** WaluigiXLuigi. Do not read or comment if you do not like/are offended by the pairing. No one is forcing you to read. **
It takes two to fully enjoy the thing that is called love; two hearts beating, two mouths breathing, two different hands holding, and two sets of lips kissing.
I have that other person right here with me, and he is perfect for me.
My complaint is that we can only see each other in certain rooms; however the good thing is that we can see each other whenever we want to. On nights when I can't sleep, days I come home frustrated, evenings when I just feel alone, I can see him with just a few steps.
Our eyes always stay locked onto each other, as if his empty eyes are endlessly staring into my own; it's like he's staring into my soul. His facial expressions mock my own, and as I speak he leans forward as I do - he wants me to tell me everything that comes to my mind and I love to share. He even knows every dark secret that I have - for who is there for him to tell? He only makes contact with me.
I talk endlessly about how I wish we could be held in each other's arms, to touch his skinny body and kiss his lips as much as I want to. Yet, it saddens me to know that he can't do that. Every time we reach out to each other our hands hit a thin layer of silver before we both have to pull back in embarrassment.
There is no way for us to show how much we love each other except through voice.
Countless times we have undressed for each other, pressed ourselves against that blockade while hoping we could feel that touch that we have both been longing for. We end up standing back and pleasing ourselves using just the sight of the other's body, feeling shameful and disgusting when we realize that I'm on the floor sitting like a begging whore while he's clawing the thin wall in desperation.
My brother has walked into the house at times, sighing as he sees that I'm conversing with my lover and mutters that I need to spend more time with some woman that I'm forced to go talk to every week. I hate walking into a strange building and lying on a couch to talk to her - and I hate her when she starts to ask why I "still" love that man.
Once she gave me a bottle and told me to take the pills inside. When I asked her why, she smiled and said that it would help me come to realize my problem with him and help my "recovery" – the truth about what he really is.
What truth? He's not keeping any secrets from me. I merely threw the bottle away when I got home.
Many times people have looked at me and said that I needed to realize what was wrong with the two of us. Something about a collision taking him away and making me delusional, telling me he's gone to a better place and that I need to get over it.
He didn't go anywhere. He's always at home, sitting behind those shiny walls waiting for the next time I show him my body.
I'm frustrated. I want him to touch me. I want him to kiss me. I'm sick of that barrier.
The other day a man approached me as showed me a small bag, saying that if I smoked what was inside I could have whatever I wanted for a short period of time. Needless to say, I took it and gave him money without a second thought - this could break that barrier. This could let us touch even if it was just for a little while.
When I returned home we both approached the living room barrier with bags in hand - he got the same idea I did. We both reached inside and pulled out some sort of rolled up paper with stinky, colorful powder inside.
I was told to smoke it. I've smoked once before in my life. I barely remember how to do it.
We both leaned back on our couches as he taught me how to smoke again, lighting a small fire with a box of matches and igniting the fuse that - with a few inhales - would finally break that barrier for us.
At first it was a sick feeling, I couldn't keep my eyes focused on him as I inhaled and exhaled. Then, my head rolled back uncontrollably as my eyes went numb, I was drooling and laughing and I could hear his voice clearer than I ever could while conversing with him from the barrier. Soon, I couldn't even keep my eyes open, my spine had become rubber and I couldn't even make out actual words.
But after I got used to the feeling, I could open my eyes and move normally. He was still on his couch, putting down his paper tube and motioning to me - time to see if that barrier was broken.
I jumped from my couch, running to that barrier and found myself passing through the worn wooden frame. In excitement, I kept running until I could embrace him in a crashing hug - the tears flowing from my face like waterfalls.
His embrace was warm and loving, his laughter was as clear as day, his lips felt better than the finest silk in the world.
His hand found its way to my neck, long fingers wrapping around and squeezing tightly. I try to get away, pushing against him and walking backwards, but he smiles and brags about how he finally gets to relieve himself now.
Relieve? How? By cutting off my air supply?
Just as I felt like I was about to faint, he let go of my throat and shoved me onto the couch face-up, clawing off my clothes as I tried to keep them on me. His laugh was now dark and frightening, pressing a pillow down on my face to once again obstruct my breathing. I kicked my legs and bucked against him, grabbing his wrists and trying to scream as loud as possible - I thought he loved me.
Again, just before I pass out he returns oxygen to my nose - but he gave me very little time to inhale before he presented to me his own bare skin and erect organ.
He didn't care if I was ready or not. Against my shouted beggings he forced me to allow him access to my lower entrance. With only a quick rub down with his saliva, he started pushing into the tightened rings of my muscles, his smile growing with my painful cries.
All I could do was cry as he kept pushing until he was completely inside, the burning and stinging of stretching tore me apart. Now, I was feeling as if evil flames were engulfing my body.
It felt as if countless minutes passed before he felt like he could move, and with every thrust I began to feel like I could trust him again as my pain withered to mindless pleasure that I had been wanting for who knows how long.
As time passed our climaxes came and went. My exhaustion was his fuel, chuckling darkly as he forced me to stay awake so that I could please him once more.
After that, another round, followed by three more brutal ones that left bruises on my thighs, finishing off with our final round leaving me sitting on the floor, begging that he misuse me once again as I feel the results of his most recent orgasm leaking down my thigh.
He smiled and laughed, and he kept on laughing, hysterically as that feeling of being engulfed by fire came back.
I felt like I was being suffocated.
My skin felt like it was being cooked.
That was when I came to, realizing that my negligence of putting out that paper tube now set my house ablaze.
Smoking that wondrous thing didn't really break the barrier; rather, it showed me a mere preview.
A hellish preview of getting past that barrier.
The last thing I remember was that my couch was on fire, as was the rest of the room. I could barely even get my head straight before I tried to get out of the house – but when I made it to the door I felt myself being smashed into the floor by charred wooden planks.
Who knows how long I was out.
I woke in an elegant room, the walls lined with fine wooden accents and the floor carpeted with a lush fiber. The bed I lay upon was the softest in the world, warm and cozy under the blanket. The large window on the side was open, looking out over an endless sea of clouds.
I sat up to take a look around, spying a vanity on the other side with a man sitting at it. His long, skinny legs were crossed as empty eyes looked back at me with tears starting to form.
I could only stare back, rubbing my eyes to make sure I wasn't seeing things. "Waluigi?"
He nodded, slowly standing up and quietly walking over to me, he appeared to be biting back tears.
I started to think about where I was, "D-did I die? Is that why you're here?" I blinked at him hopefully, "Is this… the afterlife?"
He nodded again, sniffling.
Then I remembered exactly how I got there. "Oh no..." I said, "W-Waluigi! I'm sorry! I - I tried not to turn to the drugs but - but I really needed you - !"
He silently shushes me as he sits on the bed, cupping my face with his long fingers while pressing his lips to mine.
It all felt as warm and gentle as it was the morning of that accident.
He pulls away, resting his forehead on mine as a tear finally runs down his face. "Luigi," he said with a broken voice, "the barrier's been broken."
** Again. I'm working on, like, five other stories. Yet, I keep on writing stuff like this. I'm obviously an unfocused author. : - )
If you don't completely understand what happened, I would tell you that Waluigi and Luigi were dating and Waluigi died in a car crash and Luigi starts seeing Waluigi in his reflection and people are thinking he's insane and try to help him but Luigi decides to try a drug that a druggie wanted to sell him, he smokes it and goes into some sort of high where he "feels" like he's with Waluigi again but he forgot to put out the drug and it caught the house on fire and Luigi died and Waluigi - who was like Luigi's guardian angel thingy and kept contact with him through mirrors - knew Luigi was suffering without him so he went ahead and let Luigi smoke the drug and go through that scenario to give him that lust that he wanted and then let him die so they could be together in the after life BUUUUUUUUUUUUT if that doesn't make sense to you, you can make up your own story. (Yay run on sentences!)
So, this was going to start out as a Waluigi-centric fic where he was in love with his own reflection and was gonna commit suicide to be with himself, and of course Luigi was going to come in and save the day by admitting his own love for him. But as the evening hours ticked on I sorta kinda lost that idea when I began thinking about a Hetalia FrUk story that I read where Francis died and Arthur kept on sending his messages in hopes of hearing back from him soon. And then there was the idea of insanity (which I really like to include in my currently unfinished pieces of writing). It all added up to… this.
I finished this at ten fortyish, actually, and I was super sleepy. Yeah. I went back and revised some things today and now I'm happy with it and I'm gonna upload it and I'm gonna be all "YAY I TYPED".
Anyway… call me sick, call me insane, call me whatever you want, just don't call me crazy, because I'm Crazee Canadia. **