Lepus

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.

One of the most photogenic tornadoes in history

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.

Prompt: Magical Creatures! An adventurer who retired to take care of the "monstrous" creatures their fellows maimed and harmed, rehabilitating them and helping them back into the wilds. She's gotten a few scars and lost an eye to the work but she holds no grudges! She loves these lovely creatures! Her nieces that're here for the weekend to visit their...eccentric aunt are a little split on how to feel about the whole thing. Commission info in the source!

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.

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.