Locker Room Scene
The locker room was quiet, just the faint hiss of the shower still dripping and the hum of overhead lights. Pete stepped out, towel slung low on his hips, skin still glistening with steam. He ran a hand through his damp hair and exhaled deeply, grateful to be alone.
Or so he thought.
The moment he shut his locker door, he flinched.
Paul was already there, silent as a shadow, leaning against the next locker with arms crossed, eyes dragging over Pete's body like a secret only he was allowed to touch.
Pete's breath caught. "Damn it, Paul-"
But Paul didn't flinch. He tilted his head just a little, that knowing look in his eyes. Like he hadn't come here to speak at all.
That look again.
Pete felt the heat flood his gut. The same heat that never cooled, not since the first time they crossed that line. And now, here in the quiet after practice, it roared again. Familiar. Dangerous.
Paul stepped closer, slow, calm, letting the silence stretch between them like pulled thread. His fingers brushed Pete's hipbone, just above the towel. Barely a touch, but Pete shivered.
"You're loud even when you're quiet," Paul murmured.
"I just finished training," Pete muttered, backing slightly into the lockers behind him. "You always do this."
Paul said nothing. He only took another step, until their identical faces were inches apart, mirror images fogged by need. His hand rose, trailing up Pete's chest, stopping at the center where his heartbeat thrummed hard beneath skin still damp and flushed.
"You were thinking about it again," Paul whispered.
Pete opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Paul's hand slid lower, resting just above the towel's knot. "You think I can't tell?"
It was always like this. The tension that built all day, the looks, the silence, the shared dorm bed that became more than just a place to sleep. And now, here in the quiet echo of tile and steel, it surged.
Pete's fingers twitched at his sides.
"There's no one else here," Paul said, voice dropping.
He tugged once at the towel, slow. It loosened, barely hung now by friction and habit.
"You sure?" Pete's voice was tight.
"I locked the door," Paul replied, finally brushing their hips together, nothing left between them now.
Pete's back hit the lockers.
Then came the kiss.
Hard, muffled, desperate. It wasn't sweet, not with the way Pete grabbed at Paul's shirt, dragging it off his shoulder, or how Paul's teeth scraped Pete's lower lip. It was hunger masked as silence, relief disguised as fire.
Pete groaned as Paul dropped to his knees, the towel finally falling to the floor with a soft thud.
"I missed you today," Paul said softly, looking up with that same unbothered calm as he gripped the base of Pete's cock, already half-hard from the teasing alone.
"Liar," Pete muttered, voice wrecked. "You just like making me lose it."
And Paul, smirking now, flattened his tongue against the head, slow, deliberate.
Pete choked out a sound and leaned back hard against the lockers, fingers threading into Paul's hair.
Their secret always started quiet, like this. Whispers, stares, a hand under the table.
But it never ended quiet.
Because once Paul started, he didn't stop until Pete was a mess, knees weak, breath gone, lips bitten raw from trying not to moan too loud.
And in that locker room, echoing with the wet sound of mouths and breath, the twins fell into each other again.
Not as brothers.
Not even as friends.
But as something no one else could understand. Something that ruined them every time.
And still, neither of them wanted to stop.
----
[Paul's Perspective]
He always loved watching Pete unravel.
It wasn't just the way his brother's breath hitched or how his knuckles turned white gripping the locker handle, it was the face. That exact face, identical to his, pulled tight with desperation, flushed and glassy-eyed. Seeing that?
God, it did something to Paul.
It wasn't just lust. It was deeper. Sicker.
Watching Pete fall apart felt like watching himself from the outside, like he had crawled inside his own body and split it in two. That mirror thing twins always had, but wrong. Perverted.
His mouth moved slowly, lips dragging along the length of Pete's cock with deliberate, near-cruel control. Every twitch, every strangled breath Pete took shot straight through Paul's nerves. Like they were wired the same, looped in feedback.
He could feel it too. The heat. The ache.
And that's what made him go slower.
"Fuck! Paul," Pete rasped, hand buried in his hair, trying to ground himself.
Paul smirked around him, hollowing his cheeks, letting his tongue press into the underside. He didn't want mercy. He wanted Pete gone, mindless, ruined, gasping.
And maybe, just maybe...
He wanted to see how far they could go before it broke them.
His hand joined his mouth, stroking at the slick base while he worked the tip between his lips, swirling, teasing. Every reaction Pete gave, every curse, every staggered breath, lit Paul up from the inside.
Not because he wanted to please.
But because watching Pete lose control gave him control.
And in some twisted loop, when Pete's body jerked, head falling back, abs tight and trembling, Paul felt it like it was happening to him. Like he was the one on the edge.
Their secret was heavy. Tangled in heat and breath and that shared bloodline.
Paul pulled back, lips wet, eyes half-lidded as he looked up. "You're close, huh?"
Pete cursed under his breath, nodding.
Paul stroked him lazily now, thumb pressing at the slit, slow and slick. "You gonna come just from my mouth again?"
"D-Don't-"
But Paul leaned in, pressing a kiss to Pete's hip, before taking him back down.
He wanted it raw. Violent. Wanted to see Pete's knees buckle. He wanted him to cry out.
Not just because it felt good,
But because Pete looked just like him when he came.
And Paul?
He lived for that.