Archive of Our Own ^beta

Boy oh boy where do I even begin. It was a rainy day in New York when I saw him standing there. Luigi Mangione, burst out from the shadows and pulled out a gun. “Y/N step away from the ledge!” “I can’t!” I said. “The voices!” Luigi’s bushy eyebrows made eye contact with my blue-as-the-ocean-below orbs, his gigantic throbbing prebuterating love for the working class shone from his green irises. “Baby no!” I proclaimed to the Lord. “Man I killed a man,” said Luigi, as his green irises glistened with unshone tears. “Iiiiiiiiiii dont wanna die!!!!!” I jumped off the bridge. “Perchance, but only sometimes, yes. But now, no,” Luigi hisses wexvelv powers to jump twenty feet in the air and saves me just-sometimes I will. I whispered, my tears falling down my blushing cheeks just like the rain around me, “I wish I never was born at aa-a-a-at all.” “Lost in the monsoon I am,” he murmured under his breath to himself. I smile who did this to you, I menace the people, and he responds “me. I am my own worst enemy.” It was raining and my dress darkened, in a cool tone so that it looks like a cape. “Well,” spoke Luigi, “I got to tell you about your birth that you very glad you did not kill yourself. We were married.” “My darling,” he have tached, “before we go on our honeymoon, I just got to tell you–on our blue dorfs there is an ominous command–however, I must go back to Mount Sinai. Back to Moses.” “My god–you don’t love anyone!” “I never loved you anyway!” I gasped. “But no,” it wasn’t Luigi Mangione. It was–Elon Musk. “Elon,” I say. “How did I get here?” “I was King Charles I of England! And he-wh-sh-then to also steal American uranium to run but I end up running into a big strong manly evil. expect! kick! punch!” I kicked. I punched. I parkoured my way out of there, shocked, scarred. “Oh, you!” said the man. I still shock, and shock once again. I shocked so hard my blood turned to purple with a very very very very very very very very very very deep arterial anchor. “I once spanked King Louis XVI,” said my next lover Arnold Schwarzenegger, who turned to pursuit with a very very very very very very very very very dry face. But no, my brush and blood cannot take the monsoon. I weep. I sigh. “Man,” said Luigi, who didn’t realize I was dead for 20 minutes. “My baby,” said he, as I flicked my locks and bit my lips with delight. “I am so delighted.” As my corpse was gathered from debris, another monsoon descended. And the world teleported to my cybertruck and went to the Don and was like, “Save me from these angry Europeans.” “Viva la Brexit!” I bellowed. Arnold looked back in anger but couldn’t hear over the rain landing. As cheerilied bodies lay on the ground unmoved but, from puddle back I am reborn. I gasp. “My god,” said the Don, weeping. “And the Oscar goes to–even though the don wants to love, my suitor, it managed to miss.” My beauty shines fully now. I howl. The moon howls back. Empathic, so that I may meet you. I whisper into nothing.