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mintyvan · 7 years

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filling the prompts van finds reader’s makeup bag and decides to have a go at mascara + reader moves into a new house, and van is her neighbor + reader is van’s friend and they love to get high and listen to music and smoke in the kitchen and sometimes kiss a little. one day things go further than they planned.

note Hope you don’t mind I changed up the “Van’s your neighbor” prompt; I figured this story would go well if Van was the one who moved in. Huge thanks to @flouraie for inspiring this prompt and keeping me sane. Love ya.

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“Holy shit.”

You had walked into the little bathroom to find Van’s face inches from the mirror, delicately tracing over his eyelashes with your mascara wand. His tall, lanky frame was hunched above the porcelain wall sink you all shared in the little three-room apartment, his tongue between his lips in concentration.

“Sorry, thought I’d have a go at it,” he said, shakily. He didn’t know you all too well yet, since he and his friend had just rented the empty rooms in the flat, and he’d been gone for most of the time he’d supposedly been renting it. He stood back up, guilty you’d caught him using your expensive makeup, and immediately reached for where you kept the makeup wipes. He’d totally invaded your space, and you wanted to tell him off. But you weren’t that mean. And he was cute.

“No, no! Don’t take it off!” You took his arms and held them in front of you and smiled. Looking up at him, he’d only done one eye so far, and it looked severely unbalanced. “Hold on, let me fix you up.” He sat on the bathroom counter, now at eye level.

You pulled the wand out of the tube again. “Look down at me. I’m not going to stab you in the eye, promise. Okay……” you began, holding one of his cheeks for stability, and letting your elbow rest on his shoulder. You let the wand comb through his already dark lashes, coating them effectively.

“There we go.” You did the other eye again, just to be sure it was even. “Look up?” you asked, and painted his lower lashes in jet black liquid. You stood back to admire your work.

“Fuuuuuuck” was all you could whisper. You handed him the mirror from your makeup bag. He studied himself in the little square of light, and you watched him. Something flashed in his eyes for a second. Your stomach fluttered. The look he had on his face...

“Don’t tell me you just got a little turned on by looking at yourself in the mirror.”

He set the mirror down and all of a sudden, picked a giggly you up off the tiles and carried you to the couch in the lounge. He pinned your arms to the upright cushions with one hand, both of you laughing, and straddled you to hold you down. He pulled the tube of mascara out of his back pocket with the other.

You beamed up at him in astonishment. All the while, you couldn’t breathe correctly. You never expected your new roommate to ever do something like this.

“Your turn,” he said, little laughs in between his motions to open the tube, and your squirming.

He brought his face close to yours, and you sighed as his minty breath fanned across your face. He didn’t know the effect he had slowly been creating on you. Ever since he’d come back from tour, you’d secretly delighted in the little quirks he had. He was quickly becoming one of your good friends, in the little moments you were privy to his company.

As he worked on your eyes, you stared straight ahead at his own dark, luxurious lashes, and felt the butterflies creep up in your stomach again. He stopped combing your lashes abruptly, looked straight into your eyes, and licked his lips. He went back to work, and you thought your lungs were going to explode.

“Van?” your voice came out all tiny, and you tried to put your palm down on the cushions to wipe the sweat away from it, but instead it landed on his thigh. Panic mode set in. You wanted to move it, but your entire body was paralyzed. This was not how roommates acted.

He stopped coating your bottom lashes in the mascara.

“Yeah?” he replied, still straddling you sitting on the couch, your hand still on his dark denim-clad thigh. Both of you, unmoving. He licked his lips again.

“I…” you started. But before anything could come out, the doorbell rang.

“I uh… ordered pizza.” He slowly untangled himself from you and the couch, put the mascara back in the tube, and the doorbell rang again. “Coming!” he called out, running to get his wallet from the kitchen and sprinting to the door.

You both quietly munched on the pizza, sat on opposite ends of the couch, avoiding each other’s glances. That was, until you glanced at him and huffed out a laugh. He looked at you, smirking. “What?” he asked, through a mouthful of pizza.

“You’ve still got the mascara on.” He swallowed.

“You like it?”

“It’s a good look on you. Though I haven’t seen you much around here, so I can’t be sure.”

“I’m home for the next few months, since we’re recording here. You’ll be seeing a lot more of me, love.” He winked, and got off the couch to refill his glass of water. You continued munching on your pizza. He was gone for a few minutes.

He came back with a glass and a brownie sticking halfway out of his mouth, looking chipper.

“Whoa, mate.” You looked at him with wide eyes. “How many of those did you shovel in just now?”

“This’ll be my third,” he said, popping the rest of it into his mouth. “Why?”

You started laughing. “Oh nothing huge, those are just the weed brownies my friend brought over this morning.”

His eyes grew large. “And I fucking ate three? You’re gonna have to take care of me, I’m gonna be down n’ out in a few.”

Van was not down and out in a few. The brownies took a while to work their magic, and it was shitty weed they were made with anyways, so after you ate three to catch up, you both just vegged out on the carpet and finished the rest of the pizza with a normal high.

“Wanna put on a record?” you asked him, and he lazily stood and rifled through the hellhole of a collection you’d all started in the corner of the room. Van and his friend had brought boxes and boxes of records, and they’d started to mix in with yours.

“Lil bit o’ this,” he said, and moved the needle over the vinyl. When it started to play, he audibly sighed in relief. “Moondance.”

He plopped back down on the carpet where you had sprawled out like a cat, and starfished next to you, his side almost touching yours. You both lied there in silence for a while, enjoying the swimmy feeling in your heads.

Listening to the soft melody crawl over the carpet and into your ears was peaceful. Van got up and had a cigarette in the kitchen, and then made his way back to the carpet. His hand languidly stroked yours. “I think Into the Mystic is one of the greatest love songs of all time.” You turned your head sideways to look at him. He had already been looking at you.

You both leaned in, and your lips met, soft and lazy. His hand caressed your neck and cheeks. In a haze, you let him roll over and rest his weight on top of you. Your legs intertwined, and his lips kissed the corner of your mouth. Moondance played Van Morrison’s crooning voice on and on until the record stopped. His lips were still on yours when it ended, slow and soft. You both parted for air, and smiled.

He got up, and pulled you up with him by your hand. He led you to your bedroom, and closed the door behind you as he went to his own. You slept contentedly.

This was how it started.

*****

Late in the next afternoon when you’d finally risen from your comatose states, you stumbled out of your room desperate for cheese toasties. Van was also exiting his room at the same time, and when he stopped rubbing his eyes, you burst out laughing.

“What’s up?”

“The mascara is smothered alllll over your face. It’s run everywhere. You look like a clown.” You grabbed his arm and led him to your bedroom, where you’d relocated the wipes after last night. He stood awkwardly as you retrieved them from your bedside table. You realized he’d never been in your room.

“Here you go, just put them under the bathroom sink like you found them yesterday. Want a cheese toastie?”

“Do I ever,” he replied, wiping clean stripes down his face. He followed you to the kitchen.

“When’s your friend coming home?” you asked while busying yourself with the cheese toasties.

“Next week, actually. You can hang with us if you want,” he said, throwing the wipe in the trash.

“Sure, that’d be good, considering I still haven’t met him yet and he’s my roommate,” you gave him a sly smile as you slid a plate with a cheese toastie across the counter to his leaning form.

*****

Larry was as rowdy as Van, if not more so; but definitively just as sweet. Already he helped with the laundry, cleaned when he wasn’t asked to, and kept his own part of the bathroom neat and tidy. When you’d heard you’d be living with two boys, you were frightened by horror stories others had told you regarding male roommates. However, your expectations couldn’t have been farther from the truth.

When it came time for the official “Welcome Home Larry” party you and Van threw for him several weeks later, you invited a few friends you knew from the area. Van was thankful, because he and Larry didn’t know anyone else besides their band members, and they were staying far across town.

The two handles of vodka you’d bought with Van were more than enough, and you’d high fived in passing during the party when it was going well, chuckling at each other’s bright faces. Van played mixologist behind the kitchen breakfast bar, and Larry got to know some of the local people. You were happy that your new friends were assimilating well into this little world you’d created living here.

Van handed you a drink and it was the most delicious you’d ever sipped; “Me mum and dad ran a bed and breakfast,” he’d said, and he’d watched them make drinks for guests on holidays. He made a drink for everyone in the house before he made himself one. You watched him work with a certain kind of precision you hadn’t seen in him before for a few seconds before giving him a soft smile and heading back to the couch.

After just three drinks, you were already reeling, holding onto tables and the back of the couch as you walked around. Everyone was starting to get drunk off Van’s specialty drinks, including Van himself, and you knew it was turning into a proper party fast. Boisterous laughter echoed from every corner of the lounge and kitchen. Larry was loving it, and plugged his phone into the speakers you had splurged on a few weeks before they arrived. The whole apartment started bumping to the beat of whatever he decided to play with his aux privileges.

“You alright?” Van asked as you leaned against one of the living room walls, watching Larry do an impression of someone famous. Your eyes were drifting in and out of focus. He already had a glass of water in his hand for you.

“I’m just feeling a bit dizzy, is all,” you said, taking the glass of water in his outstretched hand and flashing a smile at him before drinking it down. He smiled all crooked and drunk and walked back into the chaos of the room.

You decided you needed a breath of fresh air, and went to your bedroom to open the window. You stuck your head outside for a few minutes, watching your cool breath leave your lips, and then inhaling the sharp winter wind. The cars on the street below honked and screeched every so often, and you breathed in the smells of the city. When your teeth were too cold to bear, you slid the window shut and walked back to the noise and laughter, refreshed.

You stumbled through the thick of the crowd of people who’d gathered around Larry. They were really enjoying his company and his jokes; a few of the girls were probably sure to ask for his number later. They were definitely enjoying his accent. You laughed, and walked into the kitchen.

Under the fluorescent lights, Van’s hair was starting to stick to his forehead as he mixed drinks. He brushed it back with one hand, and you felt a lurch somewhere deep inside you.

You moved to stand next to him, and before your mind could process quickly enough to say no, you grasped at his hand. He let you take it. You led him into the hallway, out of sight from the other partygoers, and he willingly let your hands roam. Your cold nose and lips touched his. His lips met yours again, soft and sweet. His hands held your cheeks steady, his tongue slow in drunkenness running between your lips. Your hands felt down his abs, and rested on his hips. Your head was tilted slightly up, giving him more access to your mouth. His hands were warm on you, and you felt safe.

When the kiss broke it was because your lips were getting tired and people were starting to notice you’d both drifted from the party. You returned to the room as if nothing had happened.

*****

That was how it went for the next few weeks. Whenever you both got drunk or high, usually listening to music or partying, you’d make out with each other to fill the time. It was fun and easy with Van; no strings were attached. The convenience of living together meant if either of you were frustrated or sad or needy in any way, a quick make out under the influence could save bad decisions being made with potential sexual partners, or prevent fights from breaking out due to irritability or pent up emotions.

The roommate dynamic still stayed the same. You and Van were content being friends that made out with each other, and there was an unspoken rule that it was just kissing. That’s all you both ever seemed to want anyways. Larry had caught you both making out on multiple occasions, but never pressed the issue further than the intermittent “So you guys kissed last night.” When one of you would answer “yeah,” that was it.

******

“How’d I do this time?” Van asked, strutting into your room a few months later with an almost full-face of makeup on. He’d taken up the art of makeup in the time that you and he were alone together in the house, which was infrequent, but enough to give him time to hone his skills.

You inspected his face from the bed you were cross-legged on. “Mascara is perfect, as always. Maybe should have put the highlighter up a little higher on your cheekbones? But the subtle lip stain you used is spot on. I don’t remember teaching you how to do that.”

“A little experimentation never hurts.”

“I completely agree.”

He started to walk out of your bedroom, but you called him back in. “Hey, I dare you to wear highlighter to the party tonight.” He glanced at you with a look of distaste. “Pleeeeeaaseee. I’d kill for cheekbones like yours. Let me live vicariously through you.”

“With a compliment like that, I don’t think I can say no.” He walked out of your room, and you heard the water running as he washed his face off. You lazily flicked through the pages of the magazine you were reading. He returned with the fan brush and his favorite highlighter, and sat on your bed.

“Can you do this so I don’t look like a fucking idiot?” he asked, grinning stupidly. You knew he was secretly giddy to step out of the house in a little makeup just to see people’s reactions.

“Sure,” you said as you scooted closer to him. Some of the berry-red lip stain he’d used lingered on his lips, and they looked delectable.

You’d never really had the urge to snog him sober before, and your revelation surprised you. You were uncharacteristically quiet as you dipped the brush in the shimmery powder and spread it across his cheekbones, avoiding eye contact. You didn’t want him to ask about the look on your face.

“There,” you said quietly, reserved. You replaced the top on the shimmery powder and set it on the bed for him to collect. You didn’t let your fingers brush his. You returned to the magazine you’d been leafing through, head down in the pages, waiting for him to leave you in peace.

He didn’t leave.

“.... Y/N?” he said, dipping his head to your level to try to get you to look in his eyes.

“Yeah?” you replied, dodging his eyes.

“Is there anything bothering you?”

“No, sorry, I’m just feeling kind of weird right now. I’m in one of those moods. Give me a few minutes and I’ll be ready to party.”

“Okay, sinnabit,” he said, rubbing his hands together and rising from the bed. He left your room and went to his own devices.

“Christ,” you whispered to yourself. You dressed yourself in the clothes you’d set out for the party, taking a deep breath in the mirror.

*******

The party at the bar was a rager; you’d arrived with Van just before the energy of the party reached its peak. People were already smashed, and you and Van gave each other an eye-twinkling look that screamed, Let’s catch up with them.

You and Van were usually the type to grab a beer and stick with it, but tonight, you headed straight for the shots. Due to the weird tropical theme of the party (in winter no less), they were tequila and lime. Your favorites.

You walked up to a tray of shots already out on the table. Van leaned his elbow on the high table, playful look in his eye as he grabbed two shots and handed one to you. You licked a line on your hand, and Van did the same on his. A little sprinkle of salt was dashed across your hand, a clink of shot glasses came with smirks as you raised them together, and a subdued burning, followed by the refreshing sour of lime, hit the back of your throats. Little stolen grins became wider, crooked smiles as you both took two more shots, and set off to meet up with people.

The highlighter on Van’s face shone brightly under the hot lights of the bar as he conversed with people, and compliments were being thrown his way left and right, from girls and boys alike. He responded with an obligatory but sincere “Thank you very much” every time, and then proceeded to look at you with admiration. He wrapped his arm around your waist, and it stayed there. The shared looks were searing a hole in your heart, and you didn’t understand why. Between the alcohol and his praise, you were feeling very, very good.

“More shots, please, Van,” you tugged at his arm during a lull in conversation, and he followed you to a table with fresh shots lined up across it.

“Here we go!” he said, licking a line across his hand, shaking salt onto it. You did the same. Right before he downed it, he winked at you. Your shot burned harder than it had before, and you almost choked when you sucked a lime wedge. You were about to ask him a very bad question to ask someone when drunk just as one of his favorite songs came over the speakers and saved you from embarrassing yourself.

“No fuckin’ way!” he yelled, taking your hand and guiding you through people to an open space on the dance floor.

You never thought you’d be able to dirty dance to Someday by The Strokes, but it was happening.

Your arms were wrapped around his neck, and his hands were gliding up and down your back, at your waist, and thumbing over your hip bones. His slow movements up against you didn’t match the beat at all; if you’d been sober, maybe you would have cared about the odd looks you were receiving from people.

Toward the end of the song, his slightly grinding movements got harder, and you got a little sweatier. Your arms and legs felt weak as he held you. His forehead dipped and rested against yours. And just as Julian sang out the last “I aint wastin’ no more time,” Van’s hand cupped your face. His thumb ran across your bottom lip, pulling it open just slightly.

“SHOTTTTSSSSSSS!” a deep-voiced burly guy shouted at the top of his lungs. Everyone who’d been out on the dance floor rushed for what seemed like the third round of shots. You and Van lingered there frozen on the floor, looking into each other’s eyes. You broke eye contact to find one of his hands and lead him away to the shots, avoiding any awkwardness that could have come with the moment.

Lick salt, take shot, bite lime from rind. Rinse and repeat. Or, that was how it was supposed to go.

As soon as you dragged Van to the table, he spun you to face him, and your head swam happily as you looked into those eyes.

“We don’t have to do it like always,” he said. “Try something new?”

“Sure.” With eyes like his, and the light sheen across his cheekbones, you would agree to anything he asked of you right now, not to mention how you trusted him immensely.

You licked a line across your hand, setting it up against the table laterally so some of the spit wouldn’t run, and Van did the same. Sprinkle of salt here and there, done.

Before you could think, Van licked the salt off your hand, slow and steady, eyes dead set on yours the whole time, boring into you. He quickly took the shot, not breaking eye contact. He let it burn for a few seconds before soothing it with the lime. You shivered. He looked incredible standing in front of you. His eyes were rimmed red from drunkenness, but still. Hair ruffled, shirt collar sticking up funny, fingers brushing your arm. Head hovering close. You felt a tingle between your legs.

“S’ all you, babe,” he replied.

You licked the salt from his hand, just as slow and painstakingly as he had from yours, salt scraping up against wet flesh, and saw his reaction just before you closed your eyes and downed the shot. You picked up a lime wedge, but before you could suck the juice, Van’s hand swatted at it, letting it fall to the floor. He kissed the burn from your lips and you melted into his embrace, tongue tingling from the alcohol you’d consumed as it glided over Van’s in an unabashedly sleazy kiss.

You’d never kissed him in public before, and in such an open space. Closets or bedroom floors or secluded couches always seemed to be the move. This time you knew the feeling was different; this kiss felt frantic, even though you’d both been kissing on occasions where you’d been much more inebriated than tonight.

In the back of the taxi on the way home, you still hadn’t stopped kissing. His lips were a plump cherry red every time you pulled apart reluctantly for him to give directions to the taxi driver, who didn’t seem to care you were both horizontal in the back of his cab.

Van’s hands trailed up your thighs, and you knew with every fiber of your being that tonight’s decision to wear a skirt couldn’t have gone better.

The taxi braked with a halt, most likely to get your attention so you could untangle yourselves. Van chuckled above you, and helped you out of the taxi.

Once inside, the hands and the lips didn’t stop.

It was past saving now, this friends-with-kissing-benefits-only relationship you had with him. You knew it had left when you’d put highlighter on him earlier that day and made a realization.

He stepped backwards, letting you lead him to his room, smiling mischievously all the while between heavy kisses. You both forgot Larry was home.

For the first time, you let him undress you, and you, him. You fell back onto his bed, his scent lingering everywhere, and let it envelop you. He kissed you harder, and with more passion than he’d exhibited before. His hands caressed your body with such sweetness you thought you were going to implode.

“I love you,” he’d whispered, just before you both melted happily into each other.

*******

The light shining through the window blinded you both, seemingly simultaneously, as the sun peeked out from behind the clouds.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mumbled, tossing a pillow over his head, and, coincidentally yours, before he opened his eyes fully and realized you were still next to him.

He smiled sleepily and used an arm to pull you into his side. His skin was soft and pale in the dark sheets, and you molded yourself to fit his form.

“You good?” he asked you. You contemplated everything silently for a few moments. The best friendship you’ve ever had, the emotional and physical comfort, the proximity, the trust --- everything added up, and it had for a while now.

“Yeah. I’m good. Are you?” you looked up at him. His answer to your question was a kiss, with little giggles in between. His excitement shone through the kiss, and you were happy.

The door to his bedroom opened.

“Van, I --- Christ!” Larry stood there, open-mouthed and about to laugh at the sight of the two of you kissing, traces of last night evident in the clothes strewn across the floor.

“Finally,” he said, closing the door with a soft thunk.

You and Van smiled at each other before returning to the kiss that had been interrupted. Your teeth tugged on his bottom lip, and he pulled away, stretching it until it left your teeth and sprung back to normal.

“Round two?” he asked cheekily, moving his hand to rest on your thigh, just like you had the first time he’d put mascara on you. How coincidental.

#van mccann #catfish fic #catfish fanfic #van fic #vanfiction #van fanfic

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