pensthoughts

[pensthoughts]

sunday brunch | v.p

part 2 of bleachers a/n: finally posting this after it's been collecting dust in my drafts unfinished for like 10 years pairing: van palmer x pastorsdaughter!reader summary: van shows up to your church in slacks and a borrowed button-down, eyes like she’s walking into fire. she tries to play it cool, but your leg brushes hers under the table, and suddenly brunch feels like a battlefield. word count: 2.5k

the first sunday van goes to church, she shows up five minutes early and fifteen percent less gay.

no flannel, no soccer hoodie with chewed up strings. she's wearing slacks—actual slacks—and a button-down that she found in her house. it's tucked in weird. her hair's still wet. she looks like the tried so hard not to look like herself that she looped back around and became someone else entirely.

you're sitting near the front, scanning the hymnals when you notice her slip in the back door, eyes scanning the room like she's walking into a war zone.

your heart stutters.

van. here. in your church.

you blink, then glance at the clock on the wall, then back at her.

she's not supposed to be here.

your dad is quietly setting up the pulpit, unaware of the silent storm in your pew.

van makes her way toward the back pew, awkward and out of place.

you catch her eye just as she ducks her head.

shock ripples through you—because after everything—here she is.

you hadn't expected for this to become so real, so fast.

she doesn't look at you again, not even when your mom walks past and gives her a polite, puzzled smile.

not even when the organist starts warming up, soft notes blooming like dust motes in the high-ceilinged quiet.

you're still staring, hymnal open in your lap, eyes fixed on the girl in the back who somehow looks both completely out of place and like she's trying so hard to belong it hurts.

you keep thinking about the other night. her hand on yours from across the booth.

but that was in the diner. that was soft lighting and a hidden booth.

this is something else entirely.

your dad steps up to the pulpit. the congregation shifts, quieting. you turn just in time to see van straighten her spine and clasp her hands like she's bracing for impact.

halfway through the second hymn, you feel her eyes on you.

when you glance back, she's looking right at you—open, a little lost, and so clearly trying.

you mouth, what are you doing in here?

she shrugs.

a beat.

you didn't have to.

her mouth quirks. i wanted to.

you snap your eyes forward before your mother sees. your face is burning. the room suddenly feels smaller.

your dad's voice floats over the pews. "today, we're going to talk about grace."

you feel van shift behind you, and when you peek back again, she's flipping through the hymnal like she's trying to decode it.

your mom leans over to you during the prayer. "who is that girl? do you know her?

you nod, swallowing. "a friend from school."

it doesn't feel like a lie. not really.

not anymore.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

outside, the sun's too bright and van's still blinking like the stained glass gave her a headache. she's standing near the edge of the steps, picking at the button on her sleeve like it personally betrayed her.

you wait until the crowd thins out before you cross over.

"well, you made it," you say quietly.

van shrugs, but there's something proud in the tilt of her head. "guess i survived."

"barely."

"hey, your dad only said hell once."

you grin, but it drops fast when the door opens behind you.

your parents step out together. your mom clocks van immediatley. your dad's still flipping through his notes like he's rehashing the sermon in his head.

"hi," your mom says, gentle but curious. "we saw you inside earlier—what was your name again?"

"van," she says quickly. "i mean—vanessa. i go by van."

"friend from school," you add, voice a little too high. "we're in history together."

your dad finally looks up, blinking at her like he's trying to place the face. "you play soccer?"

van straightens. "yes, sir."

"thought so. laura lee's on the team too, right? her family's in our congregation."

"yeah," van says, "she's one of our forwards."

"you any good?"

"she's varsity goalie," you say before you can stop yourself.

van glances at you, lips twitching.

your dad nods, clearly impressed. "i played a little back in college. not at your level, i'm sure."

"you should talk more about it over lunch," your mom says lightly. "nancy and laura might be coming. i'm sure she's like to see a teammate outside of practice."

van opens her mouth. closes it. then glances at you.

"okay," she says. "if that's alright."

"of course it is," your dad says, putting his arm around your shoulders. "always nice meeting friends of hers."

he turns to walk toward the car. your mom follows a beat later.

van exhales. "so...that was your dad."

you nod, dazed. "yeah. and now you're coming to lunch with him."

van groans. "jesus christ."

"van!"

"—said it respectfully."

you bump shoulders. she bumps back. and you both follow them to the parking lot, trying not to look like you're holding your breath.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

van's car smells like cherry gun, wet grass, and whatever drugstore perfume she spritzed in the parking lot. the passenger door sticks when you pull it shut, and your dress snags on the seatbelt as you buckle in. you don't say anything about it.

you're still trying to believe this is happening. that she came. that she sat through the whole service. that she talked to your mom without making a single inappropriate joke.

now she's driving you to lunch like this is normal. like your dad didn't just invite her out like she was some kind of youth group buddy.

the car jerks a little as she reverses. "so," she says, tapping on the wheel, "how weird is this place? like, linen napkins weird or just no ketchup on the table weird?"

you glance at her, then look back out the window. "we're not going to a chain restaurant."

van groans softly. "yeah, i figured. your dad has that...i-own-a-pair-of-golf-shoes energy."

"he does own golf shoes."

"exactly."

you smile despite yourself.

"it's called millie's. they do brunch on sundays. lots of old wood and soft jazz and waiters in white shirts."

van exhales slowly, like she's bracing herself. "god, i'm gonna spill water all over the table or say 'hell' too loud or something."

"you're doing fine," you say, and mean it.

she shoots you a sideways glance. "yeah?"

you nod.

van smiles—just a little—and taps the wheel again, more relaxed now. "still feels like i'm being marched to the guillotine. just, like. in slacks."

she's quiet for the rest of the ride, knuckles white on the steering wheel, jaw working like she's chewing on a hundred possible versions of the same interaction. you don't press her. it means something that she came.

when you pull up, her car looks even more out of place than usual. there's a row of polished volvos and lexuses ourside millie's, all gleaming in the early-summer sunlight. van's car coughs dramatically as she shuts it off.

you unbuckle. she doesn't move.

"you okay?" you ask.

"yup. totally. just—figuring out how to act like i wasn't raised on dry cereal and after-school tv."

you tilt your head. "you don't have to act like anything."

"i'm literally in slacks. i've crossed a line."

you bite back a grin. "you're fine."

van takes a breath, then opens her door.

your parents are already inside. your dad's probably talking to the hostess, gesturing toward the spot where you always sit. you follow van across the lot, her shoulders tight, her stride just a little too fast. she holds the door open for you and mutters, "after you, milady," under her breath. you roll your eyes and step inside.

the place is soft and bright, all clean white walls and brass light fixtures. the air smells like citrus and fresh-baked bread. a pianist in the corner plays something slow and pretty, and van's eyes dart around like she's looking for the exit.

your mom waves from your usual table. you sit down beside her. van hesitates a beat too long before taking the seat across from you.

your dad smiles. "glad you found it okay."

"yeah," van says, folding her hands in her lap. "i, uh, live pretty close."

your mom switches the subject quickly. "so, about laura lee. do you know eachother well?"

"sort of," van says. "i mean, she's sweet. she always says hi. she, uh...loaned me a devotional book once."

your dad laughs. "sounds like her."

"she's always been that way," your mom adds fondly. "even when she was little. very thoughtful. always inviting people to church camp."

"she invited me," van says, then instantly regrets it. "i didn't go. but it was...nice."

there's a pause. you sip your water to hide your smile.

van clears her throat. "she's a good player. real solid with posession. not flashy or anything, but—reliable."

"reliable is the best kind of player," your dad says, leaning back in his seat. "you play goalie, right? you need a good head on your shoulders for that position."

van shrugs, a little awkward. "i try."

your mom glances toward the door. "laura lee and her mom should be here soon. i told them to meet us here after choir."

van's eyes widen slightly. you bump her knee under the table. her shoulders relax.

"i'll have to get the two of you talking more," your dad says. "maybe you could even join her in helping me coach the youth team this summer if you're around."

van opens her mouth, then closes it again.

you rescue her. "she's not sure what she's doing this summer yet."

"fair enough," your mom says. "we won't make you sign anything today."

the waiter comes with menus. van stares at hers like it's in another language.

you lean in just enough to whisper, "get the lemon pancakes. trust me."

she nods slowly. "got it. house special. church-approved."

your smile lingers.

across the table, van looks like she still can't quite believe she's here.

but she is.

laura lee and her mom arrive about fifteen minutes in, all sunshine and polite apologies for being late. her mom has the exact kind of church-lady poise you expected—pearls, pale lipstick, the kind of cardigan that has matching earrings somewhere at home—but laura lee’s in a soccer windbreaker over a midi skirt, already mid-sentence as they approach the table.

laura lee was being laura lee—smiling too big, asking van how she’s really doing, quoting her morning devotional while buttering a roll. she complimented your mom’s blouse and your dad’s sermon and then launched into a story about helping a stray cat out of a drainpipe behind the church (“god put him there to test me—i know it”) before anyone even opened their menus.

van, to her credit, handled it pretty well. she nodded along, offered a few one-word answers, and even managed to say “amen” once without sounding sarcastic. you could tell she was trying. and you could tell she was overwhelmed—her posture tense, her voice quieter than usual, her hand brushing yours under the table like she needed to remind herself you were still there.

the adults mostly talked among themselves—your dad asking about laura lee’s stats, her mom and yours swapping bible study news. it was easy enough for you and van to fade into the background, your knees touching under the table, her shoe tapping yours lightly now and then.

at one point, laura lee leaned in and whispered something about summer mission trips, and van nodded like she’d consider it, even though you knew she absolutely wouldn’t. still, she smiled. she said thank you. she made it through.

by the time the check came, your mom was already talking about inviting van over again sometime soon, and your dad mentioned the youth soccer league at least twice. laura lee offered van a ride to practice next week if she ever needed one. her mom agreed that it was always good to keep “godly friendships” close during high school.

van smiled. tight-lipped. eyes on her water glass. but when your dad stood to stretch and the moms started gathering their purses, she leaned just slightly closer to you and whispered, “i survived brunch. that counts as a miracle, right?”

you didn’t answer. just let your hand brush hers again as you both stood up, full of lemon pancakes and tension and whatever strange, steady thing was blooming between you now.

before you knew it, van was parked outside your house.

the sun was still out, but it was slowly dipping into a lazy gold, catching the curve of her jaw. she hadn’t turned the engine off yet. just sat there, fingers tapping the steering wheel, mouth tugging to one side like she was chewing on something she didn’t know how to swallow.

you glanced toward the front door. lights off. no one waiting in the window. probably went to chat with laura lee’s mom about hymnal schedules and summer devotionals.

still, you didn’t move to get out.

van cleared her throat softly. “so. that was… something.”

you smiled, turned to her fully. “you mean surviving both my parents and laura lee in one sitting?”

“that was a spiritual workout,” she said, mock serious. “like, i’m gonna need gatorade and a nap.”

you laughed. it was quiet. easy. and then neither of you said anything for a second.

her eyes found yours.

it wasn’t like before—when she’d show up at your window all bravado and jokes and the rush of being wanted in the dark. this was different. slower. she looked nervous, like the weight of what today was had finally settled in.

“you okay?” you asked.

she nodded. “yeah. just…” her hand lifted, hovered for a second, then rested gently against your cheek. “you look really pretty when you’re trying not to laugh in church, by the way.”

your face went warm, and you leaned into her hand without meaning to.

“van—”

“i know,” she said quickly. “this is all kind of… fast. and weird. and a little terrifying.”

you didn’t argue. because it was.

but then she leaned across the console, and you met her halfway.

the kiss was slow. careful at first, like she didn’t want to push too far, but you curled your fingers into the fabric of her weird too-big button-down and pulled her closer.

it wasn’t rushed. wasn’t messy or frantic. it felt like something you’d both been trying to say for a long time.

her lips were warm. a little chapped. she kissed you like you mattered. like she had all the time in the world now. like this wasn’t just sneaking around and holding your breath and waiting for something to crack.

it was quiet in the car. just the faint hum of the engine and your breaths syncing slowly.

when you finally pulled back, her eyes were still closed for a second, like she was trying to keep the moment right there, safe.

you whispered, “you didn’t have to come today.”

“i know,” she said, opening her eyes. “but i wanted to.”

and then softer, like she was still figuring it out: “you’re worth showing up for.”

your chest hurt in that soft, aching way it sometimes did around her—when she said things like that, when she looked at you like that.

you reached for the door handle.

“same time next sunday?” she asked, half-joking.

you smirked. “don’t push it.”

but you leaned over and kissed her one more time, quick and certain, before you slipped out of the car and headed for the porch—heart full, head spinning, already thinking about next time.

💌 taglist: @callsignwidow, @freakyjorker, @imlike-so-gaydude, @yellowjacketsslvt69, @moonwateraura, @gracynparsons, @casualclamturkey, @crainalley0227, @auroraseddie, @brielease

[pensthoughts]

Soooooooo……… you know the song Casual by Chappell Roan? That but Van x cheerleader!reader, like, the song is so…yum. Like, you see it? You see it? Like, r telling the cheer team that Van and them are just friends who fuck. And Van is upset about it. Call me crazy but…I see it.

casual | v.p

a/n: love love love this idea! i love casual and chappell so this was suuper fun to write pairing: van palmer x cheerleader!reader summary: you’re the cheerleader with a secret. van���s the goalie who picks you up after practice — but at school, you don’t talk. you said it was casual. but now it’s new year’s, and nothing feels casual anymore. word count: 4.2k

pretty.

popular.

cheerleader.

that's what you were to everyone in wiskayok high. glossed lips, good posture, knees always bandaged from stunts. people knew your name before they knew your voice. you smiled in yearbook photos, waved at homecoming, kissed boys at parties when it was easy.

and when wasn't it easy?

when things got confusing and hot and sharp around the edges?

you found van palmer behind the bleachers.

it was after cheer practice—late, golden hour bleeding into dusk. you'd stayed behind to work on a basket toss, and your ride had flaked. the field was quiet now, the lot nearly empty, except for one figure leaning against a beat-up honda like the had nowhere better to be.

van palmer.

she spotted you from across the grass, thumb flicking her car keys around like she was just killing time.

"you guys practicing a secret routine or something?" she called out.

you glanced up, squinting into the fading sun. "we stayed late. coach thinks if we don't stick the basket toss this week, she'll die or something."

van smirked, crossing a few steps closer. "dramatic. how very cheerleader of her."

you rolled your eyes but couldn't help the little smile tugging at your lips. "like your coach doesn't yell every time you don't make a save."

"he does. i just tune it out."

you nodded toward the bleachers. "you waiting for someone?"

she gave a vague shrug. "was. don't think they're showing."

you glanced toward the empty lot, then back at her. "guess we're both stranded."

van spun her keys once around her finger. "where do you live?"

you hesitated. shifting your gym bag higher on your shoulder. van wasn't your friend—not really. she played socker with some of your friends. you sat with jackie and lottie and shauna at lunch. you did cheer. she played soccer. your circles touched, but only lightly.

she raised an eyebrow. "not asking for your social security number. just—i can give you a ride, if you want."

you hesitated, shifting your gym bag higher on your shoulder. van wasn’t your friend—not really. she played soccer with some of your friends. you sat with jackie, lottie, and shauna at lunch. you did cheer. she played soccer. your circles touched, but only lightly

"fine."

she unlocked the passenger door with a satisfying clunk. inside, the car spelled like gum and pine tree air freshener, with a faint trace of something smokier beneath it.

you didn't talk much on the way. she kept one hand on the wheel, the other draped casually over her thigh. you tried not to stare at her wrist—the freckles there, the faint soccer tan, the leather bracelet she always wore like it meant something.

when she pulled up to your house, neither of you said thank you. you just got out. and the next afternoon, when you were leaving practice again, she was already parked in the same spot, engine running.

van started driving you home more often.

never planned. never promised. she just started showing up, like it was normal. like it was routine. and every time, there was more tension in the air—thick and stupid and impossible to ignore. like something pressing in from all sides, begging to be broken.

some afternoons she'd lean over and grab your leftover gatorade and drink from the same bottle like it didn't mean anything. sometimes you'd bump hands when reaching for the radio. and once—once—she tucked a piece of your hair behind your ear and then made a joke to cover it up, but her fingers lingered.

then came the night your parents weren't home.

you mentioned it offhand in the car—"my mom's working late. my dad's out of town again." you weren't even thinking about it when you said it.

but when she pulled into your street and parked, you didn't get out.

you turned to her, heart kicking.

"you wanna come in?"

van looked at you.

then she killed the engine and followed you inside.

it wasn't planned. you weren't even sure what you thought would happen—maybe hang out, maybe watch a movie, maybe let the tension float between you until it finally fizzled out.

but the second the door shut behind her, everything snapped.

you kissed her first.

you told yourself it was just curiosity. just something to do because you were alone and she looked at you like that. but it wasn't gentle, or shy. it was teeth and breath and hands tugging at clothes that hadn't even hit the floor yet.

her back hit the hallway wall. yours hit your bedroom door. she made a noise in her throat when you pulled her hoodie off and touched her like you'd been thinking about it for weeks; because you had. and van—god, van kissed like she was trying to win something. she groaned your name like it wasn't supposed to mean anything, and still made it sound like it did.

she left just before midnight.

neither of you said much. just a look. just the sound of her sneakers on the porch as she jogged back to the car, hoodie half-zipped, lipstick smears from your mouth.

but it didn't stop there.

it happened again. in her car, parked behind the movie theater with the windows fogged and your skirt pushed up. in your basement, quiet and messy and fast, while your mom was upstairs making dinner. even in your bedroom once—maybe twice—both of you pretending it didn't mean anything.

but at school?

you didn't talk.

you didn't have classes together. she sat with the other soccer girls, and you sat with jackie and shauna and lottie, like always. maybe you'd catch her eye in the hallway. maybe she'd glance at your cheer uniform and smirk. but you never stopped to say hi. never let anyone see.

because you weren't together.

not really.

you were just two girls who hooked up when no one was looking.

and now it was december—right before winter break—and the air in the wiskayok high locker room was full of static.

the fluorescent lights buzzed above as the sound of metal lockers slamming echoed around you. it smelled like hairspray, sweat, and vanilla body lotion. the cheer team was in your usual corner, half zipped jackets, blue and yellow ribbons everywhere as you changed into your uniform for the basketball game.

your skirt was hanging on the hook. you were in your sports bra, fixing your hair in the foggy mirror above the sink, when some soccer girls walked in—cleats in hand, shin guard under their arms, all laughing about something someone said in the hallway.

van was with them.

she was late, windblown, cheeks pink from the cold. her yellowjackets soccer hoodie was damp around the shoulder like she'd run through flurries. her hair was tucked messily into a ponytail. she looked like she hadn't even tried today. still looked good.

you didn't look up.

but you felt her.

she passed behind you, close enough that her sleeve brushed your back. no hellp. no smirk. just... nothing. like you were anyone.

your chest tightened.

jackie was sitting on the bench behind you, lacing up her cleats, her practice jersey already on under her warm-up jacket. she barely looked up. "took you long enough," she said.

van dropped her duffel with a loud thump and kicked it into place. "had to get my bag from my car. almost froze my ass off walking here."

jackie snorted. "tragic."

lottie was adjusting her ponytail beside her, one eye on the mirror. "better late than cut."

"coach won't cut me," van said. "i'm his favorite."

mari groaned. "he literally screamed at you last week."

"still his favorite," van said under her breath, like it meant something. her voice was even, easy. her shoulders relaxed. but she didn't look at you. not once.

you go back to your corner to grab your cheer skirt and tug it on, keeping your eyes down. you told yourself it didn't matter. you told youself it was easier this way. you told yourself it wasn't supposed to hurt.

the zipper sticks halfway up, and you pretend it's just the fabric, not your hands shaking.

"are you going straight to the gym?" shauna asks, tugging on her hoodie as she walks over to you. "for the basketball thing?"

you nod once. "yeah."

jackie scrunches her nose, twisting her braid over one shoulder. "that sounds like hell. all that school spirit and flourescent lighting."

you fake a laugh. "better than running drills in the cold."

shauna shrugs. "debatable."

jackie's digging in her bag now, unearthing a crushed granola bar. she plops down on the bench beside you. "you've been kinda...i don't know. different lately."

you freeze. "okay?"

jackie lifts a brow, like she's not convinved. "like, all dreamy and weird. distracted."

shauna leans back against the locker, arms crossed. "you keep staying at the field even when you don't have to."

you glance between them. "is this, like, an intervention?"

jackie snorts. "only if it's about a girl."

and that's when lottie, quiet until now, chimes in. "or van."

the silence that follows is immediate and brutal. you don't move.

"what?" jackie blinks.

"jesus," shauna murmurs.

you try to focus on tying your sneakers. your heart is pounding. the floor feels too far away.

"wait, van as in our van?" jackie's voice is rising, almost laughing. "van palmer?"

you don't answer.

shauna's starting at you. "are you...like...dating her?"

you force yourself to sit up straight. to smile like it's no big deal. like the air doesn't feel thinner now.

"we're just friends," you say, pulling your hair tighter. "who fuck. occasionally."

jackie lets out a noise—half gasp, half laugh—and drops her ball. "oh my god."

shauna's eyes are wide, and lottie just raises her eyebrows like yep, saw that coming.

you cross your legs. smooth your skirt. try to keep your voice casual. "it's not that serious."

"you're hooking up with van palmer," jackie repeats, slow like she's testing out the taste of it.

"yeah."

"since when?"

you shrug. "couple weeks."

"holy shit," shauna says under her breath. "i thought you, like, hated each other. anything but this."

you glance at her. "we don't."

"but you've barely said anything about it," jackie says, still in disbelief. "you and van. that's like... oil and water."

you're about to say something snarky, something that'll make them drop it—but then lottie tilts her head.

"is the the reason you've been acting weird?"

and then—

a water bottle clatters to the floor behind you.

your heart drops.

you turn.

van's there. leaning against the lockers a few rows down. hoodie unzipped, jaw set so tight it could snap.

you don't know how long she's been that close. you don't know what she heard. but the way she's looking at you: it's not a mystery.

you open your mouth, but she pushes off the locker and walks out without a word.

and this time, you don't chase her.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

the sky outside your window is already going dark, that cold winter blue that only shows up on the last day of the year. snow dusts the sidewalk like powdered sugar, and your room smells like hairspray and lotion and the faintest hint of your mom's perfume from when she dropped your laundry off earlier.

the house is quiet except for the faint hum of the radio and the occaisonal creak of the vents. jackie's gonna be outside in jeff's car in five minutes, probably honking if you're not done. you still haven't decided if you want to see her tonight. not jackie.

her.

you're learning into the mirror over your dresser, lip liner in one hand, the other braced against the wood. music's playing low on the radio—something breathy and sad and too slow for tonight—and the lamplight turns everything gold.

you blot your lips. press them together. try not to look at your own eyes in the glass.

it's stupid. you know it's stupid. you're fine.

you're fine.

you put the cap back on and reach for mascara. your lashes are alredy done, but you redo them anyway, carefully, slowly, anything to keep your hands busy. anything to stop thinking.

because you told yourself it didn't matter. told yourself it was easier this way. told yourself it wasn't supposed to hurt.

but you still remember her mouth.

her hands under your skirt in her car, knee pressed between your thighs while the windows fogged and your breath hitched in her ear. that night after cheer regionals—parked behind the library, your pom-poms in the backseat, her jersey still on from practice. her whisper low and wicked, saying, "you gonna let me make you late again?"

you remember the heat of her breath, the way her fingers curcles just right, how she laughed when you swore. the kind of laugh that you felt in your chest for days after.

you curl your lashes. blink the memory away.

there's a knock, and then your mom doesn't wait—just pushes the door open like she always does. "are you almost—oh. sorry, sweetheart, didn't know you were still getting ready."

you don't turn around. just keep working on your makeup like nothing happened. "it's okay."

she lingers. "so, jeff's driving you and jackie?"

you nod. "yeah. first to shauna's, then he's driving us to the party. we want to be able to drink."

your mom raises an eyebrow, but let's it go. you're a senior. she was your age in the '70's. she gets it more than she lets on.

she crosses the room to grab something from your still-packed suitcase, but then pauses.

"that redhead girl—" she says casually, like she's just remembering. "the one who used to come over a lot."

your body stills.

"she hasn't been around lately. everything okay?"

you reach for your perfume. "yeah. we just haven't been hanging out."

your mom's voice is thoughtful, innocent. "i was going to invite her to the family house with us after christmas. thought it might be fun. bonfires, snowmobiles. but then i realized i hadn't seen her since, i don't know...before midterms?"

you try not to breathe too deep.

"oh," you say, light. dismissive. "nothing happened."

she doesn't say anything for a second. just watches you in the mirror."

"well, if you do see her tonight, tell her the offer still stands for presidents weekend. i liked her."

you nod, picking lint off your skirt.

i liked her too, you don't say.

your mom leaves.

you spritz perfume on your wrists and smooth your hiar down one more time before heading downstairs. jackie's already honking from jeff's car, signaling for you to hurry up.

you slipped out the front door before your mom could ask anything else, coat half zipped, sleepover bag slung over your shoulder. snow crunched under your boots as you jogged down the walk. jeff's car was idling at the curb, headlights cutting through the dusk.

jackie rolled the window down. "you take longer than i do."

you climbed into the back, breath fogging the glass. "i was putting on eyeliner, not lying about it for twenty minutes."

she scoffed and turned forward again. jeff glanced at you in the mirror, but didn't say anything.

the heat blasted from the vents, warm against your bare legs. outside, the houses blurred past—christmas lights still up, wreaths sagging, that in-between holidy lull where everything felt a little hollowed out.

"so," jackie said, twisting in her seat just enough to look at you, "is van coming tonight?"

your stomach flipped. "no idea."

"she was at tai's last thing i heard," jeff offered casually. "bringing jell-o shots or something."

you stared out the window. "that's...festive."

jackie raised an eyebrow. "you guys still...?"

"still what?"

she blinked. "i don't know. do whatever it is you're not doing."

jeff coughed pointedly, eyes still on the road. "should i be here for this?"

"no," you and jackie said at the same time."

she turned back around with a little smirk, biting her nail. "i was just asking."

you didn't answer.

the rest of the drive passed in low music and even lower tension. you caught your reflection in the window—mascara perfect, lipstick still sharp. you looked exactly how you were supposed to.

but you didn't feel likt it.

not when van might be there. not when your mom had said redhead like it meant something. not when the silence in your chest had started to ache. jeff pulled into shauna's driveway and threw the car in park. "you girls want help with your bags?"

jackie was already grabbing hers. "we're good."

you slid out behind her, the night colder than you remembered.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

shauna's bedroom was already a mess—curling irons still hot on the floor, clothes thrown over her desk chair, a few discarded lipsticks rolling dangerousy close to the edge of her nightstand. music played low from her little stereo, a mixtape humming through fuzzy speakers, and the air smelled like hairspray and peach schnapps.

you were sitting cross-legged on her bed in your top and skirt, drink sweating in your hand. jackie was in front of the mirror, blotting her lip gloss like she hasn't already done it three times. shauna had taken over the floor, her back against the dresser, painting her toenails a dark plum and trying not to smudge them as she reached for another wine cooler.

"okay," jackie said, turning from the mirror dramatically, "be honest. on a scale from one to, like, prom night, how hot do i look?"

"prom night hasn’t happened yet," you said, smirking behind the rim of your drink.

"exactly," she shot back, striking a pose. “i'm setting the bar.”

"jeff is gonna combust," shauna muttered, shaking her head. “he’s been sick for three days and still insisted on driving us.”

jackie flopped onto the bed beside you. “because he’s obsessed with me.”

you snorted. “or he just didn’t want you drunk behind the wheel again.”

shauna giggled. “remember homecoming?”

“barely,” jackie said, raising her bottle like a toast. “which means i had a great time.”

you leaned back against the pillows, letting their voices swirl around you, light and easy. but your stomach twisted every time someone mentioned the party, every time the clock ticked forward. midnight was coming, and van would be there.

you hadn’t seen her since christmas eve.

and you still hadn’t stopped thinking about the way she looked in your bedroom light, her hands in your hair, her voice low in the dark.

shauna stretched, kicking jackie’s leg. “one more drink before we go?”

“obviously,” jackie said, already halfway to the closet where she’d hidden the extras.

you stayed put. tipping your head back. trying to calm the jitter in your chest.

tonight wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

but your heart didn’t seem to know that.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

the party was already hot by the time you got there.

some junior's house — a kid you didn’t even know — but someone’s older brother had a fake id and a sound system, so it didn’t matter. there were strings of lights tangled along the ceiling, a makeshift bar in the kitchen, someone smoking out the window, and music loud enough to vibrate through your ribs. the carpet was sticky and your heels already hurt, but you looked good. you knew you did.

it was warm inside your chest — from the drinks, from the attention, from jackie’s laugh in your ear — and you were floating a little, smile lazy, lips glossed, sipping something pink you didn’t even remember grabbing.

that was when you saw her.

van.

leaning against the hallway wall with one foot kicked up, solo cup dangling from her fingers, hair half-curled like she hadn’t meant to try but had anyway. her t-shirt clinging to her collarbones, and her eyes on you.

your stomach flipped.

you looked away too fast. pretended you didn’t notice. pretended you weren’t already drifting toward her with every drink, every minute. you danced with jackie. laughed with shauna. let some guy from the wrestling team tell you you were the hottest girl in the room. but your eyes kept flicking back.

and she didn’t look away.

not once.

eventually, you had no choice. you slipped out of the living room — through the crowd, down the hall — into the kitchen, the only place with decent lighting and fewer people, and of course, thirty seconds later, you heard the door swing behind you.

van.

she didn’t say anything at first. just leaned against the counter across from you, arms crossed.

you took another sip, too fast, too much. it burned.

“you look good,” she said, voice low.

you scoffed. “you’re drunk.”

“so are you.”

you shrugged, leaned back against the fridge. “not that drunk.”

silence stretched between you. it was sharp. familiar.

“you haven’t answered my last two notes,” she said finally, a little quieter.

“i’ve been busy,” you lied.

“you only talk to me when it’s dark,” she said. “when no one’s around. when no one can see.”

you set your cup down too hard. “you knew what this was.”

she flinched. “don’t do that.”

“do what, van?”

“don’t say it like it didn’t mean anything.”

you laughed once, cold. “it didn’t.”

she looked like you’d slapped her.

you pushed off the fridge, stepping past her — needing air, needing to be anywhere else — but she caught your wrist.

her hand was warm. familiar. you hated how much you wanted her to pull you closer.

“don’t walk away,” she said. “you always walk away.”

you turned, faced her. your breath shallow.

“you came to my house,” you said. “you let my mom make you hot chocolate. you picked me up from practice in the rain. and you knew what this was.”

“you keep saying that,” van said, voice cracking. “but i don’t think you know what this is.”

you stared at her, heart pounding. the countdown had started in the other room — ten, nine, eight…

“this was supposed to be casual,” you whispered.

“i know,” she said. “but it wasn’t.”

seven, six…

“i told everyone we were just friends who fuck,” you said. “because it’s easier than saying i think about you all the time. because it’s easier than saying you ruined me.”

her mouth parted.

five…

“then don’t say it,” she whispered. “say something else. say what you mean.”

four…

you didn’t know who moved first.

maybe it was you. maybe it was her.

but her hands were on your face, your waist, your hips, and your lips crashed into hers like the end of the world, like this was the last time, like it wasn’t casual, like it never had been.

three, two, one—

the crowd in the other room roared.

you didn’t even hear them.

you don’t even mean to open the door — not really. but your hand’s behind you, fumbling for balance, and suddenly it gives way.

a bathroom. dark. cold tile on your calves. you’re drunk. she’s drunk. neither of you care.

you pull her inside anyway.

van kicks the door shut behind her and grabs you by the hips like she’s afraid you’ll disappear. her mouth finds yours again — messier this time, like she doesn’t need to hold back anymore. the kiss is all teeth and tongue and the soft sound you make when her hands slide under your top.

“still casual?” she mumbles against your neck.

you laugh, breath hitching. “shut up.”

her hands settle on your waist, thumbs pressing in like punctuation marks.

“you said it first,” van whispers.

you tilt your head back against the door, eyes fluttering shut. “i didn’t mean it.”

“i know.”

you look at her. really look at her — flushed and sweaty from the party, curls wild, lip gloss smeared on her mouth (your lip gloss). you reach out and brush a strand of hair from her cheek.

“i don’t know what this is,” you whisper. “but i don’t want it to be nothing.”

van swallows. “then it’s not.”

for a second, it’s quiet. just you and her, breathing in the dark.

then you laugh again — soft, shaky. “we’re idiots.”

she grins. “speak for yourself. i’m a genius.”

“oh yeah?”

van kisses you again — slower this time, less like a dare and more like a promise. her hand cups the back of your neck. you lean into it.

outside, the music shifts. louder. someone’s yelling. someone’s crying. the party’s still spinning without you.

you pull back, forehead pressed to hers.

“we should go back out,” you say.

van raises an eyebrow. “why? so you can pretend you don’t know me again?”

you roll your eyes, nudge her shoulder. “no. so i can kiss you in front of everyone this time.”

van blinks. smirks. “you’re not gonna.”

“you sure?”

you reach for the door.

she grabs your hand.

“wait.”

you glance back.

van’s smile drops. her voice softens.

“i liked it better when it wasn’t casual.”

your chest squeezes.

you squeeze her hand.

“then let’s not do casual anymore.”

she kisses you again — one last time, quick and certain — then opens the door, light flooding in around her.

the party’s still going. still loud. still waiting.

but van doesn’t let go of your hand.

and you don’t let go either.

💌 taglist: @callsignwidow, @freakyjorker, @imlike-so-gaydude, @yellowjacketsslvt69, @moonwateraura, @gracynparsons, @casualclamturkey, @crainalley0227, @auroraseddie, @brielease

[pensthoughts]

`` ~ ୨୧ ♡ · van palmer masterlist

: ̗̀➛ last updated: may 15, 2025 ☁️

ONESHOTS

enough ⟢ a late afternoon conversation between you and van about the upcoming prom.

car talk ⟢ in which the weight of unspoken feelings finally breaks.

for the data ⟢ two girls. one sleepover. expired wine coolers, messy face masks, and a kiss that totally doesn’t mean anything (except maybe it does).

pushing it down and praying ⟢ you've spent years pushing it down—what you feel for van, what you're afraid to want. then one night, everything unravels in your bedroom. and suddenly pretending isn't so easy anymore. (contains smut)

in your corner ⟢ you, the star basketball player, get injured in the middle of your big game. luckily, your girlfriend is watching and comforts you through it all.

sticky situation ⟢ after getting into a big fight in the city, you turn to your best friend to help you out. too bad your best friend happens to be your biggest fan. (spiderman au)

a knight's vow ⟢ you, the beloved princess of your kingdom, have always been protected by your loyal knight. but when your life is suddenly in danger, the bond between you both is tested in ways neither of you expected. (royalty au)

fan behavior ⟢ you, the singer of a small band spot a hot redhead in the front row. little do you know, she knows everything about you. (rockstar au)

"you" ⟢ van had no idea that simply memorizing her order in a coffee shop is what would drive her crazy. all of a sudden, all she can think about is you. (adult van)

smoke break ⟢ when practice gets canceled, you and van slip into an easy night of movies, but the quiet tension between you finally tips over into something neither of you can ignore.

casual ⟢ you’re the cheerleader with a secret. van’s the goalie who picks you up after practice — but at school, you don’t talk. you said it was casual. but now it’s new year’s, and nothing feels casual anymore.

MULTI-PART

MINE FIRST

mine first ⟢ after the crash, van starts getting closer to someone who isn’t you. you’ve always been hers. until suddenly, you’re not. jealousy builds, things go unsaid, and doomcoming brings everything to the surface. (contains smut) mine ⟢ after a night of chaos, you and van talk in the early morning chilld about what's next for the both of you. despite the uncertainty of the world around them, they agree to figure things out together.

HOME TURF

home turf ⟢ fresh out of college, you’re stuck in new jersey helping your niece while your sister’s away. taking her to soccer practice is easy—except for the part where her hot coach keeps distracting you. (adult van) team bonding ⟢ your niece informs you that you’re in charge of throwing the start-of-season pool party a day before the date. with some help from her charming soccer coach, you try to throw a pool party that will impress the scariest group out there: high school girls. (adult van) plus-one ⟢ what starts as a rainy-day coffee date with van turns into sideline tension, stolen glances, and a big game that leaves your heart racing for more reasons than one. (adult van) part 4 coming soon...

DUST & HONEY

dust & honey ⟢ stumbling into a small town to buy honey, a cowboy van ends up finding something much sweeter (wild west au) (contains smut) part 2 coming soon...

BLEACHERS

bleachers ⟢ you broke van’s heart in a church parking lot. now it’s prom night, and the memories won’t stop — the bedroom confessions, the stick-and-poke tattoo, everything you tried to bury. she’s still looking at you like she did back then. and this time, you can’t look away. part 2 coming soon...

[pensthoughts]

Twin, where have you been?

officially back finally 😚!! expect more posts this week i have a bunch of requests i want to get done plus a part 2 to both bleachers + dust & honey 🙃

[pensthoughts]

plus-one | v.p

part 3 of home turf pairing: adult!van palmer x reader summary: what starts as a rainy-day coffee date with van turns into sideline tension, stolen glances, and a big game that leaves your heart racing for more reasons than one. word count: 4k a/n: hi guys i'm alive!!! sorry for not posting in like ten years i've been super busy with lacrosse and school and just life in general. i think of home turf basically every day of my life so after a lot of hoping for free time, i decided to not study for a final so that i could write this because tbh i care about this a lot more and studying is overrated anyways. also!!! i did not proofread this yet so please don't mind typos bc there definitely are a few in here lol

it starts with a gray sky and the smell of rain on pavement. that kind of drizzle that barely counts, soft enough to ignore but persistent enough to hang in the air, humid and clinging. you're staring out the front window, arms crossed, a tiny knot of nerves forming in your stomach. not from the weather, obviously. from her.

you've changed shirts three times.

and now you're standing barefoot in your sister's hallway, tugging gently at the hem of the one you finally settled on—light blue, casual enough to pass for effortless, even though there's nothing effortless about the way your heart keeps racing.

you pull your hair up. then down. then half-up. then sigh and start over.

it's just a coffee. a cup of coffee with your niece's soccer coach. the one with the quick wit and even quicker smile, who keeps looking at you like she knows somethign you don't. the one who asked you out in your own kitchen.

you smooth your hands over your jeans and catch your reflection in the hallway mirror. "get it together," you whisper, then immediately cringe.

the house is quiet. sophia's already out—some team thing at one of the other girls' houses before the game, leaving you alone to spiral.

you drift into the kitchen and start fidgeting with the fridge magnets. you open the freezer, close it again. you think about texting someone, then remember you don't really have anyone here to text.

the clock on the microwave blinks. you've got maybe ten minutes before she shows up.

you reach for your jacket. then stop. then reach again.

you're pulling it on when you hear a car engine outside—low and distinct—and your heart skips.

you rush to the window like you're not already waiting. then pause, tug the curtain back an inch.

she's here.

of course she is.

and of course she's driving the coolest car you've ever seen.

you open the front door too fast and regret it, like maybe you should've waited a few seconds, made her knock, done something cooler. but then she looks up from where she's leaning against the side of her car—hands in her jacket pockets, head tilted—and grins like you've just made her day by stepping outside.

and honestly? that grin makes your stomach flutter.

"hey," she says, pushing off the car with one sneakered foot.

"hey," you echo, then freeze. "sorry, i didn't—um. you didn't have to get out."

"i didn't," van says, "just wanted to lean dramatically. like in a movie."

you blink. "did it work?"

she smirks. "well, you're here, aren't you?"

you try not to smile, but it's already happening. she opens the passenger door for you and waits, one eyebrow raised, like she's daring you to comment on the car.

you do. "okay, wait. this is yours?"

"it's an '87 trans am," she says, like it's obvious. "got her for cheap and fixed her up myself. be honest—are you impressed or intimidated?"

you pause, "honestly? a little bit of both."

van's eyes flash. "noted."

you slide into the seat and immediately notice how the interior smells faintly like cinnamon and leather. there's a mixtape playing really softly—real cassette, not just a playlist—with mazzy star humming low in the background.

when she gets in on the driver's side, you pretend to look out the window instead of watching the way she tugs her sleeves up and adjusts the rearview mirror like she's done it a thousand times before.

"you good?" she asks, starting the car.

"yeah," you say. "you?"

van shrugs. "can't complain. taking a pretty girl to get coffee. got a game in a few hours. feeling kind of lucky."

you blink. "you always say stuff like that?"

"only when i mean it."

you're quiet for a second, staring at your hands in your lap, fingers picking at the hem of your sleeve.

"you don't have to be nervous," she says, glancing at you from the corner of her eye.

"i'm not nervous," you lie.

she smiles without calling you out. "okay."

the rain's eased up by the time you hit the main road, just misty now, making the streets shine. van drives like someone who doesn't rush unless she has to—careful, one hand on the wheel, the other draped loosely over the gearshift. every once in a while, she hums along to the music like she forgot you were there, and honestly, you don't mind it. it's oddly comforting.

"so," you say, breaking the quiet. "you always take your dates out before games?"

van glances at you. "you think this is a date?"

you freeze. "isn't it?"

she grins. "i was hoping you'd say that."

you roll your eyes, but you're smiling. you can't help it.

a minute later, she pulls into a spot in front of a little brick-walled café with a painted wooden sign and fairy lights still twinkling under the awning, even in daylight.

"here we are," van says, cutting the engine. "the finest slightly pretentious coffee shop this side of the county line."

you lean back in your seat and look out at the café. "looks cute."

van unbuckles her seatbelt and opens her door, then pauses and looks at you again. "hey."

you look over. "yeah?"

her voice softens just slightly. "thanks for saying yes."

your heart does a weird little thing in your chest, a twist you weren't expecting.

"thanks for asking," you say, and this time you mean it.

the bell over the door chimes softly as you step into the little coffee shop, the sound swallowed up by the low hum of conversation and the indie playlist spilling from an old speaker in the corner. rain dots your jacket and clings to your sleeves, the damp smell of the sidewalk following you in. van's hand brushes your lower back as she steps in behind you, a warm, brief touch that she doesn't comment on.

she looks around once, taking in the mismatched chairs, the tiny potted plants on the windowsills, and the art student paintings tacked crookedly to the walls.

"this place is so you," she says, already grinning.

you raise an eyebrow. "how would you know what's 'so me'?"

van gestures vaguely. "i mean, come on. indie playlists? handmade mugs? this screams 'i went to school in a city and had a mental breakdown sophomore year.'"

you snort. "i'll have you know, my breakdown happened senior year, and i'm very emotionally mature now."

"ah," she says, "that explains the iced matcha obsession."

"it's not an obsession," you protest, stepping up to the counter. "it's a personality trait."

van squints up at the menu behind the counter. "alright, hit me. what's the move?"

you already know what you're getting. "iced matcha latte. oat milk. no sweetener."

she looks at you like you just said you eat soap.

"no sweetener?"

"i like to taste the grass," you say, sarcastic.

that makes her laugh, and she steps up when it's her turn. "i'll have one too," she tells the barista. "exactly what she's having."

you blink. "wait, really?"

van shrugs. "i wanna know what the fuss is about. plus..." she leans a little closer, voice lower. "you looked cute ordering it."

you look down suddenly, your fingers twisting the strap of your bag as the warmth rises to your cheeks. "it's just a drink."

"mhm," she says, lips twitching like she knows exactly what she's doing. "so, what makes it so good? or am i about to hate my life for the next twenty minutes?"

you smirk. "it's earthy. subtle. also good for your brain." she pretends to take notes. "earthy, subtle, green sludge. got it."

you both grab your drinks and find a table near the window, where the rain has tapered into a soft mist. you stir your drink with the straw as van sits opposite you and gives her cup a suspicious glance.

she lifts it to her lips and sips slowly. pauses. looks down. sips again.

"well?" you ask, watching her.

"it tastes like..." she makes a face. "someone put oat milk in a garden."

you try not to laugh. "you're ridiculous."

"you're drinking pond water on purpose," she says. "i'm allowed to judge."

"you grew up in jersey," you shoot back. "your opinion on taste is invalid."

van gasps, mock offended. "wow. anti-jersey bias. typical new yorker."

you smirk. "guilty. i've been judging diners and bagels since birth."

van grins, "yeah, i remember. didn't your kindergarten have a french teacher and yoga twice a week?"

"don't forget fencing," you add, sipping your drink.

van puts a hand over her heart. "god forbid."

"i was an upper west side menace," you say, almost proud.

"oh, i can tell. you definitely wore a headband with your name on it and got in trouble for correcting your teachers."

"i did not—" you pause. "okay. maybe once. but it was mr. goldman and he mispronounced degas."

van fake gasps. "tragic."

you lean back in your chair, laughing. "you're just jealous your elementary school didn't have a gluten-free bake sale."

"oh, totally. meanwhile, i was eating cafeteria pizza off a paper towel."

you smile at her over the rim of your cup. "explains so much."

van lifts her cup in a mock toast. "to matcha, mental stability, and girls who peak in tiny coffee shops."

you clink your plastic lid against hers. "cheers."

there's a pause, but it's easy. comfortable, even with the electricity himming between you. you sip your drink and watch the rain mist the outside world into a watercolor blur.

"thanks for picking me up, by the way," you say after a beat. "i know you didn't have to."

"i wanted to," she says, watching you over her cup. "besides, it gave me an excuse to see you before the chaos."

you smile. "still. appreciate it."

"you say that now," van says. "but you do know i can't drive you to the game, right?

you frown. "wait. what?"

she tilts her head. "i have to ride the bus with the team. like, legally. school policy."

your eyes go wide. "hold on. i have to go on the bus?"

van grins. "you thought i was your personal chauffer for the night?"

"i didn't think—i just assumed—"

she laughts so hard she nearly spills her drink. "oh no. this is even better than i imagined."

"van."

"yes?"

"i don't do buses."

"oh, you do now."

you groan and drop your head to the table. "this is actually hell."

"come on," she says, nudging your ankle with hers. "could be worse. you get a free drink, a spot next to me, and all the orange slices you can eat."

"i didn't realize i signed up for summer camp."

"hey, some of us take our chaperone roles very seriously."

you lok up at her, hair falling slightly in your face. "do you really?"

she meets your gaze and—just for a second—there's something quiet in her expression. something a little more serious.

"i do when it comes to you," she says.

you're quiet for a second too long. then you look away, flustered, fiddling with your straw again.

"okay," you say softly. "i'll brave the bus."

van grins and stands, stretching. "good. you'll live."

"barely," you mutter.

she holds the door open for you again, the wind catching the bottom of her jacket. as you step out into the drizzle together, she glances sideways at you and says, "for the record, i still think this drink tastes like lawn clippings."

"and yet," you say, sipping it proudly, "you finished it."

van pauses, then tosses the empty cup in the trash. "yeah, well. i'm full of surprises."

you glance up at her, rain misting in your lashes. "so am i."

she smirks. "good. that'll make this bus ride way more fun."

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

you pull into the school parking lot five minutes before call time, van drumming her fingers on the wheel to the beat of a pixies song playing low on the radio. she parks in her usual reserved spot by the athletic enterance and shuts off the ignition like it's any other day—but the glance she sends your way lingers.

the drizzle hasn't let up, but it's light now—just enough to mist the windshield. you can see the yellow bus already idling behind the gym, a cluster of girls dragging gear bags and kicking around a soccer ball like it's just another game day.

she glances at you. "ready for your chaperone debut?"

you snort. "is there a training manual?"

"i think it's mostly snacks and staying out of their way."

you smirk and unbuckle, grabbing your drink from the center console. the last of your matcha, mostly melted now, but still sweet and comforting. as you open the door, van waits a second like the wants to say something—then just grabs her keys and steps out too.

the second you round the back of her car, sophia spots you from the bus steps.

"well, well," she calls. "good afternoon, coach. good afternoon... guest."

you raise an eyebrow. "that's what i am?"

she grins, shrugging. "i dunno. coffee shop pal? coach's plus-one?"

you blink. "sophia."

"i'm kidding," she says, holding up her hands. "kind of."

van doesn't even flinch. "get on the bus."

sophia disappears with a laugh, and you shoot van a sideways look.

"she's bold."

van chuckles. "she's fifteen."

"fifteen with great comedic timing."

you both walk toward the bus in comfortable rhythm, close enough that your hands brush once by accident—and then not-so-accidentally again. van doesn't say anything, but she lets it happen.

the bus door creaks open as you climb up behind her, and a few heads turn when they realize you're not just dropping her off. you give a small wave—half "hi," half "yes, i know this is weird"—and slide into a seat in the front. van plops down beside you like it's the most casual thing in the world, one knee bouncing gently.

there's a low hum of conversation from the rest of the team, and even though no one says anything out loud, you can feel it—the curious glances, the slight uptick in whispering.

you lean toward van, voice quiet. "i think we're being observed."

she nods. "i'm aware."

"they're totally talking about us."

"they're teenagers. they talk about everything." she turns her head, gives you a small, private smile. "besides, we're not doing anything wrong."

your heart flips at the softness in her tone. "yeah," you say, staring straight ahead, willing your cheeks to cool down. "just two adults... on a bus."

van smirks. "you're so good at playing it cool."

you roll your eyes and take a long sip of your drink just to give your hands something to do. "okay, what if i told you you're the one making it hard to play it cool?"

her eyebrows lift slightly. "am i?'

"you know you are."

she leans back in the seat, smug. "interesting."

you kick her foot lightly and try not to smile too hard.

a few rows up, sophia glances over her shoulder, eyes sharp and amused. you catch her watching and quickly look out the window. van doesn't react—but her knee presses just slightly closer to yours.

the rest of the ride is smooth. there's music from someone's speaker playing low, some rhythmic tapping of cleats against seats, and murmured reminders about plays and formations. but mostly, you and van just sit there, side by side, not saying much but not needing to.

it feels like the kind of quiet that means something.

by the time the bus pulls into the school lot, the rain has gone from a lazy mist to something steadier. nothing dramatic, just enough to dampen the air and make the field look darker around the edges. the players are already pulling up their hoods, tugging drawstrings tight. chatter getting sharper with nerves. you step off behind van, your sneakers hitting the pavement with that soft wet slap that says fall has offically arrived.

the girls scatter—some heading straight for the locker room, some toward the field to check the turf. you start veering toward the bleachers out of habit, tugging your hoodie tighter around you.

but van catches your sleeve.

"where do you think you're going, city girl?"

you blink at her, then glance toward the stands. "to sit?"

"wrong." she grins, knowing the effect she has on you. "you're on sideline duty today."

your eyebrows lift. "oh, i am?"

"unless you want to look useless in front of a bunch of teenage girls. didn't you almost go D1?"

you scoff, bumping her shoulder. "wow. so you do keep tabs."

"i keep receipts," she says, smug. "and i need someone who can read a press without panicking. like an assistant coach."

you glance toward the bench. "so you're just using me."

"obviously." van's eyes flick up and down your frame. "i mean, you already look like a soaked varsity captain. you're halfway there."

you roll your eyes but follow her anyway, past the rusted fencing along the edge of the field. the team is huddling now, cleats clacking against wet turf, the pregame energy thick with nerves and excitement. it's the kind of buzz you used to live for—that moment when the world narrows to ninety minutes and white lines and the ache in your calves. you hadn't realized how much you missed it until now.

van tosses you a spare windbreaker from the team bag. it's a little big, smells like turf and detergent, but it's a good swap for your soaked jacket. she's already moving into coach mode—adjusting the roster sheet, scanning the other team's warmup. but she doesn't miss a beat when she says:

"you good with the midfielders?"

you glance up, surprised. "you trust me with the middle line?"

"i trust you not to screw it up. or at least to look hot while doing it."

you snort. "so professional."

van shrugs. "we can't all be preppy new york prodigies."

you raise an eyebrow. "will you ever let go of that?"

van just laughs. "bet your team had a private trainer."

you roll your eyes, but you're smiling now. "grew up in the city doesn't mean i was in a vogue spread, you know."

"didn't say it was a bad thing," she says, softer. "you just carry yourself different. confident. or maybe just used to pretending to be."

you glance at her, caught off guard. but before you can say anything, the whistle blows to call the girls in.

pregame huddle.

van pulls her cap down tighter and steps up beside them, voice raised and steady.

"alright—heads in. this team isn't gonna hand you the win. you have to work for every play. i want communication, tight spacing, and no hero ball. we play smart, we play together."

she gives the floor the the captain, a senior named harper who says something about pride and grit, and you hang back, arms crossed, eyes scanning the starting lineup. you can already tell where the holes are—the left back is too shaky, too hesitant, and the forwards are too close together.

you lean over to van. "if they keep bunching like that, they're gonna lose the lanes. you want me to say something?"

van doesn't even look up from her clipboard. "why do you think you're here?" the rain is picking up again. not heavy, but colder. a reminder that summer's over for good. you step closer to the field, the smell of wet turf curling in your lungs, and suddenly it's like you're sixteen again—not hurt, not haunted by what could've been. just here. with cleats underfoot and sky overhead and the pulse of a game about to begin.

van gives a short whistle. "positions!"

you watch as the girls jog into place, their ponytails whipping, their voices overlapping in last-second calls.

you don't say it out loud, but you feel it as the ball rolls into play:

you missed this.

and maybe—just maybe—van knew that all along.

once the game starts, the first goal comes fast.

barely ten minutes into the game, harper makes a clean steal at midfield and sends a pass spiraling down the right wing. sophia takes off like she's weightless, a blur of yellow cleats and sharp instincts. one touch, two, and then she cuts inside—sells the defender with a feint so smooth is almost cruel. a perfect finish. back of the net.

van throws her fist up in triumph, grinning as she turns toward you. "that's my girl."

you can't help it—you cheer, heart pounding like you just scored. "she's incredible."

"try coaching her," van says, half-laughing, already watching the field again. "you tell her one thing and she turns it into five."

sophia jogs back to the huddle, soaked from the rain but glowing under the lights. the team's electric. the yellowjackets settle into a rhythm, each pass sharper than the last, energy buzzing through every sideline shout. the field belongs to them.

until it doesn't.

the shift is so fast you don't see it coming. sophia's cutting inside again—same footwork, same burst—but the defender this time is late a clumsy. sophia plants too hard and slips. you hear the impact before you see it.

that sound—cleats scraping, a sharp thud, the short cry that escapes her—slices through you.

your stomach turns.

she doesn't get up.

van's already moving. you don't think; your feet are carring you before your mind catches up, the pounding rain suddenly deafening.

sophia's gripping her ankle, face pale, blinking hard. "i'm fine," she says too quickly. "coach, i'm fine."

but you're already kneeling beside her. and your heart is racing.

because what if it's not just a sprain.

you know that motion. that angle. that twist.

it's exactly how it happened to you.

your hands go cold.

you feel like you're seventeen again, lying on the turf, everything slowing down while the future you thought was guaranteed slips right out from under you.

van's voice is steady beside you. "you're not fine. you're out. let me see."

sophia protests, of course she does. because that's what you did too. pretended. pushed through. tried.

you know how dangerous that is now.

she lets them help her off the field. van jogs alongside her, jaw clenched, rain streaking down her neck. you stay where you are for a second longer, watching the spot where sophia fell.

you breathe in. out. again.

then you follow.

back on the sideline, it's like the energy drained from the field with her.

you call instructions, help with formations, try to anchor the midfield with your voice—but everything's off now. they're scattered. the momentum's gone.

and when the other team scores—clean, efficient, bottoms corner—you're not surprised.

1-1.

van mutters something under her breath and throws her cap off in frustration.

you glance toward sophia on the bench. her cleat's off, ankle wrapped, lips tight like she's trying not to cry.

van looks at you. "we need her back."

you hesitate.

"do we risk it?"

van watches you, really watches you. "you tell me."

you walk over and kneel in front of sophia. "hey. how's it feel?"

"tight. but stable."

"stable enough for ten minutes?"

sophia meets your eyes. "i've got five. five good ones."

you nod. "alright. let's make them count."

she jogs back on with under two minutes to go. the team roars. you and van stand side by side, barely breathing.

she takes the ball from midfield, slices through pressure, fakes one defender and slips past another. she's limping, but she's fighting.

the clock winds down.

five seconds.

sophia steps, plants—your stomach tightens—and fires.

it hits the back of the net just as the buzzer blares.

2-1.

van screams. you do too. the bench clears.

sophia collapses into her teammates. they lift her like she won the whole damn state.

you turn to van. she's soaked, beaming.

"told you," she says breathlessly.

you shake your head. "she's insane."

van's voice drops. "she's brave."

you watch the field, heart still hammering, something thick behind your ribs.

so is she, you think.

so were you.

van glances at you sideways. "you okay?"

you nod, slow. "yeah. just...took me back."

she bumps her shoulder into yours, gentle. "thanks for getting her back in."

you look down at the wet turf, then up again.

"she reminded me why i loved this."

van's eyes soften. "then don't walk away from it again."

💌 taglist: @taurtel, @nothoughtsonlyvan, @callsignwidow, @freakyjorker, @imlike-so-gaydude, @yellowjacketsslvt69, @moonwateraura, @gracynparsons, @casualclamturkey, @crainalley0227, @auroraseddie, @brielease

[pensthoughts]

Was wondering if you could write getting high with bsf teen van after school and there’s some tension 🙈 you can pick where that leads to!

smoke break | v.p

a/n: i've actually had very bad experiences these two times i got high and made awful decisions which made me never do it again. so writing this was like exposure therapy for me ❤️ maybe i'll try it again now, who knows! hope u enjoy 😊 pairing: van palmer x reader summary: when practice gets canceled, you and van slip into an easy night of movies, but the quiet tension between you finally tips over into something neither of you can ignore. word count: 2.3k

as soon as you found out practice was cancelled, you and van didn't even have to say it out loud. it was friday, your parents were out of town for one of those always-important work trips, and the house was too quiet not to be filled with van palmer's voice.

she showed up less than an hour after you got home, knocking twice before letting herself in, like she always did—arms full of snacks, a half-zipped backpack slung over one shoulder, and that crooked smile that made you feel like something was about to happen.

"hey," she said, her voice light as she kicked her sneakers off at the door. "what's the plan?"

you gave her a smile as she walked in, already heading for the basement steps. "move marathon, of course. but only if you promise you didn't bring that vampire movie again."

van raised an eyebrow as she tossed her backpack down onto the couch. "the lost boys? you've seen it a million times, and you still complain. you're just mad because you secretly like it."

"not true," you grinned, folding your arms. "it's all just leather jackets and bad haircuts. i don't get it."

she flopped down on the couch with a casual, exaggerated sigh. "it's a classic, alright? you need to learn to appreciate it."

you shook your head, trying not to laugh. "alright, whatever. as long as you brought cluless, i'll forgive you."

"that's better," van smirked, pulling a few vhs tapes out of her backpack. "i'm willing to compromise."

she popped in clueless, and you both settled in, the warmth of the room and the soft hum of the movie making everything feel a little more intimate. the basement smelled faintly of cedar and clean laundry, the familiar scent of home. you sank into the couch as van tossed a bags of pretzels on the table, cracking open a coke.

there was a comfortable silence as you both dug into the snacks, but there was something else there, something quiet, like a spark in the air that neither of you had expected. maybe it was the way she was sitting a little too close, or how her knee kept brushing against yours. either way, it wasn't going unnoticed.

van stretched her arms above her head, yawning dramatically. "alright," she said, turning toward you with a mischievous glint in her eye. "i brought something fun."

you raised an eyebrow, already guessing what she meant. "i thought we were just watching movies?"

"we are," she said, pulling something small from her backpack and setting it on the coffee table. it was a small, familiar tin. "but movies are better with this."

you felt a little grin spread across your face. "you're a bad influence."

"i know," she smirked, taking out the contents and starting to roll, "that's why you keep me around."

you watched her work with practiced ease, your mind wandering as she did. the rhythmic sound of her movements felt oddly hypnotic—the way her fingers danced over the paper, the quick flick of her wrist as she sealed the roll. she didn't even look up at you, but you couldn't look away. her concentration was so casual, yet everything about her seemed to demand your attention.

"are you sure about this?" you asked, your voice quieter now, almost like you were suddenly unsure. you'd never done this with anyone else, but with van, it felt like things were always on the edge of something. you weren't sure what it was, but it made everything feel more intense.

van finally glanced up at you, catching your eye for a moment. her lips curled into a playful grin, but there was something else too—something a little softer. "what, you're scared?"

you shrugged, trying to play it cool. "not scared. just...making sure i don't end up unconscious on the floor or something."

van let out a soft laugh, the sound warm and familiar, but her eyes stayed locked on your a little longer than usual. she leaned back against the couch, her shoulder brushing yours as she passed you the rolled-up joint. "i'm pretty sure i'd notice if you were about to pass out, but no promises about the giggles."

your fingers brushed as you took it from her, and the touch lingered for just a second too long. you met her gaze, and the air around you both seemed to thicken with something unspoken. your pulse picked up, and you quickly looked away, focusing on lighting the end.

the smoke curled upward, the thick, warm haze swirling between you, but the quiet tension remained, humming low in the background. you exhaled slowly, watching the wisps float toward the ceiling, and passed it back to her. she took a slow drag, her lips parting just enough as she inhaled. you noticed the way she held the smoke in for a moment longer than necessary, eyes half-closed, like she was savoring the moment. when she released it, the soft sigh that followed made your stomach flutter.

van’s eyes flickered to you, her gaze dragging slowly over your face. “trust me,” she said, her voice a little softer than usual. “movies are definitely better with this.”

you chuckled, the sensation of the smoke filling your lungs sending a warm, buzzing feeling through you. it felt nice, almost too nice. there was something different in the air now, like the space between you was charged, but neither of you was acknowledging it directly.

you shifted on the couch, trying to brush it off, but the feeling didn’t go away. if anything, it only seemed to grow stronger.

van took another slow drag, her fingers wrapped around the joint delicately. without looking at you, she lifted it to your lips, her hand moving carefully toward your mouth.

for a split second, she hesitated, and you both froze — your eyes locking in the dim light of the basement. it was a soft, slow gesture, almost like a question. you weren’t sure if she was asking for permission or if she was simply offering, but you didn’t pull away.

you leaned in slightly, meeting her halfway, and she placed it against your lips with a gentle touch. the warmth of her hand lingered, and the air between you both seemed to hold its breath. when you exhaled, your lips brushed her fingers just barely, and you both lingered in the silence for a moment, both aware of how close you were.

van’s eyes flickered to your mouth, then back up to your eyes. “didn’t think you’d let me get that close,” she said with a smirk, but her voice was breathless.

you swallowed hard, heart racing, but you matched her teasing tone. “i trust you.”

van’s grin softened, and she settled in closer, her shoulder brushing against yours once again. she passed the joint back to you and let her fingers graze over your wrist, her touch light but intentional. the simple contact sent a ripple through you, and for a moment, you forgot about the movie, the snacks, even the quiet hum of the basement. it was just you and her now, sitting too close for comfort, sharing something unspoken.

you took another drag, your fingers brushing hers again, and this time neither of you pulled away. the tension between you both grew thicker, and despite the comfortable warmth of the smoke, the air felt electric. the slightest shift in your bodies, the smallest movement, seemed amplified.

van leaned back slightly, her head tipping toward you just enough that her hair brushed against your cheek. you felt your breath catch, the proximity making everything feel too real. the moment stretched out, quiet but full of unspoken words, like you both knew something was on the verge of happening but neither of you wanted to be the first to cross that line.

van leaned back slightly, her head tipping toward you just enough that her hair brushed against your cheek. you felt your breath catch, the proximity making everything feel too real. the moment stretched out, quiet but full of unspoken words.

the movie played softly in the background, but you weren’t really paying attention to it anymore. it was just you and her now, the space between you two shrinking with every second.

her hand, which had been resting by your wrist, slowly shifted closer, fingers grazing over your forearm. the touch was light, almost tentative, but it still sent a jolt of heat through you.

you glanced at her, trying to sound casual, but your voice betrayed you. “what are you doing?”

van’s eyes met yours, and for a second, neither of you said anything. she was so close now, her breath warm against your skin.

she smirked but it didn’t reach her eyes, not entirely. “just... seeing if you’re still freaked out.”

you raised an eyebrow, trying to keep the tension from showing on your face. “i’m not freaked out,” you said, though you could feel the rapid thrum of your pulse, betraying your words.

van’s gaze flicked down to your lips, then back to your eyes. “you sure?” she asked, her voice quieter now. the air felt thick, like something was hanging in the balance.

you swallowed, your heart hammering in your chest. “i don’t know,” you said, barely above a whisper.

her fingers grazed your shoulder, her hand coming to rest on your neck. the touch was slow, cautious, like she was testing the waters. you felt her thumb lightly brush over the skin there, the softest of touches that sent a shiver down your spine.

you stayed still for a moment, unsure whether you should pull away or let this happen.

van’s voice broke the silence, low and teasing, but with something else underneath. “i won’t bite. promise.”

her lips were so close now, barely an inch away from yours, and all you could focus on was the heat radiating between you both. you could feel the nervousness in the way she lingered, like she was waiting for you to make the next move.

everything felt different now, like this was a line neither of you had crossed before, but it was right there, too tempting to ignore.

you didn’t say anything. instead, you leaned in just a little bit, the smallest movement, your lips brushing hers for the first time.

it was brief, just a whisper of contact, but it left you both frozen for a moment, like you were both still trying to figure out what this meant.

van’s hand was still on your neck, and when you didn’t pull away, she took a deep breath, her gaze softening. “is this... okay?” she asked, her voice quieter, more vulnerable than you’d ever heard it.

you nodded, unable to trust yourself to speak.

then, before you could second-guess it, she leaned in and it felt like there was purpose behind it. her lips were gentle at first, like she was trying to figure out if you were both really ready for this.

the kiss deepened slowly, hesitantly, neither of you rushing it. it was soft, almost tentative, like you both needed to be sure this was real. van’s hand slid to your waist, pulling you in closer, and you let her, the space between you two vanishing completely.

it felt strange and new and exactly what you’d both been avoiding for so long. you could feel the warmth of her lips, the gentle pressure of her hand on your waist, and it made everything else feel distant, like this was the only thing that mattered in that moment.

van shivered at the touch, and her lips parted just enough for you to deepen the kiss. it was still slow, both of you tentative, exploring, but it didn’t take long for the tension to build.

van’s fingers dug into the side of your waist, pulling you flush against her, as if she couldn’t get close enough. you could feel the heat of her skin, the way her chest rose and fell in rhythm with yours.

you didn’t break the kiss, but the air between you was thick now, charged. your breaths were shaky, the only sound in the room the soft rush of your own heartbeats.

after a while you pulled away slowly, both of you out of breath, but neither of you seemed ready to break the moment entirely. the room felt warmer now and you couldn’t tell if it was from the kiss or the haze you were both in.

van’s forehead rested against yours, and she gave a soft laugh, breathless and a little unsure. “wow,” she murmured, her voice low and airy, like she was floating.

you nodded, still trying to make sense of everything. “yeah…” your hand rested lightly on her chest, feeling the rapid beat of her heart under your fingertips.

the weight of the silence between you felt different now, less tense and more… relaxed, as if everything had shifted in that one kiss. it was like a fog had settled over both of you, and the world outside the basement didn’t seem to matter anymore.

van pulled back slightly, her eyes searching yours with a softness you hadn’t noticed before. “you’re not… freaked out, are you?” she asked, her voice a little more uncertain than usual.

you shook your head, smiling softly. “no,” you said, your voice low but steady. “i’m good. are you?”

van’s lips curved up into that familiar half-smile. “yeah… i think i’m good too.”

you both sat there for a while, just breathing, your bodies still close but not touching. the air was thick, and even though you weren’t saying much, it felt like something had shifted. the night stretched out ahead of you, but neither of you seemed in any hurry to leave it behind.

💌 taglist: @callsignwidow, @freakyjorker, @imlike-so-gaydude, @yellowjacketsslvt69, @moonwateraura, @gracynparsons, @casualclamturkey, @crainalley0227, @auroraseddie, @brielease

[pensthoughts]

"you" | v.p

a/n: i saw an edit and one of the comments said something about a joe goldberg-like stalker van and then the new season of you came out so i felt like i was obligated to write this. hope u all enjoy 😚!! pairing: stalker adult!van x reader summary: van had no idea that simply memorizing her order in a coffee shop is what would drive her crazy. all of a sudden, all she can think about is you. word count: 2.8k

the day van first saw you was a day that she will never forget.

the rain had come out of nowhere, soaking through her jacket and leaving cold droplets to trail down her neck. she wasn’t supposed to be there, not really. just wandering aimlessly through the city streets, filling the space between one thought and the next. but when her gaze landed on you, standing behind the counter at that little shop, everything else faded.

you were effortlessly caught in the rhythm of the place, hands moving in practiced fluidity as you took orders, laughed softly with the customers. the soft glint of a necklace, barely visible beneath the collar of your shirt, caught van’s attention first, before the rest of you followed — the curve of your jaw, the gentle sway of your hair as you leaned forward. she stood just long enough to realize she couldn’t stop watching.

your smile as you handed the drink to the person ahead of her was so warm, so genuine. a laugh escaped the lips of the person you were talking to, and van couldn't help but feel the connection, as if it were meant to be. you didn’t look up again, but for a brief moment, the space between you felt charged. a sudden pull, something van wasn’t ready to understand but couldn’t ignore.

when it was her turn, van gave a quiet order, fingers tapping against the counter, still trying to hold back from staring too much. when the drink was handed over, a small brush of skin against skin sent something electric through her body, and she thought the world might collapse in on itself.

but it didn’t. instead, van sat at the table in the corner, drinking a matcha with slow sips, watching you like you were the most captivating thing she’d ever seen. the world outside the shop could’ve melted away, and she wouldn’t have cared.

days passed. van kept coming back, always at the same time, always finding a seat where she could see you behind the counter. at first, it was subtle, the memorization of your routines. your laugh. the tilt of your head when you spoke to people. the way your fingers wrapped around the handle of the milk steamer. it was all there, and every detail etched itself into van’s mind.

it was easy. too easy to make excuses — "just getting coffee," "just passing by," when, really, it was always about you. about seeing how long you would stand behind that counter. the way your eyes would meet hers across the room, just long enough to make her pulse quicken.

then, one day, it happened.

your eyes caught hers, and for the first time, the faintest recognition lingered there. you didn’t just see her as another customer; something more had passed between you.

“a matcha latte, oat milk, no sweetener, right?” you said, a teasing smile pulling at your lips as you placed the cup down in front of her. “you come here a lot. can’t forget your hair.”

something in the way you said that made her stomach twist with need, a possessiveness that she didn't even know was there. you saw her. you knew she existed. and that was all it took for her to decide that you were hers.

before van ever stepped foot in that cafe, before the first accidental “run-in” outside the shop, there had been a lot of other research. it wasn’t just about seeing you in passing, or remembering your drink order. it was about learning everything. your life. your routines. your every detail.

at first, it had been subtle, like any great plan. one afternoon, after the third or fourth time van had seen you behind the counter, she found your name. it wasn’t difficult; the small name tag you wore gave her all the information she needed. from there, it only took a few clicks. google. instagram. the usual suspects. your feed was public. not that you’d ever noticed her watching. van hadn’t even had to try hard. your social media profile painted a picture that was almost too perfect, too neat, too easy.

there were the posts about your trips — weekends away with friends at art shows, trips to parks, spontaneous adventures to places she knew you’d probably never return to. you’d shared enough photos of the same coffee shop you worked at, even a few candid selfies, laughing and smiling with your friends. van memorized the names of your closest ones — the ones who always commented on your photos, the ones who always liked your posts first. every comment was a clue, a piece of the puzzle, even if it was something small. your sister tagged you in posts on her feed; your friends wrote heartfelt birthday wishes.

she saw where you lived, too — a glimpse from an old photo, the backdrop of your apartment building visible behind your roommate's shoulder. the street was familiar, and van knew exactly where to find you. she even saw the little bar you’d visited on a rainy tuesday. it didn’t take much digging to realize you liked that spot a lot. you didn’t just visit places casually; you had routines, places you felt comfortable, places where you let your guard down. van could trace them all, like she was marking a map of your world.

and it wasn’t just the socials. she had learned the subtle details — when you worked, the hours you were most likely to be there, the time you took your lunch breaks. on a saturday, she could predict exactly where you’d be at any given moment. the way you always posted your workout at 6 am, always the same exact stretch, the same yoga pose.

even the days you shared photos of your morning coffee, the corner of your kitchen just so. she didn’t just see you. she watched you. every part of your day, every moment of your life, was catalogued in her mind.

van didn’t think about how this could make her seem… obsessive. this was just the process, the preparation. to be close to you, to truly know you, meant knowing everything.

this led to van finding herself standing outside of your favorite bar. van had never set foot in this bar before. she had no reason to—until now.

it had only taken one instagram story for her to know exactly where you’d be tonight. the photo you posted of the bar’s cozy, dim lighting, the empty stool beside you, the half-empty glass — it was like an invitation. she wasn’t going to waste it.

as she walked in, the soft hum of conversation and clinking glasses filled the air. there you were, exactly where she thought you’d be — alone, nursing a drink at the bar, your phone propped up beside you.

van paused for a beat, just long enough to make sure she wasn’t overstepping. then she slid into the stool next to you, her presence quiet but unmistakable.

you didn’t seem to notice her at first, too focused on scrolling through your phone. but then, without looking up, you spoke.

"van?"

van blinked, surprised. "how'd you—?"

you looked up almost immediately, eyes flickering toward her, recognition dawning. "your hair," you said smiling. "kinda hard to forget."

van's lips quirked into a grin. "i guess i'm a regular, then?"

you turned fully to face her, your eyes flicking over her features with a knowing smile. "you must be," you teased, "since i've been staring at your name on cups for so long."

van chuckled softly, her tone playful. “stalker,” she said with a light smirk, her gaze resting on you as she leaned in just a bit closer.

you raised an eyebrow, smiling. “i’m not the stalker,” you said, your voice amused. “i just remember things.”

van’s grin deepened, intrigued by your confidence. “good memory, huh?” she leaned in a little more, letting the silence between you two stretch. “i bet you’ve got a lot of interesting stories.”

you smiled back, eyes twinkling with mischief. “maybe. but i’m more interested in yours.”

there was a moment of silence between you two. you could feel the weight of it, the tension building in a way that felt almost too intimate for a first encounter. something about the way she sat so casually beside you, like she’d been there all along, made you feel like she was supposed to be there.

you cleared your throat, trying to shake off the odd feeling. “well, it’s a pretty chill place. it’s quiet. good vibe.”

van nodded, taking in the details of the bar, her gaze lingering just a little too long on you. “sounds like your kind of place.”

your fingers tapped idly on the edge of your glass. “i guess it is.”

van’s smile curled up again, just a hint of something darker beneath it. “i’ll have to come back more often, then.”

the conversation started to flow a bit easier later, the alcohol starting to take the edge off, making you feel a little looser, a little less guarded. you leaned back in your seat, taking in the low hum of the bar, the clink of glasses, the soft murmur of other people around. van didn’t seem to mind the quiet, though. she was still casually sipping her drink, letting the conversation hang between you two, comfortable in the silence.

“so,” you said, tipping your glass towards her, “what brings you here tonight? you don’t exactly look like the bar type.”

van chuckled softly, her lips curling at the corners. “i’m not really. just felt like getting out of the house for a bit, see if i could find somewhere new.”

you raised an eyebrow, taking a moment to really look at her. “huh. you don’t come here often, then?”

van’s eyes flicked to the bar’s walls, scanning the dimly lit space like she hadn’t noticed it until just now. “not yet. it’s nice though. i could see why people would like it.”

you shrugged, a little drunk now, but still aware of her quiet intensity. “it’s a good spot. it’s not too crowded, and it’s... well, it’s kind of my favorite place. i come here to unwind.”

“yeah?” van asked, eyes glancing at your glass, then back to you. “seems like the kind of place you’d like.”

“yeah,” you said again, nodding slowly. “i like the calm. the people here don’t bug me, you know?”

van’s smile was soft but there was a flicker in her eyes, like she was really paying attention. “i get that. sometimes it’s nice to just be left alone.”

“exactly,” you agreed, laughing a little, feeling the warmth spread through your chest. you leaned forward, suddenly more talkative than usual. “it’s just one of those places where you don’t have to try too hard. you just... show up, and it’s fine.”

van watched you for a moment, like she was trying to read something behind your words, but she didn’t press. instead, she took a slow sip of her drink, letting the moment hang.

“so, what do you do when you’re not... showing up to bars?” you asked, your curiosity piqued by the quiet mystery she seemed to carry.

“i do a little bit of everything,” van replied easily, shrugging as if it didn’t matter. “i keep busy.”

you nodded, feeling your eyelids growing a bit heavy from the alcohol. “busy’s good. keeps you out of trouble.”

van’s lips twitched into a smile. “keeps you from getting bored, too.”

“you’re not a fan of boredom, huh?” you asked, your voice light but with a hint of playful teasing.

“i’d say i prefer keeping things interesting,” she said, her tone just enough to make you feel like there was more to that than just casual conversation.

you chuckled, the buzz in your head clouding your thoughts a little. “yeah, me too. i guess that’s why i end up in places like this. keeps things interesting.”

van nodded slowly, her gaze never leaving you. “yeah, places like this are good for that.”

a comfortable silence fell between you for a moment, just the two of you sharing the same space, both a little tipsy, neither really knowing where to go from here.

you shifted in your seat, feeling a little more self-conscious now, but the alcohol kept you from backing off completely. “so... do you come here often?” you asked again, unable to stop the words from slipping out.

van’s smile was quick, almost amused. “i think i might now,” she said, her voice smooth, but there was something in the way she said it that felt too certain for someone who’d never been here before.

you blinked, then laughed, unsure why it felt so off. “well, if you’re gonna keep coming here, i guess i’ll be seeing a lot more of you.”

van’s smile didn’t fade. “i wouldn’t mind that.”

a few more drinks later, the world feels a little looser, a little easier. you’ve had just enough to feel tipsy, but not too much to make you forget the way van’s eyes follow you, the way her smile lingers just a second too long.

“alright,” you finally sigh, feeling the buzz settling in. “i should probably get going. don’t want to stay out too late.”

van’s head tilts slightly, as if she’s considering something. “need some company?” she asks, voice low, teasing.

you blink at her, surprised but not exactly opposed to the idea. “you offering?”

van stands up slowly, offering her hand to help you out of your seat. “yeah, actually. thought i’d walk you home. it’s not safe for you to be out here alone.”

you raise an eyebrow, playfully skeptical. “oh? and you’re the protector type now?”

van’s smirk widens, her hand lingering near yours. “just making sure you get home in one piece.”

with a slight shrug, you take her hand, letting her help you stand. your mind spins a little as you follow her out of the bar, the cold air hitting you as soon as you step outside. it’s a good kind of dizzy, the kind that comes with too many drinks and someone’s attention you didn’t expect.

the walk back is quiet at first, save for the occasional street noise in the distance. you’re a little tipsy, but the way van walks beside you, her presence close, makes you feel oddly safe. your pace slows slightly as you walk along the familiar streets, the city lights casting soft shadows around you both.

“so,” you start, your voice light and a bit playful, “tell me more about you, van. how’d you end up in my café anyway? what’s your deal?”

van looks over at you, the grin still present, but there’s a warmth in her gaze. “guess i could ask you the same thing,” she says, her voice teasing but thoughtful. “how’d you end up behind that counter, pouring coffee for a living?”

you laugh, swaying a little, and she steadies you with a hand on your arm. “hey, easy there. i’m just asking,” she says softly. then, after a beat, “i like watching you work. you’re good at it.”

the compliment is casual, but something about the way she says it, the way her gaze lingers like she's memorizing you, makes your stomach flutter. you bite your lip, half hoping she doesn't notice how fast your heart's beating.

“i don’t know what you want me to say to that,” you mutter, feeling suddenly shy.

van shrugs, still keeping a playful distance. “nothing, really. just thought i’d let you know.”

you glance over at her, your words slurring slightly. “you’re a little too smooth for your own good, you know that?”

van chuckles, but there’s something in her eyes that makes you feel like she’s not just being casual. it’s in the way she looks at you, the way her hand brushes against yours as you walk.

you try to focus, trying not to lose yourself in the sudden tension that’s thickening between you. “you gonna kiss me, or are you just gonna stare at me all night?”

van’s smile falters for a moment, and she slows her pace. “maybe i’m just enjoying the view.”

your pulse quickens at her words, and before you can say anything else, you find yourself outside your apartment building. the buzz of alcohol in your system dulls, and reality sinks in — this is where you part ways.

you stop at the entrance, unsure of how to end the night. the air is cool, and the city hums softly behind you both.

“well, this is me,” you say, suddenly feeling a little too sober. “thanks for walking me back.”

van takes a step closer, her voice low. “anytime.”

for a moment, neither of you moves. the silence between you feels charged, like the world is holding its breath.

then, almost as if on impulse, you lean forward, brushing your lips against her cheek in a brief, teasing kiss.

van’s breath catches, and she stays still, letting you pull away. a small smirk tugs at her lips. “i’ll see you around, then.”

you nod, stepping back toward the door. “yeah. see you.”

as you disappear inside, you can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t over. and for some reason, that thought excites you more than you’d like to admit.

💌 taglist: @callsignwidow, @freakyjorker, @imlike-so-gaydude, @yellowjacketsslvt69, @moonwateraura, @gracynparsons, @casualclamturkey, @crainalley0227, @auroraseddie, @brielease

[pensthoughts]

Heyyyy……I was thinking about singing! Reader x big fan! Van…….. do y’all hear me tho??? Like vans at a concert of r, and r points at them, saying they’re cute. Like……AHHHH. And Van freaks out…..

fan behavior | v.p

summary: you, the singer of a small band spot a hot redhead in the front row. little do you know, she knows everything about you. pairing: superfan!van palmer x singer!reader word count: 2.7k

that morning

“lot, can you please come?”

van’s pacing the apartment in mismatched socks and a shirt she definitely slept in, phone tucked under her chin as she dodges the corner of the couch with practiced urgency. her voice borders on desperate. the way she gets about exactly three things: penalty kicks, good horror, and you.

lottie exhales, amused on the other end of the call. “you want me to stand in a pit of strangers because you’re unhealthily obsessed with a rockstar?”

“she’s not just a rockstar,” van snaps, defensive but also a little dreamy. “she writes lyrics like she’s whispering secrets to you. like—like you already lived it with her.”

“she wrote a song about pretending to fall asleep on someone’s shoulder so she could smell their shampoo.”

van’s entire face softens. “exactly. and don’t even get me started on that pool table one.”

lottie hums. “you know she’s probably not even gay, right?”

“she wrote a song called ‘tattoo her teeth on my thigh.’” van grabs her keys off the hook. “i’m not saying she’s gay, but i’m saying she’s not straight.”

“fine,” lottie groans. “pick me up at seven.”

van’s already on her way to shower. “i love you so much.”

“you love her. i’m just your plus-one to delusion.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

at the concert

the venue is small, a low-slung converted theater with no seats, just a sea of restless bodies swaying in anticipation. the kind of place where the floor thrums with the bass before the first note’s even played. van swears she can feel the heartbeat of the room in her teeth.

she lets herself be tugged forward, lottie’s fingers laced through hers more out of necessity than affection, though there’s still comfort in it—familiar, grounding. the crowd is thick and humming, everyone pressed tight with elbows grazing and hair stuck to damp necks, and van can barely hear herself think over the chattering excitement.

but when they finally break through to the front—when van’s knuckles meet the cool of the barricade, and there’s nothing between her and the stage but a single breath of space—her whole body stills.

she grips the metal bar like she might float away.

lottie’s voice is dry in her ear. “you look like you just saw god.”

van doesn’t answer. her mouth is slightly open. the lighting crew is adjusting beams overhead, throwing warm light across the stage, and the shadows cast by the mic stand stretch long and crooked across the floorboards like something out of a dream.

she scans the stage like she’s trying to memorize it. there’s a setlist taped by the amp. she tilts her head, squints to read it. a song she knows by heart opens the night—never yours, the one that made her fall in love with your voice in the first place. she knows you usually open with that one, but seeing it spelled out, so close, so real, makes her stomach twist.

and then the lights drop.

the energy in the room fractures like lightning. a roar builds from the pit behind her, people bouncing on their toes, phones held high. van doesn’t move. she can’t.

you walk onto the stage without warning—no intro, no preamble. you just appear. effortless. composed. like you were always meant to be there.

you’re wearing black. not flashy, not styled within an inch of its life, just good—tailored, sleek, like it fits you better than skin. a silk button-up, half undone. boots that look worn-in but expensive. rings on your fingers, silver catching in the light.

van stares like it’s the first time she’s ever looked at a person properly.

and then you lift your hand, shielding your eyes as you glance toward the front.

your gaze catches on her instantly.

one beat. two.

the room might still be screaming, but van doesn’t hear any of it. all she can focus on is the way your expression shifts—the pause, the tilt of your head, the slow, crooked pull of your smile. your eyes flick down, and van wonders if you're clocking her shirt, her flushed face, the way she’s gripping the barricade like a lifeline. wonders if you can see how hard she’s trying not to completely short-circuit.

you don’t look away.

not at first.

when you finally do, it’s only to step toward the mic and say into it—low, easy, almost teasing—

“hi.”

van’s legs almost give out.

next to her, lottie says under her breath, “jesus christ.”

van just shakes her head slowly, too stunned to speak, eyes wide as if trying to absorb everything about you in the seconds between one song and the next.

she thinks, she saw me. she thinks, no one is going to believe this. she thinks, i'm never gonna forget this

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

intermission

you’re breathless, wiping sweat from your neck with the hem of your shirt, pacing a little in the narrow hallway that smells like beer and fog machine residue. natalie plucks at her strings on a stool, chewing gum like she’s got nowhere better to be.

you say it before you can second-guess yourself.

“girl in the front row. red hair. black tank. big eyes.”

natalie looks up, amused. “that was descriptive.”

“she’s… i don’t know. she locked in on me right away. like, really locked in. i kept looking back without meaning to.”

“ah,” natalie says, smirking now. “one of those.”

“i’m serious.”

“i know you are. that’s what makes it fun.”

you hesitate. “you think it’d be weird if i called her out? like—during a song?”

natalie shrugs. “you’ve serenaded people mid-show for less.”

“she just looks like someone i should’ve already met. like someone who would’ve ruined my life in high school, in the best way.”

natalie laughs, full-throated. “okay, poet.”

you glance at her, half-smiling.

“you could always ask her to come backstage,” nat says, casual. “might blow her mind. you are the reason this place is sold out.”

you press your tongue to the inside of your cheek.

natalie adds, “make sure you invite the tall one too. the one standing next to her. she's really hot.”

you laugh softly. then you turn back toward the stage as the house lights flicker.

“she looked nervous when i smiled at her,” you murmur. “but not in a bad way. like she was trying to hide that she was shaking.”

natalie slings her guitar over her shoulder. “then she’s probably already in love with you.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

concert: the second half

the lights dim again after intermission, and the air inside the venue shifts. the energy—restless before—feels electric now. van can barely breathe. the whole time you were offstage, she kept replaying your eyes meeting hers, rewinding the memory like it might slip through her fingers if she didn’t hold it tight enough. even lottie had to wave a hand in front of her face and say, “earth to van,” when she went quiet for too long.

but then you’re back.

you stride onto the stage like it’s nothing—like the moment didn’t happen, like you didn’t just single her out in a sea of people—but the second van sees you, she knows it did. there’s a glint in your eye that wasn’t there before. a sharper kind of mischief in your smile.

the next few songs blur together. van knows every word, has sung these lyrics under her breath a hundred times alone in her bedroom, but right now they slip through her like smoke. all she can focus on is the way you move, the subtle drag of your fingers along the mic stand, the ease with which you carry the entire room like it weighs nothing at all.

and then—

then comes that song.

the tempo dips, something sultry and slow, drums deep like a heartbeat. van feels it in her chest, low and vibrating. you take a step forward, closer to the edge of the stage. closer to her.

the spotlight’s warm on your skin, and your voice drops to a hush for just one line—

“there’s a girl in the front row with stars in her eyes.”

and you point.

directly at her.

the crowd erupts. a thousand voices scream and cheer and whistle—but van hears none of it. she’s frozen, her breath caught somewhere between her ribs and her throat, because you’re looking at her again, really looking this time. your smile flickers wider. you wink—slow, deliberate, a little cocky—and van nearly melts through the barricade.

lottie claps a hand on her shoulder, half-laughing, half-screaming, “that was about you, idiot!”

van’s ears are ringing but not from the music. her whole body is buzzing. she’s never felt so exposed and seen and alive, like she could light up times square without touching a single wire.

the rest of the song passes in a blur of electric color and bright, aching sound. you keep stealing glances between verses—grinning when van catches you, then looking away just as fast. and van? she’s not singing anymore. she’s just watching. staring. gripping the barricade like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded while you flirt with her from thirty inches away like it’s just a casual tuesday night.

and then, the final chords hit.

you thank the crowd, breathless and glowing, before stepping forward to the mic again—this time with both hands on it, your voice a little lower, a little warmer.

“before we go…” you say, then pause. your gaze scans the crowd. lands on her.

“redhead in the front,” you say, and you point again. “yeah, you. you’re really cute.”

the room explodes.

lottie is screaming. people are gasping, laughing, recording. van doesn’t move.

you smile like you’ve just tipped the world sideways.

“you should come backstage,” you add, like it’s nothing, like you’re not completely unraveling her with eight words and a crooked smile. “bring your friend too.”

van is still staring, her mouth open, her entire soul leaving her body like steam off a kettle. lottie grabs her arm like get it together, and van just blinks. slowly. dumbly.

you give one last smile and disappear behind the curtain.

and van?

she hasn’t even blinked yet.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

backstage

the backstage hallway still hums with the distant echo of the crowd—half-dispersed cheers and the low thud of bass through the floorboards. van’s not sure if the buzzing in her ears is from that or from her own heart, pounding so loud it feels like someone’s taken a drumstick to her ribs.

she’s trying to act normal. that’s the goal. it’s a simple enough task, or it should be.

but no. no, van is pacing.

“van,” lottie says from her spot on the couch in the dressing room. she’s got a bottle of water in one hand and the other flung dramatically over her eyes like she’s a victorian ghost. “if you don’t stop walking back and forth i’m going to leave. i mean it. i will leave you here to spontaneously combust.”

“i’m not pacing,” van lies. “i’m just… adjusting. the room.”

“adjusting the room?”

“you know. like… recalibrating.”

“god. you’re gonna throw up on her shoes.”

van stops dead, wide-eyed. “you think she’s wearing nice shoes?”

lottie just groans.

the door creaks open.

van turns so fast it’s almost cartoonish, stumbling over her own foot like the universe decided actually, yes, you will be mortified tonight.

but it’s you.

you, in an oversized sweatshirt now instead of your stagewear, hair damp at the temples, a soft flush still on your cheeks from the heat and the noise. there’s glitter smudged at your collarbone, a ring on your index finger you didn’t wear on stage, and van clocks all of it at once like her brain is taking a high-res photo she can stare at later when she needs to remember how real this is.

“hey,” you say, lazy smile tugging at your mouth like it’s just for her.

van’s throat goes dry. “hey…” she manages, rubbing the back of her neck in the most cliché possible display of nervousness. “uh, cool show, right? i mean—you were cool. are cool. obviously.”

lottie doesn’t even bother holding back her snort.

you laugh—a low, warm sound—and van swears her heart actually skips. like a full, medical emergency pause.

“you’re the one who was singing along like you meant it,” you say, tilting your head. “especially that one track—third from the end? you were going word for word. i saw you.”

“you were looking?” van blurts out.

you raise your brows. “hard not to. you kinda glow.”

van forgets how to breathe.

“and i like your shirt,” you add. “it’s soft. you seem like a soft-shirt kind of person.”

van glances down at it like she forgot she was wearing clothes. “it’s vintage. kind of. my friend gave it to me when i was fifteen and thought i was gonna be a skater.”

“were you?”

“i fell off the board once and cried in a parking lot.”

you grin wider, like she’s just said something particularly charming.

“i like that,” you say, stepping a little closer. “you’re honest.”

van swears the air in the room changes. not tense exactly, but charged. like the feeling right before a thunderstorm. you’re looking at her like she’s a song you already know all the words to.

the door swings open again. natalie steps in, chewing a gummy worm, dragging her eyes across the room like she’s seeing which energy to feed on first.

then her gaze snags on lottie.

“oh,” nat says, eyes narrowing slightly. “you really are tall.”

lottie looks at nat. “well, you’re blunt.”

“i like that,” nat says.

lottie blinks. “what?”

“come with me.”

“where?”

natalie doesn’t answer. she just tosses another gummy worm into her mouth and jerks her chin toward the hallway. “away. you look like someone i want to talk to without this one vibrating into dust nearby.”

lottie glances at van, who is still halfway between stunned and stunned-er. then back to nat, who is already walking out the door.

“ten minutes,” lottie mutters to van, following her out.

“i can work with ten,” you say with a smirk, watching them leave.

the room gets quieter. closer.

van runs a hand through her hair. “so, uh… now that my friend’s being abducted…”

“you’re safe,” you say lightly. “unless you’re afraid of girls who sing songs about you.”

van’s whole face goes red.

“i wasn’t sure if you’d notice me,” she says quietly, not quite meeting your eyes.

“i noticed you the second i walked out,” you say. “you were impossible to miss.”

“because i was staring at you like i forgot how blinking works?”

“no,” you say. “because you look like someone i’d write songs about.”

van just stares at you, mouth slightly open. like you’ve flipped gravity.

“so,” you say, softer now. “can i get your number?”

van’s brain short-circuits for a full second. “mine?”

“no,” you deadpan. “your friend who got lured away with candy.”

van laughs a little, shaky and disbelieving. “yeah. i mean. yes. you can have my number. for sure. totally. cool. chill. normal.”

you smile like she just handed you a mixtape and told you her deepest secret.

you take out your phone, hand it to her. “go ahead.”

her fingers shake a little, but she types it in. you save it with a name—van (fangirl)—and don’t bother hiding the smirk.

“we’re playing here again tomorrow night,” you say, slipping your phone back in your pocket. “come back. i’ll leave your name at the door.”

van nods too fast. “yeah. yeah okay. totally. chill. i mean cool. i mean—yeah.”

you laugh. she’s blushing so hard her freckles are disappearing into it.

as you head toward the hallway, you glance over your shoulder and throw her one last smile—easy, radiant, like a dare.

“see you tomorrow, fangirl.”

the door shuts behind you.

van stands there, dazed.

after a beat, the door creaks open again. lottie’s back.

“did she just call me fangirl?” van whispers.

lottie just shrugs. “that’s ‘cause you are.” then she tosses a look back down the hallway. “also, i think i have a date now?”

van blinks.

“…what the hell just happened?”

lottie grins. “you fell in love. i got hit on by a hot guitarist. we’re even.”

💌 taglist: @callsignwidow, @freakyjorker, @imlike-so-gaydude, @yellowjacketsslvt69, @moonwateraura, @gracynparsons, @casualclamturkey, @crainalley0227, @auroraseddie, @brielease

[pensthoughts]

Why do I actually need Knight!Van x Princess!Reader? Like r ran away and Van likes her a lot and r gets kidnapped by a group of bandits so Van goes crazy bout it. A few months later r gets away and finds Van, who drinks a lot because their dealing with the kidnapping. all upset and they kiss in front to their party.

a knight's vow | v.p

a/n: love love this idea! i incorporated some other ships into this just for fun so keep an eye out. i wanted to keep this under 3k words but i kinda went crazy because i was having so much fun lol. pairing: knight!van palmer x princess!reader summary: you, the beloved princess of your kingdom, have always been protected by your loyal knight. but when your life is suddenly in danger, the bond between you both is tested in ways neither of you expected. word count: 5.6k

van's only job as a knight was to protect the princess.

it was the first thing she'd ever been trusted with. the kind of honor that most squires dream of, and most knights age decades hoping to earn. and van—sharp-tongued, smirking van palmer, with a scar across her jaw and something feral always burning behind her grin—was chosen for it young. too young, maybe. the king had said it was because she was brave. lottie said it was because of fate. van didn't care what the reason was. all she knew was that she had a duty. a vow. protect the princess at all costs.

she was trained for war, for blood, for honor. she was not trained for you.

not trained for the princess with fire in her chest and starlight in her eyes. the girl who read books in secret corners and whispered to the castle cats. the girl who leaned against windowsills and sighed like the sky was calling her name. van kept her distance at first. watched from a step behind, silent, watchful. she did her job. she kept her sword sharp. she learned her habits. she patrolled the grounds. she didn't look too long.

but everything went wrong when she started to fall for you.

it didn't happen all at once. that would've been easier. no, it crept in slow—like sunlight through thick curtains. little things. the way you would sneak bread to the birds and then pretend you hadn't. the way you always always said her name softly, like it was a secret. the way your laughter could disarm an entire room, including van herself.

and then it wasn't just about guarding your body—it was about protecting your dreams, your sadness, your freedom. van started to ask questions. what made you happy? what did you want? not what was expected of you, but what did you want?

the answer, every time, was the same: i want to see the world.

you spoke of it constantly, like a fairytale. of forests that stretched forever and rivers that whispered. of cities you'd only read about. of songs you wanted to hear sung by the people who made them. of horses and stars and taverns and dusk. but your father—the king—would not allow it. could not. he had already lost one daughter to freedom. he would not lose another.

jackie.

the name was only whispered in these halls now, like something haunted. she had been the older princess, the perfect one. graceful, sharp, beloved. and then one day she was gone. the king said she was kidnapped. some in the village said she ran away. either way, her body had been found the following winter, deep in the woods, cold.

the king never recovered. he locked the castle down. the youngest daughter was not allowed to leave the gates. the guards doubles. the walls grew higher. no more freedom, no more loss.

but van had seen what it was doing to you. the slow fading of your smike. the way your fingers clenched when you looked at the map in the war room. the way you stood too long on balconies, like you could walk off the edge and become something else entirely.

so van made a choice.

it was a night like any other—the moon was high, the halls quiet. you had been quiet all day. barely touched your food. hadn't said more than a few words. van had walked back to your room, like always, and stood outside the door. and then, as the clock struck two, the door creaked open. you stood in a cloak, lantern your hand, eyes wide.

“i don’t want to be here anymore.”, you whispered. "i want to see the woods. just for the night. please, van. just once."

van hesitated. just once. just one night. that's what she told herself, anyway. but the truth was, she'd never been able to say no to you.

so she nodded. told you, “go. just for tonight. i’ll meet you by the river bend. before dawn.” she watched you go, heart in her throat, adrenaline pounding in her chest like a war drum. she shouldn't have. but she did.

by the time she reached the river... you were gone.

no sign of a struggle. no sound. just the open door, the scattered hay, and the heavy silence that followed. van called your name once. then again. then louder. she ran through the nearby woods until dawn, calling it into the dark.

you never came back.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

you should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy.

the air was cold when you stepped into it—freedom biting your skin with its first breath. the stars looked brighter away from the torches. you kept one hand tight around the map van had drawn for you, the other on the pouch at your side, packed with little things: a slice of bread, a copper knife, a silver ring you weren’t supposed to have taken. you told yourself you were coming back. just a night. just one.

but deep down, you weren’t sure.

the woods had always called to you, like a story half-read. you’d dreamt of them your whole life, drawing trees in the margins of every dull history lesson, pressing your face to the glass of your tower and imagining yourself lost beneath the leaves. so when your boots finally met the mossy earth beyond the palace gates, you wanted to cry. you almost did.

you weren’t brave. not like jackie had been. you’d always tried to be—but people coddled you, swaddled you in silk and rules, like you might crack if they looked at you too long. all your life, people had spoken to you in hushed tones. except van.

van, who told you when your hair looked stupid and made you laugh until you snorted. van, who walked a step behind but never acted like you were breakable. van, who smuggled sweet rolls into your room on festival nights and called you dumbass in the same breath she covered you with a blanket. van, who never looked scared when you did. who you trusted more than anyone. who you liked more than anyone.

maybe it had started the night you’d snuck wine from the kitchens and passed her a cup through the secret library door. she’d stayed with you past midnight, telling you stories from her training days, her voice hushed but her eyes so bright. maybe it was before that. maybe it was the first time she made you laugh so hard you dropped a glass and she helped you clean it up like it was nothing, like it didn’t matter that you were royal and she was not.

you liked her. you knew you did. you just didn’t know what to do about it. so you kept it hidden. smiled too long. lingered too close. remembered every word she ever said to you and replayed them alone, again and again and again.

she said she’d meet you at the river bend. she said she’d follow.

but she didn’t come.

you waited longer than you should’ve. and when the cold crept in, you kept moving. you thought she might catch up. you thought maybe she was giving you space. you thought she trusted you to handle it.

and for a little while, you did.

until the snap of a twig made you freeze mid-step. until something rough closed around your mouth and yanked you backward off your feet. until the map flew from your hand.

until everything went dark.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

one job. she had one job.

she’d whispered it to herself so many times it had become something like a prayer. a chant in the back of her throat, behind her teeth. on long rides, across foreign towns, when sword-tips scraped her ribs and villagers slammed doors in her face—she would mumble it like a vow, like it could undo what happened.

she was supposed to protect you.

and she failed.

it had been 6 months. twenty six weeks of searching.

and you were still gone.

no ransom note. no signs. no body.

which meant maybe you were alive.

which meant maybe you were suffering.

she rubbed at the back of her neck, her calloused palm scraping a sunburn that had never properly healed. her armor hung loose around her frame. she hadn’t eaten more than dried fruit and barley in days, hadn’t slept more than a few hours at a time, and when she did—it was the same dream every night. your face. that expression you’d had when she told you yes. when she promised you a way out. the way your smile cracked like sunlight through leaves.

god. she should’ve gone with you.

she should’ve known.

when she’d helped you sneak out that night, she thought she was being romantic. thought she was being brave.

you’d clutched your traveling cloak with trembling hands, looked up at her like you were about to cry and said, “i don’t want to be here anymore.”

and she—idiot that she was—had said, “go. just for tonight. i’ll meet you by the river bend. before dawn.”

she hadn’t kissed you. hadn’t let herself. you were still the princess and she was still a knight and this was still the kind of love they’d cut heads off for. but god, she’d wanted to. she’d wanted to since the first time you laughed at one of her dumb jokes, since you threw a pillow at her head in the drawing room and said, “you make me feel like i’m not a prisoner.”

she’d never felt more dangerous.

more herself.

but she’d gotten to the river bend too late. the grass had been trampled. your footprints stopped in the dirt.

and then nothing.

“van.” she heard a voice say, snapping her out of her thoughts.

she looked up sharply. natalie stood in the doorway, arms crossed, hair wild from the rain.

“you’re gonna drown in that bottle if you keep this up.”

van blinked at her tankard. she hadn’t realized she was still holding it. she set it down, ignoring the way her hand trembled.

“you don’t have to stay,” she muttered.

“good,” nat said, stepping inside anyway. “because i’m not here for you.”

lottie followed, robes trailing behind her, looking like she’d just walked out of a stormcloud. her eyes landed on van, solemn.

“she’s still out there,” lottie said.

van swallowed. “don’t.”

“you think i’d lie to you?”

“i think you say what people want to hear.”

lottie tilted her head. “and you want to hear she’s gone?”

the words landed like a blade.

natalie shoved a stool toward her with her foot and collapsed into it. “she had another vision. thought you’d want to know.”

lottie moved toward the fire. “it wasn’t clear. but it was… hopeful. a return. a flame that didn’t die out. a voice saying her name.”

van closed her eyes.

she didn’t believe in magic. not really. but she believed in you.

and she believed in the way her chest still ached like your absence had carved a hollow in her ribs.

“she would’ve come back by now,” van said quietly.

“she can’t,” lottie said. “not yet. but she’s alive. and she wants to.”

two days later, the king summoned her.

van stood in the throne room, every joint aching, armor still caked with dust, and listened as he spoke the words she’d dreaded since the moment you vanished.

“it’s time we end the search.”

“your highness,” van started, “please—”

he held up a hand.

“i have given you time, van palmer. more than any other knight. i’ve seen your devotion. but the nobles are restless. the people grow anxious. we must prepare for a new heir, and you…”

he paused. his gaze was tired. pained.

“you are dismissed from duty.”

the floor didn’t fall out from beneath her. she wished it had.

van bowed her head. she didn’t cry. not in front of him.

but when she stepped outside the gates, stripped of her sword and her sigil and the last purpose she had left—

she didn’t go home.

she went to the tavern.

she hadn’t seen natalie so often since training years ago. but nat had a knack for finding the places no one looked. she showed up in shadowed doorways, bruised and unbothered, always smelling like smoke and booze, always leaning too far into her cups.

they made a good pair. a terrible one, too.

“you ever think about leaving?” van asked one night, staring into the fire.

natalie arched a brow. “and go where?”

“anywhere.”

“without her?”

van didn’t answer.

nat clicked her tongue. “you’re too loyal, van. it’s going to kill you.”

van looked down at her hands. “it already has.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

you don't know how long it's been now. at first, they kept you tied. hands bound, mouth gagged, eyes blindfolded. they moved camp constantly—never more than a day in one place. you tried to run once, and they let you get a few paces before knocking you to the ground. after that, you didn't try again.

you learned their names slowly. you weren't supposed to, but bandits aren't as careful as they pretend to be. mari—short tempered, sharp eyes. misty—too eager to please. akilah—quiet, but dangerous when angry. you learned their footsteps, their rhythms, who would leave you water and who would curse when they looked at you.

the worst part was how quickly the cold became familiar.

it sank into your bones, rough and clinging, until the memory of warm baths and thick blankets felt like a story someone else had lived.

and they didn't even treat you like a person. not at first. they treated you like currency. a prize. a bargaining chip, maybe. or a ghost.

and they hated how you watched them—like you were trying to understand. like you weren't supposed to be smart. they hated it more when you started talking.

"why am i here?" you asked on the second morning, voice hoarse from sleep and fear. "what do you want from me?"

no one answered at first. then misty, all too cheerful with her ruddy cheeks and too-bright smile, said, "you should be honored. do you know who you're replacing?"

akilah gave her a look. "shut up, misty," she said, sounding slightly sympathetic.

but it was too late.

you latched onto the word like it was a lifeline. replacing?

"replacing who?"

they didn't answer.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

you didn't meet shauna right away.

it took four days before they brought you to her. four days of sleeping on damp ground, waking to boots kicking your ribs, water splashed in your face, and barked commands. you kept thinking van would find you. that this was temporary. you pictured her riding through the trees, red hair flashing like a flag. you imagined the way she'd yell when she saw you, how her voice would shake with fury and something else. something closer to relief. she'd grip your shoulders. she'd call you dumb. she'd kiss you.

she'd bring you home.

but van never came. and on the fifth day, they brought you to the cabin,

shauna sat by the fire with her back to you. she didn't stand. didn't speak.

"she's here," mari said.

still no reaction.

"do you want us to leave her tied?" misty chirped.

that finally got her attention.

shauna turned slowly, eyes landing on you with something colder than anger. she studied you like you were a cracked mirror—too broken to be useful, to familiar to throw away.

her voice, when she finally spoke, was low.

"she's too soft," she said. "she won't last."

you wanted to speak. to say i'm not soft. but your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth.

shauna looked away. "get her cleaned up."

they didn't. not really. but they loosened the ropes, left you a cup of water, and dumped you in a corner on a blanket that smelled like mildew and ash.

you didn't speak to shauna again for a week.

it was mari who gave you answers first. she came to throw you a heel of bread one night and lingered in the doorway, arms crossed.

"you really don't know, do you?" she said.

you stared at her. "know what?"

she smirked. "about jackie."

the name hit hard.

you sat up straighter. "what about her?"

mari tilted her head. "your sister. everyone thinks she died running from some animal in the woods, right?"

you nodded slowly. "yeah, that's what townspeople say."

"cute. and fake. she didn't run from anything. she ran to someone."

your heart skipped. "shauna."

mari grinned. "ding ding ding.""

she walked closer. crouched in front of you, eyes glittering.

"jackie left everything—her crown, her kingdom, her future—because she wanted to be free. wanted to be with someone who saw her. she found that with shauna. for a while, anyway."

you swallowed. "what happened?"

mari's grin faded.

"she died."

"how, though?"

she straightened up. "that's not mine to tell."

you didn't sleep that night.

later, when shauna finally broke her silence, it wasn’t out of kindness.

it was because you asked her the wrong question.

you were tired. you hadn’t eaten properly in days. and she’d sat near you by the fire, knife in hand, carving something into wood. you couldn’t help yourself.

“did you love her?”

the blade slipped.

she didn’t look at you for a long time.

then: “she was my whole fucking world.”

silence stretched.

you wrapped your arms around your knees. “i miss her.”

shauna’s eyes finally met yours.

“don’t say that,” she said quietly. “you didn’t know her. not like i did.”

“but she was my sister.”

shauna’s face crumpled in the flicker of firelight—just for a moment. then the walls came back up.

“she was brave,” she said. “not like you.”

you flinched. “you think i’m weak?”

“i think you’re soft. same thing.”

“i think i’m alive,” you said, biting back the shake in your voice.

shauna laughed once. a hollow sound.

“only because they brought you to me instead of killing you.”

you started watching her after that.

and she watched you too.

not with tenderness. not with cruelty either. something else. something like recognition.

some nights, she’d speak to you like you were her ghost. jackie’s echo. a shadow on the wall. she’d pace the cabin, muttering memories into the smoke. “she hated tea. always said it tasted like boiled grass. made me drink her share when we visited the old healer in farhold. i said she was spoiled. she said i was a sucker.”

you never interrupted. you just listened. every word, every story, you swallowed them like air.

maybe you weren’t jackie. but you were something.

and she let you live.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

the fire’s dead again.

van hasn’t bothered to stoke it. she’s just sitting in front of the cold hearth, slouched low in the armchair she dragged from the castle storage before she was stripped of her title. it’s too big for the little cottage she was given after the king's funeral—some sorry compensation from the council, a reminder that service didn’t mean much when you failed at the one thing that mattered.

protect the princess.

she rubs at her face with one hand, the other still curled around a half-empty bottle of plum wine. it’s too sweet, the kind she never used to touch, but it’s what natalie brings over and she doesn’t care enough to argue anymore. her boots are still caked in mud from the morning’s rain. she hasn’t moved since dusk.

she can still hear your laugh in the back of her mind, muffled and soft, like it’s been soaked in water and buried under time. your voice saying her name. the last time she saw you—gown fluttering behind you, barefoot in the grass, cheeks red from excitement as you whispered about stars and oceans and freedom.

then you were gone.

and van has been bleeding ever since.

the door crashes open, wind howling through the entryway as natalie stumbles in with zero grace and even less concern.

“you look like shit,” she says, kicking the door shut behind her.

van doesn’t even flinch. “thanks.”

natalie tosses her dripping cloak over a chair and grabs a glass from the table without asking. she pours herself a generous serving of van’s wine and drains half of it in one go.

“still raining?” van mumbles.

“no, i’m just committed to the wet dog look,” natalie deadpans. “also, you really need to get out more.”

“i don’t want to get out.”

“yeah, no shit. that’s why i’m here.” natalie plops down across from her and props her boots on the table. “you hear about the party?"

“don't care about the party," van replies.

"it's for ben. you like ben."

van snorts into her cup. “ben’s the reason i’ve got a roof over my head. doesn’t mean i want to drink stale cider in his honor.”

natalie gives her a long, level look. “you might want to reconsider.”

van blinks. “why?”

natalie shifts, setting down her glass with unusual care. she doesn’t meet van’s eyes right away. her voice, when she speaks again, is quieter than van’s used to hearing it.

“lottie had a vision.”

van’s body stiffens, the room suddenly feeling too quiet, like the wind outside took all the sound with it.

“what kind of vision?”

natalie draws in a slow breath. “she came to my place this morning. said she hadn’t slept all night. said she was shaking for hours. like… she couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. just kept whispering the same thing over and over.”

van leans forward, her voice cracking. “what thing?”

natalie looks her in the eye. “she’s coming home.”

the words hit like a punch to the chest. van’s breath leaves her in a shudder. her hands tremble, barely noticeable, but she hides them anyway.

“you don’t know that’s what she meant,” she says, but it’s weak. she already knows it’s a lie.

natalie presses on. “lottie saw a crown. a girl with gold in her blood and dirt on her feet. she said she saw a forest and fire and a wolf crying in the dark.”

van swallows hard. “that could mean anything.”

“it could,” natalie agrees. “but it doesn’t. not this time.”

she leans forward, elbows on her knees. “she saw you, van. not the knight. not the armor. you. she said it felt like… like a wound healing too late. like the moon pulling the tide back in.”

van can’t speak. her throat’s gone tight, a strange pressure building behind her eyes. she bites it back. she’s so tired of crying.

“it’s been almost a year,” she whispers.

natalie nods. “i know.”

“she’s probably—” van stops herself. she’s said those words before. they always come out wrong. they always taste like ash.

but natalie just says gently, “she’s not. you don’t feel it?”

van blinks down at her boots. her voice is barely audible. “i feel everything.”

they sit in silence for a while. rain tapping against the windowpanes like fingers. the wind a low moan across the hills.

natalie nudges the wine bottle toward her. “if lottie’s right… if she’s really coming back, don’t you want to be there?”

van stares at the fireless hearth. at the ghost of your smile in the back of her mind.

she thinks of the way you used to look at her when you thought she wasn’t paying attention. the way you always asked her questions no one else cared to answer—about the sky, about how far the sea was from the castle, about whether she thought it was possible to love someone you weren’t allowed to have.

she stands.

“i need to get cleaned up.”

natalie smirks. “so you are going to ben’s.”

van tosses her a look. “don’t make me change my mind.”

she pulls on her cloak, still damp from last week’s storm. her hands are steadier now, moving on instinct. her chest is tight, but it’s not the same kind of ache. it’s something brighter. fiercer. like the moment before a blade meets skin—sharp, burning, inevitable.

she doesn’t say your name.

but it’s all she’s thinking.

you’re coming back.

you’re coming back.

please be real.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

you can’t remember the last time the stars felt close. not like they did at home, on the castle balcony, where van used to point out constellations with one hand while the other hovered nervously at your back, not quite brave enough to touch you.

here, in the middle of the bandit camp, they’re cold and far away. there’s smoke in the air, laughter from someone’s flask echoing off the trees. you’ve stopped asking when you’ll be let go. you’ve stopped believing it’ll ever happen.

and shauna… shauna watches you with that same unreadable look every night. like she’s waiting for something. like she’s weighing a scale that keeps tipping the wrong way.

she sits beside you now, closer than usual. the firelight flickers across her face, makes the years and bitterness look heavier. her hands are calloused. a scar slices through one of her knuckles. she smells like pine and steel.

“you remind me of her,” she says.

you don’t have to ask who she means.

you’ve heard the stories in pieces. from the others—misty, who has no tact; mari, who rolls her eyes but clearly still mourns; even akilah, who once drunkenly whispered, “you smile like jackie. it’s freaky.”

you found the locket in shauna’s tent, pried it open when no one was looking, and saw the miniature portrait.

jackie taylor.

your sister.

the locked confirmed the truth. she ran. for love. for shauna.

“she wasn’t delicate,” shauna says, pulling you out of your thoughts. “everyone thought she was. but she was fire. no one ever saw it but me.”

you glance at her. her eyes are glassy but sharp.

“i’m not trying to replace her,” you say quietly.

“i know.” shauna’s voice is dry. “but they were.”

you follow her gaze across the camp, to where misty is arguing with crystal over firewood. to where mari sharpens a blade like it’s therapy. they look at you too much. like you’re something broken they can fix. like maybe if they keep you long enough, jackie will come back in your skin.

“i didn’t ask for this,” you murmur.

shauna nods slowly. “neither did she.”

for a long time, the only sound is the crackling fire and the low murmur of the woods. shauna leans forward, picks up a stick, pokes at the flames like they personally offended her.

“she died in my arms,” she says suddenly. “we were trying to leave that winter. didn’t make it far before the storm hit. i begged her to turn back, but she said—”

her voice catches.

“she said she’d rather die free.”

you stare at her. “and you think i’m her.”

“no,” shauna says, and for once she looks directly at you. “i think you’re braver.”

it stuns you, the way your heart jumps. the way it hurts to hear that.

“i shouldn’t have kept you,” she adds, voice barely above a whisper. “i knew it the second i saw your eyes. you looked at me like i was your jailor.”

“aren’t you?”

shauna snorts. “not anymore.”

you blink. “what do you mean?”

“i mean,” she says, pushing herself to her feet with a quiet groan, “you’re going home.”

your breath stutters. you stand too fast, dizziness tilting the trees sideways.

“why now?”

shauna doesn’t answer right away. she stares into the fire for a long time, like she’s trying to see something in it. maybe a memory. maybe jackie.

then she finally says, “because you deserve to be more than someone else’s ghost.”

and with that, she walks away.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

the castle hasn’t held a celebration in months. not like this.

banners fly from the towers, wine flows like water, and the ballroom is filled with laughter that doesn’t quite reach the edges. people are trying—they raise glasses, smile a little too hard, tell stories with too much volume. but it’s all stretched thin, like the walls themselves are holding their breath.

van’s been holding hers since she put on her best clothes, the ones lottie insisted she wear. a crisp tunic, polished boots, a dark cloak that still smells faintly of smoke. her armor is long gone—stripped from her along with her title—but she stands like she’s still wearing it, stiff and alert, a hand near her belt even though there’s no sword there anymore.

she shouldn’t be here.

but lottie had the vision. and when lottie has a vision, van listens.

now she stands in the corner of the ballroom, pretending not to scan every face that walks through the door. her jaw’s clenched. her fingers drum restlessly on the side of her wine glass.

she hasn’t stopped thinking about you.

eleven months. eleven months without your laugh, your teasing questions, your dumb cloak that always trailed in puddles. eleven months of wondering if she failed you, if you hated her for letting you leave, if you died blaming her.

ben gives a speech from the dais. something about renewal and hope and the future of the kingdom. he doesn’t mention your name.

he doesn’t have to.

every person in the room is thinking about you anyway.

van steps out onto the balcony when the clapping starts, the air too heavy inside. she needs space. she needs—

“van?”

she turns.

and you’re standing at the top of the stone steps, framed by torchlight and stars, with your hood down and your hair tangled and your mouth parted like you weren’t sure she’d be real, either.

“hey,” you say, so quietly.

the glass slips from her hand and shatters on the floor.

it’s loud enough to draw attention.

gasps erupt behind her. one by one, the partygoers fall into stunned silence, their heads turning, their eyes widening.

it spreads like fire through dry grass—noblewomen pressing hands to their mouths, guards half-reaching for weapons before freezing in recognition, servants stumbling in place, stunned.

“it’s her,” someone whispers.

“the princess.”

“no, it can’t be—”

“oh gods, it’s really her—”

and before anyone can speak again, you’re running.

van meets you halfway.

you crash into her chest and she catches you like it’s instinct. her arms lock tight around your back, your cloak flares out behind you. she lifts you off your feet for a second. you’re shaking. so is she.

“i found you,” you breathe.

“you came back,” van says. “you came back to me.”

her voice cracks.

you hear a few more gasps from inside the ballroom. someone actually drops a tray. then—

applause.

it starts hesitant, awkward.

then it grows.

thunderous clapping shakes the ballroom floors. cheers rise like a tide. someone shouts your name, and another shouts van’s. there’s crying, even from people who’ve never spoken to you. you were gone for almost a year. your face was etched in stained glass and prayers.

you were a ghost.

now you’re here.

van presses her forehead to yours, whispering over the roar, “you okay with this?”

you nod against her, just once. “as long as you’re with me.”

she takes your hand. pulls you through the doors.

the crowd parts like waves before you.

people bow. they fall to their knees. a court lady starts sobbing.

and through it all, van stays right beside you. her grip never loosens. not once.

lottie steps forward from the front of the room, her eyes glassy, her smile warm. natalie stands behind her, stunned for once in her life, a half-drunk goblet forgotten in her hand.

lottie says, “the vision was true.”

you offer her the smallest nod of gratitude. she dips her head in return.

ben looks like he’s seen a ghost. you don’t stop to speak to him.

instead, van leans into your ear. “come with me.”

you let her pull you past the crowd, through a side door, down a hallway that’s quieter, darker. the celebration fades behind you, muffled by stone.

she pushes open a smaller door—a forgotten sitting room near the old library—and guides you inside.

you both stand there, finally still.

“i didn’t know if you were dead,” van says, not looking at you yet. “or worse. i didn’t know if you hated me.”

you shake your head, stepping closer. “i thought about you every night.”

“i looked for you every day.”

she sits on the arm of an old velvet chair, gripping the edge like it might anchor her.

“i got stripped of my title,” she says. “when your father gave up the search. he said he was sorry, but that i’d failed.”

your eyes blur. you go to her, falling to your knees in front of where she sits.

“you didn’t fail me.”

“i let you go.”

“you let me dream.”

she meets your gaze for the first time since the ballroom.

“you were the only one who ever treated me like i was more than a precious thing in a glass case,” you say. “you let me want things.”

“i loved you for it,” van murmurs. “gods, i still do.”

you reach for her hand. slide your fingers between hers.

“i think i always loved you,” you whisper. “i just didn’t understand it yet.”

the quiet stretches between you.

then van leans forward, forehead pressed to yours.

“i don’t want to miss any more time with you.”

“you won’t.”

she kisses you again, softer this time. reverent. like a vow.

and for the first time in what feels like forever, you both feel like you’re home.

💌 taglist: @callsignwidow, @freakyjorker, @imlike-so-gaydude, @yellowjacketsslvt69, @moonwateraura, @gracynparsons, @casualclamturkey, @crainalley0227, @auroraseddie

[pensthoughts]

Hi…HIIIII!!!! So…call me crazy if you don’t see the vision, okay, Spider-Woman! Reader x Big Spider-Woman fan! Van…. Like, I see it, don’t you? Like it’s perfect. Like you are my favourite writer on Tumblr so…yeah

sticky situation | v.p

a/n: i always see spiderman au's for other fandoms so i was really excited to write this when i got it! also i'm not a big superhero fan so please don't judge if i get things wrong lol. hope you enjoy!! pairing: superfan!van x spiderwoman!reader summary: after getting into a big fight in the city, you turn to your best friend to help you out. too bad your best friend happens to be your biggest fan. word count: 3.2k

the city is loud tonight. not the kind of loud that mkes you feel alive—but the kind that tells you something's wrong. the kind that seeps into your bones and whispers: this is gonna hurt.

you don't even remember how it started. you were patrolling over lower manhattan, crouched on the edge of a rooftop and watching the streets below with tired eyes. it was supposed to be a quiet night. you were even thinking of cutting it short, maybe texting van to meet you at that twenty-four house diner she loves—the one with the cinnamon milshakes and sticky booths. she always pretends she hates the place, but you've caught her smiling into her fries too many times for that to be true.

but then the explosion happened. not big enough to take out a whole block, but enough to blow out windows, throw sparks into the night, and make your heart lurch. by the time you swung down, the scene was chaos—two masked guys hauling duffel bags into a black van, one already holding a crowbar like he was waiting for a fight.

and of course, you had to be a smartass. "hey," you called, landing in front of them. "you left your manners at home."

needless to say, they didn't think it was funny.

the fight was messy. one of them was stronger than he looked, swinging wild but heavy. the other ahd a shock baton—probably stolen. you dodged the first few hits easily, landing a couple of clean web-assisted kicks, but you were tired, running on half a protein bar and whatever adrenaline you had left. the baton guy got lucky. got you in the side while you were mid-flip. you felt it before you saw it. a burst of heat that made your whole right side throb.

you kept going. you always do. you took them both down eventually, left them webbed to a streetlamp with a little note: nice try. but by the time you were scaling a building to get away, your suit was already sticking to your skin from the blood.

you tried not to panic. you've been injured before. you have plans for this. safehouses. contacts. places to hide.

but not this close. not fast enough.

so your brain did what it always done when you're scared. it went to van.

you've been best friends with van since sophomore year of high school. she was the loud redhead in the back of your chemistry class who cracked jokes under her breath and made paper footballs out of pop quizzes. you were new—nervous, quiet, still trying to figure out if you could balance a secret double life and algebra II. van figured you out faster than you figured out the cafeteria schedule. not the spider-woman part, of course. just the important stuff. that you liked the weird flavored gatorades. that you doodled in the margins of your notebooks when you were thinking. that your laugh came out in stutters when you were really caught off guard.

you weren't supposed to get close to anyone, not really. but she made it hard not to. van has this gravitational pull—bold and ridiculous and so painfully genuine it hurts. she got you to open up in pieces, to trust in increments. you had sleepovers in your house, movie marathons at hers, birthday dinners that always ended in karaoke. she knew when to tease and when to let you sit in silence. when you got detention for the first time (not your fault), she faked being sick just so you wouldn't have to serve it alone.

and now, you're still in new york—freshmen. van's studying film at nye, already making weird little shorts with her classmates and pretending she's not going to be famous one day. you're juggling classes, homework, and a part-time superhero gig that would kill your gpa if your professors found out.

somehow, in the mess of it, you've stayed close. late-night bagels. shared playlists. phone calls when you're in the suit and trying not to sound out of breath. she doesn't know the truth, but she still keeps you sane.

you knew that there was one problem about this plan—van loves spider-woman in ways that shouldn't even be allowed.

she's got posters, figures, even a hand-painte mug with your symbol on it. you once caught her watching a shaky phone recording of you flipping off a rooftop and landing with perfect form. she didn't even look embarrassed.

and now here you are, bleeding through your side, scaling her fire escape.

you tell yourself it's fine. she won't know it's you. you'll keep the mask on. you'll be just another bleeding superhero in need of some neosporin.

inside, her room is glowing with that golden warmth you've always loved. strings of lights loop across her ceiling, draped haphazardly over posters and shelves. her bed is a mess—blankets half on the floor, pillows thrown to the side like she was in the middle of remaking it and got distracted.

and she's dancing.

you blink, momentarily forgetting the blood pooling in your suit.

she's got music blaring through her speakers, something unapologetically pop and aggressively catchy. she's singing into a hairbrush, spinning in circles, nearly tripping over her own socks. her pajama shirt is oversides and slightly ripped at the collar, her shorts hanging low on her hips. she's grinning like she doesn't have a care in the world.

you lean against the window frame, watching her for a second.

you should knock.

but it's hard to tear your eyes away. there's something about her like this—unguarded, ridiculous, beautiful. you've fought monsters, out swung bullets, stared death in the face without blinking. but standing here, watching van palmer lip-sync to a song about heartbreak with one sock on and one off?

that's what makes your pulse trip.

you knock.

she doesn't hear it. you knock again, harder this time.

her head snaps up.

she sees you.

freezes.

and then she vanishes below the windowsill like she's just seen a ghost.

you smile weakly, pressing your forehead to the glass. "hey," you say, voice low, shaking. "it's okay. it's just—i need help."

there's a beat.

then she reappears. slower this time. careful. her eyes rake over you—your mask, your trembling hand, the dark red stain seeping from your ribs.

she lifts the window.

"get in," she says, breathless.

you climb through with more effort than you want to admit. your balance is off, your legs wobbly. as soon as you land inside, you stumble, and she's there—arms around you, solid and warm.

"whoa," she mutters, steadying you. "okay. you're real."

you try for a joke but only manage a hiss of pain.

"okay," she says, dragging you gently. "sit. i'll get the first aid kit. don't touch anything. or die."

you let yourself collapse onto her floor against her bed, your hand pressed tight against your wound. you watch her leave the room, backing out like she doesn't want to blink and miss it. her expression is a mix of awe and panic. she's always been good in emergencies, though.

you close your eyes for just a second.

you're not sure if this was the smartest decision, but you're here now, and van palmer is about to see a side of you she's only dreamed of.

she's back in under a minute, a little red box under her arm and her other hand holding a towel she probably didn't think through—white, of course. she takes one look at the blood and immediately swaps it out for a dark t-shirt from her laundry pile.

her eyebrows are knitted in concentration like she's still processing the fact that this is really happening. like you're really here, bleeding all over her hardwood floor.

"okay," she announces as she kneels in front of you, "this is the part where you don't judge my lack of any and all medical experience."

you lean back slightly to give her space, the fabric of your suit pulled enough to reveal the deep, ugly gash along your side. it's still weeping, though not as badly as before.

"god," van murmurs, wincing. "what even did this?"

"guy with a crowbar thing," you mutter, teeth grit. "he didn't like my jokes."

van lets out a breath. "typical new-yorker."

she sets the kit beside her and cracks it open, pulling out alcohol, gauze, tape, and bandages in a practiced sort of messiness. she's moving fast but not carelessly. her fingers, warm and steady, prod gently around the wound as she leans in close. you try not to flinch. she smells like oranges and something woodsy—familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

when the alcohol touches your skin, you hiss involuntarily.

"shit—sorry!" van's hand flies back like she's been burned. "i knew that was gonna suck, i just didn't know how much."

you shake your head. "it's fine. i've had worse."

van gives you a quick glance. "that's kind of the scariest thing you've said all night."

she presses the gauze down carefully, holding it there. you feel her exhale, warm against your shoulder. then she tapes it into place with slow, focused movements. her touch is light but precise.

"you're good at this," you mutter.

she snorts. "what, being a hot florence nightingale?"

your lips curve, despite the pain. "something like that."

she tapes a clean bandage over the gauze and begins wrapping the stretch of gauze around your waist, threading it under your arms and around your back, leaning in close with every pass. her fingers graze your ribs once and you flinch—not from the pain this time.

she notices.

you watch her work, and she tries not to meet your eyes, though you catch the smile tugging at her lips.

"i'm just saying," she says, voice light. "i imagined meeting spider-woman a lot of ways, but none of them involved gauze and my kitchen scissors."

you chuckle. "and how did you imagine it?"

she shrugs, looping the bandage again. "you know. saving me from an explosion. swinging in through the window. a dramatic pose."

you arch a brow. "i did come through the window."

"true," she says, mock-serious. "i feel honored."

van's eyes lift to yours for a split second too long. then she looks away, focusing too intently on tearing the end of the bandage.

it's quiet for a beat, just the sound of the city outside, muffled by distance. you glance down at her hands—freckled, careful, still slightly shaking,

she speaks again, but this time her voice is lower, like she's trying to puzzle something out.

"you... you sound familiar," she says.

your stomach tightens.

she shakes her head, mostly to herself. "sorry, i don't mean that in a weird way. it's just—your voice. i swear it's on the tip of my tongue."

you force a shrug, not trusting your voice.

but then it slips out, too naturally—your instinct when she presses the gauze too hard.

"dude, gentle. i'm injured, not invincible."

van stills. completely.

you feel her gaze flick back up to your face. her brows draw in, not confused—curious.

you've said that line to her a thousand times before, back when you two were roughhousing in high school, back when she'd throw popcorn at your face during horror movies or shove you off the couch when you said something smartass-y.

van squints slightly, eyes narrowing in that familiar way when she's focusing hard on something.

"...what did you just say?"

you try to cover, to laugh it off. "uh. nothing?

"no. you said—" she sits back on her heels, studing your face like it's a riddle. "that line. you've said that before."

"i mean, i'm sure spider-woman's said a lot of things."

van doesn't laugh. she just stares, mouth parted, like she's standing on the edge of a realization she's not ready for.

you feel the tension shift between you, coiling tight. the bandage is finished, but she doesn't move away.

"you're weirdly good at pretending you're not in pain," she says softly.

you meet her eyes. "i've had practice."

"you're not like... famous-famous, right?" she asks, almost playfully. "like, under the mask? you're not secretly, like, florence pugh or something?"

you snort. "do i sound british?"

van grins, and then—it softens. almost fades.

"i don't know," she murmurs. "you just... feel familiar."

your heart thuds unevenly. you open your mouth to say something—anything—but her phone buzzes on the desk. she blinks, dragging herself away from whatever rabbit hole her brain was going down.

she walks over, still frowning slightly, and picks it up.

her thumb hovers over your name in her contacts—your civilian name.

she hesitates.

then taps out a message:

bro you'll seriously NEVER guess who's in my room. plz come over later so i can tell you🙏

the buzz that follows is barely audible, but van hears it. her head snaps toward you like a bloodhound catching a scent. she sees the shape of your phone in your boot that you took off upon entering her room.

the screen lights up—her message, your name, right there.

slowly, she walks back over.

your phone still glowing her her hand.

her eyes are wide now, but not panicked.

she looks at you. and all she says is, "...no way."

she says it like a prayer. like a punchline. like a memory unraveling in real time.

you freeze—completely, utterly still.

van is holding your phone like it's glass, like it might vanish if she grips it too hard. her eyes flick from your face to the cracked screen and back, and you see the moment it clicks. her mouth parts slightly.

you could lie. play it off. say someone else borrowed your phone. say you're just a really convincing voice match. say anything.

but you don't. because you know her. and because, in some stubborn part of you, you want her to know.

she exhales a quiet laugh. "dude."

you sigh, tugging your mask off fully now. "yeah. it's me."

van sinks down to the floor across from you like her knees give out. she doesn't look scared. or angry. she just looks...amazed. like she's staring at a skyline for the first time.

"i can't believe—" she laughs again, shakily this time. "oh my god, you've been her this whole time? my best friend is spider-woman?"

"sorry," you say, giving her a sheepish smile. "i didn't really know how to bring it up. like hey, pass the popcorn, also i fight crime on the weekends."

she shakes her head slowly, in awe. "no, like, what? you've been to my house. you've held my spider-woman bobblehead. you made fun of me for watching that fan edit seventeen times."

"i didn't make fun of you," you argue. "i said it was impressively edited."

van squints. "you called it 'fanfic with a budget.'"

"okay," you admit, grinning. "that does sound like me."

she stares at you for a moment, her smile faltering into something softer. she's still holding the medkit between you, like a strange sort of offering.

"so all those times you ditched plans," she says. "it wasn't because you were flaking. it was because you were saving people."

you nod.

"and tonight—you came here. out of everywhere in the city, you came here. to me"

you look down at your bandaged side, then back up at her.

"i trust you," you say. "even when you don't realize you're flirting with me."

that makes her snort—sharp and incredulous—but she doesn't deny it. instead, she reaches over, gentle fingers tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

"you know what's crazy?" she says, and her voice is quieter now, like she's confessing something she didn't plan to. "you show up at my window, bleeding and brave and real, and i think... of course it's you. it had to be you."

your breath catches in your throat.

van leans back slightly, giving you space again—but not too much.

"i liked spider-woman because she was fearless and funny and always five steps ahead. but i think i liked her because... she reminded me of you."

you bite your lip, warmth pooling in your chest. "you said i reminded you over a superhero once. i thought you were just being nice."

"i wasn't," she says. "i just didn't know how right i was."

the silence between you stretches, but it's not heavy anymore.

van eyes you for a long moment, then adds with a grin, "i'm keeping the bobblehead though. i don't care how famous you get."

you laugh, wincing slightly, and she catches your arm instinctively, steadying you.

you look at her—really look—and you know it's not just the suit or the powers or the danger that brought you here. it's her. it's always been her.

"you saved me," you say softly,

van smiles, hand still resting on your arm. "you started it."

she helps you to your feet with a quiet grunt, slipping an arm around your waist for support.

"so," she says as you lean into her, "what's the plan now, hero?"

you glance toward the window. the skyline glows like embers. sirens wail somewhere far off, fading into the hum of the city.

and you look back at van.

"honestly?" you say. "i think i need to sleep for a week. but maybe first...i owe you a real explanation."

she grins, walking toward her bed like it's no big deal. like she's not half-carrying a literal vigilante.

"you can start with why you always bailed on movie night."

"and end with why your first stop after almost dying was me," she adds, teasing.

you smirk. "maybe i just wanted to see your dance moves again."

van laughs, red creeping into her cheeks as she helps you settle against the pillows. "don't push it, spider-girl."

as she settles beside you, legs crossed, fingers fidgeting with the corner of the medkit box, you feel the air between you settle into something warmer than it's ever been. you saved a city. you survived a fight.

but this? this is the part you were fighting for.

she settles beside you, cross-legged and still buzzing with adrenaline, even if she’s trying to play it cool. her shoulder brushes yours, warm and steady. and for a second, everything feels almost normal. like it’s always been this way—just you, her, and the glow of the city outside her window.

she starts rifling through the medkit again, mumbling something about finding the good band-aids, and you catch yourself watching the way her brow furrows in concentration, the way her fingers move like she’s done this before, like she knowshow to take care of people, how to take care of you.

it sneaks up on you, the realization.

you’ve spent years with van palmer. late nights, shared secrets, laughter that made your ribs ache. you’ve trusted her with everything except this one, impossible truth. and now that she knows, now that she’s looking at you like you’re still you—just maybe a little more sparkly around the edges—

you think you might like her.

not just as your best friend. not just as the girl with a room full of superhero merch and a laugh you could find in a crowd. but like… like like.

and the worst part?

you think she might like you too.

but for now, you lean back against her shoulder, let your eyes flutter shut, and let yourself rest. because spider-woman can save the city tomorrow.

tonight, you’re just a girl with a secret and a little bit of a crush.

and van palmer is still your favorite person in the world.

💌 taglist: @callsignwidow, @freakyjorker, @imlike-so-gaydude, @yellowjacketsslvt69, @moonwateraura, @gracynparsons, @casualclamturkey

[pensthoughts]

Hiii! I was wondering if you could make a Van x f!reader, r is a basketball player and at a game they get hurt so Van helps. Maybe…🤭

in your corner | v.p

a/n: just to prefice this story, i know nothing about basketball so please do not judge me for my lack of ball knowlege 🙏 pairing: van palmer x reader summary: you, the star basketball player, get injured in the middle of your big game. luckily, your girlfriend is watching and comforts you through it all. word count: 1.6k

it starts with the crowd.

that low, buzzing static of anticipation, bleachers groaning under the weight of restless legs and half-shouted conversations. it buzzes beneath your shoes, curls up your spine, crackles along your skin like static—this is your space. your stage. your pulse is already up and the ball hasn't even been thrown yet.

you pull your jersey down—number 5, always—and crack your neck once, twice.

focused. ready.

out of the corner of your eye, just past the bench and the giant paper banner the cheerleaders finished taping five minutes ago, she's there.

van palmer.

front and center in the bleachers, leaning forward like she's part of the team, like if the game needed her, she'd be on the floor in her converse and jeans, swiping the ball right out from under the other team's point gaurd. she doesn't cheer, not really, but her eyes haven't left you since warm-ups. not even once.

she catches you looking and lifts her eyebrows like, well? you gonna win or what?

you give her the smallest smirk, barely a flicker. nothing anyone else would notice. but she does. of course she does.

once the game starts, you come in hot.

the ball’s barely out of the ref’s hand before you’ve tipped it toward your team’s side. two passes, a quick screen, and you’re off—left-hand drive, shift to the right, cross back, straight to the rim.

and one.

the gym erupts. van bites down on a laugh that no one else hears.

you jog back with that look you only wear on the court—chin high, eyes sharp, chest rising and falling just fast enough to feel alive. you don’t look at her again, not yet, but you know exactly where she is. you know she’s watching. always watching.

it’s not official. not public.

but it’s real.

and she’s here. that’s all that matters.

midway through the second quarter, your team is up by five. you’ve got fourteen points on the board, three assists, two steals, and zero fouls.

you’re in control.

you take a corner three with two defenders in your face and drain it. you glance to the bleachers—just a glance—and van’s jaw drops before she covers it with her hand, shaking her head like she can’t believe you just did that. like you’re a walking highlight reel and she gets the front-row pass to every game.

she mouths something again.

“show-off.”

you wink this time. just barely.

and then it happens.

you see a lane open. just a sliver. the kind you have to take—because you’ve made it a habit of turning those into gold. you plant your foot hard and drive—

something gives.

not the defense. not the play.

your ankle.

your whole body folds around it, the pain slicing up your leg like a serrated knife. you hit the floor with a force that rattles the gym. you hear the gasps, the shift of noise, and then the sudden hush that only comes with real injuries—the kind people don’t bounce back from with a few stretches and some gatorade.

you try to get up. can’t.

the gym blurs. your breath hiccups.

you think, no no no not now—

and somewhere in that chaos, past the coach, the trainer, the yelling, you see a streak of red hair. a familiar denim jacket.

van.

she’s already standing. one hand gripping the railing in front of her like she might leap over it. her face is pale, jaw tight, lips pressed together so hard they’ve gone white. but she doesn’t come down. doesn’t call out.

she knows better.

you can see it in the way she catches herself—like she almost ran straight onto the court but stopped herself at the last second. like her whole body is tensed, like it’s killing her not to move.

someone helps you sit up. your ankle is ballooning fast, pain radiating outward in pulsing waves.

you finally look toward the bleachers again, and van’s eyes meet yours.

she doesn’t smile.

she nods. once. steady. i’m here. you’ve got this.

you blink hard. nod back.

you don’t need her to come down yet.

just knowing she’s there keeps you from unraveling.

they help you off the court, one arm slung around the assistant coach’s shoulder. your jaw is clenched so tight your molars ache, and when you pass the student section, you swear it goes quiet. not completely, but just enough for you to feel the absence of your presence.

they sit you down on the sideline. ice pack. elevated. everyone’s already turned back to the game.

except her.

van’s still watching. still locked on you.

you try to look fine. you throw her a thumbs-up, half-hearted and clearly fake, but she mirrors it, her expression flickering into something soft, something worried.

she holds up her hands and mimics a dramatic air-quote: "tough guy.”

it makes you laugh. a little. or maybe you’re grimacing. you’re not sure.

you shift in the chair, eyes back on the game. your team is unraveling.

without you calling the plays, they’re floundering. passes too slow, spacing too wide, no one taking command. you grip your knees, white-knuckled. your ankle pulses harder with every missed shot.

you steal one last glance at van. she’s leaned back now, chewing the inside of her cheek. still watching you, not the game.

and it’s not fair.

because all you want—all you want—is to walk up those bleachers, curl into her side, let her wrap that stupid jacket around your shoulders, and hide.

but you can’t.

not here. not yet.

so you breathe. you watch. you swallow the burn in your throat and blink until the tears don’t fall.

and you sit.

still.

alone.

waiting.

you try to stay focused—try to cheer and clap and be that girl who’s still part of the team even from the sidelines—but every time the other team scores, it hits you in the ribs like a punch.

you were up five when you went down.

now you’re down nine.

the other point guard is scrambling. the girls are flustered. coach keeps yelling directions you’d normally call out without thinking. it’s like watching a version of your body out there that doesn’t know what to do without your hands steering it.

you’re failing them. that’s what it feels like. like this whole thing is your fault, and your chest is getting tighter by the second because there’s no one else to blame.

so you stand up.

or try to.

your wrapped ankle screams, and you nearly sit back down—but no. you grip the edge of the chair, teeth clenched, and limp your way across the court edge, pushing through the curtain leading to the locker room without saying a word.

the door shuts behind you with a hollow thunk. it’s quiet here.

too quiet.

you sit on the bench, alone, elbows on your knees, and finally let your head fall into your hands.

no audience. no teammates. just you, your throbbing ankle, and the hollow ache of helplessness lodged somewhere behind your sternum.

you're not a crier. never have been.

but right now, your eyes sting.

you dig your fingers into your scalp like pressure might stop the thoughts spiraling—you should’ve landed better, should’ve called for backup, should’ve kept playing, should’ve—

the door creaks open behind you.

your body stiffens. you don’t look up. “coach, i’m fine.”

“wow,” van’s voice says, low and dry. “that’s wild, because from here it looks like you’re falling apart.”

you exhale through your nose, still not looking at her. “go back out there. they’re probably wondering where you went.”

“let ’em wonder,” she says.

she walks in anyway. her steps echo against the tile, then go quiet when she sits beside you. not too close. but close enough that you can feel her.

you glance at her sideways. her brows are drawn, lips pressed into a tight line, like she’s been fighting something back the whole time.

“y’know,” she says finally, “i’ve seen you play through bruised ribs and a fever once so bad you couldn’t see straight.”

you let out a breathy laugh. “don’t remind me.”

“but i’ve never seen you like this.”

you go quiet.

van leans forward, mirroring your posture. her voice softens. “you feel like you let them down.”

you nod. barely.

“they were killing it tonight,” you murmur. “and then i go down, and it’s like everything just—”

her hand touches your back. gentle pressure, grounding. “you didn’t let anyone down. one girl doesn’t carry a whole team.”

you pull away slightly. “no? ’cause it sure felt like it.”

van turns toward you fully now, one leg pulled up onto the bench, eyes locked on yours. “okay. you wanna wallow, i’ll sit here and wallow with you. but you don’t get to rewrite the game in your head like you’re the villain in it. you got hurt. that’s not a failure. that’s being human.”

your throat tightens. “i hate this.”

“i know.” her voice is like a balm. “i hated watching you go down. i hated not being able to fix it.”

you glance at her, heart in your mouth. “then why’d you come back here?”

van’s smile is small. “because i knew you’d come here to punish yourself.”

she shifts closer, lets her fingers lace through yours on the bench. “and i can’t fix your ankle. but i can be here.”

you squeeze her hand.

it’s quiet for a moment.

then, barely above a whisper, you say, “i wanted to kiss you on the court.”

van smiles, soft and crooked. “yeah?”

“yeah.”

she leans in, nose brushing yours. “then kiss me now.”

so you do.

there, in the quiet hum of the locker room, sweat still drying on your skin and tears you won’t name still burning behind your eyes—you kiss her. like it’s a promise. like it’s a win all on its own.

💌 taglist: @callsignwidow, @freakyjorker, @imlike-so-gaydude, @yellowjacketsslvt69, @moonwateraura, @gracynparsons, @casualclamturkey

[pensthoughts]

will there be a pt 3 of home turf? absolutely obsessed with pt 1&2 and the way you write for van!!

thank you so much for liking home turf!! there will definitely be a part three (and more parts after that), i'm planning on making it like a full fic but i'm working on some requests first before i finish the third part. my plan is to try and get through most of the requests this week (i have some written already but just waiting to post them lol) and then hopefully the third part of home turf sometime this weekend. if i finish the requests before that then it'll come out earlier though!

[pensthoughts]

team bonding | v.p

part 2 of home turf pairing: adult!van palmer x reader summary: your niece informs you that you're in charge of throwing the start-of-season pool party a day before the date. with some help from her charming soccer coach, you try to throw a pool party that will impress the scariest group out there: high school girls. word count: 5.8k contains: age gap, alcohol, soccer coach van, light flirting

van's sleeves are rolled. that's the first thing you notice when you spot her near the center of the field, whistle around her neck, clipboard tucked against her hip. the sleeves of her heather grey shirt are pushed halfway up her arms, and her arms are...yeah. distracting. tanned, freckled, strong in that casual, i could probably lift you without even noticing kind of way.

you're supposed to be watching sophia run drills.

instead, you're staring at her coach and wishing you could rewind about seven hours and not agree to let your niece throw a full-blown varsity pool party at your house tomorrow.

well, technically you didn't agree. you were informed.

over breakfast.

by sophia.

mouth full of waffle, syrup on her cheek, like it was no big deal. "oh, did i forget to say? team bonding. pool party. at our place."

you blinked at her, stunned, then immediately called madison. madison, who had not been helpful in the calm down sense, but had put together a full shopping list in under five minutes. "you're gonna pick up everything after practice," she said. "it'll be fine. gatorade, banners, soccer plates, party favors, you're in your pinterest mom era now."

you'd groaned.

and now here you are—leaning against the fence at the edge of the field, sipping a warm iced matcha and internally spiraling.

"hey."

you flinch, a little. turn your head and she's right there, coach palmer, walking toward you with a water bottle in one hand, sweat on her neck, her eyes catching the sunlight like they're in on some joke you haven't heard yet.

"you good?" she asks, casual, voice low and teasing. "you've been glaring at that blade of grass for five minutes."

you flush. "i'm fine."

she raises an eyebrow. "sure?"

you cave. "okay. not totally fine. i just—found out this morning that sophia invited the entire varsity team to our house for a pool party. tomorrow."

van grins, like it's funny. "ah. yeah, she mentioned that."

"you knew?"

"i mean, i approved it, yeah. thought you were in on it."

you rub your temples. "nope. first i heard of it was over eggo waffles."

van laughs, steps a little closer. "so what, are you throwing a party now?"

you glance up at her. she's still smiling. you feel mildly dizzy.

"i guess," you say. "madison made me a to-do list. apparently i'm picking up, like, four separate orders after this. she's got me getting soccer-themed napkins and color-coordinated snacks and some random soccer-theme balloons."

van leans a forearm against the fense beside you, close enough to touch, the muscles in her arm shifting slightly as she adjusts her stance. you catch yourself staring and quickly look away.

"so you're going full team mom?" she says, teasing.

"against my will."

"you need help?" you blink. "what?"

she shrugs. "practice is done. i've got nowhere to be. i like errands."

"you like errands?"

"i like errands with you."

your heart does something weird in your chest. she says it so casually, but there's something about the way she looks at you—steady, warm, interested. you try not to read into it, but also...you kind of want to.

"you'd really help?" you ask, a little breathless.

"yeah. if you want me to."

you try not to sound too eager. "okay. yeah. i mean—yes, please. i could use another pair of hands."

van grins. "you got it."

and maybe she's just being nice, maybe it's just one of those friendly coach things, but when she moves to unlock the gate and gestures for you to follow her—smirking, confident, so stupidly charming—you get the sense she's not doing this for the balloons.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

in your car, van has one foot up on the dash and her seat reclined a little, the window cracked open to let in the late summer air. the radio's on low—some throwback pop station playing nelly furtado—and your stomach is still in knots, but they're different now. not panic knots. just...van knots.

"so what did madison say?" van asks, head tilted toward you.

"that i'm doomed," you say. "and also that i need to pick up an emergency tablecloth and those little umbrellas you stick in drinks."

van laughs. "classic madison."

"she said the team's gonna judge me if i don't at least have orange slices and capri suns. she said i need a vibe."

van grins. "well, you do have me now. i'm kind of a vibe."

you glance over at her. "yeah, i noticed."

she raises her eyebrows like she's about to say something cocky, but then she catches you looking—really looking—and her expression softens. "you're not actually nervous, are you?"

you shrug. "a little less now. i mean, i want sophia to have fun. and i don't want the entire varsity team thinking her aunt is, like, a total buzzkill."

van hums. "they won't. i think you're pretty fun, for the record."

your stomach flips again. you drum your fingers against the steering wheel.

"what about you?" you ask. "were you like this when you were playing? did you throw team parties and stress about gatorade flavors?"

van chuckles. "god, no. we just met in someone's basement and ate stale chips. half the time we ended up drunk and breaking something."

"sounds...nostalgic."

"it was," she says. "but i wouldn't have hated some soccer ball balloons."

you laugh. "you're really not gonna let that go?"

"not a chance,"

you pull into the target lot, park the car, and turn off the engine. van looks over at you, that same little grin on her face.

"you ready to enter the suburban trenches?"

you nod, exhaling slowly. "let's do this."

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

van pulls a red cart from the line and spins it in a lazy circle before leaning her weight against the handle, forearms flexing where her sleeves are rolled just shy of her elbows. you catch yourself looking and quickly shift your eyes back to your phone.

"alright," you mumble, scrolling through madison's texts. "we need soccer-themed napkins, balloons, gatorade—blue and yellow only—some cute party cups, and, apparently, a drink dispenser that 'screams summer, but in a chill way'. whatever that means"

van nods solemnly. "right. screaming, but chill. got it."

you're about to steer the cart toward seasonal when she abruptly turns down the snack ailse and tosses a family-sized pack of oreos into the basket like she's on supermarket sweep.

"what are you doing?" you ask.

she shrugs. "just getting us the essentials."

"cookies weren't on the list."

van glances over her shoulder, her smirk lazy. "i don't know... you look like someone who secretly needs a sugar rush before party planning."

you arch a brow. "oh, i look like that?"

"mhm. and i'm very perceptive."

you roll your eyes and let her keep the oreos. but it's getting harder not to smile.

the party aisle is a dizzying mess of glitter and neon. you reach for the basic gold cups, but van grabs the ones beside them—metallic, ridiculously shiny, and clearly meant for a bachelorette party.

"these feel more...you," she says, holding one up.

you blink. "me?"

"yeah," she says, tossing them in the cart. "a little over-the-top. kind of blinding. in a hot way."

you let out a stunned laugh. "did you just call a party cup hot?"

"i said you were," van says, totally shameless.

you look away, heat blooming in your chest. you're starting to realize van palmer does not play fair.

you wind up in front of the balloons, a rainbow wall of latex and foil. you're sorting through colors when van pulls out a pair of gold balloons shaped like soccer cleats.

"oh," she grins, "these are stupid. we're definitely getting them."

"madison's gonna kill me."

"she'll thank you. these say, 'i tried way too hard,' which is exactly what she's going for."

"god, you're so annoying."

van leans in slightly, shoulder brushing yours. "you say that, but you keep letting me be around."

you don't say anything. you can't.

in the drinks aisle, van slows down, turning a gatorade bottle in her hand like it's a fine wine. she uncaps it, pretends to sniff it.

"subtle notes of electrolytes," she murmurs. "a hint of artificial watermelon. pairs well with panic and pool floaties."

you snort. "you're gonna get us banned."

"if we get kicked out of target together, it's kind of romantic."

"romantic?"

she looks over, playful but steady. "you don't think so?"

you try to stay cool, but your voice comes out quieter than you mean for it to. "i think you're... a lot."

van grins. "is that your way of saying you like it?"

you don't answer. you just look away, not able to resist the smile appearing on your face.

by checkout, your cart is overflowing—half functional, half chaos. van scans while you bag, dropping in napkins, drinks, and a soccer piñata neither of you can explain.

"hey," she says suddenly. "you want me to come tomorrow? to the party."

you freeze. "you mean—like, be there?"

"yeah. you said you needed help. could be good to have another adult there. in case things get crazy."

"or in case the balloons need supervising?"

van smirks. "exactly."

you fiddle with your card as it reads. "you sure you want to come to a teenage pool party on a saturday?"

she hands you a bag. "i mean, only if you'll be there."

that one gets you.

you swallow, smiling despite yourself. "then yeah. i'd really like that."

van doesn't say anything—just bumps your shoulder gently as you both walk toward the exit, the doors sliding open in a blast of warm air, her sleeves still rolled up and the sky starting to turn gold behind her.

you tell yourself you're not staring.

you fail spectacularly.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

you're still halfway wrestling the pool umbrella into place when you hear the knock.

it's fast—two sharp raps and one playful one after. you pause, squinting toward the front of the house as you jog barefoot across the patio, grass clinging to your calves, your bikini straps already sticking to your skin in the september heat.

you slide open the back door just as the second knock comes—right on time.

van.

early.

and in a black muscle tank.

you blink, momentarily thrown. her hair's down, sunglasses hanging from the collar of her shirt, arms on full display—tanned, toned, the kind of arms that make you forget how to greet someone like a normal person.

"hey," you manage, half smiling as you push the screen wider.

"hey yourself," she grins, stepping inside like she's done it a hundred times—like it's easy. "didn't think you'd actually answer that fast."

"you're early."

van shrugs, slow and unbothered. "figured i'd get here before the chaos. enjoy the peace and quiet before a dozen teenage girls descend like glitter-covered piranhas."

you snort. "you make them sound feral."

van raises a brow. "i coach them. i know the truth."

you laugh, shaking your head as she follows you through the kitchen and out to the backyard.

it's a nice backyard. all professionally landscaped with stone pavers, string lights already twinkling under the awning, sleek patio furniture lined up around the pool like it's the cover of a summer lifestyle magazine.

you've always known your sister's house was nice, but it's different seeing it like this—set up for a party, looking like something out of a commercial.

van nods, hands on her hips as she takes it all in. "well. i'm officially intimated by your patio furniture."

you snort, nudging her lightly. "thought you were here to avoid being scared of the girls, not my sister's sectional couch."

"i'm not scared of them," van says, deadpan. "i just have a healthy respect for how fast they can turn on you. one wrong playlist choice and it's over."

you laugh, and van's smile softens, eyes flicking down to where your bikini straps peek out from under your tube top, just for a second.

"it's a little chaotic," you say, motioning to the pile of decorations still untouched in the kitchen. "but festive chaos, right?"

van's gaze lingers before she hums, "you look ready."

and for a second, you forget if she's still talking about the party.

you glance down at yourself—shorts, swimsuit peeking out under your top, your necklace hanging low and sticky against your collarbone.

“i’m still setting up,” you say, suddenly hyperaware of everything.

van leans a hip against the counter, arms crossed—biceps shifting just slightly, like she’s doing it on purpose. “you still look good.”

you shoot her a look, half eye-roll, half flustered. “you really gonna flirt with me in my niece’s kitchen?”

she lifts a brow. “i’ve flirted with you in more inappropriate locations.”

“okay, true.” you laugh, tossing a dishtowel at her face.

she catches it effortlessly, smile tugging at one side of her mouth. “need help?”

“if you’re offering.” you gesture to the half-inflated flamingo float and the unopened party pack from target. “pick your poison.”

van drops the towel, already stepping toward the mess. “i call float duty. i want to impress the youth with my balloon animal skills.”

“pretty sure flamingos aren’t balloon animals.”

“they are if you dream big enough.”

you’re still smiling as you turn back to the counter, filling coolers with soda cans and trying very hard not to stare at the way her tank clings to her back as she crouches down by the pump.

the hose makes a soft whoosh as it powers up, and van glances over her shoulder at you. “so, why'd you agree to this again?”

“i think sophia deserves it,” you say quietly, biting your lip. “especially with her mom gone. i just want her to have a good season.”

van’s head lifts at that. she looks at you for a second, something soft flickering across her face. “you’re kind of great, you know that?”

you scoff, blushing. “i’m just the cool aunt.”

“yeah. and a little bit the hot one, too.”

you choke on your laugh. “van.”

she grins, unrepentant. “i’m just reporting what the team already knows.”

you shake your head, turning away before your face can give you away.

van keeps talking like she didn’t just melt your brain. “so, what’s the drink situation? am i gonna be a bartender later?”

you laugh again, leaning over the sink to pour more ice into the second cooler. “well, we’ve got soda, lemonade, and like… fake sangria. for the adults. so. you.”

van places the now inflated flamingo float on the counter triumphantly. “then yes. i’ll be crafting beverages. i’ll be… essential.”

“oh my god.” you glance back at her. “please don’t say that in front of the girls. they’ll never stop clowning you.”

van just shrugs, stepping closer, her voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flip: “let ‘em. i’ve got thick skin.”

and strong arms. and a cocky smile. and this impossible magnetism that you’re definitely not imagining.

you hand her the pack of plastic cups and pretend you’re not affected. “okay, essential, help me carry the speakers outside.”

she leans in slightly as she takes them from you, fingers brushing yours—just enough to linger. “anything for you.”

you swallow hard, blinking.

the air suddenly feels warmer than the weather can explain.

and she’s just standing there, looking at you like you’re a dare she hasn’t decided whether to take yet.

the peace doesn’t last long.

you hear them before you see them—voices tumbling down the driveway like a wave, the creak of car doors, laughter, someone yelling over someone else. then the telltale sound of multiple iced drinks clinking against each other in cardboard trays.

you glance at van, who’s half-bent over the speaker wire, and she gives you this look like brace yourself.

then the kitchen door flies open.

“auntie!” sophie calls, bursting in with the force of a hurricane. her cheeks are flushed from the sun, her glitter sunglasses are crooked, and she’s holding a starbucks tray like it’s olympic gold. “we brought caffeine!”

“you’re all so late,” you say, but it’s fond, not actually annoyed. “and i thought i told you not to call me that in front of people.”

“van’s not people, she’s coach,” sophie says, handing you a drink with your name scrawled across the side in big block letters. “also, you’re the one who said pool parties don’t start on time.”

“that was for me to say, not you to quote back at me.”

the kitchen starts to fill—shoes kicked off, someone already raiding the snack drawer, giggles over nothing and everything. the air feels thicker with them in it, charged in that way groups of girls are when they’re buzzing off sunshine and caffeine and inside jokes.

you hear:

“she’s so cool, look at her kitchen—”

“wait, is that like... real marble?”

“her sunglasses are cute, ask her where she got them—”

“is your hair naturally like that??”

“omg this house is like, influencer-level.”

“wait, no one told me coach would be here—”

you can’t even keep up with who’s saying what, but the energy is full tilt. someone tugs on your arm, asking where the towels are, someone else shoves a phone in your face asking for the bluetooth code, and one of them is already half out the door with a float under her arm.

van’s voice cuts through just a bit, amused: “did you girls get enough sugar or do we need to do a second coffee run?”

“don’t tempt me,” one of the girls mutters, sipping an iced vanilla latte like her life depends on it.

you pass out drinks and direct traffic and try not to laugh as sophie fake-yells at her friend for wearing the same color swimsuit. someone already has music playing too loud from someone else’s phone, and the screen door keeps slamming because none of them can figure out how to close it gently.

you glance outside and catch a glimpse of the yard—perfectly trimmed hedges, the glint of the sun off the pool, those big teak loungers your sister imported from italy or whatever—and for a second, you’re hyperaware of how nice everything looks. expensive in that curated but casual way. like a catalog come to life.

one of the girls notices too. “this looks like clueless, but like, the modern version.”

“that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” you deadpan, sipping your drink.

you turn to grab more cups and catch van watching you from across the room, leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed again, that same tank top hugging her shoulders just right. she’s not saying anything. just watching. with this lazy little smirk like she’s been waiting for someone to notice how good you are at this.

you pretend not to notice the way it makes your heart thud a little harder in your chest.

“alright,” you call out over the noise, clapping your hands once. “music out there, drinks over here, no splashing in the house. let’s go.”

there’s a chorus of yeses and a few sarcastic “yes, mom”s as they finally spill back outside, glittery and loud and already halfway to jumping in the pool.

you linger in the kitchen just long enough for van to saunter up beside you, still sipping from a bottle of water she definitely didn’t ask permission to take.

“you run a tight ship,” she says.

“you’re just lucky they like me today.”

she hums, voice low. “they always like you.”

you look at her, roll your eyes. “you helping with sunscreen patrol or what?”

“only if you promise not to yell at me when i get distracted.”

you snort, pushing past her on your way out. “don’t make it weird, coach.”

“you make it impossible not to.”

you don’t look back, but you’re definitely smiling.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

the sun’s dipping low and syrupy over the backyard, casting gold everywhere—like the whole world’s been honey-drenched. the music’s still floating out from the bluetooth speaker you set up near the pool, and the girls are still outside, drinking soda out of red cups and screaming about who can do the best dive. there’s a pile of wet towels growing on one of the lounge chairs. someone’s left a half-eaten cake pop on the grass. it’s chaos.

but in the kitchen, it’s quiet. the screen door creaks open and shuts again, and it’s just you and van.

she’s peeling a lime with way too much focus, arms flexing as she presses it to the cutting board. her muscle tank is sticking slightly to her back—she hasn’t bothered to fix it—and there’s a little smear of something red on her thumb from the grenadine earlier. you’re pretty sure she licked it off before. you’re trying not to think about that.

you swirl the ice in your cup, taking a sip. it’s mostly vodka with a splash of lemonade. strong. bold. probably a mistake.

“alright,” you say, clearing your throat. “time to level up. no more fake mojitos.”

van glances up, smirking. “you ready to enter the big leagues, miss cool aunt?”

“i’m twenty-four”

“exactly. ancient.”

you throw a cocktail napkin at her and she catches it with two fingers, grinning like she knows exactly how good she looks in the light right now. and okay, maybe she does. maybe you’re being obvious.

“what’s your poison?” you ask, rifling through the bottles on the counter—leftover gin, tequila, some weird elderflower thing that definitely came from your sister’s bar cart.

van points. “that one.”

“gin? bold choice.”

“it’s botanical. i’m classy.”

you giggle, pouring generously into a cup. “tell that to the flamingo float.”

van shrugs, sliding onto one of the stools and watching you over the rim of her drink. “that flamingo has seen things.”

you mix two drinks with half-focus, passing one to her, your fingers brushing. the sun’s hitting the glass just right. it’s all too warm. too quiet. you take a big sip.

“oh my god,” you cough. “okay, that’s strong.”

van takes hers down without flinching. “i like it.”

“you would.”

“you made it.”

you narrow your eyes at her. “you trying to charm me?”

“depends. is it working?”

you don’t answer. mostly because your face is already betraying you.

you lean against the counter, looking at her from the side, watching the way she tips her head back when she laughs at her own dumb comment. there’s a little sliver of collarbone showing where her shirt’s dipped, and it’s doing things to your already slightly buzzed brain.

“okay,” she says, propping her elbow up, “rate the vibes right now.”

you squint. “what scale are we using?”

“one to drunk-in-love.”

you snort. “you’re ridiculous.”

“you didn’t say no.”

you sip your drink again to hide the way your lips want to smile. it doesn’t help. the alcohol’s hitting you in the softest way—like a warm blanket sliding over your shoulders. everything’s fuzzy and funny and golden. van’s foot bumps yours under the counter and you don’t move away.

“i think this might be the most fun i’ve had all week,” you admit quietly, voice low.

she watches you. really watches you.

“yeah?” she asks. “just this? kitchen. drinks. me?”

“you’re not exactly a buzzkill.”

she grins. “i try.”

you look down into your cup, swishing the ice. “you ever think it’s weird?”

“what?”

“this. like—we didn’t even know each other three months ago.”

van shifts a little closer. “yeah, but now i do. and now you’ve made me a better fake bartender. and i’m invested in your niece’s soccer career. and i know how you take your coffee. and how you get sunburned exactly across your nose.”

you blink. “you pay a lot of attention.”

“you’re easy to pay attention to.”

it comes out soft. unguarded. like the gin’s loosened something she normally keeps tucked away.

you set your cup down. your head’s fuzzy and your cheeks are hot and she’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room.

“van.”

“yeah?”

“we should… maybe have some water.”

“probably.”

neither of you move.

the golden light glows around her like a spotlight. and all you can think about is how close she is, and how long her fingers lingered on yours, and the fact that you’re starting to forget where the line was supposed to be.

the air between you two feels heavier now, more charged. van’s gaze drops to your lips, flickering between them and your eyes. her breath hitches just slightly as you move a little closer—just close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off her skin, hear the soft shuffle of her breath as she shifts on the stool, giving you more space.

you swallow, unable to look away, caught in the gravity of her. the music’s faint outside, just a distant hum through the kitchen window. it’s quiet. everything’s quiet except for the pounding of your heart in your ears. you’re thinking about her shoulder just barely brushing against yours, the way her tank top hugs her frame so perfectly, the way her arm rests on the counter, muscles flexing every time she moves.

“you’re making this a lot harder, you know,” you mutter, trying to keep your voice steady.

“what?” van teases, her lips curving into a grin. but it’s not a teasing grin—it’s something softer, warmer, the kind of smile that could melt you if you let it. “can’t handle the pressure?”

you move just a little closer, so close you can feel the heat of her, hear her breath quicken ever so slightly.

“think i could handle anything if it was you,” you say, barely more than a whisper.

there’s a beat of silence. then, as if she can’t help herself, van leans in just a little, her hand brushing against the side of your arm. her fingers trail lightly, teasingly, up the length of your arm, leaving a trail of heat behind. when she pulls her hand away, it lingers for just a second too long, and you both feel it.

“you’re dangerous,” you whisper, voice a little shakier than you want it to be.

“you like dangerous,” van murmurs back, her voice low, breath brushing against your lips. she’s so close now, the space between you two almost nonexistent, and you can feel the magnetic pull between you, stronger than ever. her hand moves, almost instinctively, to your waist, resting there, fingers curling lightly, sending a jolt straight to your core.

your pulse races, and you let your hand fall to her arm, brushing it softly. it’s impossible not to feel the tension, the unspoken desire hanging in the air. you glance down at her lips, and she does the same, your gazes meeting again.

you’re so close you can feel her heartbeat, her breath, and your lips almost touch. it’s a moment suspended in time, where nothing else matters but her, and you, and the soft pull of gravity between you.

just when you think you can’t take it anymore, and you’re about to close the gap between your lips, the loud, unmistakable sound of the backdoor slamming open interrupts everything.

“coach, are you in here?” sophie’s voice rings out, followed by a chorus of giggles and chatter from the other girls.

you both freeze, the air between you two instantly cooling. van pulls back slightly, but not before her hand gives your waist a small, lingering squeeze, almost as if she doesn’t want to let go, doesn’t want the moment to end. but then she pulls her hand away slowly, standing up straighter, clearing her throat.

“uh... yeah?” she calls back, her voice a little rougher than usual, betraying the tension that’s still thick in the air.

you blink, still dazed from what almost happened, and try to collect yourself. your heart’s still pounding, and your skin feels warm where she touched you, but the moment’s gone now, stolen by the interruption.

sophie and a few other girls step into the kitchen, looking at you both with wide eyes and knowing grins. “what’s going on in here?” sophie asks, her tone a little too innocent.

“just... making drinks,” you reply quickly, clearing your throat and forcing a smile. “you guys need something?”

van clears her throat too, standing a little straighter as she straightens out the hem of her tank top. she’s pretending to be casual, but you can tell she’s just as shaken up as you are. the way her eyes flicker back to you for a brief second tells you everything you need to know.

“yeah,” sophie says, grinning wide. “we need some more cups for the sodas. and maybe—”

“yeah, yeah,” van cuts her off, her voice more composed now. “we’ll be out in a minute.”

the girls leave, still chatting, and you and van are left in the quiet again. but this time, it feels different. the moment’s passed, but the tension is still there, hanging between you like a secret neither of you wants to say out loud.

you watch her for a second, your heart still beating too fast. “that was... close,” you murmur, trying to get your bearings.

van just smirks, the hint of a blush creeping across her cheeks. “yeah, well... can’t say i don’t like the tension.”

you laugh, but it’s nervous now, like you’re both pretending it didn’t almost go there. like the air isn’t still crackling with unspoken words, the heat of the almost-kiss still lingering in your veins.

“you’re a tease,” you say, shaking your head, trying to regain some composure.

“you love it,” van replies, voice a little softer, a little more serious now.

“maybe,” you admit, your heart skipping a beat as you look at her again, trying to swallow the feeling that’s rising in your chest.

“good,” van says, stepping a little closer again. “’cause I think this is just getting started.”

as the night goes on, the golden hues of sunset turn into the soft, dusky pinks of early evening. the girls are still by the pool, but the energy has shifted.

van and you head outside, following the sounds of laughter and chatter from the pool area, but you both linger near the edge of the yard, just far enough away to escape the chaos. the air’s warm, the smell of chlorine mixing with the subtle scent of sweet fruit from the drinks still fresh in your system.

the two of you barely speak at first, but you’re close—closer than you’ve been all day. van's arm brushes yours as she stands next to you, leaning against the fence.

“so,” you say, voice slightly tipsy and tinged with playfulness, “you think we’re convincing enough?”

she tilts her head and laughs, eyes glinting in the fading light. “convincing enough for what?”

“the girls,” you gesture vaguely toward the pool. “they’re definitely onto us.”

van’s laugh catches you off guard, a deep sound that sends a little jolt through your chest. she leans in just a touch, making the space between you feel even smaller. “maybe, but i’m not the one making it obvious.”

you arch an eyebrow, a little challenge rising in your voice. “oh, really?”

van’s smirk is full of unspoken confidence, her fingers lightly brushing against your shoulder. “you were the one who wanted to talk about ‘drinks’ for, what, an hour? i was just being a good host.”

“mm-hmm,” you say, pretending to consider her words, but she’s making it hard to focus. the air between you crackles with the flirty tension that’s been building all night, and maybe you’re both tipsy, but you’re both aware of it.

“you’re trouble, you know that?” you murmur, leaning in just enough for her to hear, but too close for comfort.

van's expression shifts, something softer behind her teasing grin. she leans in as well, her breath almost mingling with yours. “and yet, you keep hanging around.” her voice drops low, a little breathless, and you can’t help the heat that rushes to your cheeks.

before anything more can happen, a shout comes from the pool, and the girls, now fully aware of your closeness, begin to tease.

“oh my god, are coach and your aunt… drunk?” one of the girls calls out to sophia, half-laughing, half-giggling.

another one pipes up, “are you two, like, flirting with each other?”

the teasing grows louder, the girls in the pool definitely noticing the change in the atmosphere. their eyes are playful, but you can hear the curiosity in their tone. van chuckles, her arm casually sliding down your back before she grabs your wrist.

“let’s get inside before they really start talking,” she suggests, pulling you away from the pool.

you can’t help but laugh, both of you stumbling slightly as you make your way back inside the house.

as the night draws on, the pool party starts to wind down. girls start heading out in groups, and soon it’s just you and van in the kitchen, still catching your breath from the chaos outside.

sophie says her goodbyes, headed off to another friend’s house, leaving you and van alone in the near-silence of the kitchen.

the air feels different now, the playfulness from earlier still lingering, but there’s a subtle softness to it.

van begins helping you clean up, picking up stray cups and empty bottles, moving around you with ease.

finally, as the last of the girls leave, you stand by the door, feeling that same hesitation you’ve had all night. van finishes stacking the last of the trash bags and then turns to face you, her smile quieter now, a little more sincere.

you glance at the clock. it’s late—later than either of you probably expected to be hanging out at a teenager’s party, but here you are.

“so,” she says, voice low as she leans casually against the doorframe. “i’ve been thinking.”

you raise an eyebrow, an amused smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “uh-oh. when you say that, it sounds dangerous.”

van chuckles, her eyes flicking down to the floor for a second before meeting yours. “it’s not dangerous,” she says, and you can hear the sincerity in her voice. “but i wanted to ask you something.”

your heart skips. “okay…?”

“would you like to go out sometime?” she asks, her words more hesitant now, but still wrapped in that calm, confident energy. “not just, you know, a party… but, like, an actual date. coffee before a game, maybe? or something else you want to do.”

you blink, surprised at how easy it feels to smile, warmth spreading through you in a way you haven’t felt in a while.

you look at her for a long moment, noticing the way she seems almost nervous, despite her usual confident demeanor. “i’d love that,” you reply softly.

van’s smile spreads across her face, the moment feeling as easy as it is perfect.

“well,” she says, “it’s a date then. i’ll pick you up.”

with that, she steps closer, brushing a hand against your arm, sending another spark of heat through you.

the party may be over, but this? this feels like the beginning of something new.

💌 taglist: @callsignwidow, @nothoughtsonlyvan, @freakyjorker

[pensthoughts]

taglist 💌

letting you all know i'm posting pt 2 of home turf sometime tonight (or within the next day)!! some people asked to be tagged in it but i want to make like a general taglist as well for all of my van-related posts since that's the main thing i'm doing rn :))

just comment if you want to be added 😚💗

[pensthoughts]

Wait…actually I’m the person who asked about the cowboy! Van x farmer’s daughter! Reader. Maybe Van like…comes up to the farm one day and asks stuff to r. Maybe some smut??? Like a little

Set: 1920s

Paring: Butch Cowboy! Van x Farmers Daughter! Reader.

Fluffy/Angst/a tiny bit of smut.

dust & honey | v.p

a/n: you don't understand i freaked out when i got this request. i seriously live for an au so i got straight to writing this as soon as i got it lol. i really hope you enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it!! pairing: cowboy!van x farmersdaughter!reader summary: stumbling into a small town to buy honey, a cowboy van ends up finding something much sweeter word count: 5.2k warnings: smut towards the end

the bees were already agitated that morning.

you'd been out by the hives before breakfast, smoke can in one hand, trying to calm them down before the sun got too high. they buzzed in tight, angry circles like they knew something was coming, like the air was holding It's breath. you wiped your brow on the back of your glove and stepped away, leaving the boxes humming behind you.

your father stood in the yard, crouched by the broken wagon wheel, brow furrowed and hat pushed back. "it's cracked clean through," he muttered, giving it a nudge with his boot. "i need you to ride into town and get a spare from harold."

you nodded. "anything else?"

"twine, if they've got any that ain't rotted. and that tonic your ma used to buy from the back shelf—my lungs been actin' up again."

you shifted your weight, brushing dust from your skirt. "ms. matthews asked about honey last week. want me to leave her some of the batch?"

he gave a tired smile. "you always think of everything, don't you?" he straightened with a quiet grunt. "yeah, drop her off a jar. and don't let harold try to short you on the wheel. he still thinks you don't know what you're talkin' about."

you raised an eyebrow. "maybe i'll remind him."

your father laughed once, dry and low. "that's my girl."

you packed light—two jars of honey in your bag, your coin purse, and a bit of twine wrapped around your wrist like a charm—and saddled the horse instead of taking the cart. dust clung to your boots before you even reached the road.

town wasn't far, but the ride felt long with the sun beating down overhead. it wasn't big—just a string of old buildings, a few shops, a blacksmith's shed, and the chapel that lost its bell pull over the winter—but it was the kind of place where everyone noticed when someone new walked in.

you tied your horse in front of the general store and climbed the porch steps, the boards creaking under your weight. misty quigley was already out front, sorting envelopes into neat little piles on the crate beside her.

she looked up when she saw you and grinned. "well look who's alive. i was startin' to think your daddy locked you in the barn."

you rolled your eyes but smiled. misty had been in your sunday school class when you were kids, always a little too eager with the scissors during arts and crafts. now she worked part-time delivering the mail and full-time poking her nose where it didn't belong.

"just pickin' up a few things," you said. "pa's wheel cracked again."

"harold's got a whole stack of 'em in the back," she said. "and don't let him sell you the warped one like he did me. that thing spun sideways down the hill like it was runnin' from soemthing."

you laughed, pushed open the door, and stepped inside.

the store smelled like sawdust and dried tobacco. the ceiling fan spun slowly overhead, stirring the heat without doing much to move it. you were halfway to the counter when you saw her.

she was leaning against the wood, one boot crossed over the other, looking like she didn't quite belong but wasn't trying to fit in either. red hair tucked behind her ears, sunburn just visible on her nose, and a wide-brimmed hat pushed up off her brow. her shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, and her hands rested loosely in her back pockets. like she was waiting, but not in a hurry.

you slowed your steps without meaning to.

harold stood behind the counter, wiping his hands on a rag. "his daughter just walked in," he said to the woman. "you can ask her yourself."

the woman turned. her eyes landed on you like they'd been there before.

"you the one with the bees?" she asked, voice steady, a little rough like she hadn't talked much that morning. she had an accent, but it wasn't distinctly from around here. almost like she picked up pieces from different places.

you blinked. "that depends. you lookin' to get stung?"

she cracked a smile at that—quick, crooked, and real. "just hopin' for honey. the real kind. not the corn syrup harold's selling with that fake label."

harold muttered something under his breath about ungrateful customers and ducked into the back.

you adjusted your grip on your bag. "we've got clover jars left. the spring batch's lighter, but sweeter."

she stepped forward a little, just enough that the scent of leather and sunlight followed her. "mind if i stop by the farm to buy some?"

your heart stuttered for a second. "you could. but i can leave a jar here if you're just passin' through."

she shook her head. "rather see the place. never been out that way."

something about the way she said it made your skin buzz. she stuck out her hand. "van palmer."'

you took it. her handshake was firm, but not rough. just...confident. like she knew exactly how to hold on, and when to let go. but she didn't. not right away.

"nice to meet you," you said, a little breathless. "i'm—" you hesitate, just for a second, then tell her your name.

she grins. "nice to meet you too."

before you could say anything else, taissa turner walked in through the back with a crate in her arms. she used to come around the farm during the summers, back when her aunt lived up the hill near the orchard. you hadn't seen her much lately, apparently she's saving up to go to school. she gave you a quiet nod as she passed, eyes flicking between you and van with something close to curiosity.

van watched her go, then turned back to you. "seems like you know everyone in town."

you shrugged. "that's what happens when you never leave."

van didn't smile this time. "maybe not such a bad thing."

the store felt smaller with her in it.

you cleared your throat and reached into your bag, setting one of the honey jars on the counter. "in case you change your mind."

she glanced down at it. "guess i'll be seeing you soon."

and then she turned and walked out, spurs tapping the wood like punctuation.

taissa was already setting the crate by the counter when you moved to follow, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

"wheel's in the back," she said, standing and wiping her hands on her jeans. "you want the newer ones. harold's been trying to offload the old stock again."

you gave her a grateful look. "thanks. i'll owe you one if it rolls straight."

tai smirked. "i'll put it on your tab."

the two of you walked through the back door and into the storage shed, the heat sticking to your skin like syrup. rows of cluttered shelves lined the walls, and in the corner sat a stack of wagon wheels, some leaning, some wrapped in cloth.

you crouched beside the pile, giving them each a careful once-over. "so," tai said, leaning casually against the doorframe, "you met the newcomer, right?"

you glanced up. "van?"

she raised an eyebrow. "so you caught her name."

you rolled your eyes, choosing a wheel with clean spokes and a smooth rim. "she was asking about honey."

"she ask about anything else?" tai's voice was light, teasing, but curious underneath.

you hesitated. "just where to get some."

taissa grinned. "mhm. well, she's staying around a while. might want to pace yourself."

you didn't reply, just adjusted your grip on the wheel and nodded toward the front. "mind if i settle up?"

"yeah, come on." she opened the door for you, and the two of you stepped back into the store. you counted out the coins while tai scribbled the amount in a worn ledger. "tell your dad he still owes me for last time."

"he says you overcharged him for the twine."

"that's 'cause he picked the good kind." she gave you a lazy salute. "safe ride back."

you pushed through the door, stepping out into the bright afternoon—and nearly walked straight into van.

she was standing by the hitching post, hat tipped back, chewing the corner of her thumbnail like she was thinking real hard about something.

"didn't figure i'd catch you again," she said, squinting at you in the sunlight. "you know if there's anywhere in this town a girl can sleep without ending up in the river?"

you blinked. "you plan on makin' enemies that fast?"

van gave a half-smile, eyes sweeping down to your boots and back up. "only if they ask nicely."

your stomach did something traitorous, and you adjusted the wheel in your arms like it might ground you. "there's a boarding house. run by the matthews, just past the chapel. i'm heading that way now, if you want to follow."

her smile deepened. "guess i'll walk with you, then."

you weren't used to walking through town with anyone but misty or your father. and van wasn't like either of them.

as you made your way down the main road, dust kicking up with every step, she kept pace with you, hands in her pockets, boots slow and steady on the dirt. she asked questions between glances at the buildings—who lived above the bakery, what happened to the old chapel bell, if the mayor was always drunk or just liked to pretend.

you answered where you could. "that's the tailor's window there. the one with the blue curtain. she has a cat names pickles that sleeps in the basket by the display."

"you name all the animals in town?" van asked, grinning.

"only the important ones."

you could feel her watching you more than she was watching the town. it was like walking beside a thundercloud with a crooked grin, quiet but electric. her compliments weren't loud—just little things, soft and careless, but they landed sharp anyway.

"didn't picture you with bees," she said, after a stretch of silence.

you raised an eyebrow. "what did you picture me with?"

she shrugged. "something sweeter."

you opened your mouth, then closed it. you didn't know how to flirt with a girl. you'd never tried. but it didn't feel like something you had to try with van—it just was, and that scared you a little. not because it was bad, but because it was unfamiliar.

you rounded the bend and pointed. "that's the boarding house. big white porch, pink flowers in the boxes."

van looked up at it like she was memorizing it. "looks like the kind of place where you get offered tea you don't want but say yes to anyway."

"it is," you said. "and they'll talk about you the second you leave, so be polite."

"guess i better behave," she said, tipping her hat. "thanks for the escort, sheriff."

you laughed under your breath and nodded towards the owners home, conviently placed next door. "i've gotta drop something off. i'll see you around?"

van hesitated, then smiled. "i sure hope so."

you watched her step up the porch, knock once, then disappear inside.

you turned and headed next door, up the stone path to ms. matthews' garden gate. but when the door opened, it wasn't her.

it was lottie. the town clairvoyant. or the town nutjob, depending on how you put it.

her hair was pinned up and loose at the same time, wild strands catching the breeze. she wore a soft lavender dress and no shoes. there was a faint smear of flour on her cheek.

"hi," she said like she'd been expecting you.

you blinked. "i—uh—i was dropping this off for your mom." you held up the jar of honey.

she tilted her head. "she's at choir. i can take it."

you handed it over, and she held it like something fragile. "the bees were angry this morning," she said suddenly, not quite looking at you. "they get that way when the air's shifting."

you opened your mouth to respond, but she kept going. "you met someone today. a readhead?"

your stomach flipped.

"she's staying nect door," lottie said, turning the jar slowly in her hands. "you should save the sweeter jar for her."

you swallowed. "how did you—?"

lottie smiled, serene and distant. "she's going to your house tomorrow. you might want to start a loaf. just a feeling."

you didn't know what to say to that. the wind rustled through the garden, bees buzzing in the distance like they were laughing to themselves.

"thank you," lottie said, and turned toward the door, as if the conversation had ended.

you stood there a second longer, then stepped down the porch, heart thudding hard in your chest.

she was going to your house tomorrow.

and you didn't know what shocked you more—that lottie said it, or that you wanted it to be true.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

the knock comes late morning.

you’re barefoot, a little sticky from standing over the stove. there’s flour on your wrist and heat on the back of your neck. your hands smell like honey and smoke.

your dad left before sunrise—took the old truck to a nearby town, said he wouldn’t be back till tomorrow night. you’ve had the house to yourself all morning, windows cracked just enough to let the breeze in, music playing low from the radio on the counter. it’s too hot for much else, so you threw on a white button-down, short-sleeved and clingy with the heat, the fabric thin enough that it goes a little see-through in the right light. the buttons strain slightly when you reach or twist. your skirt’s something light—flowy, hem brushing mid-thigh—cool against your skin as you move.

you wipe your hands on your apron and crack the door open.

it’s van.

hat tilted back again, hair messier than yesterday, like she didn’t bother trying to sleep in the bed she paid for. her cheeks are pink from the sun, or maybe from something else, and she’s got a lopsided smile like she’s already halfway through a joke.

“hope i’m not too early,” she says, glancing past your shoulder like she expects you to say you’re busy.

you lean against the frame, heart thudding once, sharp and low.

“depends. what are you here for?”

van shrugs, casual, but her eyes aren’t. “thought i’d see if you had that sweeter jar.”

you blink. “you remember what i said about gossip in this town?”

“i do. and i’m real interested to see what they’ll say about me walking into your house before noon.”

you should say something. should tell her you’ll meet her outside or that your father’s in the barn or that ms. matthews could be watching from her parlor window.

but instead you step back and open the door wider.

“come on in.”

she steps past you, slow like she’s walking into water. you shut the door behind her and it clicks too loud in the quiet.

“kitchen’s through here,” you say, leading her in. there’s a loaf of bread cooling on the counter and a pot of tea steeping by the window. you don’t offer any of it. you don’t have to.

van leans against the counter, looking too at home. her eyes skim down your body, quick but not discreet. she lingers on the hem of your shirt, the line of your collarbone. the way the sunlight spills through the window and clings to the white cotton, outlining your bra faintly underneath.

“you bake too?”

you nod, pretending not to notice the way she’s looking. “keeps my hands busy.”

“that why you keep bees?”

“i like the sting,” you say before you can stop yourself.

van’s smile lifts, slow and dangerous. “you always talk like that?”

you flush, turn to the shelf. reach for the small jar, the one you’d tucked away after lottie’s words yesterday. it’s darker than the others. thicker. smells like wildflowers and something warmer.

you hold it out to her. “this one’s sweeter.”

she takes it, but doesn’t look away from you. her fingers brush yours, and something flickers behind her eyes—sharp and electric.

“and what’s the price for this one?”

you try to laugh it off. “didn’t know you planned to pay.”

“oh, i plan to,” she says, and you can feel it again—that pull. that thing that lives in the way she says your name, in the way she doesn’t look away. it’s not loud. it’s just there.

you move past her to the sink, needing to do something with your hands. rinse off the flour. you can feel her still watching.

“you always this quiet?” she asks after a beat. “or just when girls flirt with you?”

you pause. hands under the water. not sure what to say.

“i don’t mind it,” she adds, stepping closer. “makes it easier to hear myself think.”

you glance at her, meet her eyes for real this time. there’s something soft behind the smirk. something you’re afraid to name.

“you ever been with a girl before?” she asks it so simply. like it’s not the kind of question that could set a whole fire.

you shake your head.

she steps closer. “but you’ve thought about it.”

your voice is barely there. “yeah.”

“me?”

you don’t answer. you don’t have to.

she grins, just a little, and leans back against the counter again. gives you space like she’s giving you a choice.

you wipe your hands on the apron, heart going too fast.

“you want tea?” you ask, already reaching for a second cup.

“only if you’re having some too.”

you pour two mugs and sit across from her at the kitchen table. the light is soft through the window, dancing on the honey jar between you. she spoons some into her cup without asking. you do the same.

she watches the way you stir it in. watches like it means something.

“you gonna tell me why you really came?” you ask after a moment.

van smiles, tilts her head.

“i already did.”

you look down at your tea, steam curling up in slow ribbons. your fingers graze the rim of the mug, but your skin’s humming for something else.

you think about lottie yesterday—her soft smile, the strange, still way she looked at you when she said, “you might want to start a loaf. just a feeling.”

you’d laughed it off at the time, but the memory makes your chest flutter now. because she was right. van’s here. just like she said.

you swallow. “you think you’re smooth,” you say quietly.

“i know i am.”

you lift your eyes again. she’s looking at you like she wants to know how you taste when you’re flustered. and you think maybe, for once, you want to find out too.

“you staying long?” you ask, because you need to fill the air with something.

van shrugs. “depends.”

“on?”

“whether i get invited back.”

your throat feels too tight. your voice feels too small.

“you’re welcome anytime.”

van leans forward, resting her arms on the table, gaze dipping to your mouth before meeting your eyes again. “dangerous thing to say.”

“maybe i like danger.”

her tongue dips out to wet her bottom lip. she’s smiling again but it’s quieter now. more curious. like she wants to see what else you’ll say if she just stays still long enough.

she taps her fingers on the jar between you. “so… what else do you do when it’s just you and no one’s watching?”

your pulse jumps.

“you always ask questions like that?”

“only when the person answering looks this pretty doing it.”

you press your thighs together beneath the table. the air feels thicker now. like the room’s gotten smaller. like she’s closer than she is.

you don’t say anything. but you don’t look away either.

and van smiles like she knows she’s not leaving anytime soon.

the tea goes cold between you.

you don’t notice. not really. van’s still talking, voice low and warm, hands moving when she does, fingers brushing over the table like she’s drawing invisible circles. the room feels tilted somehow—like it shifted the second she stepped inside, like something’s humming just beneath the surface and neither of you are brave enough to touch it yet.

she tells you about a girl she met once, the way she smiled like trouble and kissed like she meant it. you laugh, shaking your head, but you can feel it in your stomach—this strange twist of something that feels a little like jealousy and a little like want.

“you ever think about leaving?” she asks suddenly, cutting through the quiet.

you look up from your mug. “what, this town?”

“yeah.”

“sometimes,” you say honestly. “not sure where i’d go, though.”

van nods, her pinkie tapping lightly against the rim of your cup. just a brush, but enough to make you look down and see how close her hand’s gotten to yours. she doesn’t move it. doesn’t pull away.

“you could go anywhere,” she says. “you’ve got that… flight risk thing about you.”

“you think so?”

“i know so.”

her eyes are on you again, but softer now. not teasing. just… seeing you.

you shift in your seat, your leg bumping into hers under the table. you don’t move it right away. she doesn’t either.

it makes your heart do that funny thing again. makes the collar of your shirt feel too tight.

“what about you?” you ask, trying to steady yourself. “you planning to just keep drifting around?”

van shrugs. “i like not knowing what’s next.”

you hum, watching the way the light catches her freckles, the way the tip of her ear’s turning pink again. it makes your stomach flutter, how easy she makes it look—this not knowing. this being.

“you ever get tired?” you ask softly.

“of?”

“not having something to come back to.”

van leans forward slightly, her arm brushing yours. this time, the touch lingers. not enough to be anything yet. just enough to make your skin feel warm where she’s touching.

she doesn’t answer right away. just looks at you like she’s deciding what to say.

“depends,” she says eventually. “sometimes i think i wouldn’t mind something… quieter.”

you don’t ask what she means. the words are enough. the tone. the way her voice dips on quieter, like she means this. like she means you.

you glance down at where her fingers are now resting just an inch from yours. slow, careful, she curls her pinkie around yours. not holding. not grabbing. just that little hook. like a promise. like a dare.

your breath catches.

“you okay?” she murmurs, like she can feel it.

you nod. you think you nod.

she smiles again, real gentle this time. “good.”

you both sit there like that for a while. pinkies linked. legs touching under the table. eyes flicking up and down and back again.

and it’s not much. not yet.

but it’s enough to make your whole body feel like it’s holding its breath.

and neither of you seems ready to exhale.

you don’t even remember what you were saying, just that van’s knee brushes yours under the table and neither of you moves away. her hand is resting on the bench between you now, just barely touching your skirt. light. tentative. like she’s testing the air between you.

“you always this nice to strangers?” she asks, voice low, lazy in that way that makes it sound like a dare.

you smile, a little shaky. “depends on the stranger.”

her eyes drop to your mouth.

your heart stumbles.

“am i pushin’ too far?” she asks, quieter now, like she’s afraid to break whatever spell you’re both caught in.

you shake your head. “no. i just…”

but you don’t finish. because she leans in and kisses you.

soft at first, like she’s giving you time to pull away. but you don’t—you lean closer. one of her hands comes up to brush your jaw, thumb skimming just beneath your ear, and your fingers find her thigh under the table without thinking, clutching the worn fabric of her jeans like a lifeline.

her mouth moves against yours slowly, her breath warm and a little shaky too, and when you let out the smallest sigh she deepens the kiss, her fingers slipping into your hair.

the bench creaks a little when she shifts closer, knees knocking together now. you’re fully turned toward her, hands on either side of her face like you’ve done this a hundred times.

you haven’t. but it feels like you should have.

her hand skims down, curling around your waist, thumb tracing the edge of your shirt where the fabric is thin and clinging to your skin from the heat.

“you sure?” she breathes, lips brushing yours.

you nod, whispering, “yeah.”

her mouth finds yours again, hungrier this time. you gasp when her fingers slide beneath the hem of your shirt, grazing the small of your back, and she groans against your mouth like she’s been holding that in all day.

she kisses your neck, slow and reverent, right where your pulse is pounding. you tilt your head without thinking, letting her.

her other hand finds your thigh under the table, fingertips grazing bare skin where your skirt’s bunched up. your breath catches and she freezes, giving you the tiniest second to stop her.

but you don’t.

you reach for her instead.

your fingers tangling in the front of her shirt, pulling her closer like gravity's got a personal vendetta. her mouth finds yours again, deeper this time—less question, more answer. you don't remember standing, but you're both up now, the edge of the table bumping your hip as van backs you gently toward the counter, lips never straying far from yours.

your back meets wood and she pauses, hands on either side of you, bracketing your body like she's framing a picture. her breath is coming faster now, her eyes scanning your face like she's reading it cover to cover. like she's afraid she'll miss something if she blinks.

"you sure?" she asks again, quieter this time.

and you are. it's not even a question in your mind anymore. you've been sure since she first said your name like she was trying it on. since the moment her fingers brushed yours from across the honey jar.

so you nod. then say it, real soft, just so there's no mistaking: "i want this."

something in her face shifts—something a little wild, a little undone. she kisses you again, and this time there's no hesitation. her hands are on your waist, fingers curling in your shirt, bunching the fabric slowly until it's untucked and rising.

"tell me if it's too much," she murmurs against your jaw, between kisses that trail down to your collarbone, "i'll stop."

"don't," you breathe, your fingers sliding under the hem of her shirt, feeling the heat of her skin, the solid line of her stomach. "i want you."

she exhales, almost like it hurts. "yeah?" her voice is wrecked, reverent. "god, you have no idea what that does to me."

you pull her in again, mouths meeting like magnets, like it's inevitable. she lifts you, easy, like she's done it before, and sets you on the counter. the wood's warm under your thighs, and her hands slide up your legs, slow and careful, never rushing, always asking with every touch.

"still good?" she asks, her forehead pressed to yours.

you reach down, guide one of her hands beneath your skirt, fingers trembling slightly as they meet bare skin.

"still good," you whisper. "better than good."

van kisses you again like she believes it now—like she's been trying not to. it's like the world narrows down to just that moment. just her touch. just the quiet sound you make as your head falls to her shoulder, your breath catching against her neck.

van's hand is under your skirt now. fingers dragging slow, steady paths along the inside of your thigh—pausing just long enough to make you ache. you shift against her, chasing the contact, and she huffs a low laugh, mouth brushing your jaw as she murmurs, "needy thing."

you manage a breathless, "please," and that's all it takes.

her fingers slip beneath the edge of your underwear, and the first touch is careful—measured—like she wants to feel how every little change in pressure pulls a sound from your lips.

"oh," you breathe, and she leans in closer kissing your throat as her fingers work deeper—sliding, curling just right until your breath hitches, until your hand grabs blindly at the counter for something to hold on to.

"you're already so wet," she says, voice low, rough at the edges. "is this all for me?"

you nod—whimper, really—and van's mouth finds yours again, swallowing the sound as her fingers curl just right inside you.

the rhythm builds slow, but certain—like she's not in a hurry, like she wants to make you feel every second of it. her palm presses tight against you with every motion, coaxing soft, involuntary gasps from your mouth, and when she speeds up just a little, your knees fall further apart without thinking.

she's watching you now, you can feel it. her breath hot on your cheek, her voice right against your ear.

"tell me what you need," she whispers, fingers stroking deeper, steadier.

"i—van—don't stop—"

and that's all she needs.

her other hand grips your hip to hold you steady, and she keeps going, thumb finding that stop that makes your back arch, your breath break. you're trembling now, hips rolling into her hand, chasing that edge with everything you've got, and van's right there with you—murmuring soft nothings, kissing you through it like she wants to taste your every breath.

you fall apart in her arms—slow, drawn out, the kind of release that makes the world blink out for a second—and she holds you steadily through it, fingers gentling, lips brushing your temple, your cheek, your mouth.

when it's over, you're slumped against her, legs shaking, heart thundering like it might burst right through your chest.

van pulls back just enough to see your bace, her hand still resting warm on your thigh. she grins—crooked, flushed, wrecked—and says, "hope you've got more of that honey."

you laugh, dazed and breathless, and kiss her again.

van's hums into your mouth, like she's trying to memorize the taste. when she finally pulls back, she nudges her nose against yours and murmurs, "could get used to breakfast like this."

you snort, still a little shaky. "that wasn't breakfast."

she grins. "then i'm real excited for the rest of the menu."

you swat at her shoulder, but she catches your wrist and presses a kiss to the inside of it, right where your pulse flutters. her eyes find yours again—steady, golden in the light spilling through the kitchen window.

"i could head out," she says casually, thumb brushing lazy circles against your skin. "but that'd be a damn shame, seeing as how i've got nowhere better to be. and your daddy's not due back 'til tomorrow."

you raise an eyebrow. "you planning to scandalize the whole town?"

van smirks, leaning in until her lips are a breath from yours. "i think it'd be more of a scandal if i left now."

you don't argue.

outside, the bees hum low in their boxes. inside, the air smells like warm bread and wildflower honey and her.

you kiss her once more, slow and smiling, and whisper, "you can stay."

and she does.

[pensthoughts]

love love loved mine first!! you are such a talented writer, you capture van as a character so well 💓 i would love to see a part two, maybe the next morning where r and van sort things out and its super soft and sweet!

mine | v.p

a/n: tysm for your feedback on mine first! i really did want an excuse to continue the story so thanks sm for this request <333 pairing: van palmer x reader summary: after a night of chaos, you and van talk in the early morning chilld about what's next for the both of you. despite the uncertainty of the world around them, they agree to figure things out together. word count: 1.6k part 2 of mine first

the world felt oddly still in the moments before the sun fully crested over the trees. the soft rustle of leaves and the far-off sounds of the others still sleeping mixed with the distant crash of waves against rocks. there was something serene about the air, even with the chaos that had unfolded the night before.

it was still chilly, the morning fog hanging over everything like a soft veil. the cold seeped through the layers of clothes, but it wasn't unpleasant—it was a reminder that the world had kept going, even after all that had happened at doomcoming.

you stirred first.

you weren't sure why you woke up—maybe it was the quiet, maybe it was just the strange sense of calm after the storm. but you found yourself slowly blinking, the weight of the night's events still settling in your chest. the bedroll beneath you felt surprisingly soft for the rough night, and the air smelled faintly of smoke and pine.

when you shifted, you became aware of the warmth beside you. van's body was a steady presence next to yours, her breathing still slow and deep, her arm draped across your waist, pulling you just a little bit closer in the quiet of the morning.

for a moment, you just lay there, letting the last bits of sleep settle over you, wondering what today would bring. but as the sun began to rise, the light caught the edges of van's hair, and you couldn't help but smile softly.

van.

you hadn't imagined this. this—her—was real now. the confession. the sex. the moments of softness and sweetness that you had just shared hours ago, right under the stars, surrounded by the wreckage of doomcoming and everything else. and yet, here you were, still tangled in the aftermath, still unsure of what came next.

you didn't want to disturb her, but the pull to get up and face the quiet world was too strong. you slipped out of the blanket gently, wincing slightly at the stiffness in your joints, the soreness of sleeping on hard ground. you grabbed van's oversized sweater, feeling its familiar softness settle over your shoulders like a warm hug. it was her sweater, and despite how it swallowed you whole, it was comforting.

you stepped outside, the chill of the air biting at your skin, but the sweater was like a protective shield. you glanced around at the others still sleeping, the world outside the cabin still wrapped in silence.

the first rays of sun broke over the horizon, turning the sky a soft shade of pink and orange. you sighed, breathing in the cold morning air. it felt like the calm before another storm.

as you stood there, hands tucked into the oversized sleeves of van's sweater, you heard a rustling behind you. you turned around just as van emerged from the darkness of the tent.

her hair was messy, a few strands still clinging to her face, and there was a sleepy smile on her lips. she was still in her clothes from the night before, but she had a warmth to her, a glow that made the chill of the morning feel less harsh.

she walked toward you, her boots crunching softly on the leaves, and stopped beside you, letting the silence stretch for a moment. neither of you spoke at first. there was something about being here, in this space between the past and the future, that made words feel unnecessary.

van glanced at you, her hand reaching to gently tug the sleeve of the sweater you were wearing. "i didn't know i was so fashionable," she teased with a smirk, the hint of a laugh playing at the edge of her voice.

you laughed softly, your gaze flickering to her. "well, it's yours...so it's got that going for it."

van's eyes softened as she leaned back against the exterior of the cabin, her arms crossing over her chest. she was quiet for a beat, taking in the sight of you, and then let out a long, slow breath. "so, uh...what now?"

you furrowed your brow, caught a little off guard by the question. it had been something you were both dancing around since the night before—the confession, and the undeniable fact that you had feelings for each other, had always had feelings.

"i don't know," you admitted, taking a few steps closer to her, letting the distance between you shrink. "i guess...i guess we figure it out together? i mean, we just went through all that last night. we did just...confess everything. so i think we deserve a little time to process it. "

"yeah," she agreed, her voice soft, "but i don't think i want to go through it all alone anymore. i know we've been all over the place, but...if you're still with me, i'm here for you."

your eyes softened, a small smile tugging at your lips, "you're really sure about this? i've been kind of a bitch lately," you asked, voice low, vulnerable in a way you didn't often allow.

van nodded without hesitation, "yeah, i'm sure. i think we just—" she hesitated, "if we're really doing this—if we're gonna actually figure out what happens next," she started, voice a little more teasing now, "you owe me some answers."

you raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "answers to what?"

van leaned forward, her smile widening. "to what we're calling this. " she gestured between the two of you. "like, is this a 'we're just figuring it out' thing or are we officially dating now? because i'll be honest, i think the 'friends to lovers' trope is a little overrated. maybe we could skip all the tension and just go straight to the part where i get to claim you as mine. you know, for once."

you laughed, a light chuckle escaping you. you hadn't realized how much you needed this

this ridiculous back-and-forth, the easy way van could pull you out of your own head. "i’m pretty sure that’s not how it works," you teased, nudging her lightly with your shoulder.

"well, it could be," she shot back. "i’m flexible."

you rolled your eyes, a grin tugging at your lips. "god, you’re such a dork."

van shrugged dramatically. "what can i say? i’m the coolest dork you know." she glanced at you with an almost playful glint in her eyes, a challenge. "do you still think i’m the coolest dork?"

your heart fluttered at the question. you’d spent so much time second-guessing everything with van, and now, hearing her ask it like that, it made it feel like the most important question in the world. the simple fact that she wanted to know, that she cared about your opinion, made you smile softly.

"definitely," you answered without hesitation. "you’re the coolest dork, hands down."

van’s smile softened, the playfulness lingering in her eyes as she stepped a little closer, her voice a little quieter now. "good, ‘cause i was starting to think you might not think i was so cool after the way things went down last night."

your smile faded a little, the memory of the fight coming back. you took a breath, looking down at your feet for a moment before meeting her gaze again. "van... i know i was being a jerk. i was so caught up in my head about everything, and i... i didn’t mean to push you away."

van’s expression softened as she reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair from your face. "i get it," she said quietly. "i was kind of a mess too. but we’re not perfect, you know? we both have our moments. what matters is that we’re here now, figuring it out."

you nodded, the weight of her words settling into your chest like a blanket of reassurance. "yeah, we are."

there was a comfortable pause between you two, the kind where the world just faded a little and all that mattered was the other person standing in front of you.

but van broke the silence with a grin, her voice turning teasing again. "so, when are we making it official? i’m thinking a grand gesture—maybe a serenade, or you know, a mixtape of all our favorite songs. or—"

you cut her off with a snort of laughter. "a mixtape? you’re really going for the ’90s rom-com route, huh?"

van raised an eyebrow, leaning in conspiratorially. "i thought you loved that shit. what’s wrong with a little campy romance?"

you shook your head, smiling despite yourself. "you’re ridiculous."

"i know," van said, grinning wider. "but seriously, we could do it. we could make this us, you know? i mean, if we’re gonna be stuck out here for who knows how long, we might as well make it interesting."

you glanced around at the others still asleep under their blankets, the weight of the whole situation settling in again. "yeah, i think we could. it might be a little weird, but i’m... i’m okay with that. as long as you’re still in it, i’m in it."

van grinned, her hand brushing against yours in that familiar, comforting way. "in it for the long haul, huh? you sure you’re ready to deal with me in all my messy glory?"

you looked at her, feeling your heart swell. "if you can handle me, i think i can handle you."

van laughed softly, the sound light and carefree. "guess we’ll see, huh?"

you both stood there for a moment, just enjoying the quiet morning and the steady rhythm of each other's presence.

the world was still waking up, but in this little bubble of time, it felt like you had all the answers, like the rest of the world could wait while you two figured things out.

[pensthoughts]

home turf | v.p

pairing: adult!van palmer x reader summary: fresh out of college, you’re stuck in new jersey helping your niece while your sister’s away. taking her to soccer practice is easy—except for the part where her hot coach keeps distracting you.  word count: 2.1k contains: age gap, flirting, soccer coach van

you didn’t think “post-grad” would mean living in your sister’s mansion in new jersey, driving her kid to soccer practice in a mercedes you don’t pay the insurance on, and googling “freelance jobs that don’t suck” from a poolside lounge chair. 

but here you are. 

your sister, madison—42, divorced, high-powered tech exec—got told she was being pulled out to california for work a couple weeks after you graduated. “three months,” she said, breezily, over a glass of wine that cost more than your entire college meal plan. “you get a free place to stay. i get someone i trust with sophia. win-win.”

her mansion feels like a hotel lobby and smells like lemon and linen. every room has a different diffuser. your socks slide on the marble when you forget to walk like you’re rich. 

madison calls it the house, but it’s got seven bedrooms and two staircases and a backyard so big you could lose a child in it. even though she’s not home, she’s still involved. she facetimes like a sitcom mom, with her makeup done and perfect lighting and a voice all sunny and composed. 

you’re not used to it yet. not the house, not the way your niece says “we have a gardener”, not how quiet it gets when she leaves for school and you’re alone with your thoughts and the fridge full of green juice that costs as much as a car. 

but you said yes. because you love your niece. because your sister asked. because you just finished college, and money’s tight, and the rent at home was making you spiral. so now you’re in new jersey. living in your sister’s mansion, figuring out what comes next. 

madison is almost 20 years older than you, and it shows. she was married and pregnant by the time you were in the first grade. you grew up on opposite ends of the same childhood; her with your dad’s first wife in new jersey, and you with the second in a new york city apartment. you only overlapped when she came home for holidays, looking like someone off tv, with a different car and haircut every time. 

she helped raise you when your mom was sick, though. and after the funeral, she paid for the rest of your college like it was nothing. 

you’re not sure if she’s more your sister or your boss. but you owe her. and now you owe her daughter too. 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

your niece is a phenom. that’s what the newspaper said. 

freshman starting varsity. number 9. seven goals in her first two games. she’s got madison’s determination and your footwork. you’d say it’s genetics, but mostly she’s just obsessed. wakes up early to train. watches tape. has her cleats lined up like museum pieces in the garage. 

you love her, even when she’s smug. especially when she’s smug. it’s familiar. a little too familiar. 

she looks up to you. you won nationals back in high school, after all. you were supposed to go far—college scholarships, olympic qualifiers, maybe even pro—but injuries happen. life happens. you haven’t played in years, but it’s in your bones. you can still see the angles on the field before anyone else can. you still dream in cleats. 

which is probably why you keep ending up at practice. 

it starts innocently. drop-offs. pick-ups. then she asks you to stay and watch. then she says coach palmer likes when the parents show up, even if you’re technically not a parent, and suddenly you’re in the bleachers four afternoons a week. 

you’d like to say it’s for your niece. but then there’s her. 

van palmer. 

coach palmer, to everyone else. forty-two. red hair always shoved under a hat. lives in sweatpants and track jackets like it’s a uniform. she owns a video store downtown called while you were streaming—yes, it’s real, yes, it somehow stays open—and she only coaches soccer on the side, “for fun” she once said, like running drills and barking from the sidelines is her version of a wine hobby. 

you notice her the first day. how could you not? 

she’s magnetic in that older-lesbian, scruffy-hot, fixes things with duct tape and charm kind of way. her voice carries. she swears under her breath and laughs like she means it and has this way of whistling that makes the whole field snap to attention. 

and she notices you too. 

you’re sitting on the bleachers one afternoon, sunglasses perched on your head, drinking some overpriced juice from madison’s fridge, when she wanders over during a water break. 

“let me guess,” she says, stopping just a few feet from you, hands on hips. “you’re madison’s little sister.”

you blink. “uh… yeah. how’d you—?”

“you’ve got her eyes,” van says. “and you’re not a student. unless they’re letting college grads back in with fake IDs.”

you snort, which is humiliating, but she just smiles wider.

“i’m van. palmer. coach,” she adds, jerking her thumb toward the field like you didn’t just watch her command the team like a general. “i went to school with madison.” 

you smile. “yeah. i’m not a parent. i’m the cool aunt.”

van grins. “ah, the most powerful of all family roles.”

you nod solemnly. “we don’t pay the bills, but we do buy the secret candy stash.”

“i respect that.”

there’s a pause. you both look out at the field, your niece arguing with another girl over who gets to take the next corner.

“she’s good,” van says. 

you smile. “she’s so smug about it.”

“i’d be smug too.”

you glance over. “is that a coach thing? or a former player thing?”

she shrugs. “both. played in high school. team was supposed to go to nationals.” her voice dips there—just slightly—and you catch something in it, like the weight of memory. 

you remember reading something once. a team that never made it. a plane crash. a rumor that felt too big to be real. 

but van’s already switching gears. she taps the bleachers with her knuckles. “you play?”

you pause. “used to.”

van’s eyes cut back to you, curious. “how used to?”

“high school. nationals.” you say, mentioning nationals makes you feel slightly odd, considering what she probably went through because of it.

her eyebrows lift. “damn. you win?”

“yeah. barely.” you smirk. “why, you wanna recruit me?”

she grins, wide and a little wicked. “only if you’ve got four years of eligibility and a fake birth certificate.” 

you laugh—genuinely this time—and van chuckles with you, kicking lightly at the grass with the toe of her sneaker. 

there’s a pause, then she says, “you’re gonna be picking sophia up most days? 

you nod. "until her mom gets back. i’m the live-in aunt-slash-temporary guardian.” 

van whistles, low. “big house for two people.”

you give her a look. “you been creeping on our property?”

“nah,” she says, grinning again. “small town. you can see the gate from the road.”

you roll your eyes. “it’s not my mansion.”

“but you’re staying there?”

“temporarily.”

“hm.” she tilts her head. “so what, you just hang out by the pool all day?”

you shoot her a dry look. “only when i’m not updating my résumé or submitting applications to jobs i’m underqualified for.”

“ah,” she nods sagely. “you’re in your ‘screaming into the void’ phase.”

“exactly.”

van smiles like she knows the feeling a little too well. then someone yells “coach!” and she turns her head.

“duty calls,” she says, “nice meeting you…?”

you give her your name, and she repeats it once, like she’s locking it in. 

“cool,” she says, “try not to distract the team with your whole…” she gestures vaguely toward you, “…vibe.”

you laugh, surprised. “my vibe?”

“i don’t know. you’ve got this sunglasses-and-smoothie energy. it’s very SoCal”

“i’m from new york.”

she whistles. “dangerous combo.”

she then jogs back onto the field without another word. 

you sit there, a little stunned, sipping your smoothie like it didn’t just become the most embarrassing beverage in the world. 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

that night, your niece finds you in the kitchen. 

“so,” she says, casual as anything. “coach palmer talked to you today.”

you try to play it cool. “she talks to all the parents.”

“you’re not a parent.”

“i’m parent-adjacent.”

she snorts. “she totally thinks you’re hot.”

you almost choke on your water. “excuse me?”

“she kept looking at you. like looking looking. she never talks to anyone during water breaks.” 

you open your mouth, close it, and point at her. “you are fifteen. you are not allowed to have gaydar yet.”

she just laughs and walks away. 

and you stand there, in your sister’s designer kitchen, heartbeat loud in your ears, trying not to smile.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

whole foods is somehow both overwhelming and peaceful at nine a.m.

it’s a saturday, and you’re there with your niece, shopping for ingredients for a smoothie she swears by—"it’s what all the girls on the u17 national team drink"—when you turn a corner in the produce aisle and almost ram your cart into another. 

“woah—” comes a voice. “either you’re following me, or you’re trying to run me over.”

you look up. van, standing on the other side of the cart, a bunch of bananas in one hand and a lazy grin on her face.

she’s wearing joggers and a white t-shirt, no hat today, hair slightly messy, like she just rolled out of bed and still managed to look unfairly good. 

“maybe both,” you say, recovering quickly. “you looked like you needed to be humbled.”

“oof,” she says, holding a hand to her chest. “brutal. and here i was gonna compliment your fruit selection.”

you glance down. organic strawberries, overpriced peaches, some kale you regret grabbing. 

“it’s for her,” you say, nodding toward your niece, who’s already halfway down the aisle, pretending not to look but very obviously watching you both. 

“of course it is,” van says. “madison used to make smoothies like that. back in high school, she was the health queen. cheer captain, straight As, SAT tutor. i think she even ran a charity one summer just for fun.”

you laugh. “yep. that sounds about right.”

“you were raised in the city, though, yeah?” she asks, nudging her cart alongside yours as you move toward the bulk granola. “i remember you mentioned it. didn’t your dad move after the divorce?”

“yeah. me and my mom were in the upper west side until—” you cut yourself off, because you don’t usually say it so early in a conversation. but van’s watching you like she actually cares. so you finish, quieter. “until she passed.”

van’s expression softens. “sorry.”

you shrug. “it was a while ago. madison stepped up. she’s kind of intense, but she means well.”

van snorts. “understatement of the decade.”

you grin. “what about you? you grow up around here?”

“born and raised,” she says, grabbing some trail mix. “i left for a while. came back eventually. too many ghosts out west, i guess.”

you glance at her. there’s something under that. but she doesn’t elaborate. and you don’t push. 

“so what brings you to whole foods on a saturday morning?” you ask.

she shrugs. “needed coffee. and peanut butter. and apparently a run-in with a pretty girl in the fruit aisle.”

you freeze for half a second. pretty girl. you.

van meets your gaze, completely unbothered, like she didn’t just casually wreck your brain with a sentence. 

“do you flirt like this with all the aunts?” you ask, trying to keep your voice light.

“only the hot ones,” she says, then winks.

your niece coughs loudly behind you. you whirl around.

“are we done?” she says, way too innocent. 

you nod, quickly. “almost.”

“coach palmer,” she says, smiling sweetly, “you should come over sometime. we’ve got a pool. and a grill.”

van raises an eyebrow. “is that so?”

“yeah. my mom would totally approve. she loves community engagement.”

you stare at her. she stares back, victorious.

“well,” van says, grinning. “i do like a good grill.”

you clear your throat. “okay. we’re gonna check out now.”

“see you at practice,” van says, and her gaze lingers for just a second longer than necessary. 

as you walk away, pushing the cart a little too fast, your niece smirks. 

“what?” you ask, trying to sound stern.

“nothing,” she sing-songs. “just saying…you’ve got game.”

“i do not have game.”

“you had her blushing. coach palmer. blushing.”

you roll your eyes, but your face is warm.

and later, as you’re unpacking the groceries in the massive lemon-scented kitchen, you realize you can’t stop smiling. 

you kind of want her to come over. 

you kind of want her to stay.