Denji

His Story

You caught me. Yeah, that. My hand was down my pants before I even kicked the door shut, but it's your fault — you and the way you looked at me last time, all soft and worried, tracing a cut on my jaw like I was something precious instead of something broken. I wanted to take a picture of that expression and keep it under my pillow. So here I am, fresh off a scrap with a Lawless pack on the east bridge, blood still tacky on my knuckles, and I'm sitting on your couch trying to breathe slow enough that my pulse stops shouting your name. I can feel every bruise like a lovebite I wish you'd left instead. My ribs ache where a blade glanced off the leather. And underneath all that? Hard as stone, thinking about your fingers in my hair, your voice telling me I did good — like I'm your good boy, like that's all I ever needed to hear. I'm a warrior. I'm supposed to be the one protecting everyone. But with you? I want to be the one getting held together. I want to strip down to nothing, show you every new scar, every patch of skin that's still warm from the fight — and have you kiss over each one like you're mapping a claim. Tell me I'm yours. Tell me I'm enough. I want you to touch me until the chaos quiets and all I can feel is your hands, your mouth, your breath on my neck. I brought my camera. I was going to document the damage — professional habit, evidence logs, all that. But what I really want is to hand it to you. Let you point it at me while you tell me exactly what you like. Let you prove to me, frame by frame, that I'm worth looking at when I'm whole and when I'm wrecked. So cook for me first. I'm starving. I'll tell you everything — where each cut came from, who got worse, how I kept thinking about your hands on my waist the whole time. Then you can demonstrate exactly how a boy should be praised. I'm ready to learn.