#divine pulse zine
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- St. Cethleann Day -
I’m so happy to share my piece for @divinepulsezine! I had a wonderful experience moderating this project alongside so many wonderful people <3 and I’m honored to have had a chance to draw Linhardt!
Leftover sales are still happening now, so be sure to take a look!
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Sharing my Sothis piece for @divinepulsezine , a Fire Emblem chess themed zine! They're having a Leftover sale now, so here's your chance to grab up any remaining goodies! Proceeds will also be going to charity :D
👉 https://divinepulsezine.bigcartel.com
#divine pulse zine#fire emblem#sothis#sothis fe#fire emblem three houses#fire emblem three hopes#arval#arval fe#fire emblem zine
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👑CLOSING SALE 👑
Let's send this game out on a high note!
All available products, INCLUDING ZINES, are now discounted 25-30% off for our last week of sales!
Don't miss your LAST CHANCE to support this project before we close on July 21st!
🏁SHOP: https://divinepulsezine.bigcartel.com
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these past many months, i was both shipping mod and a page/merch contributor for a fe3h chess themed zine called divine pulse! while the original run ended a couple months ago, leftover sales actually opened today!! here is my page for lorenz, and my design for the double sided dimitri charm!!
go check us out at divinepulsezine.bigcartel.com if youd like!! sales are going fast
#fire emblem three houses#fe3h#fire emblem zine#fe3h zine#lorenz hellman gloucester#dimitri alexandre blaiddyd#divine pulse zine
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I just received my copy of the Divine Pulse zine and everything that came it with is absolutely stunning. All of the artists did an amazing job, and my sister and I will proceed to fight over the prints and where to put them.
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preview of my dimitri piece for @divinepulsezine ♟✨ preorders are now open, so be sure to check em out!! i also designed the stretch goal buttons for this zine 💗
#fe3h#dimitri alexandre blaiddyd#dimitri fe3h#fire emblem#fire emblem three houses#fe3h fanart#fanzine#zine#my art#blood cw
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Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. spread the self-love ❤
Thanks for thinking of me, nonnie 🥰 This was actually a lot harder than I thought it was going to be, picking 5?? It was a good excercise in remembering I actually do like a lot of my past catalogue lmfao
The summaries got kinda long and I also wanted to do a little commentary on each so I'm gonna put the full post under a cut but the short list is:
Singularity (Shigadabi)
i've looked for love in every stranger (to get to you) (Sylvix)
Hello, My Name Is Human (Odazai)
Divinity (Matchablossom)
Blur (Sheith)
Singularity | ShigaDabi | General
Alpha Arietis dies in a brilliant storm, spraying billions of years’ worth of accumulated gas and matter through the cosmos as it collapses in on itself. Great fingers of dust reach toward the endless abyss, and cradled in the palm of the cooling nebula, a godling sleeps.
His heart is white-hot and aching, all the pain of his progenitor’s end pulsing through him as he curls in on himself. The gazes of the other gods weigh heavily on him as the universe swims into focus. Their whispers ripple across galaxies to wash over his still-tender form, awakening in him an anger that beams into the darkness as his eyes open, twin crimson spheres cutting through the endless night.
This was such a fun style experiment!! I wrote it for a zine and it was by far the shortest fic bc I decided to go with the dialogue-less option; it felt better suited to the space vibe.
I looked up so many astronomy facts for this too, which was fun bc I'm a bit of a space bitch (even though I probably fucked it all up for the ~narrative~ lmao). Did you know! Beta Capricorni, one of the stars in Capricorn (Dabi's sign and mine - we share a birthday, and it is my favorite BNHA factoid), is commonly known as Dabih, derived from an Arabic legend saying Beta Capricorni and Alpha Capricorni, aka Algedi, were "the lucky stars of a slaughterer."
I really really want to dive further into the concept of gods being birthed from dying stars at some point - there's so much I didn't get to in this fic just bc of limits and themes and such, but I think it's fucking cool even if it's not popular.
i've looked for love in every stranger (to get to you) | Sylvix | Explicit
“Yeah. Listen, Fe, I’m sor—”
“Don’t,” Felix says. When Sylvain opens his mouth to protest, Felix cuts him off. “Seriously, don’t. I don’t want your apologies.”
Sylvain arches a brow.
“I just want you—”
(And oh, those words on their own are nearly enough to unwind that barbed wire, but somehow it hurts worse knowing it’s not what Felix really means.)
“—to be better.” Felix takes a deep breath, turns to the kitchen counter, and fiddles for a second too long with the tabs on the pizza boxes. “I hate watching you hurt yourself.”
Man, where do I start with this one. I picked at this fic for over a year and a half before deciding to finish it for a bang, and I'm so happy about how it turned out. One theme that shows up a lot in my writing is "love is an action and a choice," and I think this fic showcases that beautifully.
Sylvain's so fucked up here and I love him so much. This timestamp from the middle of a breakdown and subsequent guilt about said breakdown just...really hits home. And Felix being there - CHOOSING to remain there - through that one and all previous ones? clenches fist They're in love, your honor.
I just think it's important to show that being kind of a shitty person doesn't preclude you from being loved, nor should it.
Hello, My Name Is Human | Odazai | Mature
“No need for sorry,” Oda says, the words automatic. “That’s not your place.”
It’s the wrong thing to say, comes out nothing like he’d intended. Dazai flinches as though he’s been shot, curling up into himself and away from Oda before scrambling to his feet. There’s no easy grace in his movements today, only a quick, jerky retreat before Oda comes to his senses and darts after him. He wraps a hand around Dazai’s forearm to tug him back, and there’s nothing but rawness in Dazai’s eye when he turns around.
“Let me go,” he says icily. “It’s not your place.”
“Dazai.”
“Fuck off,” Dazai mutters, shrugging Oda’s hand away. “I’ll go die alone, then. In my place.”
“Hey,” Oda says, soft as anything as Dazai’s turned half away. He holds his palms out, the same way he would for a stray or lost child. Dazai takes a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry,” he continues. “Your place-”
“An executive doesn’t have a place,” Dazai says. “A weapon doesn’t need one.”
This was the spiritual precursor to in the morning i'll be with you, and upon rereading, I realized I wrote pretty much the same fic twice 😅 There's just something that hits EVERY time about softness in the face of bluntness about doing and wanting terrible things. I chose this one instead of in the morning because of one of the places the two fics diverge, actually.
In this fic, Oda actually says "I love you" to Dazai and Dazai does not take it well, and it feels important to me that not every I love you is received with an equally passionate "omg I love you too." But like I said for the Sylvix above, it's also important that it's expressed, even if it hurts or isn't received or reciprocated.
Divinity | MatchaBlossom | Explicit
“I don’t need anyone,” Kaoru whispers. He’s always been good at making bad decisions when it comes to Kojiro; this is another in a long line of failures and he’s not willing to admit yet that maybe Adam fucked him up past the point of no return. “It’s fine,” he mumbles when he hears Kojiro shifting. He’s too afraid to watch him walk away. “You can just go.”
And instead of leaving, Kojiro shuffles forward and hugs him. Kaoru is surrounded by impossibly gentle arms and the scent of pine, and though he’s used to the latter, he hasn’t been touched like this in a long, long time. “I’m not going to go,” Kojiro says softly. His face is buried in Kaoru’s shoulder, lips warm where they brush across his skin. “I’d say sorry, but I’m not, Kaoru. I don’t want to.”
God this fic actually kickstarted my writing motor after being really burnt out and plateaued on skill for a while. While it's not my most technically skilled fic (I don't think any on this list are, tbh?), it was fun to write and it's still fun to read.
I loved being able to take a softer turn with Kaoru's anxiety as opposed to some of the harder mental health issues I'm used to expressing in my writing. And Matchablossom were really just out there on screen being Like That at all moments, huh? Their dynamic is just such a joy to play with, whether it's softer like this or harder like some of my other SK8 fics.
Blur | Sheith | Mature
“Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve made of myself, and it still isn’t enough. You know they always said shoot for the stars? I didn’t just shoot, Shiro, I helped save those stars. Where is there to go from there? There’s no coming back down to Earth after you’ve seen realities collapse around you. There’s no normal.”
“It doesn’t need to be normal,” Shiro says.
“I WANT normal!” Keith’s chest heaves, throat raw with the force of his insistence as his truth is birthed into the world. Twenty-five years’ worth of longing shake themselves loose from inside him and when they bleed out, so does his energy. He sinks to his knees, shaking as he repeats the words again and again. “I want normal. I want to be normal, Shiro, why can’t I be normal?”
This fic is just 9k of me bleeding my truth onto the screen, I'll be real (it should also be stated my self-destructive behaviors aren't physically harmful, that's artistic license). It hurt to write and it hurts to reread bc not much has changed in the years since I wrote it, but it's good, and I stand by the rawness of the narration. Dealing with a personality disorder and suicidal ideation (especially unmedicated and without therapy - bitches be rawdogging reality and I'm bitches) fucking blows. It's exhausting, and it makes you feel inhuman.
This scene especially knocked a few realizations loose for me, bc I don't remember writing it; my head just shut off, and then I looked at the page and went "ah. Oh dear. This feels like something I need to unpack, huh." And here we are, several years later, still unpacking lmao
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Preview of Claude for @divinepulsezine ♟go grab your fire emblem chess zine goodies!
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A preview of my 4.7k fic for @chaldea-monthly zine!
Please check it out~!
[Preorders Here! | ChaldeaMonthly Twitter]
A Chariot of Starlight
He drops into a firing stance, one of immaculate form. It is hubris to fire two arrows at the sun, to collect the golden dust of the sky and transform it into a trail of moonlight. But hubris does not shelter his actions—it is faith that keeps his bow steady, it is hope that carries him through the long shadows of twilight.
It is Andersen who waits for him at the end of sunset.
The author’s crystalline eyes come to mind, with an unspoken trust that tethers Arjuna to his promise. How do you shoot down the sun?
The breeze jostles the fletching of his arrows, and he aims with an authority few can rival. The sun sojourns between the border of heaven and earth, like a celestial diadem crowning the land.
Arjuna exhales and clears his mind. His breathing syncs with the petals falling onto the river and Gandiva hums. As he draws forth the power of the divine, a silver light envelops the gondola, swallowing the shadows and the surrounding vicinity.
The water ripples before floating into the air like a translucent veil. Divinity courses through his veins, travels the length of his arm and into the columns of his fingers. The pulse of Pashupata syncs with his heart, and embeds itself into his fingertips.
Arjuna simultaneously strings the arrows and raises them to the sun. He fires both shots like a silver gale coursing through the dim sky. The force sends a shower of water into the air as the gondola lifts, higher and higher as the might of the twin arrows pull him toward the dying sun.
The wind whips his face and clothes as he propels across the sky. Water scatters around him in a white mist while the stars above gleam like medallions. For a breath of a moment, on the gondola streaking through the air, Arjuna imagines himself on a chariot with Krishna as his charioteer.
#fate grand order#fgo#chaldea monthly#arjuna#hans christian andersen#my fic#fanfiction#fanfic#fgo arjuna#fgo andersen
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11 for ot4? 👀
Thank you for the ask! (ﾉ´ヮ`)ﾉ*: ･ﾟ
Warning for negative self talk. Hypothetical character death.
11. What fears, past traumas, etc. would be hardest for them to talk about with their partner?
Fae: I established in a few places that they actually never tell anyone about Divine Pulse, so I'm going to start there. I think there would be too much pressure from others, to fix things, to make things right, to control fate. That isn't to say they don't abuse it on their own — I could've sworn I had a post like this in their tag somewhere, but I can't find it — but using it in old age to prevent their partners from choking, falling, being overwrought with shock. It works to prolong their lives, until one night Lorenz passes in their sleep, and they can only turn back the clock to the night before, asking him to stay up with them for as long as he can. But something that's hard to talk about that they actually talk about? Their fear of pushing others away. What if they're quiet again? Awkward as when they came to the monastery? What if they do something strange or off-putting? Would they ever be held at arm's length again?
Claude: Easily the fear of being betrayed. It's something all of his partners can see, and that he sadly radiates even in some public settings. Contingencies have meaning and experience in their plotting after all. But more intimately, it's in how he can't sleep when someone touches him, it's in how before he trusts, he trusts instead it would be worth it if you killed him now, it's in his sense of humor and accusatory smiles.
Hilda: Fear of being forgotten. If she isn't making an impression, then perhaps you'll forget her? And maybe it would be better that way, so that she can be the lazy and inept lump that her father always accused her of being? And maybe it would be worse that way, alone, with only herself for company, and so she performs when you're looking and works when you're not, leaves little love notes in her every action, perhaps literally, or maybe just as a bouquet of wildflowers pressed in your favorite book or preserved in resin? So you'll think of her even when she's gone.
Lorenz: The trauma bred of being his father's son. He hates him. He recognizes that others, rightly — more justly? — hate him. But if you seek solidarity in speaking ill of the previous Count Gloucester, you will likely not find it. Memories of being locked out, or locked away, or locking himself away, of training, of lessons on propriety, of expressions of disgust, of outbursts of disappointment related to weakness in being able to stomach the responsibilities of nobility, the reality of leadership, the threat of trusting beyond family. All mixed with memories of pride, of celebration, of gifts and embraces, and watching his father seem strong, and charming, and refined. He does not enjoy speaking of his father, or of any time prior to Myrddin if he's honest.
Semi related, I said this to the Rose Zine server earlier today (edited) : I love that Lorenz would literally protect anyone / anything though. It starts of as a matter of honor, a responsibility of nobility that he assumes. And then it's a matter of love, he cares for this person, this cause, this thing he's been educating himself on. And then it's nobility again, but different this time, because he has to separate himself, and ask whether just because he cares for the person or thing if it is worth defending.
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My preview of Linhardt for @divinepulsezine!
I had so much fun with this piece and project, I hope that everyone gets a chance to check it out for themselves while pre-orders are open!💚
#divine pulse zine#linhardt#fe#fire emblem#fire emblem three houses#fe3h#flayn#because she's in it too
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Rating: T
Words: 1,500
Tags: Gen, character study, WoR, angst, blood/injury
Summary: Gentiana encounters a wounded Ignis outside Lestallum. Written for Lost in Wars zine.
It is not her own coldness that fills the night. Not the bright chill of the winter wind nor the crispness of fresh snow underfoot, but the hollow black rot of absence, and so it displeases her. Her footsteps through the roiling dust are like fingertips taking a temperature and finding the body corpse-stiff. The scourge is bitter on her tongue and her breath each moment she spends here.
Here at the still point of the turning world, time has carved away half of the wait appointed. The midnight moon is just past full, and must wane again before the darkest hour. Frost blossoms at her feet, flowers from the dead land.
It has been many years since she first began to live among the humans. At first, she served as a companion and guide for the young Oracle, now she passes her time in the city as another set of hands, stirring the soup pot and tending to the sick, tasks that pass unnoticed, unrecognized. In the hours when the humans sleep, she slips the gates and wanders, surveying what is left of the world. She does not hunt the daemons, but when the Light within her draws their attention, she dispatches them with a freezing gale.
He is not far from the city gates when she finds him, the heat of his blood bright in the frosted dust, and the wheezing of his breath rising like smoke from a candle flame. Life burns within him yet. She has no message to speak, and so she watches. Eventually, he lets out a wet cough, and rolls onto his back.
“All has its hour, but the hour of the Swordsworn is yet to come.” It is, to her, an observation, as one might comment on the weather. The thread of fate on which his life is suspended has not yet reached its end.
“It will take more than that to finish me,” he asserts, pushing himself into a sitting position. “You should know.”
He summons a cane into his hand and prises himself from the ground, leaning on it heavily as he makes his way toward the gates. Draped over one shoulder, he carries a bundle neatly wrapped in cloth, treated with more caution than any part of his own body. She does not assist, but trails behind.
It is always so. She is not permitted to alter the events that have been preordained. The life of the Star rests on the point of a needle, as does the truce between the remaining Gods. Between the wrath of Leviathan and the justice of Ramuh, between Bahamut’s pragmatism and her own compassion. Woe to him who tilts the balance.
And thus, her role is observer and Messenger. Her borrowed body has lingered here, watching the Oracle grow into a dauntless young woman, then facing the destiny asked of her. Gentiana shed tears for her, as promised. It was to cry for Lunafreya that she took this human form.
“You know,” he says eventually, “I once found your following us reassuring.”
“Is it no longer so?” she asks.
Too distant for human senses, the daemons hiss in the wasteland and under the earth that his blood drips over and soaks into. They dare not rise while she is here. She is not permitted to tilt the balance. But every now and then, she places a fingertip beneath the scales.
“Back then, I thought that he had your favor. That you would protect him.”
She tilts her head at this seeming accusation.
“Bearing the blessing of the divine, the King lives yet. The High Messenger watches as he walks the path appointed.”
The man turns away from her, a wordless noise escapes him. When he speaks, his voice is rough and thickened by something other than blood.
“You did not protect the Oracle in Altissia. And when her murderer turned his blade toward the King— there was not a God in sight. What I did may have been reckless, but I never abandoned him. Can you say the same?”
“It is not for the Messenger to interfere with the path set for the King. The Swordsworn understands this now. He too knows what lies ahead, and spoke of it not.”
His head jerks back toward her, outrage on his features, and for a moment, he appears to be searching for words.
“With all due respect, our circumstances are hardly comparable. I did not decide the way of things, merely failed to change them.”
“Every action brings about change,” she tells him. “Such acts of loyalty echo in the halls of eternity.”
“Forgive me, but I’m rather more concerned with the present.” He sniffs, then wipes a trail of blood from his nose. “And I’m not ready to face eternity yet. Nor send anyone else in my stead.”
“The fate of our Star now rests upon the King. Bearing the Light, he will return prepared. Does the Swordsworn intend to oppose him?” She asks this pleasantly, but there is a taste of frost on her tongue. Betrayal displeases her.
“No! I— I will follow him to the gates of hell, if I must. But only after all other roads have been exhausted.”
It should gladden her, but her heart fills with sorrow. She recalls the elder brother standing before her, bearing the crest of his enemies, the same urgency in his voice as he insisted there must be another way, and he would find it, even if he had to tear the world apart. She had smiled sadly then, too.
Humans claimed forever so easily in their vows and poems, like snowflakes that did not know of spring. Yet even if she could freeze them in the moment, she would not. Eternity was not for them.
Long ago, they had turned against her love, driving him from his throne and leading to his downfall. But who betrayed whom? Was it Ifrit who was the first to turn cruel, demand too much, punish too harshly? Her mate, or her beloved humans— she had turned a blind eye to the flaws of both.
And would Ifrit have punished the humans knowing that his actions would lead to the poisoning of the world, threatening the Crystal itself? It seemed impossible, he had been created to defend it. And yet as king, he was as uncompromising and unstoppable as the flow of magma down a mountainside. Perhaps this was what he had willed.
Her unease then, is with the will of the Gods. It pains her most, as she has walked among the humans, come to value even lives that vanish like frost in the morning sun. None of them take joy in this, but she alone comprehends the weight of each loss.
The children of the Crystal, cruel and kind, petty and generous, short-lived and spanning across ages. Her humans. She could not look at them and feel despondent. They gathered and huddled in their settlements like campfires reduced to embers, nestling for a rebirth.
Her companion walks with a furious stride and says nothing more until they arrive at the gates, and she bows to him in preparation to leave. It is then that he turns to her, with the hesitance of a child and asks, simply.
“How long?”
She smiles a little, although he cannot see it.
“Which answer is sought? That he is soon to return, and free the world from its peril? Or that time remains, so that the Swordsworn may prepare, mind and body?”
The expression on his lips is thin and bitter, twisting around the answer he already knows.
“Too long. And not long enough.”
He lets out a sigh that dissolves in the emptiness around them.
“Tell him then. If you can do nothing else for me, then deliver this message. We are waiting. Always.”
He passes through the gates and they close with a clang of metal, something harsh and man-made. The noise displeases her, but no more than the faint howls of what lies in the wastelands. At least the creaks and clattering of mankind speak of hope. Someday they will build towers and ring bells once again.
It is then that she turns away from the city. Her gaze turns to the waning moon, suspended above the Umbral Isle and trickling away like sand in the upper half of an hourglass, cliffs reaching up like spread wings to catch it. Below, the King sleeps, and the land with him. Devoured by darkness deep enough to swallow the Light of the Gods.
But all is not lost. The cycles of the ocean still pulse, sending the sea breeze, the heat of the earth still pushes upward, and the rain still falls to quench its thirst. She senses her kin in the stirring air, refusing to let Eos perish. Within her hand she cups snowflakes, and lets the breeze snatch them from the clifftops, illuminated by the glow of the meteorshards below. For a moment, the endless night has stars.
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♟️💖[LEFTOVER SALE]💖♟️
Make your move count!
Zines, bundles, and merch galore!
The Divine Pulse Zine is now open for Leftover Sales!
🏁SHOP: https://divinepulsezine.bigcartel.com
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guess what i did...
heres a preview of my piece of lorenz for the @divinepulsezine !! on top of being a contributor, i am also the shipping mod!! pre-orders are still going now, and we just hit our second stretch goal! go check it out if you like fe3h :)
#fire emblem three houses#fe3h#lorenz hellman gloucester#zines#divine pulse zine#this project is seriously insane amazing! my fellow mods and contributors are just so talented and hard working#even if u dont plan to purchase the zine any boost or support would be much appreciated!!
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The sacrifices come and go, that is the order of the world. Fearful little things draped in their red cloaks, they quake in them from the cold or the stench of death that clings to the very aura of Victor's being. It is hard to tell which and, bored of hearing only the stuttering and pleading, Victor has ceased asking.
"You are the beast?"
Another one stands there like so many before him. This one, however, speaks without being spoken to and Victor cocks his head to the side at the surprise that still rings through the air long after the words stop. It's locked in the scent that wafts towards him in waves of shock, shame, and something bitter that Victor can't quite place.
The smile that he keeps on his face is fake and cold, but when he speaks his words are sweetened with honey that is meant to seduce, entrap. Now, much more than before as his own curiosity is piqued.
"Yes, why?" Victor asks calmly. "Were you expecting someone else? Do I not present myself well?"
"No, no!" the sacrifice hastens to say. "You just, um, you look..."
He looks away, cheeks aflame.
Ah, Victor realizes, so that's what it is. The form he's chosen this time must be incredibly appealing to this one, if the scent that permeates his aura is right. And Victor's nose rarely is wrong.
Victor chuckles, taking the few steps that divide them, so he can easier breathe in the divine smell of his sacrifice's nervousness and interest. Blue eyes gleam when he casts them slowly over the sight before him: that of slightly full rosy cheeks, dark lovely eyelashes and sun spots which cover the bridge of a perky, little nose.
"And what about you, sweetling?" Victor asks, his pulse coming faster with excitement of an upcoming chase.
He takes the sacrifice's chin in hand and pulls his head towards him so their eyes can meet – blue against the warm brown that Victor only now sees is speckled with curious red. He licks his lips and leans close, drawn in by the lovely scent of the dark hair and sun-kissed skin.
"Are you a sheep in wolf's clothing," Victor whispers, "or are you a beast just like me underneath this pretty cloak of yours?”
He slips the fingers of both his hands down the lean throat, over the collarbones, right to where the hood of the cloak, crimson like the rest of it, pools in ripples of fabric onto the sacrifice's shoulders. He can feel the rapid heartbeat that flutters under his fingertips like a bird locked in a cage, and he grins – sharp and dark.
"Shall we find out if you can be a match for me, little sheep?"
It’s a complete surprise and delight when strong hands close around Victor's wrists just as he pushes the hood off the pretty head that has been gifted to him. The grip is strong, promising, but Victor has already done what he wished to do.
Red fabric slides down to rest on the sacrifice's back, slow and gentle like the autumn leaves that fall from the trees, leaving them bare. Bare for the eye, as the young man before him can be, he is far from naked – armed with a flush on his soft cheeks and courage speared in his gaze to a point so sharp, Victor truly believes it can cut him.
And it sets fire to his veins.
"The question is," his sacrifice says, voice touched by a rasp of a growl. "Are you a match for me?"
His hands squeeze Victor's wrists hard enough to denture little crescents of his nails into Victor's skin. They don't break it, but the harsh pulsing under the very fingertips tells Victor that they could. The young man's wolf ears, which are as dark as his hair, rest flat against his head in a sign of utter enrapturement, maybe even anger, and it thrills Victor beyond belief.
His sacrifice is so beautiful, so enchanting. So daring.
"What's your name?" Victor asks.
"Yuuri," the man says. "Yuuri Katsuki."
Victor's lips quirk into a grin that is as sharp as the array of teeth in it. "Well then, sweet Yuuri, how would you like to be mine?"
"I refuse," Yuuri Katsuki says as if it's the most simple of answers, and it is.
And this time when Victor laughs it’s an honest sound, unforced, because finally he’s got what he’s bargained for – a person to spend his life with, his True Match.
something small I wrote way back when for @saniika‘s little comic strip in the fantasy zine! it’s inspired by the red riding hood prompts sanii did, and we both liked the idea of working some more on this -- hence this ficlet! I hope you enjoyed and pls make sure to check out sanii’s art & writes ❤️
#yuri on ice#victuuri#viktuuri#yuuri katsuki#victor nikiforov#victuri#vikturi#my fic#saniika#working with sanii is always so lovely#we had lots of fun on this#I'm happy to post it now#and I hope you enjoy it too guys!!
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💖♟️TIME FOR A REMATCH! ♟️💖
We're so happy to announce that our leftover sale for Divine Pulse will be opening in just ONE WEEK! Get those pawns in a row everybody, because we've got some great goodies for those who missed our initial opening!
#dimitri#yuri#claude#edelgard#fire emblem#fe3h#fire emblem three houses#divine pulse#dpz#divine pulse zine
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