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…..
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
“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.”
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.
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.
when you finally do, it’s only to step toward the mic and say into it—low, easy, almost teasing—
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
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 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.”
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.
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.
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.”
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.”
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.
she hasn’t even blinked yet.
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.”
“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?”
van turns so fast it’s almost cartoonish, stumbling over her own foot like the universe decided actually, yes, you will be mortified tonight.
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.”
“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.”
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.
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?”
“…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
