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Lagertha in 4.1 A Good Treason

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Mike Van Houten

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Burning thoughts by Zary-CZ

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Three

Another really old drawing from 2019-20, but still love this vibe of melancholic freedom. Inspired after watching The Wind Rises

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Kévin Drelon

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@nightmarefuele

Death. An easy and true answer. It could be a metaphor, or literal. It could be a person or a thing. Death was always there - served or not.

The Valkyrie stretched her spine in the face of a question, shifting beneath her skin to consider the height and weight and breadth of it. To consider a stranger, in a strange place, asking if they were kin.

"I serve a different Death." A confession. An answer. A leash. "Though equally as certain as yours - I imagine."

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@kylo-wrecked

Simone de Beauvoir, from a letter to Jean-Paul Sartre, featured in Letters to Sartre

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Moonpool Teleport By cobaltplasma

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... Seven—six—eleven—five—nine-an'-twenty mile to-day Four—eleven—seventeen—thirty-two the day before -- (Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up and down again!) There's no discharge in the war! Don't—don't—don't—don't—look at what's in front of you. (Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again); Men—men—men—men—men go mad with watchin' em, An' there's no discharge in the war! If—your—eyes—drop—they will get atop o' you! (Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again) — There's no discharge in the war! Try—try—try—try—to think o' something different — Oh—my—God—keep—me from goin' lunatic! (Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again!) There's no discharge in the war! ... - Rudyard Kipling, Boots (excerpt)

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can't erase me [wip]

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@kylo-wrecked

There had been no churches in Asgard. No synagogues. No mosques. Gods had walked upon the ash of their own altars and prayed to no one. They had sought neither blessings nor absolution. Sin was something others paid for. Guilt was nothing holy.

Brunnhilde watched Ben, unabashed, unashamed, and unencumbered. She watched his mouth press to the pulse of her. She felt the heat of his tongue through a prism of blood. Through sinew made of sea-storms. Through un-made stitching knotted at her ribcage.

She watched him, this dark, new god. Who had made her a meal - but not an offering. And who would make of her a feast.

Let's not rush this, he had said. A hum escaped her, free hand now resting against cold marble. Bite by bite, he had promised, now biting. Her gaze did not falter as she watched - and Manhattan sat blind. There was no moon, and the sun was long gone. Hati and Skol had feasted, and the mouth of Fenrir burned black. Grief was one thing and gladness another - but still, Brunnhilde had never savoured sin. She thought that knowing Ben would taste like arsenic and puttanesca and red wine must be the closest thing. And if that was sin, she was glad for it.

But there was no garden to be thrown from. It had been her apple - and the serpent was wrapped around her wrist.

His forked tongue did not pray, for gods do not pray. His shape was a thing now made for others to worship within. His look was like Adam, reaching for more.

Like Lucifer, saying fuck you. Like making an altar of Arabescatus Oro, and using it to eat.

The Valkyrie shifted her fingers, sliding her wrist free of his teeth. She lifted Ben's chin and surveyed the new, black god. Un-blushed. Un-wavering. Not yet unfurled. Her skin bore a mark from him. Her eyes saw that his were black like the space between stars.

'If this is hunger' she murmured, guiding his wolfish grin to the slope of her throat, 'then eat'.

Eat. And forget that you ever had the belly of a man.

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