#and/or unimpressed (olivine)

[fisheito]

@zerenovation​ he’s not gonna last 3 seconds in the courtroom

[yahoodarling]

HI! I was drawn to the Xie Lian theme on your blog, and I saw the Nu: Carnival post too. I love Olivine, so could I get some fluff with him please? I can't think of anything particularly specific... Just something fluffy and preferably SFW. Thank you!

Apologies it took a bit longer than id like it to have. I did add some suggestive flirting though nothing out of SWF. Hope you enjoy~ Also mildly inspired by a favorite dessert of mine and one of Oliviens 'scenes'.

Olivien X Gn!Reader

Warnings: Fluff, suggestive flirting

Sat sluggishly on one of Aster's huge couches, your eyes danced between the lounge's decor. Not much had been happening in and around the mansion, everyone had duties they had to attend to leaving you to wallow in your solitude. It was boring. That was until a brilliant angle walked in to bring salvation. Surrounded by light it was truly a holy sight.

“Oh, you are still home? Did you not say you needed to be somewhere today?” Olivien asked as he walked into the lounge. This morning most members that stayed in the mansion mentioned how they would be busy, you not wanting to hurt your pride lied and made up a fake job you needed to do so as to not seem pitiful, in your eyes at least. 

“I'm done with it, haha. Oh, but what are you doing here?” you asked back

“It was just a misunderstanding i helped clear up amongst some members in the church. I thought it would take a lot longer but seems not. I'm glad though, I've been looking for some spare time to try out a recipe I heard about from Dante that originates from the Fire territory. Would you like to join me?” he asked, a smile gracing his face as he asked. What kind of horrible person would you be if you were to deny such a sweet offer. Heaving yourself off the couch you approached in delight. 

“But of course, lead the way.”

Olivien let out a chuckle as he made his way towards the kitchen, you trailed behind.

“So what are we making?” you ask, sitting on a kitchen counter as olivien  washed his hands in the sink.

“It's a milk tart. Like a milky custard with a biscuit base and dusted with cinnamon. The other day i heard Dante wanting it when he came to visit and i asked for the recipe. Its sweet and chilled from what i hear. I think it would be a nice treat for the others to try when they get back.”

“Haha, sounds like a plan. Where do we begin?” you ask. Olivien pulled a single paper from his pocket, from what you saw the writing was rushed but it still held the elegant style Olivien wrote in.

“I had to quickly write it down since Dante couldn't chat long at the time. Lets hope i didn't leave anything out.” His face held a cute pout as he read over his writing, you could tell he was trying to get a better understanding of the dessert.

“Okay!” He suddenly brightened up from his thoughts, “So I'll get the utensils, mind fetching the ingredients I list off?” “Sure” you push yourself off the counter to be Oliviens fetch dog.

“First off, we need milk” he said as he turned away getting a bowl. A sly smirk crossed yur face as you waited behind him, not moving, this alerted him as he turned back to look at you puzzled. “Is everything okay?”

“Yip, just fetching the milk” you smiled and held out both your arms, your hands making grabby motions towards his chest. Olivien realized  your implications and went dead in the face, looking at you unimpressed.

“Get the milk please.” he demanded.

“Yes sir” and you took a step towards him, he grabbed your shoulders and brought you in a tight hug against the lump chest you were just focused on, in the warm embrace Olivien lowered his head so his hushed voice met directly with your ears.

“I love you very much my dear but Lord Klein forgive me for what I am about to do if you keep this up.” The suggestive threat sent a shiver down your core, you were his fetch dog for now not his horn dog.

“All clear?” he asked as he let you go smiling, you smiled back though yours was more shaken than his. “Crystal clear.”

Other than that, getting to work with Olivien was pleasant. You each spoke about what plans you had for the rest of the week and what you'd want to do when the others got back. The tart was rather simple and quick to prepare and was left to set and cool, and so clean up commenced.

You stood washing the dishes while Olivien packed away the remaining ingredients. It was a content time, a quiet ting of bowls and shuffles of paper and feet creating a soft melody of your duet with Olivien. In your time embracing the sound Oliviens footsteps got closer and closer till he held you in his arms against him.

“Hmm?” you acknowledge him. Olivien went quiet for a moment before pressing his chin to the top of your head.

“I've really enjoyed this time with you.” he spoke hushed, like he was trying not to shatter the flow of music you two created. “I hope the tart tastes good, I'm looking forward to it.” as he spoke his hold tightened till you were pressed contemptly, warm, safe, happy… This was a good life you had even if it did have its struggles, moments like these made the stress and anxieties melt away. 

After cleaning up and needing to wait for the milk tart to set you and Olivien retreated to the lounge to enjoy the rest of the afternoon together. You found yourself leaning against him as his hand tossed with your hair. With such a relaxed environment you couldn't help but fall into a tranquil slumber.

An increase in activity sturred you to wake up, the noises coming from outside the room. You eased yourself up from the couch but the sudden lack of warmth caused you to look back to where you once were laid. Olivien slept below you, his body warmth being the element you were lacking. His face set in a graceful rest, eyes hidden behind thick eyelashes. To see him in such an open state, more untroubled than you had ever seen him before. Like this you could tell he was not plagued with concerns or worry regarding work or daily troubles, like this he was truly reposeful. No other could fulfill the place olivien had in your heart and getting to share moments such as today just solidified that sentiment. 

The door to the house opened suddenly, taking your focus. Through the door came Aster and Morvay, Aster's voice ringing through as he was reprimanded? Teased? Morvay, really you couldn't tell. 

“Hello hello~” he sang to you but it wasn't you that responded back.

“Ah, welcome back,” Olivine's sleepy voice answered. Another presence joined in the room, that being Yakumo though he entered not via the front door like Aster and Morvay but from another room in the house, he must have returned while you and Olivien were asleep. “Greetings everyone.” he smiled. Olivien sat up and allowed himself to wake up. After looking around the room a little to better gather himself he turned to Aster, “Do you know where Dante is?”

“He left back to his kingdom. Huge responsibilities and such.” You could tell there was a sign of disappointment in Oliviens eyes as his face only momentarily fell into a sullen frown before returning to its normal graceful smile. The plan to make the milk tart had come from Dante after all.

“Why? There something you need from him?” Aster asked as he and Morvay got comfortable on another couch.

“I just made a dessert from the fire region and wanted his opinion on it. No big problem though.”

“Oh,” Yakumo piped in,” you mean that dessert in the cooler? When I saw him earlier he helped himself to a slice. He didn't say much but he seemed happy. I guess he simply did not want to wake you up before he left.”

Olivien smiled like he was in relief, “I'm glad then. Anyway, would anyone like a slice? I have yet to try it but if Dante is pleased with it it should be enjoyable.” A choir of agreement rang as everyone moved to the kitchen. Away from the others Olivien stopped and looked to you, eyes gleaming like jewels.

“I hope we get an opportunity to do this again.”

You nodded back and smiled like an idiot.

“Of course.”

[onethousandcentipedes-blog]

all our bruised bodies // touken

this is a touken one-shot I wrote several months ago, during the cochlea arc, exploring my angst-ridden headcanon of touka’s imminent confession. obviously the current timeline and recent events conflict with this, but hopefully my attempt at characterization respects each character’s personal identity and development. 

1680 word count // m for language // excerpt:

Her eyes are still fixated at the ground. She wishes she could unearth the cold concrete to resurrect the impenetrable barricade that surrounded her heart and revert back into an impulsive, foulmouthed teenager. Times were simpler, almost four years ago. He would still play martyr, withhold his true feelings and lie to her face, but at least then she could alleviate some stifled frustration. Spit an insult, break a finger.

But memories of exposing his most vulnerable, humiliating feature — screaming, never come back — loiter, caught in the cobwebs of her mind, in places too unkind and uncomfortable to go back and dust them away.

She cannot repeat the same mistakes that creep into the forefront of her brain at night. The same mistakes she curses herself over, sometimes for hours and sometimes in passing.

“I — love you,” she finally concedes, voice hardly stronger than a whisper and with no more conviction than a shallow breath.

It hurts. It hurts and he hates himself and he would rather count the amputated fingers and toes scattered across a bloodstained checkerboard — he would rather gouge his fucking eyes out — than look into hers, reddening and brimming with saline iridescence.

It hurts because he abandoned someone who recognized the demons of loneliness hidden behind olivine eyes and strained smiles but — for some reason he could never possibly understand — loves him — a hideous, repugnant, worthless fucking insect — anyway.

It hurts because she is patiently awaiting his response and running away sounds much more appealing than confronting his feelings — he doesn’t understand them anyways because he is irrevocably fucked up and she deserves everything he is not  — but she is so, so beautiful.  

“Touka-chan.”

His voice cracks. Everything hurts.

He should feel happy. After all, the entire objective in abandoning her almost four years ago was ensuring her safety, protecting her from afar so there would be someone to welcome him back once he finished finding answers. And here she is, crimson coursing through veins and chest trembling in erratic breath. She is alive and so, so beautiful.

If he were impulsive or somewhat confident, perhaps he would cradle within the rough of his palm the swell of her flushed cheek. Or instead, he might lace their fingers together and massage her thumb with the underside of his. Maybe he would embrace her, drape his arms around her slender frame and pretend this insignificant action could shield her from everything wrong in the world — protect her heart from suffering any further — even though he is weaker and her grief is of direct consequence to his wretched existence. But he cannot summon enough courage to even return her eye contact.

Observant, her solemn gaze falls, trying to trace crevasses in worn concrete — distracted, ineffectual. The lines decorating her face are suddenly magnified, short stories of hardship and heartache. It hurts, watching her strength crumble because of him: a hideous, repugnant, worthless insect. But he is scared — no, terrified.

He is absolutely, pathetically terrified. The prospect of someone loving him makes his stomach churn. Bile is crawling up his throat like one thousand centipedes and he feels incapacitated by oscillating waves of nausea. He is so sick — nauseous and haunted and fragmented — and he cannot give her anything she deserves. She does not deserve his tormented soul. She does not deserve the itch occupying his subconscious, annoying and manipulative and hell-bent on his suicide. She does not deserve someone plagued by descending numbers, someone debilitated by worsening eyesight and agonizing migraines, someone weak enough to forget everything — everyone — once important to him.

So against every strained muscle in his aching heart screaming, just love her, he steels himself.

“I — uh, well, Touka-chan — I don’t think…”

She captures a hand subconsciously rising to touch his chin. Her hand clenches tightly around his, desperately like he is threatening to disappear again any second, and for a moment, her knuckles resemble the whiteness of his hair. She returns his hand to his side and doesn’t let go. Her dainty fingers cannot wrap around his palm completely.

Her eyes are still fixated at the ground. She wishes she could unearth the cold concrete to resurrect the impenetrable barricade that surrounded her heart and revert back into an impulsive, foulmouthed teenager. Times were simpler, almost four years ago. He would still play martyr, withhold his true feelings and lie to her face, but at least then she could alleviate some stifled frustration. Spit an insult, break a finger.

But memories of exposing his most vulnerable, humiliating feature — screaming, never come back — loiter, caught in the cobwebs of her mind, in places too unkind and uncomfortable to go back and dust them away.

She cannot repeat the same mistakes that creep into the forefront of her brain at night. The same mistakes she curses herself over, sometimes for hours and sometimes in passing.

“Please,” she whispers. “Tell me the truth. I… I think you at least owe me that.”

With the gentle breeze of her voice reaching him — her sweet inhalations and exhalations and the tender movement of her lips against each syllable hitting his face like a hurricane — a dam inside of him ruptures. The feelings he so desperately tried suppressing and the tears he didn’t realize were brimming his eyelids surge outwards in a fierce tide. He should say something. He needs to say something. But his throat is flooding and his body feels so cold and he is drowning in the tears streaming furiously down his cheeks and —

And suddenly, she pulls him into a tight embrace. She pulls him out from beneath his perpetual raincloud and shelters him within her arms, engulfing him in the strong aroma of dark Arabica roast, and even though his body is shivering, he has never felt so warm. He wonders momentarily whether this warmth is emanating from her frame or radiating from deeper within. She has always been fierce and passionate.

He notices a slight dampness on his shirt but when he tries to gently pry her away, she defiantly nestles her head deeper into his sternum.

“It doesn’t matter who they think you are or who you say you are,” she cries and although the fabric subdues her words, the pain in her voice seeps into the honeycomb-like matrix of his bones. “Somewhere deep inside, you’re still that useless idiot who believed me about overflowing the coffee, who loves shitty classic literature nobody else can understand, and — and dammit, Kaneki — you would still rather run away than stay with the people who care about you.”

Her shoulders wrack with sobs and shudder with hiccups.

“I — I waited for you,” she chokes out, and now that she’s admitted it, her tongue moves without inhibition. “I waited for you everyday and — and — and if you have another stupid martyr mission to run off to, at least come visit every once in a while, you piece of shit, Kaneki. I know that’s a lot to ask, especially if you… if you don’t feel the same —”

Kaneki shoves her away with an abruptness, an urgency, even he was not expecting. He seizes her shoulders with an unnecessary firmness. His entire gastrointestinal tract feels like it’s been riddled with small, innumerable cuts and acid is oozing from each perforation. The acid, diffusing into his bloodstream, circulates throughout his limbs, like the corrosive creature he is. It’s disgusting, really, how he could make someone so precious feel so infinitesimally small.

She haunted him — abysmal amethyst eyes with unbelievable sorrow — petite frame with unimaginable strength — trembling pink lips with unwavering grace, thanking his compliment of her coffee. He spent months pining after her, following a brief and otherwise unimpressive first encounter. But that brief and otherwise unimpressive first encounter ignited a trail of gunpowder winding all throughout his circulatory system and detonated in the center of his chest. She stirred something awake deep within him, and he couldn’t even remember her name.

But even years prior, still a pathetic boy refusing to consume and completely ignorant about the wrongness of the world, she was beautiful. Mercurial, volatile  — but beautiful. She was beautiful in a dark alleyway shoving a bloodied arm down his throat, and she was beautiful in a dark chapel arranging her bloodied mouth against the base of his throat. For every ounce of attraction he once felt toward Rize, there was something stronger — something different he couldn’t recognize — he felt toward Touka.

Her eyes widen, crystalline amethyst perforated with saline and uncharacteristic terror that makes his heart cease beating immediately. She must think that he — that he pushed her away because — because he doesn’t — no, surely she knows, doesn’t she?

“Kaneki.”

Her voice cracks. Everything hurts.

It hurts. It hurts and she never learned a goddamn thing and it would’ve been better to stay silent — it would’ve been better to shut her goddamn fucking mouth — because anything is better than looking into his eyes, widening and tumultuous with unrequitance.

It hurts because she thought he recognized the evil spirits of sadness hidden behind amethyst eyes and  — for some reason she could never possibly understand — she tried — a sad girl trying desperately to quell his and her own loneliness — anyway.

It hurts because his grip on her shoulders is growing uncomfortable and running away sounds much more appealing than confronting his feelings — of course he doesn’t love her because she is irrevocably fucked up and he deserves everything she is not — but he looks so, so sad.

“I’m — I’m sorry,” she whimpers, “I should have known better — I should have known —”

She is interrupted because suddenly, he pulls her into a tight embrace. The strength with which he clutches her is suffocating. He is suffocating her, but like hell would she sacrifice his closeness to inhale an atmosphere not designed for ghouls anyway.

“I — uh… I’m a little messed up…  But if you want — this… I am willing.”

Her breathing halts abruptly, body tense. The coursing of blood in her veins slows, palpitations of her heart pause, firing of her neurons cease. Every exposed inch of epithelium becomes littered in goosebumps, chills reverberate down to the marrow. She has never felt so cold. Then all at once, everything resumes with renewed fervor.

Her fingers clutch at his shirt, too shaky to manage a sturdy grip, and she raises onto tiptoes to touch her forehead to his. His eyes close, mind and body exhausted. They maintain balance atop the delicate tightrope beneath them for several seconds, breathing too shaky and lungs too unreliable to trust their voices.

“I don’t know very much about this,” he admits. He rocks his forehead back and forth against hers, the morning fog of a headache beginning to cloud his mind.

“We’ll figure it out,” she whispers, afraid her voice would flee if she tried speaking any louder. “Come inside, Ken. It’s time to rest.”