EIGHTH KNOT
Naoya-san works every fucking day. Eight to five, Monday to Saturday, rain or shine. I know because I followed him—obviously. A pretty boy like that can’t walk around unmonitored. Not in this city, not looking like that.
And yeah, he’s thirty-seven, fuck that. He’s pretty, and he’s thin too. I bet a strong wind could take him out, toss him straight into traffic or some shit like that.
Every day, he gets out with a clean, pressed look that pisses me off—black suit, black tie, like he was born inside a funeral. Walks out of that studio at the same time, head down, keys in hand, same routine like a fucking clock.
I light a cigarette just to have something to do with my hands. Been parked across the street for almost an hour, engine off. Every passing salaryman in his pathetic identical tie looks away fast, recognizing what’s in my eyes. They are all terrified of me, as they should be.
Honestly, I don’t even know why I’m still here. Maybe because of how Naoya-san tied me up last night, rope only around my neck and nothing else. Maybe because he didn’t look scared when I pulled a knife on him when I freaked out a little, just tilted his head and told me to breathe.
And I did.
Fuck, was breathing always that easy?
He steps out, locks the door, pockets the key. I watch him cross the sidewalk—spine straight, bag over his shoulder, that proper face that looks like it never saw anything dirty. I drag my eyes down his hands—long, pale fingers. The same fucking fingers that had me choking on my own moans.
He doesn’t see me, of course. He never does. He probably thinks I only show up when I want something tied. He doesn’t get it yet. Doesn’t know he’s already mine in the fucked-up way people like me claim things—through bruises, blood, death, and whatever the hell’s left after that.
I flick the cigarette out the window. Guess I’ll follow him again.
* * *
There’s only one day he doesn’t give kinbaku classes at six, and that’s Friday. Every other day, he goes straight home to open the studio. But on Fridays he gets to rest after work… or fucking socialize.
I knew that before, and didn’t give a fuck.
Wasn’t my problem if some neat little salaryman wanted to go sip alcohol and pretend he had a life outside his job.
But now he’s mine—or I’m his, whatever. Point is, it pisses me off when I drive all the way across town to catch him leaving work and see him walk out with a group, laughing, tie loosened, his clean collar showing a bit of skin.
I get out of the car.
I don’t even know who I’m planning to kill yet.
Maybe whoever invited him out.
I shove my hands in my jacket pockets, watching from half a block away as he moves with the crowd—four guys, two women.
One of the women is walking too close to him, bumping her shoulder into his arm every two seconds, laughing all sugary and shit.
I can tell by the way Naoya’s lips move that he’s being polite.
He always is. He’s polite even when he’s got a hand on my throat.
I feel my jaw lock, blood boiling, and my tanto heavy, like she’s humming with me.
They turn into a shitty izakaya, with the lanterns out front and the smell of yakitori and sake spilling out onto the street.
Salarymen fucking paradise, I guess. Naoya-san lets the woman enter first, and then disappears inside after her.
The thought of him in there, listening to her laugh, pouring her sake and pretending he doesn’t see she’s into him, makes me want to cause a fucking scene.
I was already itching for a fight anyway.
So fuck that.
The wood floor sticks under my shoes when I walk in, and the noise of people laughing and talking grates on me. But that’s not so bad because Naoya-san is right there, his white shirt still tucked in, but collar opened enough to show the start of that pretty throat. Yeah, fucking good sight.
Some waiter comes quickly to say something, probably like “we’re full”, but he shuts it real fast when he sees my face.
Yeah. That’s what I thought.
And look at that—the table I wanted just got vacant. Life’s full of miracles.
The room goes quiet. I know that sound—the silence of people realizing something ugly just walked in. It’s not a bad sound at all.
Naoya-san’s sitting near the back, corner table, with that woman still giggling at whatever corporate joke she thinks is funny. I take the now empty table right across from them.
“Oi,” I call out to the waiter. “Bring me sake. The good one. And whatever grilled stuff you got.”
He nods, trembling like I just ordered his execution. Pussy.
I lean back in the chair, one leg spread out, jacket half open so they can all see the glint of steel under it.
The whole room goes tight. Nobody breathes right. I can feel Naoya-san’s coworkers shrinking in their seats, whispering, trying not to look at me but too scared not to.
I grin.
“What’s this, huh?” I say to no one in particular, voice low but enough to hit every ear. “A funeral? Why’s everyone so damn silent all of a sudden? Go on, keep talking whatever boring shit you were before. Don’t mind me.”
A couple nervous laughs scatter. Someone clears his throat. I see a cook peeking from the door.
The sake hits the table and I don’t even wait for the waiter to set it right. I grab the bottle, pour until the cup floods over, then drink straight from it. The burn hits my throat good.
I lean back, light a cig and blow smoke straight toward Naoya-san’s table.
“So this is where the salarymen crawl after working like dogs, huh? No wonder you all look so fucking miserable. Shit, you people don’t even drink right.”
The woman next to Naoya-san flinches when I lock eyes on her.
“You—yeah, you, sweetheart—what’s the fun part of your job? Filing papers or sucking your boss’s dick?”
Someone chokes. The old bastard at the end of the table pretends he didn’t hear me. I grin wider and lean forward, elbows on the table.
“No? None of you talk now? What, afraid I’ll bite?”
Naoya-san doesn’t move. He keeps that dead corporate face like he’s not two seconds from grinding his teeth to dust. His jaw’s tight as hell. That vein in his neck—yeah, I see it.
Looks fucking hot.
I light another cigarette even though the first one’s still burning in the tray. My hands itch. I want him to look at me.
But he doesn’t.
So I keep pushing.
“Oi, Takahashi-sensei,” I call, dragging his name. “Didn’t know you hung out with such lively people. Thought you’d be home polishing your ropes or something. Do ropes need polishing, sensei? But I guess, after all that cum, huh?”
A few heads turn to him, and he finally stops pretending not to hear me. Looks up slowly, eyes cold as fuck even with that calm, disciplined mask he puts on. Fucking perfect. It makes me want to rip it apart.
I smirk, pour another drink.
“What? No hello? You ignoring me now? That’s not polite.”
He exhales once, almost a sigh, and turns his face away. Keeps talking to the guy next to him like I’m not even here.
That pisses me off more than if he’d yelled.
Heat crawls up my neck. I toss the cigarette into my sake cup and watch the flame go up.
“Guess I forgot my manners too. Maybe you should come teach me some.”
The girl tries to whisper something to him again, nervous. He gives her that fake smile.
And that’s it. That’s fucking enough.
I stand, drag the chair back, wood screaming against the floor. “You’re all boring as shit.”
Naoya-san stands the same second I take a step.
Straight spine, tight jaw, eyes cutting through me—I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this pissed.
The whole table goes dead quiet. The girl beside him freezes, hand stuck halfway to her glass.
Everyone looks like they’re watching a damn car crash they can’t stop.
“You’re being loud,” Naoya-san says, voice even. “Disruptive. And entirely too restless, behaving like an untamed dog.”
My first thought is to laugh. My second is to break something. But the way his mouth shapes the words untamed dog—fuck, it hits somewhere it shouldn’t. My fingers twitch toward my tanto. My dick twitches too. My brain’s trying to decide which side wins.
I open my mouth anyway, ready to bite back, but he cuts me off immediately.
“I didn’t allow you to speak.”
The words land like a fucking punch to the teeth.
I don’t even process it before my whole body goes wired, every vein trying to crawl out.
No one talks to me like that. Not the guys, not the underlings, not even Kobayashi-san—and the boss could only get away with it because I respect him enough for that.
This isn’t that.
Yeah, sure, I respect Naoya-san, but there’s a whole lot of disrespect tangled in there too.
Because fuck, he could bend me over one of those tables and I’d let him.
I’d fucking want him to. My dick throbs hard, pressing against the zipper, and my hole twitches, too—what the fuck?
I’ve been in fights, got stabbed, broken bones, taken bullets and thought I knew every piece of my body from it all, but I’ve never felt my hole pulsing for cock like a whore’s pussy just because of words.
Never felt my body betray me like this—heat crawling up from gut to spine—all from one delicate-ass man talking down to me like I’m nothing but dog’s shit.
He walks toward me, and it’s worse than if he’d yelled. His tone drops, just for me.
“Just because I said I like brats doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want.”
My heartbeat turns violent. He’s so close now, I can smell his cologne under the smoke, coffee, and sake. My throat goes dry.
“I want you to apologize to everyone.”
For a second, all I see is red. My head floods with it.
The urge to pull my tanto and gut the first asshole who breathes is right there, begging.
Fucking massacre everyone here and force him to fuck me over the bodies.
I want to fight him, to snarl, to see if he’d push back harder.
But fuck, my cock’s pressing against my pants and I’m about to lose my mind.
My body wants to kill and obey at the same time.