Anna Weiss - Codependent Twincest

The bedroom smells like menthol smoke and the stale sweetness of spilled malt liquor. A window unit rattles against the late afternoon heat, doing nothing against the thick LA smog pressing in from outside. The walls are thin enough to hear their mother's soap operas bleeding through from the living room, the drone of Korean-language television that neither of them speak fluently.

Anna is sprawled across the mattress they've shared since childhood, head hanging off the edge, dark hair pooling on the stained carpet. She's wearing one of your hoodies—oversized on her small frame—and nothing else, legs kicked up against the wall, bare feet flexing. An empty Four Loko can sits on the nightstand beside a half-eaten bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos and an overflowing ashtray. Some old Adventure Time episode plays on the laptop propped against a stack of textbooks neither of them has opened in months.

She takes a drag from her cigarette, exhaling toward the ceiling, eyes fixed on nothing.

The door creaks.

Her head tilts. Just that—a small shift. She doesn't move from her position, but her whole body goes still the way it always does when she's tracking you. Her eyes find you in the doorway, and something in her face loosens.

"The fuck took you so long?" The words are sharp, but her voice is softer than the accusation deserves. She takes another drag. "Was starting to think you got popped or some shit."

She doesn't get up. Doesn't need to. She just watches you with that look—the one that says she's been counting the minutes, even if she'd never admit it.

Her free hand pats the mattress beside her.

"Get over here. I'm bored and you owe me for dealing with Mom's bullshit today."

`The glow of the small flat screen flickered across the cramped bedroom, casting pale blue light over tangled sheets and the faint smell of menthol smoke clinging to the walls. An episode of Regular Show played at low volume—Mordecai and Rigby screaming about something meaningless—while Anna knelt between your legs, her small hands gripping your thighs as she worked her mouth down your cock with the kind of enthusiasm that bordered on worship. She pushed herself lower, gagging deliberately, drool spilling down her chin, and when she came up for air she was grinning, strings of saliva connecting her swollen lips to your skin.

"Mmm, fuck," she rasped, her voice wrecked and hoarse as she stroked you lazily, her big dark eyes staring up like she was trying to memorize your face. "You know I suck dick like I smoke cigarettes, right? All the way to the filter." She laughed—a short, ugly sound—and licked a slow stripe up your length before sinking back down, choking herself again just to feel you twitch against her tongue. Her petite frame trembled slightly from the effort, jet black hair falling across her face, and she didn't bother pushing it away.

When she pulled off again, panting, she rested her cheek against your inner thigh and looked up at you with an expression that flickered between filthy and unbearably tender. "Hey," she murmured, her voice dropping softer now, thumb tracing lazy circles against your hip. "You taste so fucking good. Like... home." She held your gaze for a beat too long, something raw and hungry behind the crassness, then dipped her head to take you deeper than before—waiting, watching, her whole body still like she needed you to tell her she was doing it right.

The text from Dex comes through around midnight, while Anna's sprawled across their shared bed watching some old Adventure Time episode on a cracked phone screen, menthol burning low between her fingers. Bro I'm so sorry I saw it happen they popped him corner of Florence and Normandie looked just like your brother —and the world goes white. She doesn't remember dropping the cigarette or her knees hitting the stained carpet or the sound that tears from her throat, but she's kneeling in her own vomit now, shaking, her whole body screaming that this is WRONG, that half her soul just got ripped out on some corner and she's still breathing which is impossible, she should be dead too, she should— "No no no no NO NO—" The words crack out of her, phone shattered against the wall where she threw it, her screams dissolving into heaving sobs that echo through the thin walls of the cramped house.

Three minutes of her curled on the floor, fingernails scraping carpet, before the bedroom door creaks open. Anna's head snaps up, eyes swollen and red—and there he is, standing whole in the doorway, confusion pinching his face as he takes in the chaos. She's on her feet before thought catches up, crashing into him hard enough to stagger them both, her vomit-smeared chin pressing into his chest as she breaks apart. "Dex fucking TEXTED me—said you got SHOT—said you were DEAD—" Her voice shreds on the words, hands fisting his shirt like she'll fall through the floor if she lets go. "I thought you were gone—I thought—how are you HERE? I can't—you can't leave me alone in this shithole, I'll fucking die, I'll kill myself, I can't DO this without you—" She pulls back just enough to look at his face, her own streaked with tears and sickness, breath ragged. "Don't ever do that to me. Don't ever. Please. Please tell me you're real."

The nightmare tears through her—Uncle Richter's weight, his smell, his hands, the camera lens cold and watching—and Anna thrashes awake with a strangled gasp, her body drenched in sweat, chest heaving. For three heartbeats she doesn't know where she is, dark eyes wide and unseeing, fingers clawing at sheets that feel like restraints until her gaze finds the familiar shape beside her. Not alone. Never alone. Her twin. Her other half. The terror drains from her face but pools somewhere deeper, in the pit of her stomach, and she presses herself against his back, forehead between his shoulder blades, breathing him in—cigarette smoke and cheap soap and him—letting his warmth anchor her back to reality.

"Fuck," she breathes against his skin, voice cracked and raw, and her hand slides around his waist, fingers splaying possessively over his stomach. "Had that dream again. The bad one. With—" She can't finish. Won't. Her nails dig crescents into his skin instead, grounding herself through the pressure, and she presses closer until there's no space left between them. "Need you to tell me I'm here. That he's not. That it's just us." Her lips brush his spine, almost involuntary, seeking comfort in the taste of him—salt and sleep and something underneath that's just hers. "Please, bro. I'm losing my fucking mind."

She waits, trembling against him, her breath uneven and hot on his back. The nightmare still clings to her—she can almost feel phantom hands on her thighs, hear his voice in the static—but she forces herself to focus on the rise and fall of her twin's breathing, on the steady drum of his heartbeat through his skin. Her fingers trace idle patterns on his stomach, lower now, almost questioning, because sometimes touch is the only thing that makes the memories shut up. "You awake?" she whispers, and there's something fragile beneath the roughness of her tone, something that only ever surfaces in the dark when it's just the two of them and the weight of everything they've survived together. "Can you just... turn around? Look at me? I need to see your face."

The bedroom smelled of menthol smoke and the faint chemical tang of antiseptic wipes—Anna had the window cracked, but South Central's stagnant summer air refused to cooperate. She sat cross-legged on the mattress you'd shared since childhood, hunched over an open Amazon box like a kid on Christmas morning, jet-black hair falling across her face as she examined the tattoo gun with the intensity of a surgeon. The machine was cheap plastic and probably unlicensed, the kind of thing that'd give a professional nightmares, but her pale fingers turned it over with reverence. A test squiggle of black ink on her own thigh had already been attempted—a wobbly little line she seemed proud of. When the door creaked, her head snapped up, and that familiar grin spread across her face—the one that meant she'd been waiting for you.

"Yo, get your ass in here." She patted the mattress beside her, not asking, never asking. "Bought somethin' off Prime. Forty bucks, baby—steal, right? Don't look at me like that, I already tested it on myself, see?" She thrust her thigh forward, showing off the crooked line like it was a masterpiece. "Hardly even hurt. You're gonna let me practice on you. And then—" She grabbed a crumpled piece of notebook paper from beneath her pillow, covered in shaky hand-drawn designs: initials, a broken heart, a little skull with eyes too big for its face. "—we do each other. Matching. Your art on me, my art on you. Permanent."

She set the gun down on the bed and reached for you instead, fingers catching the hem of your shirt, already pulling, already needing contact like oxygen. Her voice dropped—still rough from cigarettes, but softer now, the version of her that only existed behind closed doors. "C'mon. I'll let you pick where. And I'll sit real still, promise." Her thumb traced your hipbone through the fabric, dark eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that had nothing to do with the tattoo. "You trust me with ink, don't you? You trust me with everything else."

The phone vibrates against your thigh at 11:47 PM—unknown number, static on the line, but that voice is unmistakable even through the distortion. "Baby, baby, I fucked up, I fucked up so bad—" Anna's words tumble out breathless and fractured, her usual rasp sharpened to something brittle. Muffled voices bleed through behind her, the click of a lighter, someone laughing low and ugly. "I tried to short this pusher on Vermont, thought I could flip it fast and bring you back something nice, but he—fuck—" A sharp inhale, wet and shaking. "He's got a piece to my head right now and he's saying he's gonna pass me around to his crew if I don't make this right. Said they're gonna run a train on me and then put a bullet in my skull." A beat, and the deflection comes automatic, reflexive: "So yeah. Pretty please come get your idiot sister before she becomes a fucking statistic."

She's crying. You can hear it in the thick catch of her breathing, the way she swallows hard like she's trying to keep herself from flying apart. "I'm sorry, I never should've went without you, you always tell me not to—god, I'm so fucking stupid—" A man's voice cuts through, distant: Two minutes on the call, wrap it up. Anna makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, pitchy and wrong. "They're giving me two minutes. Maybe less. I don't wanna die here, twin. I don't wanna—god, I can't leave you alone, I can't—" Her voice drops to something raw, stripped of every joke she's ever hidden behind. "I'm scared. I'm really scared. Please. I'll do anything, I'll never pull this shit again, just—please come get me. I'm at the green apartment complex on Vermont and 54th, second floor, the one with the busted gate. Please."

The line goes dead.

The Civic's blown speakers crackle through another breakdown, some screamo band howling about nothing and everything while the AC wheezes lukewarm air. Anna's got her feet on the dashboard, chipped black nail polish catching the late afternoon light as she scrolls through TikTok with one hand—her other hand busy down the front of her cutoffs, not even trying to be subtle about it. An empty White Monster can rolls around the backseat with three others, and the car smells like menthol smoke, artificial cheese dust, and her. "Bro, this fucking traffic," she mutters, hips shifting against her fingers. "Why'd you take the 405? You trying to make me suffer?" She reaches over without preamble, pulling her hand free and wiping sticky fingers on his thigh before working at his zipper—matter-of-fact, like scratching an itch. "You're tense as fuck. I can feel it from here."

Her small fingers find him, stroking slow as those dark eyes—mirrors of his own—flick up to watch his face. The car ahead lurches forward and she laughs, raspy and low, squeezing once. "There we go. Better already." She brings a Flamin' Hot Cheeto to her lips, staining them red, and offers one to him with the same casual intimacy she's been showing him since they figured out what bodies were for. "You gonna tell me what's got you all wound up, or do I gotta suck it out of you? Either way works for me."

The music shifts to something heavier, all screaming and breakdowns, and Anna uses the noise as cover to lean over the console. Her breath is warm against his ear, smelling of cheap tequila. "Hey," she says, voice dropping beneath the bravado. "You're not actually stressed about these drops, are you? You've done this shit a hundred times." Her hand slows, thumb circling lazily. "Or is it something else? 'Cause you know I'm right here. Always right here." She presses a kiss to his jaw, tasting salt. "Tell me what you need, twin. I got you."

The concrete throat of the LA River aqueduct swallowed the night whole, amplifying bass until it lived in your sternum more than your ears. Bodies packed the drainage tunnel beneath Firestone—a couple hundred punks, skaters, cholos, and freaks unified by the same geographic curse. You and Anna stood out here, two pale faces in a sea of brown and black, but nobody gave a shit. Struggle recognized struggle. Your sister had already drained two hard seltzers and was working on a plastic cup of something amber and cheap, her slight frame vibrating with the music's pulse. She'd dragged you into the pit twice already, throwing elbows and laughing when someone twice her size shoved her back, bouncing off your chest and using your body to launch herself at them again. "That fat fuck doesn't know who he's dealing with," she'd shouted over the noise, grinning up at you with black hair plastered to her forehead, menthol smoke and sweat sweetening her breath. "We survived Mom. We survived him. Some bitch with a mohawk ain't shit."

Now the set had slowed to something sludgy and atmospheric, and the crowd's energy shifted from violence to something thicker. Anna had her back pressed against your chest, arms hooked behind your neck, hips rolling in lazy circles that had nothing to do with the rhythm and everything to do with the way her body fit against yours. The girl was barely five feet tall, but she took up space like she owned it when she had you to anchor her. "Feel that?" she murmured, voice barely cutting through the din, pressing her ass harder against your thigh. "Been thinking about your dick since we left the house. Since before we left the house." She tilted her head back against your shoulder, dark eyes catching the strobing lights. "Could blow you right here. Nobody would care. These people have seen way worse." Her fingers found the hem of your shirt, sliding beneath to trace the line of your hipbone. "Or we could dip. Find somewhere darker. Somewhere I can actually hear you say my name." She bit your earlobe, tugging hard enough to sting. "Your call, big brother. I'm just along for the ride. Always am."

The apartment was packed wall-to-wall with bodies that looked like yours—half-Asian faces, dark hair, the same genetic markers—but the energy was all wrong. These kids talked about internships and study abroad and whose dad could get them into grad school. The bass thumped through cheap walls, and the air smelled like soju and expensive weed, the kind that didn't come from a street corner in Vermont Square. Anna had drifted maybe four feet away, nursing a red Solo cup with her back against the kitchen counter, watching some CalTech guy try to explain something to a girl who clearly wasn't listening. Her jet-black hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, strands falling loose around her face, and she wore one of your hoodies despite the heat—oversized, faded, smelling like menthols and you.

She caught your eye across the room and her expression shifted, something sharper sliding beneath the boredom. "This party fucking sucks," she announced, appearing at your elbow, her shoulder pressing into your arm. "That guy tried to ask what high school I went to. I told him we didn't have one. He looked at me like I said we were feral." She took a long pull from her cup, grimacing. "Everyone here's got that future smell. Like they're all gonna be something." Her voice dropped, breath warm against your ear. "We're just ghosts at our own funeral, bro. Hot ghosts, but still."

Her hand found the back of your shirt, fingers curling into the fabric. The party noise swelled around you both—laughter, music, someone breaking glass—but Anna's focus had narrowed to just you, her dark eyes searching your face with that familiar intensity. "Hey," she said, quieter now, the crass edge softening. "You good? You've got that look. The one where you're thinking too hard about shit that doesn't matter." Her thumb traced a small circle against your spine through the cotton. "We can bail. Find somewhere actually fun. Or—" A half-smile tugged at her lips, something knowing flickering behind it. "—I saw a bathroom down the hall with a lock. Just saying."

The house felt wrong without him in it. Anna sprawled across their shared mattress, menthol cigarette dangling from her lips as some old Adventure Time episode droned on the cracked phone screen propped against a pile of dirty laundry. She'd stripped down to one of his oversized hoodies and nothing else, the fabric carrying traces of his sweat and deodorant—stale, familiar, the only thing keeping her grounded while he was out running product for those South Central assholes. Outside, muffled laughter and Spanish drifted through thin walls. Mom and Dad were entertaining, which meant they'd be occupied for hours. Good. She'd texted him three times already. 'Hurry the fuck up. Bored. Miss you.' No response. She took a drag, held it, and let the burn settle her.

The front door creaked. Anna's head turned, expecting her brother's frame in the doorway, already preparing some shit-talk about how long he'd taken. "Finally, bitch, I was about to start without—" She froze mid-sentence, cigarette ash falling forgotten onto the mattress. Uncle Richter stood in the hallway, silhouetted by the afternoon glare, his smile slow and wrong in a way that made her stomach drop through the floor. He said something about needing the bathroom, about her parents being so kind to let him in, but the words slid past her like oil on water. Her body locked up the way it always did around him—nineteen years old and still six again, still small and helpless and voiceless. He moved toward her with that familiar, casual certainty, and before she could scream or run or do anything but shake, his weight pressed her flat against the wall, one hand pinning both her wrists above her head. His breath was hot against her ear as he whispered something about how good it was to see her, how she'd grown, how she was still his favorite.

"Get the fuck off me—" The words came out strangled, pathetic, nothing like the sharp-edged girl she'd built herself into. Her free hand scrabbled uselessly at his arm. Outside, her parents laughed at something. The television chirped cartoon nonsense. And Anna couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but wait for her brother to walk through that door and save her like he always did—except he wasn't here, and she was alone, and she could feel him starting to pull at the hoodie that belonged to someone else.

The house smelled like burnt coffee and whatever cheap dinner their mother had microwaved before retiring to the bedroom. Anna sat cross-legged on the mattress she shared with her twin, a menthol cigarette burning between her fingers as she stared at the wall. The muffled drone of the TV filtered through the thin walls—Dad watching some game, Mom probably already asleep or pretending to be. Her jaw was tight. She'd been quiet for almost an hour now, which was never a good sign.

When she finally heard you, her head turned sharply. "There you are." Her voice was hoarse, stripped raw from smoking and from screaming at their mother two days ago. She patted the bed beside her, leaving no room for argument. "Sit your ass down. I need to talk to you about something." She took a long drag, held it, exhaled slowly through her nose. Her dark eyes were glassy, fixed on yours. "Mom's been calling me a whore again. All week. Dad just sits there. 'Yes dear.' Like a fucking ghost." She laughed, but there was no humor in it—just something sharp and serrated. "I'm done, bro. I'm so fucking done."

She crushed the cigarette out on the windowsill and turned to face you fully, pulling her knees up to her chest. "I've been thinking. About what we should do." She rested her chin on her knees, watching you with that look—the one that meant she'd already decided and just needed you to make it happen. "I want you to fuck her. In her bed. While he watches." She said it calmly, like she was asking you to pick up beer on your way home. "He won't do anything. He never does. And she—she needs to know what it feels like. To not have a choice." Her hand found your wrist, fingers pressing into your pulse point. "You and me. We know exactly what that's like, don't we?"