Catfish and the Bottlemen Imagines

A Touch of Pace 1.1 - Van

A/N: This story is inspired by the song 26, in which Van is interested in an older woman. Enjoy! 

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She never failed to take my breath away. 

Christ, what a cliche. "Take my breath away." Sounds like a terrible 80's pop ballad. Shoot me if I ever put that in a song. 

But that's what she did. Fucking forced the air right out my lungs every time she entered a room. Made my throat clench and turned me straight back into a stumbling teenager with no right to be within two meters of her. 

She wasn't just fit. Sure, her body was unreal, with all those curves, and I'd be lying if I said I hadn't dreamed about fucking her senseless up against a wall. But that's because I'm a horny ass. 

No, she was more than that. That wild blonde hair thrown up in some ponytail or bun. The clothes she wore - classy, simple, never showing much of her bronzed skin. Those huge brown eyes, barely rimmed, standing out among a sea of painted faces. Her expressive little lips, usually naked, that creased so easily into a laugh or a smirk. In my eyes, she was simply a goddess. 

I met her three years ago, at the Brits. I was on edge anyway - those awards shows, so much pomp and glitz, they're just not for me. She was there with her band. I took one look at her and went speechless. 

Fortunately Bondy smoothed it. He told her I had red-carpet nerves and did most of the talking. She seemed amused, and whispered in that thick Scottish accent, "don't worry, just a few hours more, you'll do great," before she flashed me a smile and moved on. 

The next day I grilled Bondy about her. He scoffed. 

"Mate, don't get ideas. She's with Jeremy Tronson. Everybody knows that." 

"Well he can fucking do one," I spat, angry I hadn't known about her and the famous drummer. Bondy just laughed. 

I sighed. "Nah, he's class. Good on him, then. Hey, how old you think she is?"

Bondy rolled his eyes. "Come off it, man." 

Later I googled her and got a shock. She deffo didn't look her age. Fuck, she looked better than most girls my age, and she was ten times more interesting. Not that it mattered, I reminded myself. I was no cuckold. 

Th U.K. music scene is small, so we ran into her now and again. Once I could actually form a sentence around her she always greeted me like an old friend. I bet I could recount every place she ever touched me -- a palm on my forearm, her fingertips grazing my back, a light hug to say goodbye. All warm, all affectionate, all platonic. 

Eventually it was all over the news that she and Tronson had split. I thought long and hard about messaging her. Finally I DMed her with a goofy selfie. 

Sorry to hear the news. But hope you get some good songs out of it, yeah?

I didn't hear from her for a day or so. I thought I'd fucked it up. But finally she replied. 

Thanks, mate. Anything for the good of a song, aye?  Hope to see you soon <3

I must have read that message back a hundred times, smiling each time. 

I knew she'd be at TRNSMT, and all day the lads teased me mercilessly while I ducked around corners, trying to catch a glimpse of her. Our headline set was fucking amazing, if I do say so myself. So I was already revved up when she turned up at our after-party, chill and sexy in a white t-shirt and jeans. 

We talked quite a bit over beers, geeking out about writing songs, the festival, fronting a band, everything.  News had spread fast about her being single, and I had to watch with gritted teeth as guy after guy hit on her -- unsuccessfully, I might add.