambling without pause. He hears your voice, but the words blur together. Your fingers brush through his hair, soft and careful, like you do it all the time.
Stops sorting.
Stops thinking about work.
Stops pretending he isn’t affected by you.
And it hits him so suddenly it almost makes him swallow wrong.
Oh… oh shit. I want this. I want this all the time.
Not the hair fixing specifically.
But the closeness. The ease.
The warmth of having you next to him like you belong there.
His heart drops straight to his stomach, and his face gets hot enough to melt plastic.
“Chifuyu? You okay?”
You tilt your head at him, still gently flattening a stubborn strand of hair.
He blinks out of it too quickly, almost jerking back.
“Y-yeah! Fine! Totally! Great!”
You raise an eyebrow.
“…You sure?”
“Yep!” He clears his throat. “Perfectly fine! 100% normal! Absolutely not weird!”
You stare at him for a beat too long, and he wants to bury himself under the manga pile.
After that, everything feels different to him.
You hold his sleeve to get his attention?
He blushes.
You tease him about something?
He laughs too loud.
You brush crumbs off his cheek?
He nearly short-circuits.
Every time you walk into a room, he stands up straighter without realizing. He starts thinking things like:
I wonder what she’s doing later.
Would she like this manga?
Should I get her something too?
Does she think about me like this?
And then the most dangerous thought of all:
I want her to stay with me. Not just now. But in the future too.
He imagines small things, nothing dramatic.
You sitting beside him on the couch while he reads. You feeding Peke J treats. You teasing him about being a cat dad.
You and him sharing instant ramen during late-night talks.
A calm life. A shared life. One where he wakes up to you and comes home to you.
He doesn’t picture some movie romance. He pictures everyday moments.
The idea doesn’t scare him.
It comforts him.
And every time you smile at him, it hits him again:
___________________________________________________________________________
You’re sitting on the couch in his apartment, legs tucked under you, mending one of his shirts that ripped during a scuffle. You insisted he let you fix it this time so he could actually rest for once.
He’s pretending to read, but really, he’s just watching you.
You’re concentrating so hard – eyebrows furrowed, tongue poking out a little. Holding the fabric steady like it’s something precious. His shirt, something he didn’t even think twice about… yet you’re treating it with such care.
“You know,” he says softly, “you don’t have to do that. You can give it back.”
You shake your head immediately.
“Nope. You’re always repairing everyone’s clothes. Let me help you for once.”
Your voice is casual, but the warmth behind it hits him unexpectedly.
Your care.
Your gentleness.
Your quiet insistence on taking stress off his shoulders.
And suddenly, he’s hit with this wave of realization—
I want this for the rest of my life.
Not just the mending or the helping…
but you.
Your presence.
Your effort.
Your love tucked into small, everyday moments.
You finish the last stitch, holding up the shirt proudly.
“Ta-da! See? I didn’t ruin it.”
He laughs softly.
“Looks perfect.”
You hand it to him, and when your fingers brush his, he feels the smallest spark. One he’s felt a million times, but tonight it lands deeper.
You curl up beside him, leaning into his side like it’s second nature, and he instinctively wraps an arm around you.
“Thanks for always taking care of me,” he says quietly, almost under his breath.
You tilt your head up, smiling.
“Of course. That’s what partners do.”
The word lingers in the air, warm and right.
And that’s when it clicks for him fully – not in a loud moment, but in the soft steadiness of you against him:
He wants you in his future.
He wants a home with you.
Sunday breakfasts.
Shared chores.
Maybe matching rings.
He rests his chin on your head, breathing you in.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, “partners.”
But what he really means is forever.
___________________________________________________________________________
Ran notices things when he shouldn’t.
You’re standing across the room during a Bonten meeting, leaning against the wall with your arms crossed, listening. You’re not supposed to be here. You don’t interrupt or don’t act impressed by power.
Someone raises their voice.
Someone else laughs too loudly.
Ran’s attention slides to you without him meaning it to. He checks your expression automatically, like a reflex he hasn’t learned to control yet.
You look calm. Alert. Unmoved.
Later that night, the building is quiet in that heavy way it only gets after things are already handled.
Ran’s at the sink, rolling his sleeves up to wash the blood from his hands when you appear in the doorway.
“You’re bleeding,” you say, pointing at his wrist.
He glances down.
“Looks like it.”
You walk over and take a cloth, pressing it to the cut. Your touch is steady, like this is something you’ve done before.
“That was reckless,” you say after a moment. Just stating a fact.
Ran watches your face instead of his wound.
You shake your head.
“I know who you are. I knew when I stayed.”
That settles something in him.
Most people hesitate.
You don’t.
From then on, he starts adjusting things—quietly.
He keeps you out of rooms where things might turn ugly.
He positions himself between you and raised voices.
He ends meetings faster if you’re waiting.
You notice, even if you don’t comment.
A few weeks later, you catch him watching you from across the room while you’re talking to someone else.
“What?” you ask when he doesn’t look away.
He tilts his head, lips curling slightly.
He steps closer, lowering his voice so only you can hear.
“How inconvenient it is,” he says calmly, “that I don’t see a future anymore unless you’re in it.”
You blink, then scoff under your breath.
“Well,” you say, arms crossing, “you better wife me up then.”
For a moment, Ran just stares at you – like he’s weighing the idea.
“Yeah,” he says, hand settling at your waist, thumb brushing your side, “sounds like a plan.”
Because Ran Haitani doesn’t say things lightly.
And when he decides something?
__________________________________________________________________________
Bass rolls through the floor, lights flashing in slow pulses. From the upper level, Rindou leans against the railing, drink untouched in his hand.
Below, the crowd moves as one.
You’re on the dance floor, laughing, caught up in the music. Not reckless—just enjoying yourself. You don’t notice the looks you’re getting, and that only makes it worse.
Rindou’s eyes stay on you longer than they should.
“She looks like she’s having fun,” Ran says beside him, voice lazy.
Rindou exhales.
“Yeah. Too much.”
Ran hums, watching the way Rindou doesn’t look away.
“Didn’t think you liked crowded places.”
A guy drifts a little too close to you. You laugh, stepping aside without missing the beat.
Rindou’s grip tightens on the glass.
“You always watch exits,” Ran says casually. “Now you’re watching her.”
Rindou clicks his tongue.
“She forgets where she is when she’s having fun.”
Ran’s eyes narrow slightly.
“That concern sounds personal.”
Rindou finally looks at him.
“Drop it.”
Ran glances back down at you, then smiles slowly.
“You don’t talk like this about anyone else,” he says. “You don’t worry.”
“She doesn’t belong in places like this,” he mutters.
Ran lets out a quiet laugh.
“…Oh.”
“You are in love,” Ran says simply.
Rindou scoffs.
“Don’t be stupid.”
“Mm,” Ran replies. “You’re watching her like she’s something you can lose.”
Rindou looks back down at you. The lights flash over your face as you laugh again—open and happy.
Something shifts in his chest. Not panic. Not fear.
“I don’t want her swallowed by this place,” he says quietly.
Ran’s smile turns knowing.
“Yeah. Thought so.”
Later, you find Rindou near the bar, cheeks warm from dancing.
“There you are,” you say. “Why’d you disappear?”
He studies you for a second longer than usual.
“Yeah,” you grin. “I was having fun.”
Ran walks past, smirking.
“Try not to fall in love, little brother.”
He leans closer so you can hear him over the music.
“You don’t have to be down there if you don’t want to,” he says.
You laugh lightly.
“I wanted to. With you.”
Rindou reaches out, fingers wrapping around your wrist.
“Stay close tonight,” he says.
You tilt your head, smiling.
“Planning on keeping me?”
His mouth curves into a small, serious smile.
And for the first time, Rindou doesn’t look away from the thought:
_________________________________________________________________________
Hanma always thought people were predictable.
Push them hard enough, they break. Corner them, they beg. Throw chaos at them and they scatter. That’s how it’s always been, and that’s why fights are fun – everyone shows their true face eventually.
The street’s already tense when it starts. Too many people, too much noise, that itchy feeling in the air that says someone’s about to do something stupid. Hanma’s grinning like always, hands loose at his sides, waiting for the spark.
You’re next to him, stretching like this is warm-up instead of a brawl.
“Try not to get lost,” you tell him.
He snorts. “You saying that to me?”
“You’re the one who gets distracted.”
That earns a sharp laugh. He likes that – likes that you talk to him like you’re not afraid of what he is.
The first punch flies and everything explodes.
Hanma dives in headfirst, laughing when knuckles connect, when bodies hit the ground. This is where he’s supposed to be. This is where things make sense. He’s mid-swing when he catches movement to his left and—
You drop someone. Clean and fast.
He blinks, just for a second.
Then another one. You twist out of a grab, slam an elbow back, and the guy folds. You look over at Hanma like you’re checking if he’s watching.
Something sharp twists in his chest.
The fight keeps going, but Hanma’s attention keeps drifting back to you. Not because he’s worried – you don’t need watching. It’s the opposite. You’re enjoying this. Same grin, same energy. You’re not surviving the chaos; you’re playing in it.
When it finally ends, the street’s a mess. People groaning, others running, adrenaline still buzzing under Hanma’s skin. He wipes blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and laughs.
“That was good,” he says.
You walk past him, barely winded. “You got sloppy.”
He barks out another laugh. “Did you see yourself?”
“Yeah,” you shrug. “I was great.”
He watches you like he’s trying to figure something out – and that annoys him, because he doesn’t like thinking during fights.
Later, when things quiet down, you’re sitting nearby, checking your knuckles. Hanma leans against a wall, eyes on you without trying to hide it.
Most people around him want protection.
Or status.
Or they’re just chasing the thrill until it scares them.
You don’t want anything from him.
“You’re insane,” he says finally.
There it is again – that easy back-and-forth, like you’re not standing next to someone dangerous, like you’re not supposed to flinch.
Hanma realizes something then, slow and unpleasant.
If you walked away, things would get boring again.
He doesn’t like needing people. Doesn’t like the idea that someone could change the game just by being there. But watching you laugh, bloodied knuckles and all, he knows the truth whether he likes it or not.
You’re not a side act.
You’re not temporary.
And you’re definitely not replaceable.
He steps closer, grin sharp, eyes bright with something reckless.
“Don’t disappear,” he says. Not a request. Not a joke.
You smirk. “What, you’d miss me?”
Hanma tilts his head, considering.
“…Yeah,” he says. “Probably.”
And that’s when it clicks.
He’s in love the way he does everything else – loud, dangerous, and all in.
And whether you know it yet or not?
You’re already part of the chaos.
___________________________________________________________________________
Shinichiro doesn’t remember when he bought the ring.
It’s small, simple, nothing flashy. Something practical. Something that made sense at the time. He’d seen it in a little shop while wandering, hands in his pockets, thinking about nothing in particular – until suddenly he wasn’t.
Now it’s sitting in his palm, catching the light from the open garage door.
He turns it slowly between his fingers, brows furrowed.
This is ridiculous, he thinks.
He hasn’t even asked you anything. Hasn’t said the words out loud. He’s older, he’s messy, his life is loud and unpredictable. And yet here he is, holding a ring like it belongs to a future he hasn’t dared to imagine properly.
Would she even want this?
Would she really choose me?
The thought makes his chest tighten.
He closes his hand around the ring, sighing.
The sound of footsteps pulls him out of his thoughts.
“Shin?” your voice calls.
He looks up – and there you are, standing in the doorway of the shop, sunlight behind you, smiling when you see him.
“Hey,” you say. “You said you’d be done soon.”
He forgets what he was worrying about.
You walk closer, glancing around the garage like you always do, commenting on something half-fixed, half-forgotten. You’re comfortable here. With him. Like you belong.
And that’s when it hits him.
He doesn’t want a perfect future.
He doesn’t need certainty.
He just wants you in his life – in the mornings, in the mess, in the quiet moments when everything finally slows down.
“…What?” you ask, amused.
He rubs the back of his neck, a small, embarrassed smile tugging at his lips.
“Nothing,” he says. Then pauses. “…Actually, that’s a lie.”
You raise an eyebrow, waiting.
He opens his hand just enough for you to see the ring resting in his palm.
“I don’t know when I bought this,” he admits softly. “And I don’t know if I’m ready… but I know I don’t want a future where you’re not in it.”
For a second, the world feels very quiet.
He looks at you, nervous but sincere.
“So… yeah,” he says, chuckling under his breath. “Guess I’m asking if you’d stay.”
Not perfectly.
Not easily.
And as you smile—really smile—Shinichiro knows one thing for sure:
Confusion or not, fear or not,
he wants to choose you every day.
