in this house we love Binah

Don't send me NSFW things

Everything here is gender neutral

Be nice

I only write for Binah x Reader

I also answer asks about Queequeg as well because I like her

Outis is here as well now

As are occasional Chehsa (OC) posts

Small discussions about other characters are fine though

This list is subject to change and update if needed

Do not go home until you finish reading the value of e

If an ask makes me uncomfortable for any reason I reserve the right to delete it.

Binah stands beside your desk. fingers drumming against the wood in a rhythmic symphony. following the path of your script, one tap for every written letter. you barely glance at her. too absorbed in the piled papers, a small mountain of forms to fill and categorize. tomorrow there would be more. more. more, and more, always more for you to do. a never-ending list crushing your shoulders. Binah tilts her head, silently. leaning closer, curling her fingers into the edge of the parchment.

"You are overworking, again."

no response. an idle hum, then nothing. focused entirely on the task before you, the books you were supposed to organize. Binah's eyes narrow into slits. lips curving into a subtle frown. nearly indistinguishable from her usual calm, to all except you. swiftly, she reaches over your head. plucking the pen from your hands, pinning your wrist in place. deft fingers lift your chin and caress your cheek. forcing your gaze to lock with hers. stern, serious- the furthest thing from apathy.

"Birdie." a command for your attention, deathly quiet. "You need rest."

your mouth opens, indignant, yet the rebuke dies as she gently thumbs beneath your eyes. brushing against the heavy lids, weary and exhausted. Binah guides you to your feet with a careful nudge. away from the chair, down the hall to her own quarters. somewhere you can sleep and recover, finally shielded from the constant barrage of voices and checklists.

you brush over Binah's knuckles, and her hands still. just for a moment. frozen around her teacup and chilled to the bone. they gradually ease. setting the porcelain aside, gold swirled around the rim. she offers you those hands without a word. palms up, uncurling her fingers, dotted with tiny scars and nicks. a few cuts, recent and ruby red, nestled between the marks. accidental jolts and trembles; paper, blades, her own nails. clever. an Arbiter hides all wounds, burying weakness beneath layers of sadistic apathy. Binah told you that, once. in a rusted cage devoid of sunlight. you've seen her bleeding. bruised. a gash stretching across her face, that same calm onyx in her gaze. clever, clever, clever- and stubborn. you glance up, frowning, narrowing your eyes. the same exasperated look as always. she has the decency to briefly wince, chastised, before her expression smooths back to a stoic mask.

yet a quiver prickles at her fingertips, muscles stiff around the bones. her brows pinch. irritation, a hint of grief. Binah sits at your request. leaning her head against yours, a quiet sigh on her lips. it's nothing. just small surface wounds. they'll heal by tomorrow. or perhaps the next day- but the protests fade into silence as you massage both palms, pressing gently into the skin. warming her blood into properly flowing through frozen veins. the tremors calm, a subtle smile tugging at her lips. the same caresses she gives to you, when your tears fall without respite and your vision swims with despair. her fingers curl, lacing with your own. pressing a soft, grateful kiss atop your knuckles. your wrist. the arch of your shoulder. an unmoving Arbiter no longer, blooming in each petal of her pain. entrusting her budding heart to you alone.

how far she has fallen.

heavy boots march below, and you tilt your head downwards. watching the sea, the moon glinting off roiling glass. someone is awake. climbing the ladder, approaching from behind. the harpooner. the one always standing behind the captain, one hand curled over her wrist. countless tattoos dot her skin. broken by an equal number of scars. a shiver runs down your spine, and she gazes at you in silence. firmly holding you in place.

"New."

her voice is quiet. low and rough around the edges, yet bleeding with a wistful exhaustion. you nod. slowly. swallowing the trepidation sticking in your throat, goosebumps rising in the chilled breeze. the harpooner's eyes soften further, reaching for a rough blanket tossed haphazardly over the railing.

"Cold night," she offers, shifting closer. gently draping the fabric over your shoulders, a prickle of warmth spreading over your skin. an exhale. briefly tucking your nose into the newfound comfort. her stare never leaves you, melting into something fond and tender. fingers gingerly touching your own. tracing your knuckles, mapping the lines on your palm, feather-light. before pulling back and placing her hand over her heart.

"Queequeg."

Queequeg. a name. testing it on your tongue, as warm as the gifted blanket. you repeat, quietly. again and again, engraving it in your memory, and Queequeg smiles. broad and bright and beaming. more radiant than all the stars on the sea.

gingerly, you drag your nails over the base of her horns. Outis jolts. wings shuddering and twitching erratically. leaning into your touch as you clean away the dead chitin. delicate. gentle. fine as a porcelain doll. her breath hitches, slipping into a feeble purr. how weak. falling for such simple temptations, the barest hints of sweetness and affection. yet she cannot bring herself to care. you treat her so kindly. fingers trailing over her broken body, the scars lining her skin. twisted and torn and knitted back together, until little remains of the original person. merely the commander. the scapegoat, the worm. craving your attention, pressing her cheek into your hand. pathetic roach. scuttling about where it doesn't belong. somehow still cherished by the one it left behind.

the call of her name, music falling from your lips. brushing over her forehead in the softest of kisses. a tremble, a sob, collapsing into your arms. she weeps, the first tear in a decade. home. home, at last. finally allowed to be nobody important at all. not a strategist or a warrior. a criminal, or an experiment.

"What's your name?"

she blinks. slowly turning towards you, a piercing, empty gaze. lingering. a brief glimmer of confusion. her mouth tastes of charcoal. moving automatically, a low rasp in her throat.

"Garion."

you nod, standing firm. a stubborn, burning flame, lasting eternally through the night. "That's a nice name."

her lips part once more. cracked, dry. split at the corners and bleeding. yet no words leave her tongue. a hand raises to her chest, gripping the fabric. a pulse. a beat. unfamiliar and fleeting. it hurts. it hurts, but it's warm. melting her icy fingertips, flooding her veins. she watches you bow politely. vanishing from sight, turning the corner. the painful squeezing slows. leaving a bitter chill in its wake, the usual monotonous apathy settling within her flesh, its rightful place.

yearning, aching for more.

come back. come back.

An Arbiter kneels amidst the carnage. bodies strewn about, broken, fractured. a single command. a swipe of its claws. fingers clumsily stroking skin, trailing thin lines of red across a soft cheek. countless thoughts and voices clouding its head, murmuring, chanting. it's so cold. freezing, a well of nothingness encased by crumbling ribs. the Arbiter draws the corpse closer, pressed up to its empty chest. perhaps it will hear those words again. those sweet, baffling words, if it only listens.

that's a nice name.

what is its name? it can't remember. not anymore. longing for that thump, the warmth filling a husk of a body. it caresses your face once more, movements jerky, rusted. tearing a wretched hole, decay collapsing beneath hands so used to violence yet unable to let go. choking. weeping.

the facility had no kitchen for the employees. nothing official. nowhere to cook warm meals, to provide the slightest shred of happiness. such comfort was a Sephirah's privilege. the tea cradled in Binah's palms. rich and bittersweet, always just out of reach. she stands by the door, quietly. watching you happily explore the Library's provisions, those lovely gasps of delight. an oven. a stove. more, more, everything you could need. you twirl, nearly stumbling. Binah's hand snaps out. fingers curling around your arm, pulling you back into her coat. yet her gaze is soft. liquid night, sliding over your features, your joy. she gently releases you, taking her place at the table. waiting patiently. the room filling with the scent of chocolate and your cheerful humming.

she always did favor the darkest of cocoa. less sugar, more cream- Binah takes each offering, savoring the taste on her tongue. delicious. wonderful. how long has it been, since she's had something sweet? something that tasted of life, rather than ash and decay. her tea, perhaps. she tilts her head thoughtfully. beckoning you closer without a word. you approach, curious, a smudge of flour dusting your cheek.

her fingers slip beneath your chin, and Binah presses her lips to yours. cupping the back of your neck and kissing you until your lungs burn. only then does she draw away, a subtle smirk etched on her face. trailing up to peck the bridge of your nose.

"Sweet as caramel," she murmurs, thumbing beneath your eye, swiping the mess away. the kitchen warms, and Binah chuckles as you bury yourself into her cloak, shaking with breathless embarrassment.

focus. the others already stare at her new features. Binah raises her teacup to her lips, tail flicking every so often. a step, a familiar murmur in the distance. her ears perk. fingers tightening around the saucer. you. it's you. the earl gray is abandoned as she crosses the room in a few strides. stopping right before you, meeting your eyes with her own, ignoring your yelp of surprise. the noise shifts, slipping into laughter, and Binah's pupils dilate. unseen to all but you. her hands cup your cheeks, pressing your foreheads together and nuzzling. insistent, unabashed. tail tightly coiled around your waist. as if you've been absent for years, a mere flicker in the edges of her vision.

"There you are."

she tilts her head into your palm, letting out a slow rumble. the others are watching again. countless wide eyes burning into her skin, terrified and perplexed. good. let them stare. let them see how she showers you in affection, their Patron Librarian openly adoring.

she settles you at her favorite table. draping an arm across your shoulders with a soft hum. your heart races, uneven, fluttering beneath her fingers. Binah sighs. trailing a hand up your spine, the tense muscles hard as rock. her coat shifts. shielding your head, blocking the burning light and noise from your senses. your skin prickles briefly- wrapped in silence, surrounded by night. gradually easing your rapid pulse. you go limp in Binah's arms, and the Patron Librarian of Philosophy lets out a quiet huff of relief. no more work. not today. rest and peace, nothing less. an ex-Arbiter as your pillow, her uniform for a blanket. Binah gives your waist a light squeeze, brushing a mote of dust from your cheek. watching you drift into a deep slumber. the first in days, or weeks. ah, this must be comfort. the comfort of a slow, steady heartbeat, rather than flesh decaying in her grip.

a hand. your fingers. the tip of your nose. curled against her cloak; laced with her own; buried into her feathered collar. always close. always touching Binah, soaking up her presence. the scent of black tea clinging to your clothes and hair. she never dissuades you. perhaps even encouraging it. a similar desire wrapping about her heart, dreaming of pulling you into her arms and keeping you tucked against her side until the Library crumbles to dust. until the stars wink out and her blood decays, rot sprouting from her veins. Binah settles for stroking your cheek. touching her forehead to yours and sweeping her heavy coat across your shoulders. anything to see you smile, burrowing deeper into her embrace.

the other librarians have grown used to it. where Binah goes, you follow. any protests silenced by a silent stare, the glint of sadistic glee in her eyes. her fingers move without fail. tracing your features, smoothing over your hair. her fellow Patrons catch flickers of warmth. fleeting embers, glimpses of the adoration she keeps hidden from a dissolving world. to you she gives the key, burnt and brittle. trusting your hands with stitching her mind back together. you shift closer, head fitting perfectly beneath her chin, and Binah's gaze softens. pecking the back of your knuckles with a quiet chuckle, more gentle than an ex-Arbiter has any right to be.

none but you shall ever know. how easily she turns to downy plumes, melting into your palms. a shared yearning, relishing how you snuggle so eagerly within her arms as she showers you with a thousand kisses. one for each star in the sky, her silent, endless gratitude. twinkling, murmuring.

you shift closer to Queequeg, shielded from the seafoam. her arms tucking you up against her chest. carefully taking the offered shell and tilting her head towards the mouth, eyes drifting closed with a quiet sigh. it carves out a pocket of peace, a safe haven amidst the storm. with a gentle touch she pulls a blanket up, cradling the conch between you. it's a bauble. a pretty centerpiece for a countertop, and a piece of the sea you've spent so many years sailing. Queequeg slowly strokes your hair, foreheads pressed together. listening to your steady breaths, the rise and fall of your ribs.

she knows your wandering thoughts. it's her favorite part of the morning. waking up before the sun with a grumble, a weight pressed against her side. Outis turns. flipping over, yawning until her canines glint in the dim light. she stares down at you, a wide grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. still asleep. you were always so exhausted after a busy night of hunting, weary enough to curl up and hide in her embrace. not that she minds. it's just where she likes you. easily within reach, a perfect sight so early in the day. her hands glide across your arms and shoulders. squeezing the muscle, trailing down your wrist. nothing sweeter. nothing more satisfying than having you close, idly twirling her fingertip over your temple.

Outis' smile widens as your lashes flicker. leaning closer, purring out a low "good morning" and brushing her lips against your ear. your cheeks burn, warming Outis' palms as you trip and stumble over your words, earning a chuckle, deep and rich. perfect. you're perfect. the other Nursefathers mock her, wondering if she's gotten soft, all mushy over someone so insignificant. let them laugh. let them point and jeer. your touch traces her tattoos, the source of her pride. admiring the strength etched into every inch of her skin. Outis catches your hand. peppering kisses up your forearm, following the path of your veins. she slings a leg around your waist. an effective weight, pinning you beneath her grasp. no responsibilities. ignore the papers on your desk, the names scrawled in her Book of Vengeance. they're not important. she is. stay. stay here with her, tucked in and cozy. let the others call her weak, ignoring how she blissfully melts into your warmth. it's easier to tease you like this. pressed against her and pliant in her arms.

Binah stands over you, long hair framing her face in a curtain of black and gold. staring down, head tilted to the side. you blink. glancing up with a flicker of surprise, trying to wipe your tears away. nothing. nothing she should worry about. silly, inconsequential- she was the Patron Librarian of Philosophy. responsible for this floor and all its assistants. only finding solace in hot tea and the quiet hours after dark, with weary exhaustion. you shake your head. brushing off her worry, forcing a smile. yet Binah frowns. eyes narrowing, slits of onyx as she kneels, cupping your cheek. she brings your gaze to hers. leaning closer until your noses nearly touch.

"Who dared to harm you?"

her hand caresses your skin. warm, tender. easing you into her arms with a soft hum. she gently thumbs beneath your eyes. moisture beading on her fingertips, falling without reprieve. you never could hide from her. fear, anger, sorrow. Binah always knew when you were suffering, even in that wretched facility. stroking your hair, lips trailing down your temple. a cold glint in her gaze. etched with lingering sadism, in your name.

"Tell me who," she murmurs, voice deathly saccharine. another kiss to your forehead. a familiar smirk curling at her lips, collecting every shed tear in the palm of her hand. glimmering droplets of a weeping star- her beloved bird.

Arbiters do not celebrate birthdays, their lives drenched in apathy and bloodshed, ash clinging to their souls. the whole City a candle, waiting to be engulfed in flame. a year marked "time". time, and nothing more. all time was the same. sediment on glass, falling in monochromatic layers. Binah- Garion- was the same as the others. a gear, twisted and cold. slotted into place within the eternal machine. before being wrenched away, carved and burned and left to decay in the dust. even then, the world passed silently. year after year, an unchanging cage beneath the dirt. her agents lived and died. rewound, lived again. short, painful things; her favorite flower crushed beneath a passing shoe. you never reached your birthday, back in the corporation. always passing too early, another gravestone for the Extraction Department.

yet she wants to celebrate, this year. Binah can see the sun in the Library. slowly counting the weeks, month after month. towards a day you barely even remember. what to do for such an occasion. how to thank you, she wonders, for being alive. the Head permitted nothing of the sort, only vague gratitude and pride for each bone snapped in her grasp. she settles for waiting. seated at your side, slowly running a hand over your hair. Binah's eyes glimmer as you stir, tracing her fingers down your cheek. leaning in close, brushing her lips against the bridge of your nose.

"Happy birthday." a fond murmur, and her smile widens, watching you glow with drowsy delight. warming her heart, the chains of ice melting away into raindrops.

she hasn't mastered it yet. joy. delight. yet your eyes shine whenever that raspy static slips from her throat. clapping your hands, giggling along with her. Binah stares at the birds clinging to her knuckles. silently listening to their tiny cheeps. the same melody you hum and whistle. guiding her steps, soothing the pain of each sparking wire and malfunction. she turns, slowly. making her way through your workshop, gaze locked on a particularly stubborn thrush. you're at your desk, as usual. hunched over a few bits and bobs, fingertips rough to the touch. Binah extends her free hand, carefully touching your cheek. cradling your face as you glance up, tilting your head curiously.

"Look." she gestures to the bird. "It is you."

you blink several times, before dissolving into that sweet, wonderful laughter, and Binah's eyes flicker with gold. pleased. a ruined thing, amused, the twitch of a smile tugging at her mouth.