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rybonucleic-ket · 1 year

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this has been sitting in my notes app for a hot sec but I don't have the motivation to do anything with it so yk

have some tylorpe nobody asked for but I brain vomited

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The dreams of Xavier Thorpe had been haunted for months. He saw it every single night, that thing. The dreams turned into drawings, the drawings to obsession. With the creature, with who it really was. Xavier knew about Tyler Galpin long before anyone else. He's still not sure why he never told anyone.

After the creature came out of his painting to scratch him, his determination to learn more about it increased exponentially. He knew its cave well, his visions having taken him there multiple times. After that, nightly visitation of the cave became a regular occurrence. He’d seen in several times, but never like he saw it tonight. Never this close.

He was sure he was going to die. He’d watched it rip apart half a dozen people, and he would be no different. His obsession, having grown stronger than Wednesday’s, would be the death of him. He’d accepted his fate, not bothering to run when it charged toward him. He could feel its breath on his face, eyes closed as he waited. He held his breath. Five seconds went by, heavy breathing in his ear. Ten. Thirty. Forty five. He opened his eyes, meeting those of the monster in front of him. Creepy as shit, even though he saw it every night. He let out the breath he was holding, closing his eyes again. Neither moved. What the fuck was happening? Why was Xavier alive? Not to mention entirely uninjured? He couldn’t tell you. All he knew was when he reopened his eyes, Tyler fucking Galpin looked back at him, covered in blood. “What. The fuck.”

“So.” “Yeah.” Freshly showered Tyler sat in Xavier’s clothes on the bed that was formerly Rowan’s, because fuck you Galpin, you’re not getting blood all over my dorm. Xavier had never been more confused in his entire life, studying Tyler from across the room, no fear or hatred in his eyes, just confusion and fascination. Tyler stared right back at him like he’d never seen anyone like Xavier before either. After what felt like hours of mutually intrigued staring, Tyler spoke, barely more than a whisper. “Why didn’t you run?” “I’m not scared of you, Tyler.” “Right. But…you didn’t run when I..wasn’t me.” “Not scared of that either.” Xavier paused. “The real question is, why didn’t you kill me?” Tyler’s eyes dropped to his hands in his lap, wet hair dripping. He spoke so softly it was barely audible. “I don’t know.” He laughed humorlessly, looking up at Xavier with wet eyes. “I have no fucking clue.” Xavier studied his face for a while, before looking away. “It’s way too late for any of this shit to make any sense. I’m exhausted, you probably are too.” He pulled out a blanket for Tyler, Rowan’s bed already had sheets and a pillow on it because Xavier didn’t like the bare mattress. Tyler looked at him with an expression he couldn’t read. “Ah, shut up, man, it’s only weird if you make it weird. Not like I’m dying to share a room with you, but uh, it’s the middle of the night, it’s fucking freezing, correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think your dad’s gonna appreciate you showing up shivering in someone else’s clothes right now. Take the goddamn blanket.” Xavier threw the blanket at Tyler, hitting him in the face. Tyler grinned, pulling the blanket over himself. His expression softened. “Thank you, Xavier, really. There’s not really any reason you need to do this, actually, there are a lot of reasons why you shouldn’t do this, so I…I really appreciate it.” “Yeah, yeah, I’m the patron saint of hospitality,” Xavier turned off the lights, flopping face first onto his bed. “Now shut the fuck up and go to sleep.” Tyler laughed. “‘Night, Xavier.” Xavier sleepily hummed in response, muffled with his face buried in his pillow.

Tyler woke to the sun high in the sky, a moment of panic overtaking him as he tried to remember where he was and why his alarm didn’t go off. Remembering he was in Xavier’s dorm, his panic turned to his shift, to school, to his father. Fuck. Xavier walked into the room in sweatpants and a T-shirt, eyes flicking over Tyler briefly before he grabbed a sketchbook, flopping on his bed to draw. “G’morning. You’re up.” When he saw the panic in Tyler’s eyes, he sighed, exasperated. “God, calm down. It’s a Saturday. No school. And you’re off today, at the coffee shop. Figured you’d need your beauty sleep.” Tyler barely registered the fact that Xavier knew his shift schedule, too busy freaking out about his dad. As if he read his mind, Xavier said, “And, honestly, with the frequency of my dreams, I highly doubt it’s the first time you’ve been out all night, so presumably your dad either: a) doesn’t notice, b) doesn’t care, or c) is used to it.” Tyler groaned. “What time is it?” His voice came out gravelly, having just woken up. Xavier grinned at him. “Two-thirty p.m.”

(hey hey this is on ao3)

#tylorpe #tavier #tyler x xavier #xavier and tyler #wednesday fanfic #wednesday #idk what this is #um #they're boyfriends your honor #yeah #brainrot #word vomit #wednesday netflix #tyler galpin #xavier thorpe #shit i write #ry writes

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supermightyglue · 1 year

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that cky girl

“do you ever get tired of eating shit?”

“do you ever get tired of being a bitch?”

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hitlikehammers · 8 months

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For @embersonfiredeux, who wanted a little coffee shop AU.

Steddie 🦇 Modern Coffee Shop!AU ☕️

✨🦇✨☕️✨

It was actually almost the reason he lost a shot at the job in the first place.

(‘We almost lost a shot at the job, Dingus,’ as Robin never fails to remind him, and while he appreciates the fact of it—they’re a package deal, ride or die, hell or high water—he still believes he’s in the right.)

Know why he’s in the right?

Because he fucking counted, took over Robin’s not-so-secret mini whiteboard swiped when they left the ice cream place years ago, that last summer of high school, and made fucking notes, and he can say with absolute certainty: 9 out of 10 customers, whether grabbing a seat or hitting the drive-thru, get their coffee orders in to-go cups. Disposable, reusable: doesn’t matter. Either way, they’ve got a goddamn lid on them.

So: you know what’s entirely superfluous?

Latte art.

Because you can’t fucking see latte art under a goddamn lid. Flat out idiocy. And hell, since they’re cogs in the capitalist monstrosity: it’s also inefficient, which is probably the greater sin.

Also, if they’re driving? Not contributing to a distraction which requires dismantling a hot beverage and operating a motor vehicle at the same time is a goddamn public service and Steve should honestly be commended, gold star, at least employee of the month for like three consecutive months on that account.

Definitely should not have almost been told to hang up his apron in the first week when he refused to learn how to make the foam just right, to dribble it onto the espresso in the shape of a wobbly looking leaf.

They’re desperate though, and short staffed with the start of a new semester at the university he and Robin are both slogging through grad programs at, so where Robs makes flawless hearts for all the pretty girls, Steve gets the stink eye from his manager for three whole weeks before it’s largely forgotten.

And honestly, that’s the only thing he sees anyone use the fucking skillset for. Showing off—with varied levels of success—in the interest of flirting.

Steve doesn’t need milk drawings to help him fucking flirt Jesus.

And he still does not need little lactose doodles on his side to let someone know he’s interested, thanks very much; he just…starts to consider the benefits of it, when the hot fucking mess of chains and ink with the wild curls and dimples starts showing up.

First, Steve thinks the guys might be the bane of his existence. He comes in every morning—mid-morning, doesn’t seem like a morning person and orders something different every day, and does it in the most annoying fucking way: a flat black with milk foam; a flat white with extra milk and ‘superfluous levels of foam on top, if you’d be so kind’; a latte, ‘please, but if the amounts of milk and foam and foam could be, like, measured totally equal that’d be swell’.

Steve’s tempted to fuck up his latest request on purpose—‘just a macchiato but can you add some chocolate, maybe, and like a little extra foam?’—when Robin elbows him in the ribs and almost makes him spill what was gonna be a plain fucking americano, not ‘hey, would it be possible to make an americano but like almost no extra water and whipped cream on top?’, no matter how big this douchecanoe stretches his eyes all wide and pleading and shit, but then Robin’s hissing at him:

‘He’s trying to flirt with your dumb ass, open your eyes to the doe ones staring at your every goddamn move!’

Steve stills. Chances a glance out the corner of his eye and: oh.

Oh, douchecanoe is staring. Like, staring staring.

And Steve…feels. A way. About it.

Because douchecanoe is…watching—staring—like he’s trying a little bit, but not too hard, to be surreptitious about the whole affair and it’s overcast, probably like mid-60s outside; no reason for the little flush under the fluorescents save for…what he’s not being particularly surreptitious about.

So Steve changes tactics.

Turns out the inventive ways of ordering that had been driving Steve nuts for weeks were attempts he was too oblivious to notice at creating extra moments for chit-chat. And now that Steve’s paying attention? When they’re slammed and the guy comes in, he orders like a normal person. Quick, painless, sits in the same corner by the window and scribbles for a couple hours.

Huh.

But when it’s dead in the store, the guy makes small talk, and Steve learns he’s in the band who plays Fridays at the bar Steve likes just off-campus, too far for most undergrads and enough of a vibe that Steve’s willing to branch out in his musical repertoire as a trade off—he wishes he’d been paying attention to the metal gig he and Robin always talked over to decompress their weeks, to see if the guitarist’s dimples were visible from the shitty little stage set up every week.

Steve’s definitely going to look this Friday. Start paying attention.

But by day, when he comes here to caffeinate, and before and after too, the guy’s doing his own grad work in composition—Steve sometimes forgets their school has a conservatory—but for all the guy looks a little too into wearing a lot of metal and black everything to fit the mold? He talks about mastering the ‘totality of his field so he can shatter the rules with both expertise and total glee’.

Steve grins and makes an intentional note of the actual name on the order: Eddie.

Eddie’s…endearing. Whip-smart, in weird little ways. Funny. Cute as fuck. More than cute, really. Kinda…like…

Okay, when he comes in early enough, which is rare but: when he comes in when the sun’s behind him? Guy goddamn glows.

Sue Steve for being kinda blindsided now that he’s paying fucking attention.

And also, screw Robin for choke-laughing at him when she catches him taking longer on all his orders the next morning, and comes over to investigate.

‘What are you trying to make?’ she points at the latte he’s trying to draw a little shape on top of.

‘Clouds,’ which isn’t what he was trying for but it’s the closest thing he can think of on the fly that looks like he didn’t fuck it up.

‘They’ll look like better clouds by accident, like, without you trying to help,’ Robin deadpans but doesn’t push; doesn’t have to. She see through the lie, just doesn’t know the specific truth.

Fucking…latte art.

But Steve…Steve likes Eddie. He really likes Eddie, from his smile to his snide humor to the way he talks about the real rock opera he’s writing, gonna send everywhere and anywhere when he’s got his degree in hand as clout, the concentration on his face when he bites his tongue and scribbles notes from his booth by the window.

But then, when he asks about Steve. How he slept, how he’s doing like he cares to hear the answer Steve gives because he always follows up. Compliments Steve’s shirt, or almost seems like he tries to make Steve laugh for how he lights up when he succeeds and…

‘You could just write your number on his cup,’ Robin points out, but Steve scoffs immediately.

‘That’s skeevy as shit.’

‘It absolutely is not.’

‘Trite. Unimaginative.’

‘Ah,’ Robin smirks, a little smug; ‘you really like him.’

Steve feels himself flush and glances at the door; too early for the root cause of her words actually having any effect.

Small mercies.

Because Steve’s…making progress.

But they still get hidden under the lids of the cups.

So what if he writes a little neater, with a little bit of flourish when he labels Eddie’s cup, in the meantime. So what.

Eddie’s the only person who even looks, like he’s enjoys seeing Steve’s handwriting just because, and if Steve’s just projecting on that point?

Fuck you.

It’s end of October, which means he’s only just shy of losing the shred of thematic excuse for the whole thing but honestly? It’s a paper thin excuse.

Much like ‘Oh shit, out of lids, just a second’ when he goes to cap Eddie’s order—when Steve specifically moved them an hour ago—so that the drink is left open-topped while he grabs the strategically-displaced stack of lids and when he returns he’s not sure Eddie will even have thought about looking at the—

‘Is this a bat?’

Eddie’s bent down level to the counter, head tipped and breath held, studying the…shit, probably a total mess of an attempt at a shape that was maybe a bat, probably more like a vaguely grinning fanged blob, definitely wanted to be a bat though, and Steve can feel his cheeks heating up before Eddie’s eyes flick away from the coffee cup for first time—

To lock onto Steve’s.

‘It tried to be,’ Steve sighs, accepting failure at both the art—which is neither all that important or at all surprising, he’s shit at art; it’s the failure at trying to, who knows, maybe woo, the pretty nerdy boy who makes his pulse tick up just walking through the door? That part’s the failure he’s gonna mourn.

‘But y’know. Like your,’ and Steve gestures at Eddie’s ink peeking from his shirt sleeves, because that was what initially sparked the idea, then he clocks his betrayer-mouth and tries to save the confession, knowing it’s useless: ‘and then it’s October so—‘ he starts to shrug, to hide his hands in his apron pocket and stare meaningfully at the tile floor, probably needs mopping, but then—

‘It’s amazing,’ Eddie says, a little breathless, and Steve looks up immediately to catch the awe in his tiny grin, the kind Steve’s never seen on him before, so soft it makes Steve’s pulse jump a little into the hug of his collar

‘I didn’t know you could do that. Have you been putting them under,’ Eddie’s face turns mildly horrified as he gestures to the cup, and the lid in Steve’s hand—which is honestly kinda adorable; ‘all this time and I missed it?’

‘God no,’ Steve snorts, reassures; ‘I actually almost lost my job because I thought it was dumb to put all the work in just to cover it up.’

And Eddie’s grin comes back, with an added bite of his top teeth against his bottom lip, and a length of his curls dragged to try—and fail—to hide it.

‘I’m really glad you didn’t lose your job,’ he says quietly, and Steve’s chest feels warmer than a fresh fucking shot of espresso.

Which reminds him:

‘It’s gonna get cold,’ Steve holds out the lid and nods at the slowly-melting bat-blob, and Eddie takes it but doesn’t put it on, still chewing at his bottom lip before he raises those big dark eyes Steve’s way again and confesses, sounding a little lost, maybe just shy of heartbroken:

‘I don’t wanna ruin it.’

And Steve’s heart doesn’t break for any of it; fucking swells and soars and hopes because this man is…he’s…

Steve grabs the lid back, lets his fingers brush with intent against Eddie’s and tells himself he knows he reads the almost inaudible—but only almost—gasp from Eddie at the contact right before he gets to work on the same drink with a normal, boring non-flourish on the top, though he does add the caramel sprinkles he knows Eddie likes even if they don’t match the standard recipe, before popping the lid on this cup and sliding it next to the now-unrecognizable bat.

‘On the house,’ Steve says softly, and he thinks it might be too much to wink but Eddie lights up like a Christmas tree and so he gives it a shot, and then Eddie’s just looks giddy as he tries to balance the two cups on his way to his normal seat.

Steve’s gonna fucking write his number on the cup tomorrow.

(In the end, though: he doesn’t get a chance.

He walks in, second shift, and he’s barely apron’d up before Robin, who opened hours ago, slides him a large to-go cup with a pointed ‘Might want to open the lid, it got too hot’ before slipping away.

And Steve’s not a moron, so he opens the lid.

It’s a pile of foam and maybe whipped cream with a cocoa-and-possibly-chocolate-sprinkle heart drawn on top, and Steve’s almost too charmed by it to notice what else is waiting under the lid.

But like, under the lid, in the tiniest possible letters:

‘I had to make a stencil out of a postcard to try and do this at home so I’m sorry if this is the actual worst. But I’d really like to take you out for something you don’t make for yourself all day. I have some ideas, but I’d meet you wherever. Text me, or even call—I swear I’d make a point to answer if it’s you.’

And the biggest thing written, and traced over to be BOLD, is a phone number.

But then, more teeny tiny words:

‘Also: please DO NOT drink this—I just wanted it to look decent, not taste good. Plus the main flavor profile might be sharpie by now, anyway.’

And Steve snorts to himself, sniffs the drink and oh, yeah. Yeah, that’s an aroma of permanent-marker, for sure.

‘Though the lid is clean, I didn’t reuse an old one,’ the note goes on: ‘though maybe, if you text (or call!), we’ll end the evening where swapping spit’s kind of the point ~’

There’s a little heart that barely fits but is as recognizable as the one on the undrinkable-drink and Steve barely feel Robin’s hand push his shoulder toward the back corner by the window where a certain curly-haired composer’s leg is bouncing fast enough to hear against the floor on approach, Reeboks squeaking against the tile; where a man’s sitting who Steve would really like to close the week out—or even the day, if he’s real lucky—as being able to just call ‘boyfriend’, instead of anything else.

✨🦇✨☕️✨

Originally from Twitter, where you can totally ask for a fic-me-up when you’re having A DAY, too;

Also on Ao3.

#steddie #tooth rotting fluff #coffee shop au #shit i write #gift fic #fic-me-up #embersonfiredeux #steddie fluff

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maihonhassan · 20 days

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Ask a brown girl about her past relationship and she will say;

“Pagal thi main”

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enygma0710 · 1 year

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Once in a Lifetime

By Enygma0710

I'm alive!!!!! Yes it's been another year since I updated, My only excuse is my life got busy. This chapter didn't exist in the original outline. It was originally just a quick scene at Missy and Grey's wedding and was heavily expanded after s8 when they did Missandei and Grey dirty. This chapter is a direct result of that. This is for Missandei and Grey and the happy ending they were denied in S8 and yes I am still salty and will forever be salty about it. lol

Chapter 13:

Dany chanced a glance towards Jon’s table. He was laughing at one of Mossa’s jokes when their eyes locked. He smiled, giving her one of his uncoordinated winking attempts. It was proving challenging for them to be discreet. Dany was almost certain they were exposed during the wedding photos.

The photographer had gather all of the friends for a photo; Jon positioning himself right behind her, his hands resting on her hips. Dany interlaced her hand with his, leaning back into his embrace. Jon leaned forward, resting his head against hers while the photographer took multiple shots. Quickly brushing a kiss against the nape of her neck, she was almost sure they were caught just from the blush alone but the others around them enjoying the celebratory mood were none the wiser.

It was like a clandestine game of cat and mouse, the secret looks, the hand on her lower back that guided her during the cocktail hour. Dany bumping his hip while Theon talked about his latest trip to Dorne. The light, lingering touches of their hands when they brought the other drinks. The tension between them was palpable and had Dany eagerly anticipating what would happen once they were alone.

Read rest HERE

#jonerys #jonerys fanfic #jonerys fanfiction #jon snow #daenerys targeryan #jon and dany #modern au #shit I write #OIAL #Engyma's fics #jon x dany

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captain-grammar · 2 months

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I trace my finger lightly across his skin, drawing constellations using the freckles on his arms as anchor points; dark stars on a pale canvas that’s just as beautiful as anything in the heavens.

#shit i write #i've been so tired this week i've barely written ANYTHING #so getting like 30-odd words down is a victory

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caffiend-queen · 11 months

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Will you be publishing any paper cover books in the near future? I hope you are well 💋

Hi my dear Maggie! Hellion - An Arranged Marriage Bratva Romance is the latest, but Deceptive - An Arranged Marriage Mafia Romance - the one I'm writing and posting now - will be next.

Thank you, thank you thank you for your support! I can't count how many carloads of goodies I've been able to bring to the crisis nurseries, thanks to you and my Tumblr besties.

#Thank you for getting my books and supporting the crisis nurseries!#shit I write #shit I publish #Tumblr besties and beloveds #I am so fortunate to know these people

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soft-and-exhausted · 1 year

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"So are you going to help or just sit there? You're the one who signed us up for this!"

"Oh, I don't bake. This is just to impress Henry."

Catherine huffed a dry laugh; "you dont need to impress Henry. He's plenty impressed with... all that." She gestured broadly up and down Anne's body.

The brunette needed only a few seconds to process before a sly grin spred across her face. "Oh? Tell me more about how impressive you find me."

mmm... maybe a draft for my little araleyn fic series Henry's Girl ????

#araleyn #araly #araleyn six the musical #six anne boleyn #six catherine of aragon #six fanfiction #shit i write #my fanfiction

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airlik · 2 years

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"Literalmente un millón de otras razones por las que tengo que fingir que estoy bien"

#frases #escritos #letras tristes #miedo a la vida #escribir #frase tumblr #shit self #shit i write #really #fuck #because #soledad #dolor #pesadilla #vida #paranatural #lgbtq #lagrimas

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lemonluvgirl · 2 years

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Me reading back on the smut I posted at 12 am

“What the fuck are minitartions you weirdo??”

#shit I write #and then post unbeta read #oh well #no regrets #that's just the fanfic writer life

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everydayescapeartist · 2 years

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Why must the “I” and the “O” be right next to each other? Looking back over something I’ve written and when the word “strike” keeps making an appearance instead of “stroke,” you end up with a wholly different feel to your smut scene. 🙀🤭

#shit i write #text post #because who better than you fine folks to understand this concern #lol #fanfic #smut #writing #eea musings

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rybonucleic-ket · 1 year

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*writes in all lowercase and skips apostrophes so you know im chill* *uses big fancy intellectual words so you know i fuck with books*

*entirely accurate, grade a lit major grammar, capitalization, spelling and punctuation when I actually care about writing* *absolute gibberish kindergarten writing no punctuation intentional mispelling capitals dont exist bc im just a silly little guy*

duality of man.

#ry rambles #im actually a lit minor comp sci major but anyway #i hate writing #i love writing #shit i write #it be like this

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supermightyglue · 1 year

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“don’t puke yet, lemme get a better angle!”

“kiss it better? fuck off, knoxville.”

the dickhouse chick

#i agonized over this for days nd it still isnt as good as i want it to look oh well #shit i write #my ocs #jackass #big brother #jackass fics #jackass fic #jackass x reader #jackass moodboard #johnny knoxville #bam margera #chris pontius #dave england #jackass girl #jackass oc

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hitlikehammers · 6 months

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If you’re in the mood for a snippet of PLATONIC STOBIN FEELS in a Steddie fic that’s a follow up to THIS, since my big bang documents aren’t loading right to post THOSE promos right now?

Enjoy.

~~~

Robin��s face is raw, as in she thinks she’ll split open the skin if she wipes the tears that don’t stop one more time but she can’t even care, she’s already sliced open and spilling out from the heart of her because, because…

Steve’s not waking up.

Steve’s not waking up, and it’s their fault.

Because whether they didn’t convince him he was loved, loved, so goddamn much it was almost unimaginable except there he was, Steve Harrington, real and tangible and kind and bitchy and soft and fierce and the perfect fit to her whole soul, like soul were puzzle pieces and she’d always just figured that was how they were unique but no, nope: sometimes you got to find a soul-piece floating out in the world in the most unexpected places and they snapped right into the odd little gives and grooves of yours and made you something new for it—something better.

When was the last time she told Steve she loved him?

Her breath catches: they’d all decided speaking anything was too much of a risk once Eleven told them Vecna was twisting their words, and in the imposed-but-so-imposing silence everyone else had lost the fight against sleep alongside Eddie’s vigil of constant song because that’s their best play, now: keep him.

They’d been told to keep hold of Steve, keep him safe while El dealt with Henry and Eddie’d scuffed his sneakers on the tile when he ran back in with a beat up acoustic with a couple of little pock-marks visible if you looked really close—hard to keep her pristine when she lives next to a fuckin’ nail bat in the trunk he’d explained breathlessly before rounding his chair and strumming before he even hit the seat—but Robin wasn’t looking really close. All that Robin, in all honesty, really wants to do is curl up so close to Steve that she melts into him, that he puzzle piece ceases to have any little crease, any outline that differentiates her self from all of him, because she wants…she needs to stand and fall and live and die with him; thinks she will regardless, so. Might as well make it as much of a physical truth as it is in every other way.

Is that enough? Will that be enough?

Robin’s breath hitches again and she pushes her cheek harder into the top-thin hospital mattress—how can people even hope to heal, when they’re laid out on these mortar boards?—and she can hear the beeping of the monitor behind her, proof of life in the body, the person next to her, so why did she feel Ike her heart stopped in between every beep, because that heart was her heart too, so much.

So much.

She’s reciting to herself, silent but her lips moving the words against the sheets—if his heart’s beating so is yours, if his heart is still beating so is yours —and she smashes her lips closed when thoughts like what if it stops what if it stops what if it stops—

No. No, none of that, smother that: no.

No.

She pinches herself hard enough to bruise and focuses on what she can know for sure. Steve’s heartbeat on the screen. Steve’s chest rising and falling, even if it seems kinda faint: there. Real.

And the music. Endless music, as Eddie plucks but never seems to look down, to watch his hands and watches only Steve instead just as endless, and Robin knows a fraction of the songs because he was aiming for the unfamiliar, he said, and words that either couldn’t be skewed by demonic psychopaths in a nether-realm, or just flat out couldn’t be picked out easily at all.

But while he played even the most metal of the metal tracks, he’d played them soft by comparison to what Robin knows they’d originated as? The way he’s playing now is different. Almost…

Almost tender. And the song, she thinks she—

“What are you playing?”

#platonic soulmates stobin #steddie #shit i write #steve got vecna’d in the last part #what of it?

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