I need more from Mark and his twin sister Robin. loves obsessive relationships.
welp here's more of them being very very weird without...fully crossing the line?? Entirely. Consciously. All the way.
It’s the summer before senior year, and your family is on vacation.
Real convenient, having a parent who can fly you all direct to your destination. No fussing at airports and getting stuck on coaches to resorts, as you’ve been informed is otherwise essential to the experience.
Instead, Dad flies each of you out before coming back for the luggage. Takes longer than when you were kids, since he can’t comfortably (for the mostly humans involved) hold you and Mark for one trip, but the travel time is still far less than your bodies should be able to handle.
He explained it’s part of how Viltrumites function. Not just a biological upgrade, but a force mitigation on anything close to their bodies, linked up to the same ‘muscle’ that sees them able to move freely through space. Too fast and you’d be unable to breathe just the same as if you were strapped to a fighter jet. You said it seems a good way to knock out a supervillain if needed, and-
You don’t crave his approval. Seems a dumb thing to want, given what’s coming.
But you’ve noticed he looks pleased whenever you voice how you think Viltrumite powers could be used in combat. He’ll correct you if you’ve gotten something wrong, and it’s too interesting for you to care about the obvious reasons he’d want you thinking like this.
Mark is Mom’s favourite, and you’re Dad’s. It’s pretty funny. Oh, they don’t say so - obviously, they don’t fucking suck as parents, haha - but whenever it’s family time, a few patterns emerge. And Dad…he tells you more about Viltrum.
Not a lot. Not enough to raise real red flags to any normal teenager. It’s more on the mindset of a Viltrumite; what they value, take pride in. Some vague nods to their achievements over thousands of years of existing as a cohesive society. More focus on feats of strength, alien creatures battled and trials overcome; the easy fascination with impossible power, and the lack of restraint offered by all they can do.
What you might be able to do, one day.
Should be able to. Dad sometimes thinks you two might not get your powers. You see it, when he mentions the usual age Viltrumites begin to show signs of their potential. He said, once, that he used to train their children. He didn’t say this was before the Scourge wiped them out.
Then his eyes cleared, and he set his hand on your shoulder. “You have all the makings of a true Viltrumite.” Talk about a back-handed compliment.
It’s probably a little concerning; are you really so suited to being a genocidal tyrant?
You don’t feel like one, kneeling behind Mark on the beach towel and rubbing suncreen into his back. The two of you woke up later than your parents, a text sent by Mom letting you know they were going out for breakfast and cruelly abandoning their children on the first full day of vacation.
Must be so convenient for them, having twins who’ll occupy each other. Especially now you’re both older and well into the stage where you could be left alone without a babysitter. If you didn’t like Mark so much, you might find it actually annoying. Instead, the near-constant company is admittedly your main tie to sanity.
Which is, y’know, totally fine. Not gonna combine badly with superpowers at all.
Sweat sticks to your forehead, hair kept out of your face by your sunglasses. The sweltering heat pokes at a few memories under the hazy surface of who you used to be. No brother back then, but sand and the tumbling waves lulls you into…not nostalgia, exactly. More like noticing an old scar on your skin, trying to remember where exactly it came from to last so long.
This is a quieter beach than the ones you can think of. Not private, but there aren’t any other families set up close by. Most are closer to the water, or over by the for-hire beach beds next to a bar.
You lean against Mark’s back, your chest around the bikini top already sunscreen-ed up, and grab his wrist. He doesn’t resist the pull of his hand up so you can lick at the ice pop. It’s easier to share, given how fast they melt. His fault for starting the sharing food habit. Never dropped it, either, so you adapted.
“It’s too hot,” he complains, head tipping back against your shoulder, his hair warm and sweaty. You shift so you can take his weight better, knees spreading to either side of him, and he reaches back to hold your thigh. You’re in matching swim trunks, because you’re both real fucking predictable, ha.
Can’t say you hate it. Comfort in known patterns, in being a part of him. You’re dreading the day it ends, but you try not to think about that. When it does inevitably come to mind, you…try to see the good in a change to your dynamic. He’ll be better off. You’ll manage.
“It’s perfect,” you argue, cupping his bicep to rub in a streak of sunscreen. The ice pop is a delicious suck of strawberry sweetness; just what the doctor ordered. “We can drag over a parasol later.”
“Or go swimming?”
“Thought you were worried about jellyfish.”
“I said I heard there’s jellyfish. I’m not worried.” He pauses. “You don’t think there’s a lot, do you?”
Get stung one time, and the trauma lasts forever. “I’ll keep an eye out, you big wuss. Protect you from the scary stingies.”
Mark as a kid, teary-eyed and clinging and calling them stingies. You think it was because he liked the idea of stingrays, kept doodling them on your arm in the car ride over that morning, and got it mixed up.
“Fuck off, Robbie,” he grumbles, seventeen years old and working his way into that teenage boy cockiness. Late bloomer in a few respects there. “I don’t need you to protect me.”
His annoyance doesn’t send him moving away. Instead, he pulls the ice pop back to his mouth despite already having more than his fair share of it, his eyebrows raised and a flashed smirk before his lips close on the popsicle - because the fucker knows he’s being greedy.
So you feel zero remorse about letting go of his wrist, to threaten the edge of the shirt bundled up over his lap. Your shirt. “Don’t need this, then?”
“Robbie,” he squeaks, which is still pretty cute. He was already flushed, but it deepens now as his hand squeezes nervously at your thigh. “That’s not- This isn’t fair. You know I…I can’t help it.”
Yeah, you know. Comes with the territory of being a teenage boy; he gets turned on by every little thing, including his sister helping him with sunscreen.
You were the one to explain it didn’t mean anything when he woke up to a boner pressed to your hip (groggy and confused at his tumbling apologies, petting his hair until he chilled the fuck out).
Mom did the whole talk on it, sure, but you’re his twin. Too many years of him looking to you for answers, no boundaries to make this a taboo topic. Not a solid boundary, at least, because- honestly? You just didn’t see the big deal in it.
Oh no, he gets hard sometimes, how horrifying. Sure, maybe you should be more bothered when he jerks off in bed beside you, but you guys have a system going.
You’ll pretend to still be asleep, or distracted with a comic, or shove your headphones on, and he won’t make a mess. Easy peasy. And hey, the water-based lube you prefer is usually in a two-for-one pack, so it’s no hardship (ha) to have a bottle in both bedrooms. Add in some tissues and wipes for him, and it’s only a Thing if you make it one.
So you usually don’t, unless it’s to fuck with him. Can’t help teasing him sometimes. He brings it out in you, those puppy dog eyes and the embarrassed twist of his lips.
Chuckling, you lean in to kiss his flushed cheek. All soft heat under your lips, his exhale fanning across your skin. “I know. Relax, I’m not gonna show everyone how excited you are…to be on vacation.”
“Ha ha, very funny,” he says dully, the grouchy baby. But he relaxes when you set your palm low on his stomach, feeling where his happy trail disappears under the waistband of the trunks. “If you had a dick, you’d be- It’d be the same. For you.”
You make a doubtful noise, resting your cheek on his temple. Nothing feels more natural than being close to him, and you close your eyes to the blazing sun. “I don’t get wet at the drop of a hat, so-”
“Dude.”
“What? It’s my version of a boner. I think you’re just easy, Mark. But don’t worry, a lot of girls are into that.”
He scoffs. “Like I’m ever gonna get a girlfriend. I mean-” The heel of his palm pushes your trunks up higher on your leg, so he can grip bare skin instead. “There’s school, and we’ll have our powers soon. Dad’s so busy all the time - we can’t date. And there’s secret identities, and…It isn’t worth it. Is it?”
“Depends.”
Amber is probably better off without the experience of dating a superhero, given the ending. Then again, character growth comes in all types, so it might be doing her a disservice to go ‘the civvie girlfriend isn’t worth it’…Ah, well. If she still asks Mark out, you’ll encourage him to give it a shot. But Eve is the endgame, and it isn’t like she’s years off.
“Don’t you want to give it a try?” you ask, and the heat feels right for this sort of question. Relaxed, no stakes. Just a chat with your favourite person. Just the quiet risk of him finding someone else to be his favourite. “Dating. Sex.”
He shrugs, bicep sliding under your loose grasp, shoulder blades rubbing against your chest. Sticky with sunscreen and sweat, the smell of it heavy, mixing up with the strawberry popsicle. His shampoo, too; the travel bottle shoved into your suitcase, something citrus-y.
“Maybe later,” he says quietly. “At college. Dad said about…us, so, he might not like it.”
Decent point, as batshit as it is. “Maybe later,” you agree.
