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actually i'm doing it anyway. does anyone know if you ever stop feeling like the weird little girl or do you just have to feel shame and embarrassment about your very existence forever. asking for a friend
olive van cleve x seven lawless. 2.2k. fluff, mild hurt/comfort, etc. click here to read on ao3.
-
When Olive walks through the front door, Seven thinks for a second that he’s still dreaming.
Before he woke up, he had been dreaming about kicking a soccer ball with Blake Winter's face on it. Not as a drawing - Blake’s face was embedded into the ball, and he whimpered every time Seven kicked him into the net. It made sense that Olive would show up in the dream, too, because considering all the shit that Blake put her through, she would probably want to give him a few kicks herself. Although it didn’t make sense that Seven would be playing soccer inside her apartment. And it also didn’t make sense that the first words out of her mouth were “Hi” and not “How the fuck did Blake turn into a soccer ball?”
This is what Seven deserves for eating half a loaf of chocolate chip banana bread for lunch and falling asleep on the couch.
Though it’s also being in her apartment that makes him feel like he’s dreaming. It’s not the same apartment as before, since she understandably had to downgrade after… well. But there are so many things here that for so long he only saw in his memories he’s convinced sometimes that he's still there. There’s the cookie jar in the kitchen with an orange lid and mushrooms painted on it; there’s the antique lamp in the corner of the living room that the two of them once spent four hours carrying across town in a hundred degree heat; there’s the vinyls he bought her for Christmases and for birthdays, the oversized bear with a big red bow sitting on the armchair in the corner, the sunflower clock hanging above the TV that reads 6 pm…
Jesus Christ. He didn’t just nap - he got an entire night’s sleep in the middle of the day. Rowan would be proud of how unemployed he’s pretending he still is.
“Did I wake you up?” Olive asks as she hangs her coat on the coat rack.
“No,” Seven lies. “I was already there.”
“Oh, good.” Once he’s pulled himself up from where he was sprawled across cushions, he notices that she’s wearing one of his old sweatshirts. How he failed to notice it earlier, he has no idea, but the sight now brings a smile to his face. “Did you eat some of that banana bread I left you?”
He glances down at his stomach, still straining against the fabric of his tight white t-shirt despite it having been several hours since he last ate anything, and grimaces. “I think I ate too much.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “It’s impossible to eat too much when I made it for you.”
“Well… it was very good. So.” He slides his feet from the loveseat to the floor to make room for her beside him and leans his head on the back of the couch. “Thanks, van Cleve.”
“You’re welcome, Lawless.”
She rests her cheek on the back of the couch, mirroring his position, and after about five seconds of looking, he can tell that she’s nervous. Which makes sense, because it's Olive - she's always nervous about something. But on top of her usual nervous energy is the special type of nervous where she's clearly worried that whatever it is she's going to say has a chance to piss him off and send him out the door. While it would’ve been true five months ago - even three months ago - he likes to think that they’ve made significant progress on that front. He knows they've made significant progress on that front.
“What’re you thinking about?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
“Pfft. Liar. You can talk to me.”
She gives him a dubious look.
“Alright, I know that historically I’ve made you talking to me a whole thing, but you can talk to me now.”
She opens and closes her mouth a few times before pinching her lips together. “I’m nervous.”
“That was obvious.”
It seems like a weird thing, for him to be relieved when she rolls her eyes, but he is.
“I felt a lot more confident about this when you weren’t sitting here in front of me.” She raises her head so she’s sitting up straight and then raises her hand as well. Picking up on what she’s putting down, he leans forward just enough that she can brush her fingers along his cheek. “Before I was reminded about how cute you look after you wake up from a nap…”
He shouldn’t have moved - now she can both see and feel the warm flush that spreads over his face at the compliment. Suppressing his initial instinct to move away just makes a shiver run down his spine. “Just say what you want to say,” he tells her, hoping she doesn’t notice the way his voice wavers. “We’ve already gotten one rude awakening over and done with.”
“I thought you said I didn’t wake you up.”
“You didn’t. I was just joking. Tell me, van Cleve, please. You’re killing me here.”
She looks back and forth from one of his eyes to the other. Then she nods to herself, takes a deep breath, and releases his head.
“You know how, when we stopped talking…”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“You know how,” she continues, ignoring his interruption, “I covered up your initials with a tattoo of olive branch?”
Of course he knows. Not only because she told him that four months ago, sitting in her hotel room, the same level of proximity that they’d been forced into over and over during filming but the first time they’d both done it of their own volition, but because when he found out two years ago that she had gotten a tattoo there, over his initials, he went on a weekend-long bender that ended in him sitting on the living room floor of his still-unfurnished apartment and scrolling through various music subreddits to see people theorize what it meant (even though, in hindsight, it was immensely fucking obvious what it mean) and then, eventually, rehash the same old arguments about which one of them was the villain. At that time, he allowed himself to think she was a coward, trying to run away from what she had done to him by pretending it never existed, by pretending he never existed. Eventually he envied how smart she had been not to torture herself with it the way he did.
Maybe she was right to be nervous about this conversation. Not that he plans on getting upset with her, but. Still. Reliving the more painful parts of their shared history is never fun.
“Yeah,” he answers finally, reaching out to run the pad of his thumb across it and hoping it’ll stop any temptation she might have to turn and look at his face. “Very creative, van Cleve. On multiple levels.”
Out of the corner of his eye he can see her roll her own again but decides not to comment on it. “Well, I’ve been wanting to get something else. On my other wrist. And I didn’t know what. But then…”
“Did you finally get that goose you were talking about? From that Mary Oliver poem?”
“You remember that?”
“Of course.” He almost adds I remember every conversation we’ve ever had, but that includes all the bad ones and he’s trying not to kill the mood when the mood already has a noose around its neck.
“That’s - um, no, I didn’t get that, I got… Um… Y’know what? I-I’ll just show you.”
She pulls her other sleeve down to her elbow and despite the sheen of the second skin that’s plastered over it, he can clearly make out the initials SL.
His initials. His new initials. Written in dark green ink by a familiar hand and with four-leaf clover right beside them.
“I know it’s probably too soon.” The misery, the sheer embarrassment, is so clear in her voice that would’ve been impossible for him to feel anything but bad for her even if he wanted to feel something else. “But… we had such a nice night last night. And it feels like things are starting to go back to normal. And I… I just wanted you to know that I’m serious about this. About making things right.”
“You already have.” She's begged for forgiveness more than any human being ever should, even someone who hurt him as much as she had.
“Well… this is my promise that I’m going to keep doing it.”
He places a hand at her elbow and uses the other to tilt the tattoo towards him.
“It’s… nice.” That’s all he can manage to grit out with his throat constricting the way it is. “And the clover, it’s -”
He can’t even finish the question. He knows what it’s for. Their song, their best song, the one they were forced to sing together the third week of tour, the one Olive reminded him time and time again was about to him - “you’re my rabbit’s foot, my four-leaf clover / I’m the little meadow that your rainbow arches over / you’re my lucky number, I’m gonna win the lottery / and buy an island somewhere just for you and me.” The lyrics loop in his head until he can see them appear in front of his eyes and then he clears his throat.
“So... should I assume that your plan to buy me an island fell through?”
She turns to look at him, at first looking completely stunned before her mouth drops open. “Seven,” she breathes, and it doesn’t take an Olive expert like him to know that she’s trying to decide whether or not she should be mad. “Are - are you serious?”
“Yeah. I mean I know we’re both broke but… I'm not sure this is a very good consolation prize.”
Her mouth drops open even further. His smile grows even wider until it’s a full-on grin.
“You are… ridiculous.” She snatches her arm away from him and thankfully he has enough wherewithal to hold back his responding whine of protest. “You - I - I cannot believe you.”
“Van Cleve, come on -”
“I let you sleep on my couch, eat an entire loaf of banana bread, I get a tattoo of your initials and - and this is how you treat me?”
She’s retreated to the kitchen, which is where he dutifully follows her like the dog he is. If you told him five minutes ago that this is how a conversation about a new tattoo of his initials was going to turn out, he would’ve laughed in your face. He assumed, until five minutes ago, until now, that conversations about their shared history were only ever going to end in miserable silence or one of them going to bed early or, worst-case scenario, him leaving the apartment entirely. He’s relieved to find out that this isn’t the case, and is still grinning as he corners her against the counter and places his hands on her hips to spin her around.
“No,” she says, turning her nose up at him, “no kisses for you.”
“That’s okay,” he replies. “I don’t want one.”
She sighs dramatically. “Oh, and now you don’t want my kisses, either -”
“Olive.” The sound of her first name on his lips extinguishes the amused light in her eyes, and her eyebrows screw together with worry. “Hey, no,” he says, moving a hand to her cheek to reassure her, “I love it. The tattoo - I love that you did that. I…”
He used to hate knowing that she was always going to be a part of him because he had started to believe that he wasn’t always going to be a part of her. She was going to continue to erase every trace of him from the band and her life like she had with her tattoo and he was never going to be able to bring himself to do the same thing. Knowing - no, not knowing, being reminded - that she had no intention of doing that, that she was choosing to keep falling down the slippery slope of codependency that they started on 15 years ago even though she had so many chances over the years to climb off of it, even though he had given her so many opportunities in the past five months to climb off it…
He hates that he killed the mood so quickly. Despite his intentions, he killed several different moods in quick succession. He gives a short sigh and then shakes his head.
“I’m never gonna let you go again,” he tells her eventually. “Never. Not for anything. They will have to drag me away from you kicking and screaming and put me in a fucking straitjacket and even then I’ll find my way back to you.” He swallows the lump in his throat. “You never have to worry about losing me again. Never again. Okay?”
She looks back and forth from one eye to the other. And then she nods. “Okay.”
He bends down and buries his face in her neck. The sweatshirt that she’s wearing smells like both of them now, and he's hit with a very strange urge to take it between his teeth, but the way she starts slipping her fingers through his hair is enough of a distraction that the thought disappears before he can act on it. He allows himself to keep her pinned to the counter for a minute or two, relishing the sensation of her against him, tempted to take it a little further before pulling back with a smile.
“Hey, before I forget - I had the weirdest dream…”
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Olive: Sometimes I worry I'm not enough of a rock star for this show... I mean, I get flustered just thinking about being in the same building as Seven. How tragic is that?
Fran: Don't worry. I'll drink, smoke, and fuck enough for both of us.
the distinctly tumblr experience of being refollowed by someone you used to be mutuals with before they quietly unfollowed you 2 years ago and then it taking them a week to realize who you are and then going the extra mile and hardblocking you LMAOOO
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olive van cleve x seven lawless. 2.2k. fluff, mild hurt/comfort, etc. click here to read on ao3.
-
When Olive walks through the front door, Seven thinks for a second that he’s still dreaming.
Before he woke up, he had been dreaming about kicking a soccer ball with Blake Winter's face on it. Not as a drawing - Blake’s face was embedded into the ball, and he whimpered every time Seven kicked him into the net. It made sense that Olive would show up in the dream, too, because considering all the shit that Blake put her through, she would probably want to give him a few kicks herself. Although it didn’t make sense that Seven would be playing soccer inside her apartment. And it also didn’t make sense that the first words out of her mouth were “Hi” and not “How the fuck did Blake turn into a soccer ball?”
This is what Seven deserves for eating half a loaf of chocolate chip banana bread for lunch and falling asleep on the couch.
Though it’s also being in her apartment that makes him feel like he’s dreaming. It’s not the same apartment as before, since she understandably had to downgrade after… well. But there are so many things here that for so long he only saw in his memories he’s convinced sometimes that he's still there. There’s the cookie jar in the kitchen with an orange lid and mushrooms painted on it; there’s the antique lamp in the corner of the living room that the two of them once spent four hours carrying across town in a hundred degree heat; there’s the vinyls he bought her for Christmases and for birthdays, the oversized bear with a big red bow sitting on the armchair in the corner, the sunflower clock hanging above the TV that reads 6 pm…
Jesus Christ. He didn’t just nap - he got an entire night’s sleep in the middle of the day. Rowan would be proud of how unemployed he’s pretending he still is.
“Did I wake you up?” Olive asks as she hangs her coat on the coat rack.
“No,” Seven lies. “I was already there.”
“Oh, good.” Once he’s pulled himself up from where he was sprawled across cushions, he notices that she’s wearing one of his old sweatshirts. How he failed to notice it earlier, he has no idea, but the sight now brings a smile to his face. “Did you eat some of that banana bread I left you?”
He glances down at his stomach, still straining against the fabric of his tight white t-shirt despite it having been several hours since he last ate anything, and grimaces. “I think I ate too much.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “It’s impossible to eat too much when I made it for you.”
“Well… it was very good. So.” He slides his feet from the loveseat to the floor to make room for her beside him and leans his head on the back of the couch. “Thanks, van Cleve.”
“You’re welcome, Lawless.”
She rests her cheek on the back of the couch, mirroring his position, and after about five seconds of looking, he can tell that she’s nervous. Which makes sense, because it's Olive - she's always nervous about something. But on top of her usual nervous energy is the special type of nervous where she's clearly worried that whatever it is she's going to say has a chance to piss him off and send him out the door. While it would’ve been true five months ago - even three months ago - he likes to think that they’ve made significant progress on that front. He knows they've made significant progress on that front.
“What’re you thinking about?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
“Pfft. Liar. You can talk to me.”
She gives him a dubious look.
“Alright, I know that historically I’ve made you talking to me a whole thing, but you can talk to me now.”
She opens and closes her mouth a few times before pinching her lips together. “I’m nervous.”
“That was obvious.”
It seems like a weird thing, for him to be relieved when she rolls her eyes, but he is.
“I felt a lot more confident about this when you weren’t sitting here in front of me.” She raises her head so she’s sitting up straight and then raises her hand as well. Picking up on what she’s putting down, he leans forward just enough that she can brush her fingers along his cheek. “Before I was reminded about how cute you look after you wake up from a nap…”
He shouldn’t have moved - now she can both see and feel the warm flush that spreads over his face at the compliment. Suppressing his initial instinct to move away just makes a shiver run down his spine. “Just say what you want to say,” he tells her, hoping she doesn’t notice the way his voice wavers. “We’ve already gotten one rude awakening over and done with.”
“I thought you said I didn’t wake you up.”
“You didn’t. I was just joking. Tell me, van Cleve, please. You’re killing me here.”
She looks back and forth from one of his eyes to the other. Then she nods to herself, takes a deep breath, and releases his head.
“You know how, when we stopped talking…”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“You know how,” she continues, ignoring his interruption, “I covered up your initials with a tattoo of olive branch?”
Of course he knows. Not only because she told him that four months ago, sitting in her hotel room, the same level of proximity that they’d been forced into over and over during filming but the first time they’d both done it of their own volition, but because when he found out two years ago that she had gotten a tattoo there, over his initials, he went on a weekend-long bender that ended in him sitting on the living room floor of his still-unfurnished apartment and scrolling through various music subreddits to see people theorize what it meant (even though, in hindsight, it was immensely fucking obvious what it mean) and then, eventually, rehash the same old arguments about which one of them was the villain. At that time, he allowed himself to think she was a coward, trying to run away from what she had done to him by pretending it never existed, by pretending he never existed. Eventually he envied how smart she had been not to torture herself with it the way he did.
Maybe she was right to be nervous about this conversation. Not that he plans on getting upset with her, but. Still. Reliving the more painful parts of their shared history is never fun.
“Yeah,” he answers finally, reaching out to run the pad of his thumb across it and hoping it’ll stop any temptation she might have to turn and look at his face. “Very creative, van Cleve. On multiple levels.”
Out of the corner of his eye he can see her roll her own again but decides not to comment on it. “Well, I’ve been wanting to get something else. On my other wrist. And I didn’t know what. But then…”
“Did you finally get that goose you were talking about? From that Mary Oliver poem?”
“You remember that?”
“Of course.” He almost adds I remember every conversation we’ve ever had, but that includes all the bad ones and he’s trying not to kill the mood when the mood already has a noose around its neck.
“That’s - um, no, I didn’t get that, I got… Um… Y’know what? I-I’ll just show you.”
She pulls her other sleeve down to her elbow and despite the sheen of the second skin that’s plastered over it, he can clearly make out the initials SL.
His initials. His new initials. Written in dark green ink by a familiar hand and with four-leaf clover right beside them.
“I know it’s probably too soon.” The misery, the sheer embarrassment, is so clear in her voice that would’ve been impossible for him to feel anything but bad for her even if he wanted to feel something else. “But… we had such a nice night last night. And it feels like things are starting to go back to normal. And I… I just wanted you to know that I’m serious about this. About making things right.”
“You already have.” She's begged for forgiveness more than any human being ever should, even someone who hurt him as much as she had.
“Well… this is my promise that I’m going to keep doing it.”
He places a hand at her elbow and uses the other to tilt the tattoo towards him.
“It’s… nice.” That’s all he can manage to grit out with his throat constricting the way it is. “And the clover, it’s -”
He can’t even finish the question. He knows what it’s for. Their song, their best song, the one they were forced to sing together the third week of tour, the one Olive reminded him time and time again was about to him - “you’re my rabbit’s foot, my four-leaf clover / I’m the little meadow that your rainbow arches over / you’re my lucky number, I’m gonna win the lottery / and buy an island somewhere just for you and me.” The lyrics loop in his head until he can see them appear in front of his eyes and then he clears his throat.
“So... should I assume that your plan to buy me an island fell through?”
She turns to look at him, at first looking completely stunned before her mouth drops open. “Seven,” she breathes, and it doesn’t take an Olive expert like him to know that she’s trying to decide whether or not she should be mad. “Are - are you serious?”
“Yeah. I mean I know we’re both broke but… I'm not sure this is a very good consolation prize.”
Her mouth drops open even further. His smile grows even wider until it’s a full-on grin.
“You are… ridiculous.” She snatches her arm away from him and thankfully he has enough wherewithal to hold back his responding whine of protest. “You - I - I cannot believe you.”
“Van Cleve, come on -”
“I let you sleep on my couch, eat an entire loaf of banana bread, I get a tattoo of your initials and - and this is how you treat me?”
She’s retreated to the kitchen, which is where he dutifully follows her like the dog he is. If you told him five minutes ago that this is how a conversation about a new tattoo of his initials was going to turn out, he would’ve laughed in your face. He assumed, until five minutes ago, until now, that conversations about their shared history were only ever going to end in miserable silence or one of them going to bed early or, worst-case scenario, him leaving the apartment entirely. He’s relieved to find out that this isn’t the case, and is still grinning as he corners her against the counter and places his hands on her hips to spin her around.
“No,” she says, turning her nose up at him, “no kisses for you.”
“That’s okay,” he replies. “I don’t want one.”
She sighs dramatically. “Oh, and now you don’t want my kisses, either -”
“Olive.” The sound of her first name on his lips extinguishes the amused light in her eyes, and her eyebrows screw together with worry. “Hey, no,” he says, moving a hand to her cheek to reassure her, “I love it. The tattoo - I love that you did that. I…”
He used to hate knowing that she was always going to be a part of him because he had started to believe that he wasn’t always going to be a part of her. She was going to continue to erase every trace of him from the band and her life like she had with her tattoo and he was never going to be able to bring himself to do the same thing. Knowing - no, not knowing, being reminded - that she had no intention of doing that, that she was choosing to keep falling down the slippery slope of codependency that they started on 15 years ago even though she had so many chances over the years to climb off of it, even though he had given her so many opportunities in the past five months to climb off it…
He hates that he killed the mood so quickly. Despite his intentions, he killed several different moods in quick succession. He gives a short sigh and then shakes his head.
“I’m never gonna let you go again,” he tells her eventually. “Never. Not for anything. They will have to drag me away from you kicking and screaming and put me in a fucking straitjacket and even then I’ll find my way back to you.” He swallows the lump in his throat. “You never have to worry about losing me again. Never again. Okay?”
She looks back and forth from one eye to the other. And then she nods. “Okay.”
He bends down and buries his face in her neck. The sweatshirt that she’s wearing smells like both of them now, and he's hit with a very strange urge to take it between his teeth, but the way she starts slipping her fingers through his hair is enough of a distraction that the thought disappears before he can act on it. He allows himself to keep her pinned to the counter for a minute or two, relishing the sensation of her against him, tempted to take it a little further before pulling back with a smile.
“Hey, before I forget - I had the weirdest dream…”
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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