#get back to work.

[decimatlas]

🌪 Eden. :]]

Send me ‘ 🌪 ‘ to catch my muse in the middle of a violent breakdown. Throwing things, breaking things, yelling…

One might consider it a kind gesture – a merciful gesture, even. The removal of beds gone cold, freeing the space of the painful reminder of those she lost. But does this gesture accomplish such a thing? Does the removal of those four beds – the addition of a desk and chair – provide her with any sort of ease?

Objectively? The room is emptier than ever. It's bare, with her bed on one end and a workspace on the other. So why... why does it feel... full? Heavy? Eden clenches her fists; her eyes fixate on splintered wood, and she feels a rage bubble up within her.

That desk. That fucking desk.

If Josie was beside her in this moment, she'd tell Eden there are plenty of reasons they could've done this. Perhaps they needed the beds. Maybe they wanted you to feel more comfortable. They know you're not sleeping.

They. They. –– No. Eden knows who is behind this. It goes without saying; there is but one man who could arrange to have something done so quickly, so tactfully. It's as if he is commanding her through this new arrangement; one bed – she's alone now. She has to accept it. And a desk – get the hell back to work. Orders from her Commander, without a word uttered. Erwin Smith is a devil in the details.

Eden inhales sharply; boot-laden feet all but drag themselves across the room. The air is dense – ghosts whirl about her. They've once more grown in ranks. Faces loved and lost. They already begin to blur. She can already feel herself losing the way they looked – the way they sounded. They are shadows in broad daylight, once lounging on the beds that remained. But now?

All she has is this goddamn desk. 

She approaches it now, circling around, and she finally looks upon what the Commander had left for her. Pens. An inkwell. Notebooks. Candles. Matches. But her eyes focus on one item in particular. One item she'd held in her hands plenty of times, but always stored it under the pillow where it found its home: Eld's unfinished wood carving. Half a horse, never to be completed. It stands upright on the desk now, purposefully placed.

There's something about the way it is placed that infuriates her. As if whoever placed it took the time to position it beside the candelabra, to greet her when she sat down.

Eden bends down, fingers gripping the block of wood on the backend of the project. She holds it in her hand for a moment, staring down at it – and the rage bubbles up again. It rises now – it boils over – and...

❛ Fuck you! ❜ There's no one else in the room, yet Eden yells out, her hand sweeping across the desk and sending books and pens clattering to the floor. Her inkwell rolls off the desk, spilling out onto wood. She's cursing all the while, seeing red as her boot rises to kick her chair across the room.

Fuck him. He who tells her to get back to work without a word spoken – the Commander who forcefully ends her grieving. She, who has never taken time to grieve, having that taken from her too. It doesn't matter if he's right. Devil, puppeteer, he pulls the strings for all things – and he's forcing her hand now.

And she doesn't break down in defiance. She doesn't break down in a rejection of the gesture, the command. No – Eden breaks down, trashes the room that is now hers and only hers, because she knows this has to be the end of her grieving. This has to be the end of a thing so utterly human. She has to move on. Get back to work.

So this is it – her one last act of grief, and it burns like a fire within her. It burns as she shouts. It rages like a fire as she clutches the remaining piece of her friend in one hand; as the other reaches to grab the candelabra. She spins around, throwing it with force at the singular bed across the room.

And as it crashes – clatters to the floor, her door creaks open.

❛ Fuck off! ❜ She shouts before she can even register who comes through the threshold now. It's an instinct – she's a wounded animal; she can't be seen like this.

She can't be seen with such profound grief in her eyes, blinking away rage-filled tears as she clutches onto the carving for dear life. Her beating heart is in her hands.

But the door clicks shut – Captain Levi stands before her now.

Eden freezes. He's seen her right after the loss – the only one to see her tears – when they found comfort in each other's presence. But he looks now upon a wild animal, her chest rapidly rising and falling as she stands amidst the whirlwind of her rage, a wreckage of her grief.

Yet she doesn't say a word.

Her nostrils flare, her lip quivers – where a tear-filled gaze once avoided the Captain, her eyes now bore into his.

Fire, ice, rage in her heart. It's all out in the open now.

She holds the wood carving out to him.

[bonesandthebees]

one of the most infuriating things about becoming an adult is when you realize that it actually is 10x easier to solve problems by making a phone call vs literally any other communication method

[sticksandsharks]

Dualayim & Tolpan from my comic Sacred Bodies!

[cup1d-ch4rm]

Five minutes before god games:

[toss-a-coin-to-your-stan-account]

being a student during peak pandemic was so fucking surreal like. "it's not an excuse to fall behind" I cannot stress enough to you how much A Worldwide Plague Upending Life As We Know It is literally one of The Top Three Reasons to fall behind

[maeamian]

If you saw me agreeing with being annoyed about wasted helium in a fictional context and were like "I bet she has some more helium based anger in her life" good news LAPD fucked up a raid on a medical facility they thought was a pot farm and flat out ruined thousands of gallons of the stuff.

[jackassbroadcast]

Been alittlewhile but the homo grind never stops ‼️‼️

[ghosted-jazz]

I hope they got that microwave in the break room

Bonus version with different outfit colours:

[dragonomatopoeia]

i'm always a bit unsettled by disdain for intellectual or creative labor in leftist spaces. there's this commonly held belief that academics are a bunch of rich old white men, rather than a wide variety of people who are barely getting by. most lecturers in universities are adjuncts living paycheck to paycheck. authors make very little money as a general rule. most researchers are overworked and underpaid. and yet there's still this idea that academics are overcompensated to sit around and smoke cigars together while making shit up

[ruporas]

dragon meat, you, and me

[heilos]

I don't want you to feel like you're nothing

[paracosmicessence]

have doodle lol

functionally, i am alive, emotionally?? idk about that work has me crying almost everyday now chat idk if i can do this anymore

[extravapalooza]

scans from a minizine from late last year! risograph with collage. part of a bigger project on trans relationships to the body thru cyborgs but i got distracted making pinups

more scans

[hinamie]

spins him around trying to understand the pink mop he calls hair

[smileyobrien]

I really don't care where we end up as long as we're together.

[zillychu]

get MOLTED, idiot