#binah x reader

Binah x Reader Pronouns: Gender Neutral Warnings: Descriptions of mutilation and death

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Your life is one of death, as the City permits it. A speck of dust in its grinding gears, trying to find its footing. Only to be swept away and crushed between metal and wind. As were all who came from the Backstreets. A screaming, seething mass, clawing at the walls, tearing feathers from wings that would never run bare. You could never be that. A plume. Something so soft and refined. You could be a bolt. A screw in the rusted skeleton of a wing, working in tandem. Join a Wing, and you’ll be free from the dirt. Join a Wing, and you’ll never have to scrape and scrounge in the streets again.

Join a Wing. You’ll be safe.

Safety. The one thing you sought, daring to chase after that distant voice, just on the edge of your vision. One thing amidst thousands. The only wish in your heart.

Yet still, denied.

It’s not safe. Nothing is ever safe, and this Wing is no different. Lobotomy Corporation. The pioneer, the Wing of innovation, whose halls were cold as ice and laced with stagnant air. New employees, they said, would go the deepest. Down to the departments that were buried in the darkest corners, frost lining the pipes. They needed manpower, down there. People. Hands. Sacrifices.

She’s waiting just outside the elevator, your new superior. Sitting in the shadows amidst a throne of gravestones, fingers twined together. Bored, silent- surveying the new workers with the barest hint of distaste as she rises to her feet, finally stepping into your view.

“You have all made your way here.” Her voice is deep yet flat. A monotonous, toneless thing, caged beneath layers of ash. “Or perhaps, were cast down.”

The Sephirah’s long coat drags listlessly over the ground as she approaches. Tilting her head, a single earring gleaming gold in the dim light. “I am known here as ‘Binah’. But ‘Binah’ is merely a place where one finds many graves.”

Your eyes flicker with dread, and her gaze abruptly locks with your own. Onyx, unfathomably deep, pooling into nothingness. A statue, worn and hollowed out by ocean waves. She holds your stare before turning away, as a Sephirah should. A brief flash of something veiled beneath the ice- a hallucination, perhaps.

“I am simply the one who draws the water.”

It sounds like rain, the steady drizzle always cloaking your dreams.

The Department of Extraction is even colder than the rest of the facility, limbs shivering within your thin uniform. Your signature blotches across the paper, gripping a pen between numbed fingertips. Agents received thicker clothes, further bolstered by the gifts and trinkets the Abnormalities bestowed upon them. Clerks simply suffered. Shaking, trembling, a permanent, aching chill sinking deep into the marrow of your bones. Yet your hands still move. Sorting through classifications, organizing messy, bloody reports. Stubbornly chasing that voice, that hope. If you could persevere, things would get better. You would be safe. Maybe one day, you’d even be allowed warmth. It lingers, whispering faint words of encouragement in a shroud of fine mist. You shudder, rubbing your hands together with a quiet cough.

The Sephirah watches you and your coworkers, examining each stack of notes without a word. A silent observer to a rusted world, with little care for the new gravestones that appear; one, two, three each day. Sometimes more, sometimes less- but always growing, littering the walls. You mourn each one, even if you did not know them. For if you did not grieve, no one ever would, and the paper stars you fold begin to pile up against the floor.

Your head lifts, and her eyes meet yours once more. Watching you shiver, just for a moment. The Sephirah’s brows twitch, then smooth out into an impassive stare as she turns away, the feathered collar of her cloak rustling softly.

A cup of tea sits upon your desk when you return. A bitter black blend without sugar or cream. It burns your fingers, then your lips, scalding your throat and tongue until they’re quite sore.

Then it warms you, soothing your veins from your head to the tips of your toes, and you gasp in relief.

The Sephirah is nowhere to be seen.

The tea refills day after day, heated to perfection. Staving off the cold in exchange for your labor, and you work tirelessly, desperate to prove your worth. Holding that dream close to your heart. You stretch, curling your spine back and wincing with each crack as you glance at the teacup, mere dredges of the drink remaining in the bottom. Whoever made this, delivered such a precious gift, would surely be suffering under the same misery. Stuck in a cycle of days, lingering on the precipice of death. Your fingers trace the rim of the saucer, slipping down to pull a small strip of paper from your uniform pocket. It’s a clumsy thing. A lopsided star, the same as the ones you leave by the countless graves. Leaving it tucked beneath the cup’s handle, a tiny, grateful gift.

It vanishes by the next morning, and in its place sits a single sugar cube.

The tea is one constant, a blissful reprieve in the unseen dawn. Always now, you leave a star. Testing any color you can get your hands on- red, purple, black and gold- and always it disappears, the drink refilled and drifting with curls of steam. Something to look forward to each day. Something that motivates you to rise from bed, rather than letting the frost cover your body.

The cup is one stability. The other is carved from onyx.

Eyes trace your every move and twitch- the shift of your hands, the swirl of your pen, the idle tap of your feet. Boring into your spine until your skin prickles with ice. She holds your stare this time, from her spot across the room. The Sephirah watches, unblinking. An obsidian blade piercing your cornea, her footsteps echoing against the floor, looming over you in silence.

A shiver runs down your back, swallowing the sudden lump in your throat. Her hand extends, waiting, expectant. An order, without saying a word. With quivering fingers, you set the latest report into her palm, the paper covered in your notes and suggestions.

She scans the sheet, your annotations, the messy handwriting and splotches of ink, face set in stoic neutrality.

“Adequate.”

You blink, stunned, and a wave of relief spreads through your veins, almost slumping in your seat. The Sephirah hands back your work, and her fingers brush briefly against yours. She’s cold. Colder than the metal walls, colder than the endless graves. Her thumb grazes your knuckles, tracing a path down to a scar etched on your palm.

A long, thin mark, almost invisible against the lines of your skin. It’s nothing special. Just the remnant of an embarrassingly messy accident involving you and a shard of glass that happened to find the right angle- something you rarely point out or admit.

Yet she touches it as if it’s something familiar, drifting past its end to trail over your veins. Her gaze holds yours fast, frozen, before finally releasing your hand and stepping away. You watch, choking, as she vanishes down the hall, heavy coat swishing in her wake.

Your heart thumps painfully in your chest, drowning your lungs in the evening’s icy rainwater.

“You.”

Your Sephirah stands beside your desk, staring through your bones once again. Her fingers curl, beckoning you closer. Those cold, frigid fingers, hanging limply at her sides. Covered in tiny white scars. Nicks and punctures, gashes and slivers through the skin. Your own foolish mistake pales in comparison, hidden against your palm. She observes silently, for a moment, before marching down the hall, not bothering to confirm your own steps.

“I find myself in need of an assistant,” she continues, tone unwavering from its usual chill. “Come.”

Nothing to do, except obey. Descending deeper, past the rusted doors and twisted metal railings. Water drips from decaying pipes. Landing in forgotten puddles, seeping through the floor to some rotten place. The murmurs of your coworkers, however quiet, fade into an uneasy void.

She walks until she can go no farther. Standing before a pit, a vast well carved into the ground and splashing the walls with shifting green light. Wretched curiosity tugs at your senses, but your Sephirah holds up a hand.

“Avert your eyes.” The words are oddly low. “Stronger minds have been severed, gazing into its depths.”

Hastily, you look away, back facing the hollow structure. The clink of metal, a chain being unwound- and the distant splash of water reaches your ears, just out of reach.

“All but my own.”

Your Sephirah’s steps echo across the floor, fabric whispering over the concrete. “A unique punishment, the inability to fall to madness.” A trace of bitter loathing laces her voice. “To see the collapse of a boundary without obtaining it.”

She pauses, and you frown. Beneath the disinterest, the cold resentment, a deep river of exhaustion filters through your ears. Devoid of the light you so relentlessly ran after.

“…You must be very brave, Lady Sephirah.” You speak without thinking, and the air turns deathly quiet.

She stops in her tracks, at the edge of the well. Staring down into the waters, earring swaying like a pendulum. Your nerves spark with fear, roughly biting your traitorous tongue and bracing for a deserved punishment.

“…Those words…”

Her breath hitches, a pebble thrown into a still pond. Fingers curling into the fabric of her cloak, tight enough to tear.

“…Always those words.”

Her chin lifts, eyes trained upwards, and for a fleeting moment, your Sephirah seems startlingly human in the well’s glow.

“…Do you dream of loops?”

You blink behind your fingers, a few paces behind her. It’s ordinary, now. Your Sephirah’s need for an assistant. The paperwork that once filled your arms delegated to other clerks, your whispering coworkers. A faint warmth settling into your veins, brushing it with the edges of your nails. Another splash, water trickling over the bucket’s edge. Again and again, she draws. More and more, the Manager orders. The chains cut into her skin, blood beading in stinging rivulets. Yet still she pulls. Drawing until her hands are scraped red and raw.

She tells you that she hardly feels a thing. Just another scar amidst the hundreds beneath her clothes. It’s nothing of consequence.

Out of politeness, you ignore the twitch of her fingertips.

“Sometimes.”

Your head leans back, gazing up at the ceiling- or, what little you can see beneath your hands. “…Or, I dream of dreams. That I’ll wake up, and none of this would have happened.”

A quiet hum. Your Sephirah’s way of acknowledging your words. The chains creak once more, lowering the bucket back into the well’s depths.

“And do you remain yourself, when you awaken?” she asks, as if she’s merely interviewing a future employee, trickling down in a steady stream. “Or is a sense of self something brief and scattered?”

Confusion knits your brows together; pondering the question, turning it over in your brain. A sense of self. Such a difficult thing to retain, confined to the darkness. You dare to glance at your Sephirah, and she meets your eyes with a stare of muted, shattered glass.

“…The experiences are different, but the base is the same,” you finally decide. “There’s still the same heart underneath.”

“Hm.” She nods, almost nonchalant in the motion yet laced with something like pride. “Perhaps you are wiser than you seem.” Her words wash over you, warming you to your bones, and the bucket finally dips into the distant water. “…As always.”

With a flick of her wrist she departs, striding down the hall. Leaving you to flounder alone and entirely baffled.

“…Ah…”

Your limbs burn, the throb of broken bones mixing with the sharp agony from countless gashes. Fingers curling, attempting to move, only to spasm as pain jolts down your side, a gasp tearing itself from your throat. The ground is tacky with blood. Sticking to your skin, clumping in your lashes. Something rests atop your head, slowly stroking your hair and holding you steady.

With a pained groan, you force your eyes open, wrenching the lids apart like a scab from a wound. The Extraction Department ceiling arches, hazy and dark, before your gaze focuses on a pale smudge.

A hand. Elegant bone structure, peppered with scars. Pinching a tiny thing between forefinger and thumb. One of the paper stars you folded, so long ago.

Your Sephirah kneels, cradling your head in her lap. Brushing her knuckles over your cheek, light as a feather. Scarred fingertips rough against your skin. Trembling. Warm.

“So it is this, yet again.”

She chuckles humorlessly, the gold in her hair glinting with each shake of her head. “How many times must I watch you decay?” Her hand curls into a fist, and she dips forward until your noses nearly brush. Caressing your face as if she’s done it a thousand nights before.

“You were always so… horribly selfless.”

Your Sephirah’s grip tightens, arms curling around your waist and bringing you closer, pressing her cheek to the top of your head as she hums. It sends a stinging lance of pain through your ribs, and her tone soothes your weak cry with a hush.

“It is my true punishment. My eternal agony, written into the script of these headstones.”

Slowly, she rocks back and forth. Your ear pressed over her chest, a frantic thumping through your bones. Ice melting away until her heart beats anew, raw and fresh and wounded. Her voice softens, shedding the cold lethargy into something etched with grief. That familiar, untouchable voice, crumbling like a stone worn away by the rain.

“You once called me ‘Binah’.” Her fingers curl around your wrist, thumbing over the scar on your palm. It tingles, a mist you’ve felt before in your endless, repeating dreams. “As if it were the name of a person, and not a caged beast.”

She shifts once more, brushing her forehead against yours. “Call me that again,” your Sephirah murmurs, pleading. “Just once, before you leave me.”

“…” Your breath hitches, black spots dancing before your eyes. Her arms are warm, firm around your ailing body, blood soaking into her coat, dotting the iridescent black feathers at her collar. It smells of black tea, and feels like home.

There’s a tug at the corner of your lips, pulling slowly into a small, trembling smile. “…Bi… nah…”

Her hands shake violently. Curling against your face, digging briefly into your skin before going slack. Tiny droplets scatter across your face, glimmering and damp to the touch. Tears. Binah weeps, silently. Tilting her head, pressing a kiss to your temple, soft as silk and smudged with life.

“Wait for me.” Her gaze flashes, that familiar light at your fingertips. “I will find you again. No matter how long, no matter how many cycles we must endure. I would tear this world apart for you.”

“We will meet again, my assistant. My starlight.”

Binah remembers every loop. Each awakening, each rebirth. Sliding another needle through her brain, nestled within the broken tissue. The well’s water, the distant river flowing beneath her feet. Madness clawing at her skull, unable to break free. She remembers. But not for them. Not for him.

For you.

The sound of your laughter, ringing like bells. That smile on your face, meant only for her. Your fingers, curiously tracing the scars littering her skin. Ah, how far she had fallen. An Arbiter, in love. That very first cycle, when you had asked her rotting, degraded Meltdown if it was alright. Pathetic. Her fellow Arbiters would laugh at the mere thought. The cold, sadistic Garion drawn to someone, again and again, over and over.

Yet she was mesmerized by your light.

A warm, gentle thing, glowing even in the depths of that hellish facility. Treating her as someone instead of something, a life instead of a weapon, a soul instead of a monster. She reached- she grasped, cupping it in her hands- yet it always slipped away, winking out like a candle’s flame. Endlessly following the tiny star through the repeating weeks and days.

Binah remembers every loop. Each fickle moment of joy, each time you spoke her name. All of your deaths, bleeding out on the floor.

“Binah.”

“Assistant.”

Crushed by a sweet song.

“Binah…”

“Assistant?”

Skewered in the heart.

“Binah?”

“Assistant…”

Trapped behind the Rabbits’ door.

“Binah-!”

“…”

By her own clawed hands.

Preserved in her mind, clear as crystal and terribly vivid. A new, singular form of torture, knowing she could never save you. Despite her strength. Despite her desperation. Weak, chained Arbiter, drowning in her silent sorrow. Standing by the machine as light makes way for darkness, seven nights and seven days.

All to see you again, the one who gave her a name.

Now, there is nothing. An empty dream, floating in the endless abyss. Peaceful. Quiet. Yet her heart aches, hollowed out from the center. Craving the warmth that once took root between her ribs. Gifted by a hand kinder than her own.

Something flickers in the distance. A glimmer, twinkling just out of reach. Binah takes a step- one, two- then again. Following the strange, familiar shine, pages turning in her wake. Books tower around an infinite staircase, an audible murmur in the distance, and a novel of black and gold creaks open.

A blink, her face illuminated by swaying stars. A room stretches before her, lined with shelved and blackened trees, stellar crystals scattered about the floor and ceiling. Uneven and jagged, folded into mysterious constellations. The Patron Librarian of the Floor of Philosophy watches, quietly, as more books open. Groans and mutters of surprise echo around her, the employees- other librarians, under her command- rousing from their long slumber, materializing from their own books and papers.

Binah’s eyes sharpen. Observing the room with a watchful gaze, picking and plucking each face from her mutilated brain. Some familiar, some not- none who she wants to see. Her heart pounds. Unraveling its bindings, despair filling her veins. She had promised. Promised to search, for as long as it took, to weather the pain and torment until the end. It could not be torn away. Not now. Not when she’s finally clawed her way out of the dark.

She spies a figure, sitting near a tea table. Beautifully, hopelessly familiar, and Binah’s breath goes still.

You’re rubbing the sleep from your eyes, stretching your limbs. Whole, uninjured. Alive. Alive. Binah crosses the floor, joining your side in an instant. Staring down at you, long hair draping over her shoulder and dual earrings winking with tiny flashes of light. Her breath comes hurried and shallow, tracing something in her pocket- a little, lopsided star, made entirely of paper.

“My assistant,” she whispers, and her voice curls around your ears, all bird’s wings and dew. Your mouth falls open, an ocean of unlocked memories replaying in your head.

“Binah.”

Her expression crumples, letting out a low sob as she pulls you into her arms, so quiet that only you could hope to hear. Swaying on her feet, kissing your head as you cup her face in your palms, carefully wiping away the tears.

You’ve always been running. Chasing after that distant hope, the voice lingering at the edge of your mind. Finally catching up. Cradling it, her, in your hands, wrapped in her soft, comfortable cloak and soaking up the words she murmurs into your hair.

Your Sephirah. Your Patron Librarian.

“My assistant,” she repeats, rich tea mixed with honey. “My starlight.” Your cheeks warm, matching her rare smile with a beaming one of your own.

“My Binah.”

An employee and a Sephirah. An assistant and a Librarian. Through pain and suffering and countless cycles of blood. Safe in each other’s arms.

:D

Binah-beloved if your reading this then I just wanted to tell you that your content is amazing and you've single handedly made me love Binah so so so much your writing is literally beautiful to the point I shed actually tears reading it sometimes. How do you write her yearning so well I can feel it through the screen 🙏🙏 your literally one of the main reasons I'm excited to wake up in the morning just to see whatever masterpiece you've created. Oh my days I feel so corny writing this I just thought your account needed some appreciation so here is my gift to you 🥹

The art separate:

AT LONG LAST, THE BINAH LOVERS WILL BE FED (I am also one of them). I decided to combine these all because they all cover a very similar topic! And I don't want to accidentally throw myself in writers block by doing them individually. I am quickly noting that this familiar Arbiter is a fan favorite, but I am not surprised.

Binah Romantic Headcanons:

Binah x Reader Android AU Pronouns: Gender Neutral Warnings: Descriptions of small injuries and death

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Androids do not feel. It is not an opinion, it is a fact, told constantly to everyone and anyone. Androids do not have capacity for emotions. They are here to use, to be used, to serve those who bought and own them because they can never be anything but owned. You know this. The world knows this. Everybody knows this, and those who believe otherwise are called foolish, tearing an inevitable cackling laugh from people’s throats as they slap the table, how stupid and silly, how naive! They’re words you ponder as you continue your life’s work of creating and welding and repairing, your dingy house filled with bits of metal, bobs you found tossed aside. One person’s junk is another’s treasure, although some would call you an idiot for thinking you could make something out of nothing. But nothing is never nothing. And perhaps you are an idiot, or stupid, or silly, or foolish or naive, or perhaps some combination of everything, when you pull a discarded android out under the scrapheap.

Black, gold, and porcelain, once pristine and now tarnished. The interlocked hexagons immediately mark the android as an Arbiter class, models only available to the wealthiest and most influential people. Yet this one has been thrown away and left to rot, rust decorating her elegant features, and a frown flits across your face. Someone must have been very frivolous, or perhaps very cruel, to toss aside an Arbiter android without a thought. It’s not surprising. Those types are all fat old fools, after all. Nothing to it but resources, you try to tell yourself. But your hands lay flat on the android’s shoulders and refuse to curl, taking not one bit of metal from her. The gears in your head turn, fingers tracing and examining every patch of rust and severed wire and those closed eyes, neutral and silent. “Fixable.” Your voice comes out in a whisper, carefully hefting her onto your back and hurrying away, just as the sun begins to set.

It becomes a personal project of yours, an attempt to repair a disabled Arbiter as you scrounge around for different parts to use. You’re not even sure what metal she’s made of, something high quality and cold and much, much too expensive for you to even have a chance of glimpsing, but slowly your list fills with checkmarks and new cuts join old scars on your hands from your work. Gloves cost too much, and your fingers are essentially dead in feeling anyways. The android sits on your workbench, the corpse of an effigy, and doesn’t move. In truth, you’re not expecting her to be alive. The rational part of your brain keeps repeating the facts, over and over. Clearly, she was shut down. She can’t be repaired. She will never wake up. You’re excellent at not listening to those thoughts, letting your body methodically move while you keep your mind blank apart from the spark of hope twinkling in the center. Maybe, just maybe, your skills will suffice. Maybe. There’s a twitch from her fingers, and you pause, breath dying in your chest. They move again, more this time, slowly curling and uncurling into a fist before the android’s body jolts and clicking whirs fill the room as symphonic noise. Slowly, she sits upright, and slowly, you take a few steps back, unable to keep yourself from staring as her golden earring sways. Her eyes open like a splash of midnight, and she’s staring directly back at you, voice coming out flat and cold.

“I am Arbiter model 008, designation Garion. What are your orders?” You open your mouth, then close it again, not her original owner nor another member of the elite. You could say nothing. You could simply keep your mouth shut, and she would leave as an Arbiter to find a new directive. You could turn your back and pretend like you saw nothing. But you know and she knows that there’s nowhere for her now. “…Stay a while.” And she does. She becomes a constant shadow, watching you silently from a corner in your little, decrepit house. For several days the android simply stands there, doing and saying nothing but observing your every movement. Occasionally you look up from your work, meeting her bored black gaze, and you wave. At first there’s nothing, but gradually her head tilts at your small actions and the kind smile you give her. One day, she waves back, stiff and a little awkward, but it makes you perk up nonetheless. She moves closer, more freely, beginning to explore the house when you’re bent over pieces of metal and solder, before standing directly behind you and watching you work with a flicker of interest, although she rarely answers to her designated title. Something is disconnected, unfitting, and you take to simply calling her “Dear” from the pool of sweet sincerity in your heart. You answer when she asks questions, not berating or sneering but giving her a nod and swift demonstrations and free reign to examine anything she wants. So she sits, the nameless android, and reads every book you have to offer, cold fingers tracing over one word again and again. It’s that word she holds close to her when she approaches you one day, a hint of apprehension in her eyes. 

“…I would like for you to call me Binah, from now on.” She’s amazed at her audacity to request something as an android, a tool, a weapon to be used. What’s more incredible is your response, a nod and a gentle agreement that it suits her. For the first time, Binah smiles a little. Binah is never apart from you after that. Wherever you go, she goes, even if it’s simply to find more supplies or to watch the stars come out. She’s always there, a quiet, constant presence by your side. There are flashes and glints of feeling, slowly, as she begins to separate things she likes and dislikes and learn, always learning more and more with keen interest. She likes the night sky, books, the scent of tea. She despises too much noise, too many people, those who never listen. You, she finds, she likes immensely.

She never tells you this verbally, but you know when her fingers curl around yours and your hand presses against her cool cheek, eliciting a shudder as she practically melts against your touch. Some people ask if she’s yours when they see her behind you, carefully watching for any threats. You always deny it, every time. The thought of being Binah’s owner makes your stomach turn, seeing and accompanying her during her growing sentience and awareness as an individual. But she interrupts you one day when that familiar question rises again, answering with a monotonous yes and an icy glare until the person who asked runs off in a panic. You blink, turning to look at her only for cool, heavy arms to wrap around your waist, her hand over your beating, human heart. “I am yours, and you are mine. If you will have me.” Her words are firm and laced with certainty, the gentle touch of her fingers betraying her hidden, developing emotions. You stare at Binah and merely nod, and she softens briefly to bump her forehead against yours.

You were told that androids couldn’t do a lot of things. They don’t feel, don’t form attachments, don’t understand bonds or gentleness. Everything is proven wrong, to your delight. It has never felt so good to be wrong, wrong about each “fact” that tried to force its way into your head. Wrong, except for one. Androids cannot die. Not in the way that humans do. Everyone knows this. Binah knows this. You knew this. They could be shut down, or lose their directive, but Arbiters were made to survive. You had told her about death, your fingers laced with hers during your evening walk. “Humans rot underground, but I like to think that eventually we grow into flowers again. Wouldn’t that be nice?” Yes. It would be nice. Her words go unspoken.

Binah stands in the rain, wrapped in the coat you made for her after she discarded the golden hexagons to remain with you. Of course, there’s no cold to her, but you loved and she loved the fabric, the way you would tuck yourself into the front while she was still wearing it. She idly twists her rings; one, two, three; resting on her favorite on the left hand. “I am Arbiter model 008, designation Garion. What are your orders?” Her voice is as apathetic and even as the day you first met, drizzle clouding her vision and wetting her synthetic hair. You always told her it was soft and smooth, and she couldn’t help but lean against your hands whenever you pet it. “…I am Arbiter model 008, designation Garion. What are your orders?” Her fingers lace together and grip hard, the same crushing force that has killed countless people, yet treated you so gently. She always was fond of caressing your face, feeling the way your skin dipped under her careful touch. Fascinating. Wonderful. Human.

Binah x Reader Lobotomy Corporation Pronouns: Gender Neutral Warnings: Descriptions of blood and torture

~ * ~

The life of an Arbiter revolves around torture, as is fit of the prime assassins of the Head. Whatever is ordered shall be done, they all had vowed at the start of their service; threats, collection, removals, extermination. It’s all part of the cycle. There’s nothing to be done or changed, so why not relish in the destruction? Garion was no different, her hands stained with blood and the countless lives she had torn apart. Even when she was gutted and splintered, laid out in a chair to have her brain picked and prodded; when she was forced to cling to her dying breath, listening to every crack of bone with iron red dripping from her mouth; when her name was taken away and replaced by something dull and false so he could control her better, she remained the same, as an Arbiter mimics the City. Binah. What a fitting name. Meaning to contemplate, to understand. She could do nothing but think, after all, being locked away beside a well of madness, alone. Yes, she had much time to contemplate, her task of drawing water slowly driving her insane, as there was no one who could do this but her, no one else who could withstand it. This was her punishment, for everything. Hah, punishment. An Arbiter being tormented instead of doing the tormenting. How laughable. The people around her come and go, living and dying and returning with each new cycle. She’s the head of some department or another, except she can’t leave, not ever. The doors were barred and shut for her, for all of them, long ago.

The agents and clerks beneath her always await her instructions. She used to purposefully lie, watching with sharp eyes as they fell screaming to the monsters or the sounds or the images flashing across their eyes. But he disliked that, sending her back to the room with the well and making her draw more and more water as a form of discipline, and soon she found no joy in watching people crumble, only boredom. They all call her Binah. But she’s not Binah, she’s Garion, and will be Garion forevermore. It’s difficult to tell the time down here amongst the machines and shadows. The only signs are any new employees, fools who join the ranks of the facility because they are very stupid or very desperate, or perhaps a bit of both. She’s long since given up the need to remember any of them; all her energy is spent maintaining the last threads still attached to her sanity, the ones that never seem to snap even when she wants them to. Perhaps that’s another layer of this punishment, to be forced to bear it with lucid eyes. The Arbiter feels nothing when an Abnormality breaches containment, sitting and listening to the shouts and cries for a few moments before getting to her feet. A fight would be a welcome break from the well, anyway- even at her weakest she’s still a formidable opponent for even the worst creatures from the depths. But perhaps staring into the waters has made her sloppy, her skill degrading along with her mind, because the Abnormality is only caged after a long gash is opened on her arm, the blood dripping thickly onto the floor. She exhales. There is no pain. She is an Arbiter, after all, unafraid and strong.

Yet it still stings and burns. “Binah!” A voice rings out and her eyes open with a slight jolt. The sound is vaguely familiar, something heard in passing and no more, but somehow it feels different- concerned, frantic, warm. Her head tilts in its direction, gaze landing upon one of the more recent hires assigned to her department, looking worried and a little fearful at the sight of her blood. You fuss over her wounded arm and she can do nothing but let you, staring blankly as she’s pushed in the direction of the medical bay, the other agents scattering and the memory of your voice filling her head. Binah. It was so gentle, the way you said it- But she’s not Binah. She’s Garion. But who is Garion now, after being chained to an endless web of madness and despair? Nothing but an empty husk. The Head of Extraction has begun to linger near you once working hours are over. You’re often the only ones left in the main room at that hour, your pen constantly scratching against whatever file you’re currently working on, and she remains a short distance away, watching carefully. Occasionally you can smell the tea she drinks, your lips twitching into a smile at the lighthearted thought of your Sephirah truly enjoying something before there’s the sound of footsteps and a light clink as she sets her teacup on the table beside you and asks that you do not mind her sitting so close.

You blink, looking up from your papers and into those dull black eyes, and you smile. Her heart thumps once, merely humming and taking a sip of her tea to disguise her surprise. It’s easier around you, being locked in the depths. The few strands of her sanity become stronger, untangling themselves and weaving into an organized display in your presence- how? You must have some secret ability, some tool used to manipulate the senses, for not even bloodshed and slaughter could make her feel so warm. And your voice, when you speak that name she’s been given- ah, she almost feels like she could smile. Almost. Not quite, but almost. The sight of the Extraction Sephirah and a certain employee becomes commonplace; some even call you her favorite, but when you ask she merely tilts her head, a faint glint in her usually cold eyes, and presses a finger to her lips. It was only natural for him to notice, for the change in her behavior to catch his gaze and hold his attention in an iron grip tight enough to make him panic. You’re the cause of this- some random, low-level employee who gave a fragmented Arbiter a spark- and with rage in his voice he threatens her and you in one sentence, scrambling for some semblance of control. Her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly, the air seemingly dropping a few degrees from her flat, icy stare. She is strong, can handle any torture or agony or suffering- but you are fragile, a bird she wants to cup in her palms and whisper her sorrows to and keep safe, safe for as long as you live and as long as you breathe. Her own blood she is willing to see spilled, but not yours. Never yours.

Lobotomy Corporation Warnings for mentions of exhaustion and passing out

yes i will eventually do Ruina ones too

~ * ~ -You are the one single thing she is uncertain about -Everything else is trivial and dull to someone as apathetic as she. But you, oh you- whenever she sees you her mind short circuits, going blank for a brief moment -It doesn’t sound like much, but it is for Binah, she’s not used to being lost for words from just a simple glance -She doesn’t know whether to confront you or keep quiet, either- her heart starts acting weirdly whenever she approaches you, even if it’s with work-related business -It results in a lot of her staring at you from across the room as you feel a pair of eyes bore into the back of your skull -Binah expresses these odd feelings in small ways- leaving a cup of hot tea for you, carefully organizing the files you need to work on so she can make your job a little easier, or just keeping an eye on you from afar -She’s entirely aware of how intimidating she is, so at first she tries to refrain from actually speaking to you most of the time. Yet you don’t seem to mind, engaging her in conversation on your own volition like she’s one of your coworker friends -The casual talks you have together become a bright spot in the otherwise midnight depths of the Extraction Department -It’s a little surreal for your fellow employees, seeing you chatting with their Sephirah so calmly as she listens intently to your every word -You can talk about anything, even the most boring, silly matters, and the normally cold Binah will still become keenly interested in the subject -Sidenote: she really wants to wrap you in her cloak, as it can get rather cold in the facility (and she also just wants to hug you but don’t tell anyone that)-Once you passed out from exhaustion and woke up with her heavy furred coat draped over your body- she never did explain why…

May many happy things come to those who love Binah. Merry Christmas and happy New year. Your posts always make my day better so thanks you.

don't worry, i want to

~ * ~ The Love Languages of an Arbiter Acts of Service:

Giving: -One of the main ways Binah expresses affection. Whether it’s during her time at Lobotomy Corporation or when the Library opens its doors, she strives for ways to make your life easier.-Listen, she was forced to become the Extraction Sephirah, she knows how difficult and tedious your job could be and it didn’t get much easier in the Library. -Plus, acts of service mean that she can show she cares while being subtle about it- and that’s really what Binah’s love is all about, subtlety. She’s not one for grand romantic gestures, preferring smaller, quieter things that accumulate over time. It makes for a more constant show of appreciation, she thinks. -Sometimes you’ll wake up and find that your paperwork has been sorted in alphabetical order. Or maybe the books Angela wanted you to put away have already been shelved. Or, most commonly, you’ll find a cup of steaming hot tea waiting for you after a long day, Binah sitting across from you and holding whatever novel you’ve been flipping through lately, so she can join you in reading.

Receiving: -Binah’s very appreciative of anything you do for her- she’s ranked higher than you, both as a Sephirah and a Patron Librarian, so the thought of you trying to make her life a little easier or just doing things out of goodwill makes her heart warm a little bit. -Unfortunately you can’t help her with much of her work unless it’s just sorting some things, since you’re not qualified for it, so you settle for tasks that don’t involve papers and books. -One of your favorite acts of service is restocking her tea when she runs out. She’s not sure how you procure it so quickly and so quietly, but often enough she’ll be out of a blend one day only for a full box to magically appear the next day. -You’ll know she found out when she comes up behind you and pats your head, murmuring a small “Thank you” in your ears.

Quality Time:

Giving:-Speaking of reading together, Binah spends time with you as often as possible, which unfortunately isn’t very often in Lobotomy Corporation. It gets much better in the Library, since she can easily steal you away for a tea party if you’re not actively in a Reception. -She’s gotten into this habit of simply picking you up and carrying you away when she wants to see you, and if you protest she just shushes you with a kiss. -All the invites she extends to the other Librarians for tea? Yeah, you’re the one she wants to accept the most, and her demeanor is just a little bit brighter if you do find the time to attend- it might not seem like much, but it’s a big change for someone as calm and mysterious as Binah. -But unlike the others, she also puts aside time for just the two of you, time where you’re the only two people in the world and that’s all that matters. If there are areas of the Library that are outdoors, she’ll gladly bring some treats so you can have a little picnic together. Or if you just want to indulge in one of your hobbies, Binah will be by your side to keep you company, watching calmly and asking questions here and there, because she loves watching you do anything.

Receiving: -If you go out of your way to spend time with her, Binah might actually cry. -Not much, mind you, just a tear or two, but it means the world to her. Although she tries to deny it, Binah is incredibly lonely, being locked away in the Extraction Department during each cycle, then being confined to the Floor of Philosophy and surrounded by people who fear her. Yes, she wears solitude wonderfully well, but she despises it, too. -She’s used to being the one inviting others, setting up gatherings and chats with the other Librarians, so when you extend a hand to her instead she’s both surprised and touched, even if she doesn’t show it outwardly. And you do it so casually, like you’re asking her how the weather is instead of inviting an ex-Arbiter to spend time with you. -Yes, she knows you do it because you love her and want to be by her side, but it’s such a foreign concept that she can’t help but pause, blinking a few times as your words set in. -Then a small smile blooms across Binah’s face, her hand slipping into yours as she asks you to lead the way. She doesn’t care what you’re doing- it can be anything- as long as she gets to spend time with you; it’s like the hollow emptiness that was so present in her life is mended whenever you’re nearby. -To her, it doesn’t matter what you want to do. As long as you’re there with her, she’ll enjoy herself. -Sidenote, Binah has a softer smile that she only uses around you, and her features subtly light up when she does, it’s beautiful.

Physical Touch:

Giving: -Binah doesn’t initiate physical touch very often, not because she doesn’t want to! It’s partially because she doesn’t want to hurt you by mistake and also because she simply forgets that physical touch is an option. Most of her years were spent killing and torturing people, she’s not used to touching someone out of love. -When she does remember, it’s the gentlest, most delicate touch you’ve ever felt. She’s very hesitant at the beginning, since she’s very aware of her strength, so most of the time it’s a simple hand on your shoulder before she slowly upgrades to patting your head. -The first time Binah holds your hand, she’s surprised at how much warmer you are than her- she tends to run a bit cold- and immediately moves to lace her fingers with yours. -She’s very fond of curling her little finger around yours when you stand next to each other. It’s a subtle way of saying that she’s there for you and that you’re safe. -Likes kissing you on the forehead, because when she pulls back she can get lost in the loving way you look at her.

Receiving: -There’s no beating around the bush, Binah is touch-starved. -Not in the sense that she’s clingy, but in the way that occurs because she’s never been hugged or held gently in her life. -So the first time you hug her she stiffens, immediately wanting to defend herself. But then she registers what you’re doing and the warmth of your arms and how securely you’re holding her, and she just absolutely melts. -To anyone else she looks the exact same, but you can feel her slump a little before she returns the gesture, a small sigh escaping her as she leans against you. She’s going to want a hug every day after that, and she will stare at you from across the room if you forget. Whenever you finish a Reception she always whisks you away for a quick hug if you’re not too injured. -Binah loves snuggling with you, no questions asked. The most common way is for you to be on her lap as she sits in her favorite armchair, gazing down at you as you lean your head against her shoulder. Occasionally you reach up to cup her cheeks in your hands, feeling her soft skin under your fingertips and watching her eyes shut briefly, her normally stoic expression softening just a tad. She’ll also let you braid her hair, if you know how. -She’s the big spoon when you’re sleeping, it makes her feel like she’s protecting you even when you’re both unconscious. Plus, the sight of your sleeping face when she wakes up is enough to energize her for the entire day, without drinking even a single cup of tea.

Gifts:

Giving: -Binah’s not a big gift-giver, it makes her feel like she’s trying to buy your affection, which she most certainly isn’t. That being said, she’s not completely opposed to it, she simply doesn’t shower you with gifts (and frankly neither do you). -The things she does give you are usually small and fall into at least one of two categories: having a practical use, or having a deeper meaning. -For example, she gifted you a notebook when she noticed you liked jotting things down on scraps of paper you came across, as well as a good, sturdy pen. Just for fun, she made sure it was black and gold to remind you of her, and you carry the notebook everywhere you go. -Perhaps the sweetest gift she’s given you was the matching earring to the one she wore as a Sephirah- she gave it to you as a way of confessing her affections. You don’t wear it that often anymore, since she swapped her own out for the small gold pair, but occasionally you’ll both wear the matching pair for fun. It makes her smile when she sees you wearing it in the hallway. -One day she swears she’ll give you one of her rings. One day.

Receiving: -She’s rather neutral on being gifted things, except if, again, they’re practical or have some sweetness put into them. If you like hand making small crafts, she’ll absolutely accept one as a gift. For example if you make her a bookmark or a coaster for her teacup, she’ll internally melt. -Another thing she’ll always accept is matching jewelry. Just like her own rings and earrings, if you gift her one half of a pair, she’ll make sure to wear hers whenever you wear yours. -But Binah really doesn’t need you to give her gifts to know that you love her, and if you worry about it, she’ll just tell you that you are the best gift the world has ever given her, and nothing could ever be lovelier.

Words of Affirmation:

Giving: -Probably the weakest of the love languages for Binah, in terms of giving it. She’s just not a very openly lovey-dovey person, and while she’s good at going off on cryptic tangents, she’s not very good at verbally expressing herself. -It’s mostly because she finds little need for words when in your presence- you seem to bring out this blanket of calm and peace whenever you’re nearby, and she wants nothing more than to quietly relish the feeling with you by her side. -Occasionally you’ll hear her whisper “I love you” when you’re in her arms, or a soft pet name, but for the most part you’re both content just existing with each other. -She does try to tell you that you did well after a particularly difficult Reception, and even back in L Corp she would always give you a small pat on the head after suppressing an Abnormality- she’s trying her best. -But once in a while, you’ll catch her watching you from across the table, and when you pipe up and ask about it she’ll flatter you with a long and eloquent compliment, a faint smile on her face as she watches you stumble over your words in response. It’s almost like a surprise, and she does like surprising you.

Binah x Reader Library of Ruina Pronouns: Gender Neutral Warnings: None

~ * ~

The Floor of Philosophy smells like black tea and raindrops, fresh with the dew of evening mist, the kind that only appears at midnight under the light of the moon. Quiet and serene, with shelves filled to the brim with books, the eighth floor of the Library exists as a place of calm silence, stars twinkling against the ceiling. But you’re not here to see any of it. The assistant librarians often speculate how their patron spends her hours outside of observing battles- the few who deliver books to Binah report that they often see her drinking tea, sitting at her usual table with a peaceful, contemplative look on her face- although occasionally, the librarians whisper in hushed tones, they’ll catch her walking along the aisles, staring intently at the title of each book for a moment before moving on to the next. It seems as though she’s looking for something, they all muse, huddled in a circle. But what? Not something, but someone. You. Binah can hear her assistants’ whispers, no matter how quiet they try to be- it’s amusing to her, catching snippets of conversation and theories as she passes by, each more outlandish than the last. But they’re never quite right, always missing the fact that she’s searching for a living, breathing person instead of merely an object, the one assistant librarian who hasn’t awoken from slumber yet. She remembered you even when her mind was hazy from sleeping for so long- your smile, your laugh, the way you made her cold, deadened heart skip a beat. You had toiled away at the Corporation together for cycle after cycle and slowly, surely, she had grown attached, although she had tried to resist. Arbiters cannot form attachments, it’s a danger to their work and occupation.

But mostly, it was a danger to your well-being, and that had worried her the most. Binah recalled looking up at the light as Angela reformed everything and everyone, the Arbiter’s hand curled against your warmer one. She had glanced at you, gauging your reaction, and your exhausted appearance drew a droplet of concern from the well of emptiness within her, the shadows in your eyes more prominent than usual before Angela had snapped her fingers and everything vanished. With how tired you seemed, it’s reasonable that you’d want to stay asleep for as long as you could. Truly, it’s understandable. She tries to be understanding- really, she does- but Binah wants nothing more than to be selfish, to find your book and wake you up again because she misses you, more than she’s ever missed anything in the world. It’s lonely up here, in her floor, the skittish assistants not being much good for conversation- and she tries to be more welcoming! She invites everyone over for tea, for books, for a chat, but rarely does anyone take her up on the offer. They’re all still afraid of the Arbiter she once was. So Binah ends up alone, quietly sipping her tea and thinking, as she always does. And she decides that being lonely is dreadful, that she doesn’t like it much, and her search for you resumes even though the Library is endless, even though she’s looked for days without any luck, even though Angela once flatly told her that she might never find you, not ever. Even if it takes eternity, she’ll find you, and you’ll find her- Binah believes in nothing except for this. It’s late one afternoon, near the end of another day filled with fruitless searching, that her keen eyes spot something familiar. A book just like the others comes into view as she steps closer, except this time it’s scripted with a name she knows well on its spine, the elegant handwriting shining with silver ink as she carefully removes the novel from its shelf.