Swapper

Tyler obeyed, lowering himself onto the porcelain rim. From this angle, sitting, they were almost the same height. Derrick standing between Tyler's spread knees, looking down slightly for once.

Derrick opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out Tyler's shaving cream, his razor—the nice one, heavy chrome handle, fresh blade. He ran the hot water until steam rose, then wet a washcloth and wrung it out.

"Close your eyes," Derrick said softly.

Tyler did.

The hot cloth pressed against his face—jaw, cheeks, throat. Tyler exhaled, his shoulders dropping. The heat seeped into his skin, softening the stubble, and he felt Derrick's fingers working the cloth gently, deliberately.

"You have no idea," Derrick whispered, "how long I've wanted to do this."

The cloth lifted away. Tyler heard the hiss of the shaving cream can, then felt the cool foam being smoothed across his jaw. But Derrick didn't use a brush. He used his fingers.

Those smaller hands spread the cream carefully, exploring. Derrick's fingertips traced the line of Tyler's jaw, feeling the bone structure underneath, the scratch of stubble through foam. His thumb brushed Tyler's bottom lip.

"Your stubble is so much thicker than mine," Derrick murmured. "I can't grow this yet. Mine's still patchy. But yours—" His fingers moved to Tyler's throat, spreading foam there. "It's perfect."

Tyler swallowed, and Derrick felt the movement under his palm.

"Keep still," Derrick said.

The razor made a sound like tearing silk.

Derrick tilted Tyler's chin up with two fingers, exposing his throat. The blade scraped down in smooth, careful strokes—cheek, jaw, the vulnerable hollow where Tyler's pulse hammered visibly.

Tyler's breathing had gone shallow. His hands gripped his own thighs to keep from moving.

"You trust me," Derrick said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes," Tyler breathed.

Another stroke. The foam peeled away, revealing smooth, tan skin. Derrick rinsed the blade, then continued—under the jaw, down the throat, the sound rhythmic and intimate.

"I used to hate this face," Tyler admitted, eyes still closed. "When I'd see it in the mirror. Because it was the face I had to show everyone. The mask."

"It's not a mask anymore," Derrick said. He cleaned Tyler's cheek, his fingers gentle. "It's just you."

When he finished Tyler's face, Derrick paused. Then he said, quietly: "Can I do the rest?"

Tyler's eyes opened. "The rest?"

"Your chest. Your stomach. Your—" Derrick's face was flushed. "I want to see all of you. Touch all of you. The hair you have that I don't."

Tyler's cock was already half-hard in his sweatpants. There was no hiding it. "Yeah," he said, his voice rough. "Yeah, do it."

Derrick grabbed the shaving cream again. Tyler stood, and Derrick's hands went to Tyler's chest—spreading foam across the light dusting of hair there, circling his nipples. The razor followed, careful and methodical, and Tyler watched Derrick's face as he worked.

Derrick was entranced. His eyes tracked every movement, every reveal of skin. When he finished Tyler's chest, he knelt.

"Derrick—" Tyler started.

"Shh." Derrick was eye-level with Tyler's abs now. He smoothed foam across Tyler's stomach, down the happy trail, stopping just above the waistband of the sweatpants. The razor scraped. Tyler's breathing got harder.

Derrick's hands hooked into the waistband. "Can I?"

"Yes."

Derrick pulled the sweatpants down.

Tyler wasn't wearing anything underneath. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed and fully hard now. And there was the hair—that dark blonde thatch that Derrick had obsessed over in the locker room, in the mirror, every time he'd possessed Tyler.

Derrick just stared for a moment. Then he reached out, running his fingers through it gently.

"This," Derrick whispered. "This is what I couldn't stop thinking about. How it feels. How it smells." He leaned in, inhaling, and Tyler made a strangled sound. "How masculine it is."

"Derrick," Tyler's voice cracked. "If you keep doing that I'm going to—"

"Not yet." Derrick pulled back. He spread foam carefully around the base of Tyler's cock, avoiding the shaft itself. Then, with excruciating care, he shaved the edges—cleaning up, trimming, making everything neat and defined.

Tyler was shaking. His cock was leaking. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides.

When Derrick finished, he rinsed the razor one last time and set it aside. Then he just... looked. Tyler, fully revealed. Smooth where Derrick had shaved him, the remaining hair a perfect frame.

"You're art," Derrick said.

"Derrick, please—"

"Turn around."

Tyler obeyed, bracing his hands on the sink. In the mirror, he watched Derrick kneel behind him.

Derrick's hands spread Tyler's ass cheeks gently. And there—more hair. Coarse, intimate, hidden.

"Even here," Derrick breathed. "You're perfect."

He didn't shave it. Instead, he leaned in and pressed his face against Tyler's ass, inhaling deeply. Tyler's whole body went rigid.

"I'm going to taste you," Derrick said. "Right now. Can I?"

"God, yes—"

Derrick's tongue pressed against Tyler's hole, and Tyler's knees buckled. Only his grip on the sink kept him upright. Derrick licked, slow and deliberate, his smaller hands gripping Tyler's ass, spreading him open. The position was obscene—Tyler braced over the sink, Derrick kneeling behind him in worship.

Tyler came without warning. No touch to his cock, just the overwhelming sensation of Derrick's tongue inside him. He gasped, his cock pulsing, come hitting the inside of the sink in thick ropes.

Derrick pulled back slowly, wiping his mouth. He stood, wrapping his arms around Tyler from behind, pressing his face against Tyler's back.

"Thank you," Derrick whispered. "For letting me do that."

Tyler was still shaking. He turned in Derrick's arms, and for the first time since this all started, he kissed him.

Not Tyler's body kissing Derrick's while Derrick was inside. Just Tyler. Just Derrick. Lips and tongue and the taste of each other.

When they broke apart, Tyler touched his own smooth jaw, feeling the difference.

"Your turn," he said.

"What?"

Tyler smiled—that genuine smile Derrick had taught him. "You got to worship me. Now I get to worship you."

He dropped to his knees.

THE FEEDBACK LOOP (Reverie)

They didn't make it to the bedroom.

Tyler’s knees hit the bathroom tile with a heavy thud, and his hands went to Derrick’s jeans—yanking the button open, pulling the zipper down with shaking fingers.

Derrick’s cock sprang free, hard and straining against his boxer briefs. Tyler stared at it, his breath hitching.

"You're bigger," Tyler whispered, eyes wide. "Jesus, Derrick. You're... heavy."

"Sympathetic resonance," Derrick breathed, his hands tangling in Tyler’s hair. "I told you. It changed me."

Tyler didn't answer. He leaned forward and took Derrick into his mouth.

The sensation hit them both like a physical blow.

Derrick gasped, his head falling back against the doorframe. He felt the hot, wet suction of Tyler’s mouth—but simultaneously, he felt the fullness in his own throat. He felt the texture of skin against a tongue that wasn't his. He tasted his own musk.

"Stop," Derrick choked out, grabbing Tyler’s shoulders. "Tyler, stop."

Tyler pulled back, looking up with wild, blown-out pupils. "What? Did I bite you?"

"No," Derrick shook his head, his hands trembling where they gripped Tyler’s bare shoulders. "I felt it. I felt what youfelt. The taste. The shape."

Tyler froze. "The link?"

"It’s not just muscles," Derrick whispered. "It’s nerves. We're bleeding over."

Tyler stared at him, processing. Then, a dark, hungry look crossed his face. "So if I do this..."

He leaned in and ran his tongue up the length of Derrick’s cock, slow and deliberate.

Derrick groaned, his knees buckling. He felt the wet tongue on his cock, but he also felt the hard ridge of a vein against the roof of his mouth. It was a hall of mirrors—sensation bouncing back and forth, amplifying until it was deafening.

"Bedroom," Tyler growled, standing up and hauling Derrick with him. "Now."

They stumbled down the hall, shedding what little pajamas they wore in a trail of towels and polyester. By the time they hit the mattress, they were both naked, and Derrick got his first real look at Tyler from the outside—hard, feral, and his.

Tyler crawled over him.

Derrick gasped as the weight settled.

He had spent weeks piloting this body, feeling its power from the inside. But feeling it on top of him was different. It was crushing. It was absolute. Tyler’s chest pressed him into the mattress, broad and heavy and hot. His thighs pinned Derrick’s legs.

"You're so heavy," Derrick whispered, his hands roaming over the expanse of Tyler’s back, digging into the muscle. "God, Tyler. You're a tank."

"I dreamed of this," Tyler murmured against his neck. "Feeling you small under me. Knowing I could just..." He ground his hips down, his erection pressing against Derrick’s thigh. "Knowing I could crush you if I wanted."

"Do it," Derrick begged. "Crush me."

Tyler kissed him—deep and messy—and the sensation split again. Derrick felt his own mouth opening, but he also felt the softness of lips yielding, the taste of saliva, the rush of dominance.

Tyler pulled back, breathing hard. He reached for the nightstand, fumbling for the lube. His hand shook as he slicked his fingers.

"I'm going to feel this," Tyler said, his voice rough. "When I push inside you. I'm going to feel exactly how tight you are. From both sides."

"Don't talk," Derrick panted, spreading his legs. "Just put it in."

Tyler positioned himself. The head of his cock pressed against Derrick.

He pushed.

A double gasp tore through the room.

Derrick cried out at the stretch—the burning, filling invasion. But simultaneously, he felt the velvet heat engulfing him. He felt the resistance giving way. He felt the squeeze.

"Fuck," Tyler groaned, stopping halfway. "I can't tell—I don't know who is who—"

"Don't stop," Derrick demanded, wrapping his legs around Tyler’s waist, pulling him down. "Deeper."

Tyler thrust, pushing himself as much as possible, trying to cram his cock into Derrick as if he could enter and possess Derrick through his prostate.

The feedback loop screamed. Every movement was an echo. Derrick felt the pleasure of being taken—the fullness, the prostate hit—and the pleasure of taking—the grip, the friction, the power.

"I'm everywhere," Tyler gasped, his rhythm becoming frantic. "I'm inside you and I'm around you and I can't—"

"Just fuck me," Derrick moaned, his hands clawing at Tyler’s shoulders.

Tyler obeyed. He pounded into Derrick, the mattress springs creaking under their combined weight. It was chaotic, messy, and perfect. The line between pilot and vessel was gone. There was only the motion.

"Touch yourself," Tyler commanded, his voice strained. "I want to feel you come while I'm inside you."

Derrick’s hand flew to his own cock. The stroke sent a jolt through Tyler—he felt the phantom hand on his own shaft, the building pressure.

"Oh god," Tyler groaned. "I'm close. I'm gonna—"

"Come for me," Derrick whispered, echoing the command he used to give in the locker room. "Fill me up."

Derrick came first, his body arching off the bed. He felt his own release, but he also felt the rhythmic grip of his own ass milking Tyler's cock—a vice that sent Tyler over the edge.

Tyler shouted, burying his face in Derrick’s neck as he emptied himself. Derrick felt the pulses deep inside him, but he also felt the drain, the release, the ecstatic weakness of the orgasm from the source.

They collapsed.

Silence returned to the room, broken only by their ragged breathing. The ghost sensations slowly faded, leaving them as two separate bodies again. Sweat-slicked, tangled, and heavy.

Tyler rolled to the side, pulling Derrick against his chest. He buried his face in Derrick’s hair, inhaling deeply.

"Are we going to be like this forever?" Tyler asked quietly, his voice vibrating against Derrick’s back. "Hearing each other? Echoes of feeling?"

"I don't know," Derrick admitted, tracing the line of Tyler’s arm draped over him. "Maybe. Does it scare you?"

Tyler thought about it. "No. It's just... I don't know where I end and you begin anymore."

"We chose this," Derrick said. "We opened the door. Maybe we don't close it."

Tyler pulled him tighter. "I think I love you," he whispered. "I should have said that before. But I love you."

Derrick closed his eyes, leaning back into the solid warmth of the man who used to terrify him.

"I love you too," Derrick said. "Since the bus ride."

"That feels like a lifetime ago."

"It was two months."

Tyler laughed—a soft, genuine sound that belonged only to them. "Two months. And now I can't imagine… being without you."

"You won't have to be," Derrick promised.

And as they drifted off to sleep, Derrick realized he couldn't tell whose heart was beating slower—his or Tyler’s. And he didn't care.

REVERSE RESONANCE

Tyler was in the zone.

He was three paragraphs deep into his history mid-term, fingers flying across the butterfly keyboard, the blue light of the laptop reflecting in his eyes. He wasn't thinking; he was just flowing.

...demonstrating a clear systemic reliance on socioeconomic stratification to maintain industrial hegemony.

Tyler stopped.

His fingers hovered over the keys. The cursor blinked at him, mocking.

Hegemony.

He stared at the word. He knew what it meant—dominance, leadership, especially by one social group over others. The definition sat in his brain, clear as a bell.

The problem was, Tyler Martinez didn't use words like hegemony. Tyler Martinez used words like "control" or "power."

He backspaced, deleting the word. He tried to type "power."

His fingers refused. The sentence felt clunky. Wrong. Hegemony was the right word. The only word.

He sat back, rubbing his face. It wasn't just the essay. Yesterday, he’d explained the physics of a curveball to a freshman pitcher using the term "angular velocity." He hadn't even realized he’d said it until the kid looked at him like he was Einstein.

He grabbed his phone.

Tyler: bro Tyler: im glitching Tyler: [screenshot of essay] Tyler: who wrote this

Three dots bubbled immediately.

Derrick: Omw.

Derrick let himself in ten minutes later. He was still in his gym gear, smelling like Dove soap and humidity. He dropped his bag by the door and walked straight to the desk, leaning over Tyler’s shoulder to read the screen.

Derrick smelled good. Grounding.

"Show me," Derrick said.

Tyler pointed at the screen. "Read the last sentence. Tell me I didn't just hallucinate that."

Derrick read it. A slow, satisfied smirk spread across his face. "Socioeconomic stratification. Nice."

"It's not nice, Derrick. It's creepy." Tyler spun his chair around. "I didn't look that up. It just... appeared. Like a pop-up ad in my brain."

Derrick sat on the edge of the bed, looking unbothered. "It’s the bleed. I told you. I got the traps and the lats; you got the vocabulary."

"I don't want the vocabulary," Tyler snapped, standing up and pacing the small room. "I want my own brain. I feel like I'm cheating on a test, but the cheat sheet is stuck to the inside of my eyelids."

"You're not cheating," Derrick said, his eyes tracking Tyler’s pacing with a heavy, hooded gaze. "You're upgrading."

"I'm becoming you." Tyler stopped, running a hand through his hair. "I caught myself organizing my playlist by BPM yesterday. Who does that? You do that."

"It’s efficient."

"It’s nerdy!" Tyler groaned. "What happens if this keeps going? Do I start needing glasses? Do I forget how to throw a fastball because my brain is too busy defining 'hegemony'?"

Derrick stood up. He crossed the room in two strides—Derrick’s walk, but with a confidence that was all Tyler—and grabbed Tyler’s wrists.

"Stop," Derrick said. "Look at me."

Tyler looked. Derrick’s eyes were dark, intense.

"You're not losing anything," Derrick said firmly. "You're just expanding. You think I learned how to bench press 225 overnight? No. I absorbed your muscle memory. Now you're absorbing my syntax. It’s a trade."

"It feels like an invasion," Tyler whispered.

"Does it?" Derrick stepped closer, crowding Tyler against the desk. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're evolving."

Derrick let go of one wrist to trace the line of Tyler’s jaw.

"And honestly?" Derrick’s voice dropped an octave. "Smart Tyler is doing things to me."

Tyler blinked, thrown off track. "What?"

"Watching you panic over being too articulate? Hearing you accidentally use big words?" Derrick pressed his hip against Tyler’s thigh. "It’s hot."

Tyler let out a breathy laugh, incredulous. "You have a kink for SAT words."

"I have a kink for you," Derrick corrected. "For every version of you. But this version? The one that can talk physics while pinning me down?" Derrick’s eyes darkened. "That’s the final boss."

Tyler felt the heat rise in his cheeks. The panic was receding, replaced by that familiar, heavy pull in his gut. "You're weird."

"And you're brilliant." Derrick kissed him—a hard, possessive press of lips. "Now stop freaking out and finish your essay. You're going to get an A, and you're going to thank me."

Tyler leaned back against the desk, looking at this smaller man who somehow took up so much space in his life. He could feel the connection between them—a hum in the air, a wire stretched tight.

"Hey, Derrick?"

"Yeah?"

"Hegemony," Tyler said, testing the word on his tongue. "It means dominance, right?"

Derrick smiled, and it was devastating. "Yeah. It does."

"Cool." Tyler pulled Derrick back in by the waist. "Just checking."

THE REASSURANCE (One Night Before)

The bathroom, yet again, was dense with steam. Tyler stood under the spray, head bowed, letting the hot water hammer against his neck. Tomorrow was the away game. Two days on the road. The bus. The hotel. The noise. Two days of performing "Tyler Martinez" without the one person who knew the script was fake.

The glass door rattled.

"Can I come in?"

"Yeah."

The door slid open. Derrick stepped in.

He was wearing his boxers. The fabric instantly darkened, clinging to his thighs as the spray hit him.

Tyler blinked, water streaming into his eyes. He looked at Derrick’s body—really looked at it. It wasn't the scrawny frame he remembered from the bus two months ago. The shoulders had filled out. The chest was broader. Derrick was beginning to look like a mirror image, a softer echo of Tyler himself.

"You're soaking your boxers," Tyler said, his voice thick.

"I know." Derrick reached for the shampoo bottle. "Turn around."

"What are you—"

"Let me wash your hair," Derrick said. His eyes were locked on Tyler’s head, dark with a familiar, hungry focus. "Please. I want to."

Tyler turned.

He heard the snap of the bottle cap. The smell of his own shampoo—cedar and citrus—filled the small glass box. Then, Derrick’s hands were in his hair.

The sensation was electric.

Derrick didn't just wash; he worshipped. His fingers drove deep into the scalp, massaging with a pressure that was borderline possessive. He gathered the wet, heavy strands in his fists, pulling just enough to make Tyler’s breath hitch, then smoothing them back down.

"It’s so heavy when it’s wet," Derrick murmured, his voice right at Tyler’s ear. "Like gold wire. I could spend hours just doing this."

Tyler’s knees felt weak. He braced his hands against the tile wall, letting his head fall forward. "You're obsessed."

"I am," Derrick agreed, his thumbs working the base of Tyler’s skull. "I used to watch you in class, running your hand through it, and I'd get so jealous of your own fingers."

Tyler let out a shaky breath. The tension in his shoulders—the knot of anxiety about the game, the travel, the separation—began to unravel under Derrick’s relentless, rhythmic touch.

"I'm going to miss this," Tyler whispered. "The bus ride tomorrow... it feels like a prison sentence."

Derrick’s hands paused, then resumed their slow, kneading rhythm. "It’s forty-eight hours, Ty. You'll survive."

"Will I?" Tyler turned his head slightly, trying to catch Derrick’s eye. "What if I start forgetting? What if I'm out there, being 'The Martinez,' and I forget what it feels like to be... this?"

"You won't forget." Derrick guided Tyler’s head back under the spray, rinsing the suds away. He combed the wet hair back with his fingers, exposing Tyler’s forehead, his vulnerable face. "You're not dependent on me. You're just used to me."

"It feels the same."

Derrick moved his hands to Tyler’s shoulders, squeezing the trapezius muscles. "You know what scares me?" he asked quietly. "That you'll get on that bus, surrounded by the team, the noise, the hype... and you'll realize you actually like it. That the confident, star athlete doesn't need the weird little guy who hijacks his body."

Tyler spun around.

Water sprayed everywhere. He grabbed Derrick’s wet face in both hands, pinning him with a look that was fierce and terrified.

"Don't say that."

"I hear you," Derrick whispered, water dripping from his lashes. "You're becoming the person you were supposed to be. Maybe that person doesn't need a pilot anymore."

"I will always need you," Tyler said, shaking him slightly. "You think this is about confidence? Or batting averages? Derrick, you're wired into my nervous system. I hear your voice when I'm thinking. I feel your hands when I'm alone."

"Even when I'm not there?"

"Especially when you're not there." Tyler pressed their wet foreheads together. "When I'm in that hotel room tomorrow, I won't be thinking about the game. I'll be thinking about your hands in my hair. I'll be thinking about how quiet it is without you."

Derrick’s breath hitched. "Tyler—"

"I love you," Tyler said. The words didn't feel heavy anymore; they felt like breathing. "Not because you fixed me. But because you saw the broken parts and wanted them anyway."

Derrick let out a wet, choked laugh. "That was almost poetic."

"Shut up." Tyler kissed him—a desperate, open-mouthed collision that tasted of water and desperation. "Come to the game."

Derrick pulled back, blinking. "What?"

"Come with me. On the bus. Stay in my room." Tyler’s grip on Derrick’s face tightened. "I don't care anymore. I want you there."

"Tyler, the team... they'll know. If they see me in your room, if they see us together like that... they'll know."

"Good," Tyler said. The fear was there, pounding in his chest, but the exhaustion of hiding was stronger. "Let them know. I'm done performing for everyone but you."

Derrick searched his face, looking for the crack in the armor. He didn't find one.

"You're sure? Once you do this, you can't take it back."

Tyler thought about the locker room talk. The forced laughter. The years of holding his breath. Then he looked at Derrick—wet, shivering, looking at Tyler like he was the only thing in the world that mattered.

"I'm sure," Tyler said. "I want you. I want everyone to know you're mine."

A smile broke across Derrick’s face—brilliant and devastating. "Okay. Yeah. I'll come."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Derrick reached for the body wash. He poured a dollop of blue gel into his palm. "Now turn around. You've got a game to win, and I want you clean."

Tyler laughed—a sound of pure relief—and turned back around.

Derrick’s hands returned to him. Soaping his back. His shoulders. His chest.

As Derrick’s hands slid lower, over the ridges of Tyler’s abs, Tyler leaned back against him. He felt the solid warmth of Derrick’s chest against his spine, the way their bodies fit together like two puzzle pieces finally clicking into place.

"Hey, Derrick?"

"Yeah?" Derrick’s hands were circling his navel now, thumb grazing the waistband of his boxers.

"When we get back..." Tyler swallowed. "Move in. For real. Not just your body in the closet. All of you. Your books. Your clothes. Your weird physics posters."

Derrick’s hands stilled. "You mean that?"

"I've never meant anything more. I want you here. Permanently."

Derrick pressed his face between Tyler’s shoulder blades. His arms wrapped tight around Tyler’s waist, holding on.

"Okay," Derrick whispered into wet skin. "Okay. Yes."

They stood there until the water ran cold, two bodies steaming in the mist, neither willing to be the first to let go.

The Final Possession

The mattress dipped as Tyler pulled Derrick down. They were both still damp from the shower, skin tacky and warm, smelling of cedar soap.

"One more," Tyler murmured, his voice rough. "Before I have to be 'Martinez' for forty-eight hours. I need you inside me."

Derrick scanned Tyler’s face for the old panic, the desperate need to escape. It wasn't there. Tyler’s eyes were clear. This wasn't an eviction notice; it was an invitation.

"How long?" Derrick asked.

"An hour. Maybe two." Tyler laced their fingers together, squeezing hard. "But not like before. Don't put me to sleep. I don't want to disappear."

"You want to ride shotgun?"

"Yeah." Tyler smiled—a small, crooked thing that made Derrick’s chest ache. "I want to feel you feeling me. Both of us, awake, at the wheel. Can we do that?"

"I don't know," Derrick admitted. "We've never tried a split stream."

"Let's try." Tyler lifted Derrick’s hand, kissing the knuckles. "Come inside. But don't shove me out. Just... slide over."

Derrick closed his eyes. He found the frequency—that familiar, humming wire that connected them. But instead of pushing, he stepped in softly. Like slipping into a warm bath without making a splash.

The world doubled.

Derrick gasped.

He was still on the bed, looking up at Tyler. But he was also looking down at himself. The sensory input was a chaotic, beautiful stereo signal. He felt the heavy thud of Tyler’s heart in one chest and the rapid flutter of his own in the other. He felt Tyler’s larger lungs filling with air, and his own shallower breath matching the rhythm.

Holy shit, Tyler’s thought echoed, clear and bright as a bell. You're here. But I'm still here.

"I'm here," Derrick said with his own mouth, while simultaneously feeling Tyler’s lips curve into a grin.

Tyler stood up. Derrick felt the movement from both perspectives—the visual of Tyler rising like a titan, and the internal sensation of quads firing, balance shifting, gravity acknowledging the mass.

This is trippy, Tyler thought, walking to the dresser mirror. It’s like... surround sound.

"Show me," Derrick whispered from the bed. "Show me what we feel like."

Tyler looked in the mirror. His own face stared back, but the eyes were darker. Heavy-lidded.

Touch us, Derrick projected, the command soft but heavy.

Tyler’s hand moved to his chest. He ran his palm over the pec, thumb tracing the nipple, and the sensation hit them both. Derrick felt the texture of Tyler’s skin under the hand, and Tyler felt the heat of the touch on his chest.

Lower, Derrick guided.

Tyler’s hand slid down over the ridges of his abs, past the navel, to the waistband of his sweatpants. He shoved them down.

His cock was already hard, bobbing in the cool air.

You know what I like, Derrick thought. Do it the way I do it.

Tyler wrapped his hand around himself. But he didn't just stroke. Guided by Derrick’s phantom muscle memory, he twisted his wrist, applying a torque that Tyler never used on himself.

Tighten the grip, Derrick instructed. Twist at the top. Yes.

Tyler gasped, his knees buckling slightly. Fuuuck. How do you—

I know your wiring better than you do, Derrick thought. Use your other hand. Reach back.

Tyler obeyed, confused but pliable. His left hand reached behind him, sliding between his glutes.

Press, Derrick commanded. Not there. Higher. Right on the perineum. Hard.

Tyler found the spot—a pressure point he’d never noticed—and dug his thumb in.

The pleasure was blinding. It hit a nerve that sent electricity straight to the base of his spine. Tyler’s head fell back, a ragged moan tearing out of his throat.

Oh my god, Tyler thought, his mind reeling. What is that?

Access, Derrick answered. Now stroke. Synchronize it.

Tyler moved his hand on his cock, twisting the skin, while his thumb pressed rhythmically into the sweet spot behind his balls. The feedback loop was catastrophic. Derrick, watching from the bed, felt every jolt of pleasure as if it were his own, amplified by the sight of Tyler unraveling in the mirror.

I'm gonna—Derrick, I can't hold it—

Don't hold it, Derrick urged. Give it to us.

Tyler stroked faster, his hips bucking involuntarily against the dresser. He watched his own face in the mirror—flushed, eyes rolled back, mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure.

He came with a shout, his knees hitting the floor.

Derrick, lying on the bed, gasped as the sympathetic orgasm slammed into him. He didn't even touch himself. The neural link was so strong that Tyler’s release triggered his own, a phantom fire that left him shaking and breathless.

Silence settled in the room.

Tyler slumped against the dresser, chest heaving. Did you... did you feel that?

"Yeah," Derrick croaked from the bed. "I felt everything."

Tyler turned. He crawled back onto the mattress, moving with a heavy, boneless grace. He collapsed on top of Derrick, crushing him into the sheets.

The sensation was overwhelming—Derrick felt the weight on top of him, but he also felt the sensation of being the weight, pressing down.

I don't want you to go, Tyler thought. The thought was small, sticky with dopamine and sleepiness.

"I'm right here."

No. You're gonna leave. You're gonna pull out.

Derrick sighed. He focused on the tether. Gently, carefully, he untangled their nervous systems. He stepped back through the doorway.

The world snapped back to singular.

Derrick was just Derrick again. Small. Separate.

Tyler flinched. He buried his face in Derrick’s neck, groaning. "I hate it. It’s so quiet."

"I'm still here, Ty."

"It’s not the same." Tyler lifted his head, his blue eyes fierce and dilated. "You're coming tomorrow. To the game."

"Tyler, we talked about this. The bus list is finalized. Coach will—"

"Fuck the list." Tyler propped himself up on his elbows, looming over Derrick. "I'm not doing forty-eight hours in a hotel room without you. I'll sneak you in. You can fit in my duffle bag."

Derrick laughed, batting Tyler’s chest. "I am not riding in a duffle bag."

"Then you're sitting on my lap." Tyler wasn't smiling. He grabbed Derrick’s hand, lacing their fingers together. "I'm serious, Derrick. I travel better when you're there. I sleep better. I'm... better."

"You're codependent."

"I'm in love," Tyler corrected, leaning down to kiss him—slow and heavy. "And I'm the team captain. If I say you're coming, you're coming. If Coach complains, I'll tell him you're my emotional support nerd."

"If you call me that in public, I will possess you and make you dance the Macarena during the seventh-inning stretch."

Tyler grinned, nuzzling into Derrick’s neck. "Deal. Just pack a bag. We leave at six."

Derrick ran his fingers through Tyler’s damp hair, feeling the steady beat of the heart he knew as well as his own.

"Okay," Derrick whispered. "Six o'clock."

THE AWAY GAME: CLAIMING

It was morning. The charter bus idled in the parking lot, diesel exhaust pluming white in the crisp morning air. Derrick stood on the curb, clutching his duffle bag, feeling small against the backdrop of the team. They were giants in tracksuits—broad shoulders, backward caps, the easy, sprawling confidence of men who owned the space they occupied.

Tyler emerged from the athletic center.

He looked tired but electric. When his eyes found Derrick, the tension in his jaw vanished, replaced by a smile that felt like a secret.

"You came," Tyler said, stopping in front of him.

"You threatened to stuff me in a duffle bag. I didn't have a choice."

Tyler huffed a laugh, grabbing Derrick's bag before he could protest. "Stay close. If Coach asks, you're my tutor. We have a physics test Monday."

"Do you even take physics?"

"Not the point."

They climbed aboard. The air inside was thick with the smell of Red Bull, aggressive body spray, and pre-game adrenaline. Heads turned. Conversations lulled.

Tyler didn't hesitate. He walked straight to the back—his territory—and tossed both bags into the overhead rack. He slid into the window seat, then looked up at Derrick, who was hovering in the aisle like an intruder.

"Sit," Tyler said, patting the upholstery.

Derrick sat. Tyler immediately spread his legs—that wide, claiming stance that used to infuriate Derrick—and pressed his thigh against Derrick’s. The heat was instant. Solid. Deliberate.

The bus lurched forward. The campus began to roll away.

Tyler’s hand dropped to the seat between them. Palm up. The morning sun caught the light dusting of golden hair on his forearm—the hair Derrick had spent so much time admiring in the mirror.

Derrick stared at the hand. The thick fingers. The calluses.

"You sure?" Derrick whispered.

Tyler didn't answer. He just reached over and laced their fingers together.

Derrick’s breath hitched. He waited for the explosion. He waited for the jeers, the slurs, the sound of his world ending.

Instead, silence rippled through the back of the bus. Then, from two rows up, Garcia—the catcher—turned around. He looked at their joined hands, then up at Tyler’s face. He rolled his eyes.

"Finally," Garcia groaned, fishing his wallet out of his hoodie pocket. "Marcus, pay up."

"Wait, what?" Tyler stiffened.

Further up the bus, Marcus Chen turned around, grinning over the seat back. "No way. I thought he was gonna drag it out until playoffs."

"You guys... knew?" Tyler’s voice was strangled.

"Ty, you brought your 'tutor' to every practice for a month," Garcia said, handing a twenty-dollar bill to Marcus. "And you look at him like he hung the moon. We’re dumb, but we’re not blind."

Tyler sat there, stunned. His grip on Derrick’s hand tightened, crushing Derrick’s knuckles. "And nobody... cared?"

"Why would we care?" Garcia shrugged, already losing interest. "Just don't be weird in the hotel room."

He turned back around. Marcus gave them a thumbs-up and put his headphones back on. The bus returned to its normal volume of chatter and music.

That was it. The catastrophe Tyler had spent years building in his head dissolved into a twenty-dollar bet.

Tyler slumped back against the seat, letting out a breath that lasted ten seconds. "That's it? That's the reaction?"

"Apparently," Derrick laughed, the sound bubbling up from a place of pure relief.

Tyler turned to him. The look in his eyes was raw—relief, gratitude, and a fierce, possessive heat. He leaned over, ignoring the team, ignoring the world, and kissed Derrick. It wasn't a peck. It was deep, slow, and claiming.

When they broke apart, Tyler pulled Derrick into his side, wrapping a heavy arm around his shoulders.

"Told you," Tyler murmured into Derrick’s hair.

"You didn't tell me they knew."

"I didn't know they knew." Tyler pressed his nose against Derrick’s temple, inhaling deeply. "But I'm glad they do."

Derrick rested his head on Tyler’s shoulder, watching the highway blur by. He traced the veins on the back of Tyler’s hand with his thumb, marveling at the fact that he was here—not inside, not hidden, but right here.

By the afternoon, the team decamped at the sweaty, dilapidated hotel, and the couple wandered over to find their room. Derrick jangled the sweaty key to Room 314, pushing the door open, and the scent of industrial carpet cleaner and chlorine came rushing forward into the hallway.

Tyler dropped the bags on the floor and immediately crowded Derrick against the closed door. The kiss was frantic, adrenaline-fueled. Tyler’s hands were everywhere—in Derrick’s hair, gripping his waist, pressing him against the wood.

"We made it," Tyler breathed against his neck.

"Unpack," Derrick laughed, pushing him back gently. "You have a game in three hours."

"I don't care about the game."

"You will."

Tyler groaned but complied, unzipping his bag. Derrick sat on the edge of the bed, watching him. He loved watching Tyler move—the effortless economy of it, the way his back muscles shifted under his shirt as he hung up his jersey.

A knock at the door made them both jump.

"Expecting someone?" Derrick whispered.

"No."

Tyler opened it. Marcus stood there, leaning against the doorframe in his team sweats.

"So," Marcus said, his eyes flicking to Derrick on the bed. "Official?"

"Yeah," Tyler said. His voice was steady. "Official."

"Cool." Marcus grinned. "I just wanted to say... I'm glad, man. You seem lighter. Less like you're about to punch a hole in the drywall."

"Thanks," Tyler said, looking at his feet, his ears turning pink.

"And Derrick?" Marcus nodded at him. "He talks about you constantly, just so you know."

Marcus left. Tyler closed the door and leaned his forehead against it for a long moment. When he turned around, his eyes were wet.

"Come here," Derrick said softly.

Tyler crossed the room and collapsed onto the bed, burying his face in Derrick’s stomach. Derrick’s hands went instantly to Tyler’s hair—thick, gold, perfect. He scratched Tyler’s scalp, feeling the tension bleed out of the big body.

"I wasted so much time being scared," Tyler mumbled into Derrick’s shirt.

"You weren't wasting time," Derrick said. "You were waiting for the right pilot."

Tyler huffed a laugh. He rolled over, looking up at Derrick. "Stay with me tonight. After the game. One bed."

"There are two."

"I don't want two." Tyler reached up, tracing Derrick’s jaw. "I want to wake up with you. No possession. No tricks. Just us."

"Okay," Derrick whispered. "Just us."

The away game snuck up on them that evening. Derrick sat in the bleachers, drowning in Tyler’s navy hoodie. It smelled of detergent and Tyler—a scent that had become Derrick’s entire world.

Bottom of the ninth. Tie game.

Tyler stepped up to the plate.

From the stands, Derrick could see the shift in posture. The way Tyler rolled his shoulders. The way he dug his cleats into the dirt. It was the same stance Derrick had inhabited a dozen times, but watching it from the outside was different. It was terrifyingly impressive.

The pitch. The swing.

The crack was sharp and violent.

The ball disappeared over the left-field fence. The crowd erupted. Derrick was on his feet, screaming with the rest of them.

Tyler rounded the bases, a slow, predatory trot. As he crossed home plate, he didn't look at the dugout. He didn't look at the coach.

He looked up into the stands. He found Derrick.

And he pointed.

It wasn't subtle. It was a declaration. This is for you.

Derrick pressed both hands to his face, laughing and crying at once, his heart swelling until he thought it might burst.

The game wasn't really the point of this trip anymore, and the couple stumbled into the room after midnight, high on victory and cheap champagne the team had snuck onto the bus.

"You pointed," Derrick said, shoving Tyler toward the bed. "That was so fucking corny, bro."

"It was romantic," Tyler corrected, pulling his shirt off. "And I looked hot doing it."

"You actually did," Derrick admitted, his eyes tracking the movement of Tyler’s abs. "You fuckin'... did."

They undressed each other in the dark. There was no rush tonight. No desperate need to merge. Derrick ran his hands over Tyler’s skin—the smooth chest, the rougher line of hair leading down his stomach, the heavy weight of him. He worshipped every inch, no longer as a pilot checking the controls, but now as a lover learning the map.

When they finally came together, it was slow. Grounded.

Tyler pressed into him, heavy and solid, and Derrick wrapped his legs around Tyler’s waist, anchoring him.

"I love you," Tyler whispered against his mouth. "I love this so much."

Afterward, they lay tangled in the center of the bed, the second mattress untouched. Tyler’s arm was a heavy weight across Derrick’s chest; his breathing was deep and even.

Derrick lay awake, listening to the hum of the mini-fridge and the beat of Tyler’s heart.

"Hey, Derrick?" Tyler mumbled, sleep-heavy.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. for getting on the bus."

Derrick smiled in the dark. He reached out, resting his hand on Tyler’s arm, feeling the warmth of the skin, the soft hair, the solid reality of him.

"I didn't have a choice," Derrick whispered. "You took up the whole seat."

"Still do," Tyler breathed, pulling him closer.

"I know." Derrick closed his eyes. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

They rode the rest of the way in silence. Tyler never looked at him again, eyes fixed on his phone screen with laser focus. But he also never moved away. Stayed exactly where he was, legs spread, taking up space, that solid thigh close enough that every bump and sway of the bus threatened contact.

When they finally pulled up to campus, Tyler was on his feet before the bus fully stopped, grabbing his duffle and pushing past Derrick without a word. Derrick watched him go—the aggressive set of those shoulders, the way other students automatically moved aside.

Fresh start, he'd thought. First day optimism.

He had no idea how right and wrong that would turn out to be.

2

The humiliation was still burning in Derrick's chest when he shouldered through the athletic center doors.

It had been three weeks of this shit. Three weeks of Tyler's casual cruelty on the bus—the manspreading, the dismissive grunts, the way he'd "accidentally" elbow Derrick's ribs when reaching for his bag. But today had been different. Today Tyler had escalated.

In the cafeteria. In front of everyone.

Derrick had been carrying his tray, looking for a seat, and Tyler's foot had just... appeared. Derrick went down hard, his lunch exploding across the floor in a spectacular spray of spaghetti and red sauce. The laughter was immediate, brutal. And Tyler—Tyler had looked down at him with those cold blue eyes and said, "Watch where you're going, little man."

The rage that followed was unlike anything Derrick had felt before. Not just anger. Something darker, more primal. A need to make Tyler feel what he felt. To understand. To suffer.

He'd followed Tyler after classes ended, watched him head to baseball practice. And now Derrick stood in the hallway outside the locker room, heart pounding, not even sure what he planned to do.

The athletic center was mostly empty—practice had just ended and most players were already showered and gone. Derrick could hear voices inside, water running, the metallic clang of locker doors. He pushed through, the smell of sweat and body spray hitting him immediately.

Tyler was at his locker. Alone.

He had his back to Derrick, already shirtless, those broad shoulders gleaming with sweat. His baseball pants hung low on his hips as he reached up to grab something from the top shelf, muscles shifting under tanned skin.

Then Tyler turned around.

His eyes went wide when he saw Derrick—surprise, then immediate annoyance. "The fuck are you doing in here?"

"You—" Derrick's voice cracked. He stepped closer, not sure what he was doing but unable to stop. "You can't just—"

"Can't just what?" Tyler's jaw set, aggressive. He took a step forward and Derrick should have backed up but he didn't. "You gonna cry about it?"

They were close now. Too close. Derrick could smell him—sweat and grass and something underneath that was just Tyler. His chest was rising and falling hard, adrenaline spiking. Tyler's eyes flicked down to Derrick's mouth, then back up, something confused crossing his face.

"I—" Derrick started.

And then Tyler shoved him.

Not hard. Just a dismissive push to the shoulder, the same casual violence Tyler always used. But Derrick's hand shot out instinctively, grabbing Tyler's wrist to steady himself.

Skin on skin.

The world lurched.

Derrick felt it first as vertigo—the ground tilting beneath him, his vision doubling. Tyler's face was right in front of him and then it was everywhere, surrounding him, and then—

He was looking at himself.

His own face, small and shocked, brown eyes wide. His own body, compact and tense. He was seeing himself from above, from Tyler's height, and the disorientation was so complete that Derrick's—no, Tyler's—knees buckled.

What the fuck what the fuck what the FUCK—

The thought wasn't his. It was Tyler's. Derrick could feel Tyler inside this body, inside his body, panicking and thrashing like a trapped animal.

GET OUT GET OUT—

"No," Derrick heard himself say, except it was Tyler's voice, deeper, coming from Tyler's throat.

He looked down. Tyler's hands. Bigger than his, scarred knuckles, calluses from batting practice. He flexed the fingers experimentally and felt Tyler's horror spike inside him—a foreign presence he could somehow sense, trapped and screaming silently.

Derrick took a step. Tyler's body moved with easy athletic grace, so different from his own. He could feel Tyler's muscle memory, the casual power in these limbs. Another step. Tyler was still trying to fight, but it was like pushing against water—Derrick's will was everywhere, in control.

He turned back to the locker, and in the mirror mounted inside the door, Tyler's face stared back at him.

Blue eyes. Strong jaw. The face that had sneered down at him a hundred times.

Derrick smiled with Tyler's mouth.

Tyler's panic became terror—a wordless scream that only Derrick could hear. And beneath the terror, something else. Something Tyler would never admit.

A spark of arousal.

Derrick felt it in this body's response—the quickening pulse, the heat pooling low in Tyler's belly, the way Tyler's—his—cock was starting to thicken in those tight baseball pants. Tyler was horrified by his own reaction, trying desperately to suppress it, but Derrick felt everything.

No no no this isn't—I'm not—

"You are," Derrick whispered with Tyler's voice.

He ran Tyler's hands down Tyler's chest, feeling the solid muscle, the way Tyler's body responded to touch. Tyler's consciousness thrashed harder, humiliation mixing with the unwanted arousal, and Derrick could feel the exact moment Tyler realized how completely he was exposed. Every secret thought. Every hidden desire. All of it laid bare.

Derrick's phone buzzed in his own body's pocket—his real body, which was still standing there frozen, eyes glazed and empty like a puppet with cut strings.

The bizarreness of that image snapped something in Derrick. This wasn't right. This was violation, possession, something impossible that shouldn't exist. His focus wavered and Tyler's will surged up immediately, desperate and violent.

The world lurched again.

Derrick gasped, stumbling backward, and suddenly he was back in his own body. Smaller. Looking up at Tyler.

Tyler staggered, catching himself against the lockers. His chest heaved. His eyes were wild, unfocused. "What—" He touched his own chest, his face, like he needed to confirm he was himself again. "What the fuck was that?"

Derrick couldn't speak. His whole body was shaking.

Tyler's hand shot out and grabbed Derrick's shirt, yanking him close. "What did you do?" His voice was raw, terrified. Up close Derrick could see Tyler's pupils were blown wide, his breathing ragged.

"I don't—I didn't—" Derrick stammered.

Tyler shoved him away, and Derrick hit the lockers hard. Tyler backed up, putting distance between them, still touching his own body like he didn't trust it. His hands were shaking. "Stay the fuck away from me," he said, but his voice cracked on the words.

Then he grabbed his shirt and bag and ran—actually ran—from the locker room, leaving Derrick alone with the fluorescent lights humming and the smell of sweat and the knowledge that something fundamental had just changed.

Derrick looked down at his own hands. They felt wrong now. Too small. He could still remember what it felt like to have Tyler's body, Tyler's strength.

And Tyler's desire.

He touched his own face and shuddered.

3

The house was packed, bass thumping through cheap speakers, the kind of off-campus party that happened every weekend in the neighborhoods surrounding community colleges. Students crammed into a living room that wasn't meant to hold this many people, red cups everywhere, the air thick with weed smoke and cheap beer.

Derrick stood near the kitchen, nursing a beer he didn't really want. His eyes kept tracking across the room to where Tyler stood with the baseball team.

Tyler looked good. Fuck, he always looked good. Dark jeans that sat low on his hips, a plain white t-shirt that stretched across those shoulders. His backwards cap. That easy confidence in how he moved, laughing at something one of his teammates said, beer bottle dangling from his fingers.

They hadn't been on the same bus since the locker room. Derrick knew Tyler had been deliberately taking earlier or later routes, avoiding him. In class—they shared one gen-ed history course—Tyler sat on the opposite side of the room and never looked once his direction.

But now they were here. Same party. And Tyler knew he was here too. Derrick had seen the moment Tyler spotted him across the room—the way Tyler's whole body went tense, his laugh cutting off mid-sound. Tyler had turned away immediately, but not before Derrick caught the flash of something in his eyes.

Fear. And something else.

Derrick took a sip of his warm beer and let his eyes drift back to Tyler.

Tyler was drinking faster than his friends, Derrick noticed. Already on his third or fourth beer, the way he was swaying slightly when he laughed. One of his teammates was demonstrating some play, gesturing wildly, and Tyler's attention kept... wandering.

Across the room. To where a guy in a tight tank top was dancing with some girls.

Tyler's eyes tracked the guy's movement for a beat too long before he jerked his gaze away and took another pull of his beer. His jaw was tight. Derrick recognized that look—the same controlled tension Tyler had on the bus, the careful way he held himself.

The party swirled around them. Someone turned the music up. Bodies pressed closer. Derrick moved through the crowd, not consciously heading toward Tyler, but somehow ending up closer. Near the back hallway where it was slightly less packed.

Tyler was there suddenly, heading to the bathroom, and they were face to face in the narrow hallway.

Tyler froze. His eyes went wide, then narrowed. "You," he said, and it wasn't quite an accusation but close.

"Me," Derrick agreed.

They stared at each other. The music was muffled here, the hallway dim. Tyler smelled like beer and cologne. His chest was rising and falling too fast.

"Are you—" Tyler's voice was rough. "Are you gonna—" He couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't say possess me out loud because that would make it real.

"No," Derrick said. "Not unless—"

"Unless what?" Tyler stepped closer, aggressive, using his height. "Unless I piss you off? Unless you feel like it?"

"I don't know," Derrick admitted. "I don't know how it works."

Tyler's hand shot out and grabbed the front of Derrick's shirt. Not violent, not quite. More like he needed to hold onto something. "You can't—you can't just—" His pupils were huge, alcohol and fear and something hungry. "That wasn't—I'm not—"

"I know what I felt," Derrick said quietly. "In your body. What you felt."

Tyler's grip tightened. His face was so close now Derrick could count his eyelashes. "Shut the fuck up."

"Make me."

It was supposed to be defiant. It came out breathless instead.

Tyler's eyes dropped to Derrick's mouth. He was breathing hard, his whole body coiled tight. For a second Derrick thought Tyler might actually kiss him, might close that last inch and—

Tyler shoved him away, stumbling back. "Fuck you," he said, but there was no heat in it. Just panic. He shouldered past Derrick and disappeared into the bathroom, slamming the door.

Derrick stood there, heart pounding, and realized his hands were shaking.

He knew—knew—he could do it again. If he wanted. Could push through that bathroom door, grab Tyler's wrist, and just... slip inside.

The temptation was dizzying.

Instead, Derrick turned and headed back to the party. But he was hyperaware of Tyler the rest of the night. When Tyler emerged from the bathroom, when he rejoined his friends but kept drinking, kept tracking guys with those furtive glances. When Tyler's teammate threw an arm around his shoulders and Tyler tensed before forcing himself to relax.

They didn't speak again. But Derrick caught Tyler looking at him across the room—once, twice, three times. Each time Tyler's expression was unreadable, somewhere between fear and fascination.

When Derrick finally left around midnight, stepping out into the cool night, he turned back and saw Tyler through the window. Tyler was standing alone by the kitchen counter, beer bottle forgotten in his hand, staring at the door Derrick had just walked through.

Their eyes met through the glass.

Tyler didn't look away.

4

The bus was nearly empty when Derrick climbed aboard Thursday afternoon. Three students scattered across the seats, all absorbed in phones or textbooks. The usual crowd hadn't shown yet—this was the early route, the one Derrick had been taking specifically to avoid Tyler.

He swiped his pass and moved down the aisle, heading for his preferred spot near the back.

Heavy footsteps behind him. Purposeful.

He turned.

Tyler stood in the aisle, duffle bag over one shoulder, still in his practice uniform. Those tight grey pants, the jersey with MARTINEZ across the back in block letters. His cap was backwards, blonde hair curling out from underneath. And he was looking directly at Derrick with an expression that made Derrick's stomach drop.

Not angry. Not scared.

Hungry.

"This seat taken?" Tyler asked, and his voice was lower than usual, rougher.

Derrick stared. "I—no?"

Tyler didn't wait for a better answer. He slid into the aisle seat, his body blocking Derrick's exit, and dropped his duffle bag between his feet. The bus lurched forward and Tyler spread his legs wide, one thigh pressing against Derrick's, claiming space.

They sat in silence for a full minute. Derrick's heart hammered. He was intensely aware of every point of contact—Tyler's thigh solid and warm against his, Tyler's shoulder higher than his own, the smell of sweat and grass and something sharper underneath.

"You've been avoiding me," Tyler said finally, not looking at him.

"I've been avoiding you? You literally changed your bus route."

"Yeah." Tyler's jaw worked. "And you started taking the early one."

So Tyler had noticed. Had been tracking him.

"What do you want?" Derrick asked.

Tyler's hand flexed on his thigh. "I don't know."

The admission hung between them. The bus rumbled over a speed bump and Tyler swayed into Derrick, shoulder knocking against his, and didn't pull away.

"I can't stop thinking about it." Tyler's voice was barely audible over the bus engine. "What you did. What it felt like."

Derrick went very still. "What did it feel like?"

Tyler's hands fisted. "Like—" He stopped. Started again. "You were everywhere. Inside me. I couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't—" His breathing was getting faster. "And I should have hated it."

"But you weren't," Derrick said softly.

"I was." Tyler's eyes finally met his, and they were wild, desperate. "I was terrified. But I also—" He bit off the words.

"Also what?"

Tyler's hand moved. Slow, deliberate, he reached across his own body and grabbed Derrick's wrist. Skin on skin. His grip was tight, fingers digging in, and Derrick felt it immediately—that pull, that doorway opening between them.

"Do it," Tyler whispered. "I need—I need to know if it was real."

Derrick's power stirred, hungry and eager. "Why?"

Tyler's grip tightened. "Because I haven't been able to sleep. Because I keep feeling you in my head even though you're not there. Because every time I close my eyes I remember what it was like to not be in control and I—" His voice cracked. "I get hard thinking about it."

The confession shattered something between them. Tyler's face was flushed now, humiliation and arousal mixing. His chest heaved. And his hand was still locked around Derrick's wrist, holding on like Derrick might disappear.

"You want me to possess you," Derrick said, testing the words. "Right here. On this bus."

"Yes," Tyler breathed. "Please."

The 'please' destroyed Derrick. He'd never heard Tyler say that word before.

Derrick looked around. The other passengers were absorbed in their own worlds, earbuds in, facing forward. No one was paying attention.

"Okay," Derrick breathed.

He let his power surge forward, and Tyler's eyes rolled back.

The world inverted.

Derrick gasped with Tyler's lungs, feeling Tyler's consciousness shove against him immediately—but different this time. Not fighting to escape. More like... testing. Exploring. Tyler's panic was still there but underneath it was a desperate curiosity.

Oh god oh fuck you can feel that you can feel everything—

"Yes," Derrick said with Tyler's mouth, keeping his voice low. "I feel everything."

Tyler's horror-arousal doubled. He was so exposed, every secret laid bare.

The bus slowed at a stop. Derrick stood with Tyler's body, and Tyler's consciousness suddenly spiked with panic.

Your body—we can't just leave it—

Derrick looked back. His real body sat there, eyes glazed and vacant, and any second someone might notice.

Fuck fuck what do we do—

Derrick's mind raced. Then Tyler's consciousness pressed urgently: Get off here. There's—the construction site, the porta-potty, we can—

It was insane. Reckless. But Derrick grabbed his own body's arm and pulled it to standing. To the other passengers it would look like he was helping a drunk friend. He half-dragged, half-carried his empty shell off the bus.

The construction site was just past the bus stop—weekend work, currently abandoned. Derrick muscled his body behind a dumpster, propped it in shadows where it wouldn't be seen.

This is so fucked up, Tyler's thought was panicked laughter.

"You asked for this," Derrick reminded him.

I know. God, I know. Tyler's consciousness wrapped tighter around his. Now what?

"Now," Derrick said, flexing Tyler's hands, "I have your body. What do you want me to do with it?"

Everything, Tyler answered immediately. Anything.

5

Derrick walked Tyler's body away from the construction site, feeling the strength in these legs, the easy athletic stride. Tyler's consciousness was still there, wrapped around his, experiencing his own body from the outside.

This is what I feel like? This is how my body moves?

"Yeah," Derrick said aloud. "This is you."

He headed toward campus, Tyler's route automatic. And as he walked, Tyler's arousal was building, the fascination mixing with fear.

The locker room. Tyler's thought was sudden, urgent. Take me there.

"Why?"

Where it started. I need—please.

Derrick changed direction, heading for the athletic center. It was late afternoon, the building mostly empty. He pushed through the locker room door, the smell of disinfectant and sweat immediately familiar.

Tyler's consciousness spiked with recognition. Here.

Derrick walked to Tyler's locker—number 17—and Tyler's fingers moved automatically through the combination. Inside, Tyler's spare clothes hung neatly.

Touch me, Tyler's thought was desperate. I need to feel it again.

Derrick's hands—Tyler's hands—grabbed Tyler's jersey and yanked it up. The fabric dragged over Tyler's torso and off. Tyler's bare chest in the mirror, the defined muscle, the light hair.

Yes yes please—

But they didn't have time for slow. Derrick's hands were frantic now, unbuttoning Tyler's baseball pants, shoving them down just enough. Tyler was already hard, straining against his compression shorts.

Don't stop don't stop—

Derrick shoved the compression shorts down and Tyler's cock sprang free. He wrapped Tyler's hand around it immediately, no teasing, no exploration. Just desperate need.

Oh fuck—

He stroked fast, rough, Tyler's body knowing exactly what it needed. His other hand gripped the locker door for balance, knuckles white. Tyler's consciousness was fragmenting, overwhelmed.

The orgasm hit fast and hard. Tyler came with a strangled gasp, spattering the inside of his locker, and his consciousness whited out completely.

When awareness returned, Tyler's thought was dazed: Holy shit.

Derrick was already cleaning up with his jersey, shoving everything back into place. His movements were rushed, sloppy. Someone could walk in any second.

We should—Tyler started.

"I know," Derrick said. "I need to get back."

I don't want you to leave, Tyler's consciousness pressed closer, almost desperate.

"I have to. My body—"

I know. Fuck. I know.

Derrick left the locker room, walking quickly back toward the construction site. Tyler's consciousness was quiet now, subdued, coming down from the high.

When they reached the dumpster, Derrick's body was still there, slumped and waiting.

This is so wrong, Tyler thought, but there was wonder in it too.

"You asked for it," Derrick reminded him gently.

I did. And I—I want to again. Tomorrow. Can we—

"Yes," Derrick said.

Thank you, Tyler's consciousness whispered.

Derrick let go.

The world lurched and he gasped, back in his own body. Small and cold after Tyler's warmth. Tyler stood in front of him, swaying, eyes wild.

"Tomorrow," Tyler said hoarsely.

Tomorrow," Derrick agreed. Tyler blinked, the vulnerability suddenly vanishing as the reality of what they'd done hit him. He stiffened, his face hardening into that familiar mask. "Don't be late," Tyler snapped, his voice cold. "And don't think this means we're friends." He turned and walked away fast, leaving Derrick alone by the dumpster.

6

Derrick saw Tyler the moment he climbed aboard the Friday morning bus.

Tyler was in their usual spot—the seat they'd shared that first day. He sat sprawled with his legs wide, duffle bag on his lap, backwards cap shadowing his eyes. When Derrick started down the aisle, Tyler's gaze locked on him with an intensity that made Derrick's stomach flip.

Derrick walked straight to Tyler and stood there, waiting. Tyler's eyes traveled up his body slowly, deliberately, before that familiar smirk crossed his face.

"Well, well," Tyler said, loud enough that nearby students could hear. "Look who finally decided to show up."

"Move your bag," Derrick said.

"What's the magic word?" Tyler's voice had that mocking edge.

"Please," Derrick said quietly.

Something flashed in Tyler's eyes. He moved the bag to the floor, then patted the seat. "Since you asked so nice."

Derrick slid in and Tyler immediately spread his legs wider, his thigh pressing hard against Derrick's. The contact was aggressive, claiming space, but Derrick felt Tyler's muscle tense—not with hostility but with barely controlled tension.

The bus lurched forward and Tyler's arm shot out, hand landing on Derrick's shoulder and staying there. Heavy. Possessive.

"You're so fucking small," Tyler said, his fingers digging in slightly. "Like, do you even work out?"

"No," Derrick said evenly.

"It shows." Tyler's hand squeezed. "Bet I could just—" Tyler grabbed Derrick's bicep, his large hand easily encircling it. "Yeah, tiny."

"Maybe I should," Derrick said.

Tyler's grip tightened, thumb pressing into the soft underside of Derrick's arm. It hurt, electric and intimate. "You good? Not gonna cry on me, are you?"

"I'm fine."

"Good." Tyler released his arm and threw his own across the back of the seat, behind Derrick's shoulders. To everyone else it looked dominant—Tyler claiming territory. But Derrick could feel Tyler's fingers twitching near his neck, wanting to touch.

They rode in silence for a few stops. Tyler kept up the physical contact—his thigh pressed hard against Derrick's, his arm a constant presence, occasionally his shoulder would bump Derrick's head. Each touch calibrated to look aggressive while actually being desperate connection.

"You going to Chen's history class?" Tyler asked eventually.

"Yeah. Nine."

"I got the same one. Eight-thirty section though." A pause. "Could go to yours instead."

Derrick turned to look at him. Tyler was staring straight ahead, jaw tight, trying to look casual. "You don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to," Tyler cut him off. "I'm saying I want to. Got a problem with that?"

"No."

"Good." Tyler's hand finally made contact with Derrick's neck, just his fingertips, hidden from view. The touch was gentle, so different from the aggressive grabbing. "So we're walking to class together."

"Okay," Derrick breathed.

Tyler's fingers pressed slightly harder, then withdrew. "Don't make it weird."

The bus pulled up to campus and Tyler stood first, grabbing his duffle. When Derrick stood, Tyler immediately crowded him from behind, one hand on his lower back pushing him forward. To observers it looked like impatience. But Derrick felt the way Tyler's hand lingered, palm flat against his spine, fingers spanning wide.

They got off the bus and Tyler started walking toward the academic buildings. Derrick fell into step beside him, and Tyler slowed down fractionally, adjusting his pace.

They passed other students, and Tyler's demeanor shifted in public. Shoulders squared, stride aggressive, careful distance between them. But when no one was looking, Tyler would drift closer before catching himself.

"So," Tyler said as they approached the history building, his voice dropping lower. "After class. You free?"

"Yeah."

"Good." Tyler's eyes were hungry. "Because we need to talk. About yesterday."

"Okay."

"And—" Tyler glanced around. "Maybe do it again. If you want."

"I want," Derrick said immediately.

Tyler's breath hitched. For a second his mask slipped completely—raw, vulnerable, desperate. Then someone called his name and the walls slammed back up.

"See you in there," Tyler told Derrick. Then, quieter: "Sit in the back. I'll find you."

The lecture hall was already half-full when Derrick entered. He headed straight for the back row, choosing a seat near the corner where the overhead lights didn't quite reach.

Then the door opened and Tyler walked in.

He scanned the room until his eyes found Derrick. Something crossed his face—relief? Hunger? He started up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Tyler dropped into the seat directly next to Derrick, his duffle bag hitting the floor with a heavy thud.

"Hey," Tyler said.

"Hey."

Tyler slouched in his chair, legs spread wide so his thigh immediately pressed against Derrick's. Their shoulders were touching too. He smelled like deodorant and nervous sweat.

Professor Chen cleared her throat. "Good morning, everyone. Let's dive into chapter six—the Industrial Revolution and its social impacts."

Derrick tried to focus. But Tyler's presence was overwhelming. Every time Professor Chen turned to write on the whiteboard, Tyler would shift, pressing harder against Derrick. His hand would drop below the desk and his fingers would find Derrick's knee, squeezing briefly.

Tyler's hand was back under the desk, palm flat on Derrick's thigh now. Not moving, just resting there. Claiming.

Derrick slowly, deliberately, placed his own hand on the desk between them. Palm up. An offering.

Tyler stared at it for a long moment. Then his hand moved from under the desk and his fingertips brushed across Derrick's palm. Skin on skin. Electric.

Tyler jerked his hand back immediately, like he'd felt that pull, that doorway opening, and panicked.

"Mr. Martinez," Professor Chen's voice cut through. "Care to share your thoughts on textile manufacturing's impact on child labor?"

Tyler's whole body went rigid. "Uh—they used kids because they were cheaper? And smaller so they could fit in the machines?"

"Correct, though I'd appreciate a more detailed analysis."

"Right. Yeah." Tyler's face was flushed. He opened his textbook with unnecessary force.

The class continued. Tyler made an effort to pay attention, but every few minutes his leg would press harder against Derrick's, or his elbow would bump Derrick's arm.

"Working in pairs," Professor Chen announced, "I want you to discuss the prompt on slide twelve. You have five minutes."

Tyler immediately turned his whole body toward Derrick, one arm draped across the back of Derrick's chair. His fingers were touching Derrick's shoulder, hidden by the chair back.

"So," Tyler said, his voice low. "The prompt."

"'Evaluate the societal changes brought on by industrialization,'" Derrick read.

"Right." Tyler's fingers pressed harder. "Societal changes. People's lives getting completely transformed. Not being in control of their own time anymore. Their bodies becoming—" he paused, eyes darkening, "—commodities."

The subtext was obvious.

"Some people probably liked it," Derrick said carefully. "The structure. Being told what to do."

Tyler's breath hitched. "That's fucked up."

"Is it?"

"I don't know." Tyler leaned closer. "Maybe some people need it. Need someone else to—" He stopped, face flushing. "We should probably actually do the assignment."

"Probably."

But neither moved. Tyler's hand on Derrick's shoulder was gripping now. His other hand dropped below the desk again and found Derrick's knee, sliding higher up his thigh.

"After class," Tyler whispered. "I know a place. Private. You can—" He couldn't finish.

"Possess you," Derrick finished.

Tyler's eyes fluttered closed briefly. "Yeah."

"For how long?"

"As long as you want." Tyler's hand was high on Derrick's thigh now, trembling. "I got practice at two. Until then, I'm—" He swallowed hard. "I'm yours."

"Okay," Derrick breathed.

"Time's up," Professor Chen called out.

Tyler pulled back slowly, hands leaving Derrick's body with obvious reluctance. He turned to face forward, adjusting himself subtly under the desk.

When Professor Chen finally dismissed them, Tyler was on his feet immediately. "Come on," he said to Derrick, loud enough for nearby students to hear. "We need to talk about that group project."

There was no group project. It was a flimsy lie, but Tyler said it with enough confidence that no one questioned it, and Derrick followed Tyler out of the lecture hall, through the bright hallway, past the main buildings toward the old maintenance wing.

Tyler pushed through a door marked "Facilities Access - Authorized Personnel Only."

They passed storage rooms until Tyler stopped at a door near the end.

"Groundskeeper's office," Tyler said, pulling a key from his pocket. "My roommate's brother works here. He's off on Fridays."

Inside—desk, filing cabinet, a worn couch. Tyler locked the door behind them.

They stared at each other. Tyler's chest was heaving, his hands clenched. The mask was completely gone. He looked terrified and desperate and painfully vulnerable.

"I haven't been able to think about anything else," Tyler said hoarsely. "Since yesterday. I should be freaked out. Should be running. But all I can think about is—" His voice cracked. "I need to feel it again. You inside me. Taking over."

Derrick stepped closer. "You're sure?"

"I'm not sure about anything anymore." Tyler's laugh was broken. "Except that I need this. Need you." He held out his hand, palm up. "Please, Derrick."

Derrick reached out and their fingers interlaced, and the world began to shift.

7

The world inverted.

Derrick gasped with Tyler's lungs as consciousness transferred, expanding, filling Tyler's body. Tyler's presence wrapped around him immediately, but this time there was no resistance. Tyler's consciousness opened completely, welcoming, eager.

Yes yes finally please—

Derrick steadied himself with Tyler's hands against the desk, feeling the solid muscle in Tyler's arms. He looked at his own empty body—smaller frame standing frozen, eyes glazed, mouth slightly open.

Your body, Tyler's thought came with worry. We need to—

"I know," Derrick said with Tyler's voice.

He caught his own smaller frame before it could collapse, Tyler's strength making it easy. He carried himself to the couch and laid his body down carefully, positioning it to look like sleep.

That's so fucking weird, Tyler thought.

"Get used to it," Derrick murmured.

He turned Tyler's body to face the small mirror near the filing cabinet. Tyler's reflection stared back—blue eyes, strong jaw, backwards cap. Derrick reached up with Tyler's hands and slowly took the cap off, revealing Tyler's hair. Thick, blonde, slightly messy.

You really do like my hair, Tyler's thought was almost shy.

"I love your hair," Derrick said, running Tyler's fingers through it.

Derrick's hands moved to Tyler's shirt, grabbing the hem. He pulled it up slowly, watching in the mirror as Tyler's torso was revealed inch by inch. The defined abs, the solid pecs, the light dusting of hair. Tyler's body was beautiful.

Touch me, Tyler's thought was desperate. Please touch me.

Derrick pulled the shirt off completely and ran Tyler's hands over Tyler's chest, feeling the warm skin, the muscle underneath. Tyler's consciousness shuddered.

This is what you feel when you look at me? This want, this hunger?

"Yes," Derrick said, exploring lower, over the abs.

I never knew, Tyler thought. Never knew anyone wanted me like this.

"I've wanted you since that first day on the bus," Derrick admitted. "When you glared at me. When your leg pressed against mine. I hated you and wanted you and couldn't separate the two."

Tyler's consciousness ached. I wanted you too. That's why I was so fucking mean. Because I couldn't understand why this small nerdy guy made me feel— He couldn't finish.

Derrick's hands moved to Tyler's belt, unbuckling it slowly. Tyler's breathing had gone ragged. The belt came free and Derrick unbuttoned the pants, pulled down the zipper. Tyler's cock was already hard, straining against his boxer briefs.

Oh god, you're going to—

"Tell me to stop if you want me to stop."

Don't stop. Please don't fucking stop.

Derrick pushed the pants down Tyler's hips, then the white boxer briefs. Tyler's cock sprang free, thick and flushed and leaking. And there were his pubes—that neat triangle of dark blonde curls. Derrick ran Tyler's fingers through them, gentle, reverent.

Why do you like that? It's just—it's just hair.

"It's masculine," Derrick said. "It's part of you being fully you. And it's beautiful."

No one's ever called me beautiful before.

"You are," Derrick said firmly. He wrapped Tyler's hand around Tyler's cock, and they both groaned.

Fuck fuck fuck—

Derrick stroked slowly, exploring, learning what Tyler liked. He could feel Tyler's muscle memory, but he also experimented, paid attention to how Tyler's consciousness responded.

His other hand moved up to Tyler's jaw, feeling the stubble. The scratch of it, so different from Derrick's own smooth skin.

You keep touching my face.

"I like your stubble," Derrick admitted. "I can't grow any yet. Yours is—" He rubbed Tyler's thumb over Tyler's jaw. "It's sexy."

You think I'm sexy.

"So fucking sexy," Derrick confirmed, stroking faster now.

Tyler's orgasm was building, pressure coiling in Tyler's belly. Tyler's consciousness was fragmenting, overwhelmed by sensation and emotion—being desired so completely, being touched by someone who genuinely wanted him.

I'm close, I'm—Derrick—

"Come for me," Derrick commanded.

Tyler's orgasm crashed through them both, Tyler's cock pulsing as he came hard, streaks hitting Tyler's abs, his chest. Tyler's consciousness whited out, pure pleasure.

When awareness came back, Tyler's thoughts were soft, vulnerable: Holy shit.

"Yeah," Derrick agreed.

He grabbed tissues from the desk and cleaned Tyler's body carefully, reverently. Then he just stood there, looking at Tyler's naked form in the mirror.

We have hours, Tyler's thought came tentatively. Until practice. You could—if you wanted—

"What do you want me to do?"

Everything. I want you to do everything. Live my life. Walk around campus in my body. Let people see me—see you—see us. I want to feel what it's like when you're in control out there, not just in private.

The request was enormous. Complete surrender—not just his body, but his identity, his reputation.

"Are you sure?"

I've never been more sure. Please. Show me what it's like to be me through your eyes.

Derrick felt something shift in his chest—Tyler's chest—their chest. This was intimacy deeper than sex, trust more complete than anything he'd experienced.

"Okay," he said softly. "Let's go."

He got Tyler dressed again—the boxer briefs, the tight pants, the blue tee, the backwards cap. Each piece of Tyler's armor, his public face. But now Derrick wore it, and Tyler was just a passenger.

Derrick checked his own body on the couch one more time—still breathing, still safe—then unlocked the office door and stepped out.

Tyler's body moved with easy athletic grace, confident and powerful. Students would see Tyler Martinez, baseball star. They wouldn't know that inside, Tyler was experiencing what it felt like to be wanted, to be cherished, to surrender completely.

Thank you, Tyler's thought whispered. For wanting me. For this.