Chapter 12: Possession by Daylight
The penthouse was a silent, glass-walled vault in the hour before dawn. The only light came from the city itself, a grid of stubborn amber and cold blue bleeding up through the windows, etching Derek’s naked form in monochrome as he stood at the foot of the bed. He held a handful of printed sheets, their edges crisp.
Tsuyoshi was a deep sleeper, a skill honed in noisy apartments and uncertain places. He didn’t stir until the weight settled over him, pinning him to the thousand-thread-count sheets. It was a deliberate, inescapable pressure—Derek’s hips caging his, Derek’s hands pressing his wrists into the mattress beside his head.
“Wha—?” Tsuyoshi’s voice was gravel, his mind still fogged.
“Look,” Derek commanded, his own voice a low rasp. He didn’t wait. He pressed the first sheet against Tsuyoshi’s bare chest. The paper was cool, the ink smelling faintly chemical. “Look at it.”
Blinking, Tsuyoshi tried to focus. In the dim light, he saw a pixelated, blown-up image. It was them. On the beach yesterday. A long-lens shot from the parking lot. It captured the exact moment the water balloon had exploded against Derek’s back. Tsuyoshi’s face was a blur of unfiltered laughter, his head thrown back. Derek was turning, his profile a mask of shocked outrage.
Derek replaced it with another. This one was clearer. Tsuyoshi running, sand kicking up, a look of pure, mischievous joy on his face as he glanced back. Then another. Derek catching him. The two of them close, dripping, the world narrowed to just them in the frame.
“Page six of the Post’s gossip supplement. Two more in a celebrity blog. ‘Souss’s Mystery Boy Makes a Splash,’” Derek recited, his tone flat, analytical. He fanned the papers out on Tsuyoshi’s chest, each one a theft. “They’re calling you ‘the charity case.’ ‘The beach bunny.’ Speculating on what services you provide.”
Tsuyoshi’s sleep-fog evaporated, replaced by a hot spike of violation. “Fuck them,” he muttered, trying to shift, but Derek’s weight was immovable.
“Fuck them,” Derek agreed, but his attention wasn’t on the photographers. It was on Tsuyoshi’s face in the pictures. He leaned down, his mouth hovering just above Tsuyoshi’s ear. “But look at you. Right here.” His finger tapped a photo, nail scraping lightly over the image of Tsuyoshi’s laughing face. “You looked… untouchable. Happy.”
There was a strange, hungry reverence in his voice. It was more unsettling than any anger.
“It was just a water fight,” Tsuyoshi said, a weak defense against the intensity in Derek’s eyes.
“No.” The denial was absolute. Derek’s gaze finally lifted from the paper to lock onto him. The city light caught the ice in his pupils. “It was you. Completely. And they saw it. They took it.” He said it like it was a desecration. His hand slid from Tsuyoshi’s wrist, up his arm, to cup the side of his neck, thumb pressing into the pulse point. “You’re mine. This,” he growled, his lips brushing the shell of Tsuyoshi’s ear, “this is mine. That smile. That sound you made. Not for them.”
The possessiveness should have been a cage. It felt like one, for a second. But the heat of Derek’s body, the ragged edge in his voice, the way he was looking at those photos as if he wanted to burn them and memorize them simultaneously—it sparked something else entirely. A defiant heat low in Tsuyoshi’s gut.
He tried to summon a smirk. “Getting jealous of a camera, Derek?”
The reaction was instantaneous. Derek’s grip tightened. He moved fast, grabbing the back of Tsuyoshi’s head, fingers tangling in his messy black hair. He pulled him up, just enough to crush their mouths together.
It wasn’t a kiss. It was a reclamation. All teeth and desperate, searching pressure. Derek licked into his mouth, tasting sleep and sourness, consuming the smirk and any other retort. When he broke away, both of them were breathing hard.
“Yes,” Derek breathed against his lips, the word a raw confession. He looked wrecked, his perfect control sand-blasted away by something primal. “I am. So you’d better understand.”
He shoved Tsuyoshi back down. Before Tsuyoshi could form a thought, Derek’s fingers were at his lips, pressing insistently.
“Open.”
Tsuyoshi stared up at him, heart hammering against the papers still scattered on his chest. He saw the wildness, the barely-leashed need. He parted his lips.
Two of Derek’s fingers pushed into his mouth. They tasted like salt and expensive soap. “Suck,” Derek ordered, his voice gone dark and guttural. “Get them wet. I want to taste that smile on my cock.”
The obscenity, direct and filthy, sent a jolt straight through Tsuyoshi. He obeyed, his tongue swirling around the digits, sucking them deep into the heat of his mouth. He watched Derek’s eyes glaze, his jaw go slack for a fraction of a second. The power was dizzying. He was the one on his back, yet he was unmaking the most powerful man he’d ever known.
Derek pulled his slick fingers out with a pop. He tore the sheets and photographs aside, they fluttered to the floor like forgotten evidence. He shoved Tsuyoshi’s thighs apart, his touch rough, urgent.
There was no more preamble, no gentle preparation. Derek spat into his own palm, slicked himself, and positioned the thick head of his cock against Tsuyoshi’s entrance. The pressure was immense, a blunt, burning insistence.
“Look at me,” Derek snarled.
Tsuyoshi’s eyes flew open, he hadn’t realized he’d closed them. He met Derek’s gaze, saw the storm there—possession, fury, and a terrifying, naked want.
Derek pushed in.
It was a slow, brutal invasion. Tsuyoshi gasped, his back arching off the bed, nails digging into Derek’s forearms. It hurt, a sharp, stretching burn that stole his breath. Derek didn’t stop. He watched Tsuyoshi’s face, cataloging every flinch, every hitched breath, as he filled him, inch by relentless inch.
“Fuck,” Tsuyoshi choked out when Derek was fully seated, buried to the hilt. The feeling of being so utterly taken, so full, was overwhelming.
“Mine,” Derek grunted again, the word a mantra. He began to move.
It was not making love. It was a furious, rhythmic claiming. Each thrust was deep, punishing, driving the air from Tsuyoshi’s lungs. The slap of skin on skin, the creak of the bed, their ragged breaths—they were the only sounds in the vast, grey room.
Derek fucked him like he was trying to erase the memory of every other eye that had seen him, every other hand that might want to touch him. He bent down, capturing Tsuyoshi’s mouth in another bruising kiss, swallowing his moans. He bit at his neck, his shoulder, leaving marks that would blossom purple by noon.
“You see them again,” Derek panted against his sweat-slick skin, driving into him with a particularly sharp snap of his hips, “you look at them like that… I will end them. Then I will bring you right here and fuck you until you forget your own name. Do you understand?”
Tsuyoshi could only nod, a broken, eager sound escaping his throat. The pain had transmuted into a searing, blinding pleasure, coiling tight in his core. Each brutal thrust hit a spot inside him that made his vision blur. He was hard and leaking between their stomachs, untouched.
“Derek… fuck, please…” he begged, not knowing what he was asking for.
Derek understood. He wrapped a hand in Tsuyoshi’s hair again, forcing his head back, exposing his throat. His pace became erratic, pistoning into him with a frantic, losing rhythm.
“Come for me,” Derek demanded, his voice shattered. “Come on my cock. Show me it’s mine. All of it.”
The command, the sheer filth of it, tipped Tsuyoshi over the edge. Pleasure detonated through him, white-hot and violent. His body clenched around Derek’s, milking him as he spilled between them with a choked cry, stripes of heat painting his stomach.
The sensation pushed Derek into his own end. With a raw, guttural groan that was stripped of all polish, of all control, he buried himself deep and pulsed inside Tsuyoshi, his entire body shuddering with the force of his release.
For long minutes, there was only the sound of their struggling breaths merging in the cool air. Derek collapsed atop him, his weight a solid, crushing comfort. Tsuyoshi felt the frantic beat of Derek’s heart against his own, both slowly settling.
Derek didn’t pull out. He nuzzled into the crook of Tsuyoshi’s neck, his lips moving against the damp skin there. The words were muffled, almost inaudible.
“They can’t have you.”
It wasn’t a command this time. It sounded like a plea. A fragile, frightened thing.
Tsuyoshi, spent and raw, rested his hand on Derek's head, nails dragging lightly as they lay together.
Tsuyoshi, spent and raw, rested his hand on Derek's head, nails dragging lightly as they lay together. The weight was immense, a dense, sweaty anchor pinning him to the mattress. Internally, he grumbled. Okay, hello, still inside me, dude. Not a parking spot. The sensation was a weird mix of overly intimate and vaguely uncomfortable, a sticky, filling warmth he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with.
Instead of voicing any of that, he let out a soft, breathy laugh, his fingers threading through Derek's damp hair. “Aww, first cuddle. Cute,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “You’re all nuzzley.”
Derek grunted. The sound vibrated through Tsuyoshi’s sternum. Derek shifted, muscles tensing as if to move, to retreat to his side of the California king and the emotional distance it represented.
Tsuyoshi tightened his arms around Derek’s shoulders, a firm, surprising lock. “Nope. Suffer post-sex cuddles.” He squeezed, emphasizing the point. “It’s Tsuyoshi Law.”
Derek went still. For several long seconds, he didn’t breathe. Tsuyoshi could feel the conflict in him, the instinct to armor up warring with the profound physical exhaustion and the animal need for contact his own body was betraying. Slowly, incrementally, the rigid tension leaked from Derek’s spine. He slumped, his face buried deeper against Tsuyoshi’s neck. A shuddering sigh escaped him, hot on Tsuyoshi’s skin.
They lay in the greying dawn. The scattered tabloid photos on the floor were just dark shapes now. Down on the street, a garbage truck groaned its early morning complaint.
“The law is inconvenient,” Derek muttered, the words muffled by skin.
“Tell it to the judge,” Tsuyoshi whispered back. He stared at the ceiling, acutely aware of the softening presence inside him, the whole messy, human reality of it. It was miles away from the brutal possession of minutes ago. This felt more dangerous, somehow.
Derek’s hand, which had been fisted in the sheet near Tsuyoshi’s hip, unclenched. His fingertips came to rest lightly on Tsuyoshi’s side, just above the tattoo he’d never asked about. The touch was tentative, almost questioning. “You’re sticky,” Derek observed, his tone flat.
“You’re the reason,” Tsuyoshi countered, a grin in his voice. He traced the shell of Derek’s ear. “And you’re crushing my ribs. Just so you know.”
“You enacted the law.” But Derek adjusted his weight, just slightly, taking some of it onto his own forearms. He didn’t disengage. His thumb began a slow, absent sweep back and forth over Tsuyoshi’s ribs. It was hypnotic.
The city light shifted from grey to a pale, watery gold. It cut across the bed, highlighting the dust motes dancing above them and the stark red bite mark on Derek’s shoulder. Tsuyoshi’s own neck throbbed in sympathy.
“She’s probably already lawyered up,” Tsuyoshi said quietly, not needing to say Vivienne’s name.
The rhythmic motion of Derek’s thumb stopped. “She has. Three of them. From Crane, Poole & Schmidt.” He sounded utterly uninterested, like he was commenting on the weather. “It’s a defensive play. She knows the forensic audit is inescapable. She’s trying to negotiate the prison term down.”
The casual mention of prison terms should have been chilling. In the warm, messy bubble of the bed, it just felt like background noise. “You really didn’t know? About the money?” Tsuyoshi asked.
Derek was silent for so long Tsuyoshi thought he wouldn’t answer. “I suspected a leak. A lack of alignment. The numbers on the Milan projects were off by a rounding error most would ignore.” He spoke into the hollow of Tsuyoshi’s throat. “I had the trust investigated the day after the ramen shop. Once I move on something, I see it through.”
He said it without pride. It was simple cause and effect. A problem identified, a solution deployed. Tsuyoshi understood then that the file hadn’t been created that morning. It had been waiting, a loaded gun in a drawer, for the right moment to aim. The beach, the photos, the boardroom—they had just been the trigger.
“Cold,” Tsuyoshi said.
“Practical,” Derek corrected, but his arms tightened around him again.
Another silence settled, this one softer. Derek’s breathing evened out, slowing towards sleep. Tsuyoshi watched the light creep across the rumpled duvet, listening to the distant hiss of the penthouse’s climate control. His own body ached in a dozen specific, new ways. The inside of his mouth felt bruised.
He thought of the photos again, of his own laughing face captured and commodified. The violation was a cold stone in his gut. But Derek’s reaction—the furious, terrified hunger—was a mirror reflecting it back, twisted and magnified.
“Hey,” Tsuyoshi whispered.
A low hum of acknowledgment against his neck.
“Next time they take a picture,” Tsuyoshi said, feeling the shape of the words as he formed them, “I’ll give ‘em the finger. For you.”
Derek’s breath hitched. He didn’t lift his head. His hand came up, though, and covered the one Tsuyoshi had resting on his own head. He didn’t lace their fingers. He just pressed Tsuyoshi’s palm more firmly against his skull, holding it there. His grip was tight, almost painful.
When he spoke, his voice was thick and rusted at the edges. “See that you do.”
Then, with a sudden, frustrated sound, he rolled off. The separation was abrupt, the cool air rushing in to replace him. He sat on the edge of the bed, his broad back a tense, unreadable landscape in the morning light. He reached for his watch on the nightstand, the familiar, precise gesture a return to order.
Tsuyoshi lay still, feeling the ghost of the weight, the literal and emotional imprint. He watched Derek fasten the platinum band around his wrist. The moment was over. The fortress walls were sliding back into place, hydraulics hissing softly.
But as Derek stood, he didn’t head for the shower or his closet. He walked around the bed, his steps silent on the thick rug. He stooped, gathering the scattered, wrinkled tabloid pages from the floor. He didn’t look at them. He carried them to the sleek gas fireplace set into the far wall.
With a click, a neat blue flame sprang to life. Derek fed the pages into it, one by one. The paper curled, blackened, and vanished in a tiny whisper of ash. The images of laughter and chase and stolen joy were gone, consumed.
He stood there until the last fragment was dust. Then he killed the flame.
“The car is at nine,” Derek said, not turning around. His voice was all CEO again, clean and impenetrable. “We’re seeing the tailor on Rodeo. Your first law is hereby suspended for the day.”
He finally glanced back at Tsuyoshi, who was still lying there, sheets tangled at his waist. Derek’s eyes were that familiar, calculating ice. But they lingered. Just a second too long.
“Try to look less like a street urchin,” he added, but the usual cutting edge wasn’t there. It sounded almost like a ritual, a phrase he felt obligated to say.
He turned and walked towards his bathroom, leaving Tsuyoshi alone in the sunlit bed, the scent of sex and smoke hanging in the air.