"If I was a girl in a book, this would all be so easy, I'd just give up the world happily."
Finnick Odair Masterlist
Percy Jackson Master list
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DISCLAMER:
I also write on Wattpad under the username “Lillisrealm” so If you’re coming from wattpad and see this account I am not stealing my own work! Though I do appreciate those who have messaged me with concern!
After 3 years, I've finally sat down for four hours straight and wrote majority of part 4 :sob: i'll post this as a little teaser because im actually so happy with how much i've written and how the chapter is turning out!!! (and just to be clear both finnick and yn are 18 cause this is a bit uhmmm :p (nothing more happens than this snippet (not until the end of the story where we get a timeskip anyway))
“I’ll do my best.” I finally uttered, swallowing harshly as his breath fanned over my thigh. Goosebumps flared across my skin, and I briefly worried that he could feel it. That he could feel the effect he had on me. Fuck.
Finnick continued to inch closer, his fingers trailing up my leg, following invisible patterns across the expanse of my thigh, feeling the goosebumps up my arm until his palm found purchase on the side of my face. He angled my head towards him, forcing me to finally look at his eyes.
Even in the darkness, I could see the desperation, the steel resolve. Just like four years ago.
“I’ll do whatever I can to get you out of there, alive.”
His gaze flickered down.
The motion of waves reflected on his skin.
His fingers twitched against my jaw.
The hum of the ocean muted my quickened breaths.
He leaned forward, until his breath tickled the tip of my nose. Until I could feel the heat emanating not just from his hand, but from his entire body. Until the few inches between us were the only barrier separating us.
billy dunne x fem stylist!reader
content warnings: none!
summary: Caught in an endless cycle of on-again, off-again, you know exactly who he is, sharp edges, careless words, and all. You know how it ends. And still, you keeps choosing him like a Madwoman.
wc: 4.2k
masterlist.
The thing about being the band’s stylist is that no one really notices you, until they do. You exist in the in-between spaces, tucked behind racks of clothing and half-open garment bags, moving quickly, quietly, making everyone else look like they belong under stage lights without ever stepping into them yourself. It’s a system that works. It’s a distance that works.
Until Billy Dunne walks back into your space like he never really left.
“You got anything that doesn’t make me look like I’m trying too hard?” he asks, already shrugging off his jacket before you’ve even turned around, like muscle memory has carried him here. Like it always does.
You don’t look up right away, fingers flipping through hangers with practiced ease. “Everything you wear looks like you’re trying too hard,” you say lightly. “It’s kind of your thing.”
There’s a pause behind you, just long enough to feel it.
“Missed you too.”
The smile comes before you can stop it. You hate that. You hate that he can still pull it out of you so easily, like nothing’s changed, like two weeks isn’t long enough to break a habit.
“Don’t start,” you warn, finally glancing over your shoulder as you pull a black button-down from the rack. “We’re being normal tonight, remember?”
“Right,” he echoes, and there’s something almost amused in the way he says it. “Normal.”
You raise an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. “Don’t look so excited.”
“I’m thrilled,” he deadpans, and for a second it’s easy, too easy, falling into the rhythm of this, into something that feels familiar in a way that’s both comforting and dangerous.
You hand him the shirt, careful this time. Casual. Intentional. Your fingers don’t linger when they brush his, even though they used to. Even though part of you still wants to.
That’s new. That’s you trying.
“Try this,” you say, turning back to the rack before you can think too much about it. “And don’t ruin it.”
“I don’t ruin things,” he replies, like he didn’t ruin this exact situation two weeks ago.
A quiet laugh slips out of you, soft and automatic. “That’s actually really funny.”
You can feel his eyes on you after that, heavier now, like he’s trying to read something you’re not offering. There’s a flicker of something in his expression when you glance back—recognition, maybe, or something closer to guilt—but it passes as quickly as it came, replaced by something easier. Something safer.
He pulls the shirt on, leaving it half-buttoned, uneven, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. Like he knows you’ll step in.
You hesitate. Just for a second.
You don’t have to. That’s what you told yourself. That’s what the last two weeks were supposed to prove.
But your body moves before your pride can catch up.
“Turn around,” you say, stepping closer, fingers already reaching for the collar. “You dress like you’ve never met me.”
“Thought we weren’t doing that,” he says quietly.
You smooth the fabric over his shoulders, ignoring the way your chest tightens at that. “I said we’re being normal,” you correct. “Not that we’re pretending we don’t know each other.”
“Hard to forget,” he murmurs, and it’s softer than anything else he’s said so far.
Your hands pause.
Too close.
You can feel the heat of him, the familiarity of it, like your body remembers something you’ve been trying very hard to forget. You focus on the buttons instead, working your way down carefully, deliberately, like it matters more than it does.
“Hold still,” you say, quieter now.
“I am still.”
“No, you’re-” You press your palm briefly against his chest to steady him, and the second your hand makes contact, you know it was a mistake.
You both feel it. That shift. Subtle, but unmistakable. Like something just clicked back into place that had no business fitting so perfectly.
You pull your hand away too quickly, stepping back like you touched something hot.
“There,” you say, forcing a lightness back into your voice. “You look…fine.”
“Just fine?” he asks, glancing down at himself before looking back at you.
“Don’t push it.”
He smiles at that, but it’s different this time, smaller, quieter, like it means more than the joke itself. “You always say that,” he says. “Then you keep fixing it until it’s perfect.”
You shrug, turning away again before he can look too closely at your face. “Occupational hazard,” you say. “I don’t like leaving things unfinished.”
The words settle between you, heavier than you intended.
When you glance back, he’s watching you in a way that makes your stomach twist.
“Is that what this is?” he asks.
You blink. “What?”
“Unfinished.”
For a second, just a second, you don’t have anything to say to that.
Then you laugh, light and easy, like it doesn’t hit at all. “God, you’re dramatic,” you brush it off, turning back to the rack. “It’s a shirt, Billy.”
“Right,” he says again, softer this time.
You busy your hands with straightening clothes that don’t need straightening, smoothing fabrics that are already perfect, trying to ignore the way your heartbeat has picked up, the way something in your chest feels just a little too tight.
You were doing fine. You were.
Two weeks of ignoring his calls. Of pretending it didn’t bother you. Of telling yourself that this time, you meant it.
And now he’s here, in your space, wearing something you picked out, looking at you like…
“Hey.”
You close your eyes for the briefest moment before turning back to him. “What?”
He hesitates, and that alone is enough to throw you off. Billy doesn’t hesitate.
Then, softer than before, “You look good.”
It’s such a small thing. Barely anything at all.
And it still lands.
You shrug like it doesn’t matter, even as something in you shifts, just slightly. “Yeah,” you say. “I know.”
Your voice isn’t as steady as you want it to be.
From somewhere down the hall, someone calls his name, Graham, probably, and the spell breaks just enough for him to glance away, pulled back toward the rest of his world. The noise, the stage, everything that doesn’t include you.
He lingers anyway. Just long enough to look at you one more time, like he might say something else.
He doesn’t.
Of course he doesn’t.
“See you out there,” he says instead.
Not later. Not after.
Just enough.
Always just enough.
You nod, like that doesn’t mean anything. “Yeah,” you reply. “Try not to sweat through it.”
“I’ll try,” he says.
He won’t.
And then he’s gone.
The room feels quieter without him, even with the distant noise bleeding in from the hallway. You let out a slow breath, pressing your lips together as you turn back to your rack, fingers tracing absent patterns into the fabric of a shirt you’ve already fixed twice.
Such a terrible idea.
Really. The worst one you’ve had all year.
You’ve done this before, fell in, fell out, said no more.
You meant it. You really did.
Your reflection catches in the mirror across the room, and for a second, you just look at yourself. Steady. Aware. Not fooled.
And still…
A quiet, traitorous smile tugs at your lips.
“Normal,” you murmur under your breath, shaking your head.
Yeah.
Right.
From the side of the stage, everything feels louder.
Not just the music, the energy of it. The kind that crawls under your skin and settles there, buzzing, impossible to ignore. The lights cut sharp across the dark, blinding from certain angles, catching on sweat and metal and movement, turning everything just a little unreal. You’ve stood here a hundred times before, half-hidden behind speakers and cords, arms crossed like you’re just another part of the crew.
Which, technically, you are.
That’s what you tell yourself.
You’re here for the clothes.
You’re here in case something rips, or tears, or falls apart.
You are not here watching Billy Dunne like he’s something you forgot how to resist.
The first song ends in a crash of sound, the crowd roaring loud enough to rattle through your chest. You barely register it. Your focus is fixed somewhere else, center stage, where he stands under the lights like he was built for them.
It’s annoying, honestly.
The way it comes so easily to him.
The way he doesn’t even have to try.
His hair is damp already, pushed back just enough to fall forward again when he moves, the stage lights catching on the edges of it. The shirt you picked out clings in all the right places now, predictably, because of course he didn’t listen when you told him not to sweat through it, and it makes something low in your stomach twist in a way you refuse to examine too closely.
You cross your arms tighter.
This means nothing.
You’ve seen him like this before.
Too many times.
That’s the problem.
He steps back from the mic, running a hand through his hair as the band transitions, and for a second—just a second—he glances off to the side of the stage.
Toward you.
Your breath catches before you can stop it.
It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid. He’s probably not even looking at you, not really. There are a hundred things happening at once—crew members moving, lights shifting, shadows flickering across the edges of the stage.
And still, it feels real.
Like he finds you in the middle of it all, like he always somehow does.
Your stomach flips, traitorous and familiar.
You look away first.
You always do.
The next song starts softer, slower. Something that lets his voice stretch out, rough around the edges in a way the crowd eats up immediately. You hear the shift in them, the way the screaming softens into something more focused, more intent. It’s not just noise anymore, it’s attention.
Devotion.
You swallow.
Because you get it.
You hate that you get it.
There’s something about him up there, something that doesn’t exist anywhere else. Not backstage, not in the quiet moments where he says the wrong thing or doesn’t say anything at all. On stage, it all clicks into place. Every flaw smooths out, every sharp edge turns into something compelling instead of cutting.
Up there, he makes sense.
And maybe that’s the worst part.
You step a little further into the shadows, like that might help, like distance will make it easier to breathe. It doesn’t.
He leans into the mic, voice dipping lower, softer, and the sound of it goes straight through you. You’ve heard him talk a thousand times, argue, laugh, mutter under his breath, but this is different. This version of him knows exactly what he’s doing.
Knows exactly how it lands.
Your fingers curl slightly at your sides.
This is how it starts.
Not the fighting. Not the sharp words or the apologies that never quite say enough.
This.
Watching him like this. Forgetting, just for a second, everything that came before. Letting the feeling slip in easy, familiar, like it belongs there.
Like he does.
You shake your head, almost to yourself, trying to ground yourself in something real. The hum of the amps. The rough edge of the stage under your shoes. The faint smell of sweat and smoke and something electric in the air.
You’ve done this before.
You know how it ends.
He moves across the stage, energy building again, the band falling perfectly into rhythm behind him, and the crowd surges with it. There’s a moment—brief, fleeting—where he laughs into the mic, something unplanned, something real, and it hits you harder than anything else.
Because that version of him…
That one feels familiar.
That one feels like the man who stands too close to you backstage and says your name like it matters.
Your chest tightens.
“God,” you mutter under your breath, dragging a hand down your face. “This is so stupid.”
You don’t mean the show.
You don’t mean him.
Not really.
You mean yourself.
Because you can feel it happening, even as you try to shut it down. That slow, inevitable shift. The way your resolve, carefully built over the last two weeks, starts to crack at the edges.
You were doing fine.
You were.
He glances over again.
This time, you don’t look away fast enough.
It’s not obvious. It never is. Just a flicker, a split second longer than it should be. But it’s enough. Enough to make your stomach drop, enough to send that same electric feeling through you, sharp and familiar.
Like nothing’s changed.
Like everything has.
Your lips press together, breath catching in your throat as you finally tear your gaze away, staring down at the floor like it’ll steady you.
It doesn’t.
Because the truth settles in anyway, quiet and undeniable.
You already know how this goes.
You know the late-night conversations, the almost-apologies, the way he’ll look at you when the noise dies down and it’s just the two of you again. You know how easy it is to slip back into that space, to pretend the in-between parts didn’t happen.
You know how this ends.
Your eyes drift back to him, drawn like it’s something you can’t control.
The lights catch on him again, the music swells, the crowd roars, and he looks-
God.
He looks good.
Too good.
Unfairly good.
You let out a quiet, defeated breath, something almost like a laugh slipping out with it.
“Yeah,” you murmur, more to yourself than anything else, shaking your head just slightly.
You’re done for.
And the worst part?
You don’t even try to fight it.
Backstage after a show is never quiet, but it’s quieter.
The kind of quiet that hums instead of roars, where the music has settled into the walls and everything feels a little slower, a little heavier. Voices echo down the hall, crew members moving with practiced efficiency, laughter breaking out in pockets before fading just as quickly. The air smells like sweat and smoke and something faintly metallic, like the aftermath of something electric.
You keep your head down as you move through it, fingers busy with the rack you’ve dragged into the dressing room, already sorting through pieces that need to be aired out, fixed, cleaned. It’s easier this way—focusing on something tangible, something that doesn’t look back at you.
You don’t let yourself think about the show.
You don’t let yourself think about him.
The door creaks open behind you.
You don’t turn around.
“Careful,” you say lightly, still focused on unbuttoning a cufflink. “If you drip on that, I’m charging you for it.”
There’s a soft huff of a laugh, familiar enough that your hands falter for half a second before continuing like nothing happened.
“I thought you said we were being normal,” Billy says, his voice closer than it should be.
You force a small smile, even though he can’t see it. “This is normal. You ruining my work is very on-brand for you.”
He doesn’t answer right away, and the silence stretches just enough to feel it. You can feel him there without looking—standing in the doorway, probably still riding the last of the adrenaline, still warm from the stage.
You tell yourself not to turn around.
You do anyway.
He looks exactly how you knew he would.
Hair damp and curling at the edges, shirt clinging in all the ways you told him it would, sleeves pushed up like he forgot they existed. There’s a flush to his skin, a brightness in his eyes that only ever shows up after a show—like he’s still halfway out there, not fully back yet.
It hits you all over again.
You look away first.
“Take it off,” you say, nodding toward the shirt like that’s the only thing you’re noticing. “Before you ruin it completely.”
He glances down at himself, then back at you, something almost amused flickering across his face. “You worried about the shirt?”
“Always,” you shrug. “It’s the only thing in this room that listens to me.”
That earns you a quiet laugh—real this time, softer than it was earlier—and it settles into something in your chest before you can stop it.
You busy your hands again as he starts unbuttoning the shirt, slower than necessary, like he knows you’re not looking but might anyway.
You don’t.
Not at first.
“You were watching,” he says after a moment, casual in a way that isn’t quite casual.
Your fingers still.
“Yeah,” you reply, just as easy. “It’s my job to make sure you don’t fall apart out there.”
“That what you were doing?” he asks, and there’s something quieter under it now. “Making sure I didn’t fall apart?”
You glance at him then, unable not to.
He’s closer than before.
Of course he is.
“Someone has to,” you say, trying for light, for teasing, even as something in your chest tightens.
He studies you for a second, like he’s trying to decide how far to push this, how much you’ll let him get away with tonight.
You already know the answer.
“Thought you were done with that,” he says finally.
There it is.
You exhale slowly, leaning back against the rack behind you, arms crossing loosely over your chest. “I am,” you say. “I’m just… good at my job.”
He nods like he understands, even though you’re not sure he does. Or maybe he does, and that’s worse.
“Right,” he murmurs.
The space between you shifts again, something unspoken settling into it, heavier this time.
You should say something. You should make a joke, deflect, keep it where it’s safe and easy and normal.
Instead, you ask, “You always look like that after a show?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“Like you know something the rest of us don’t,” you say, softer now, like you didn’t mean to say it out loud.
His gaze sharpens slightly at that, something in it flickering.
“Maybe I do,” he replies.
“Yeah?” you hum. “What’s that?”
He takes a step closer.
You don’t move.
“That you’re still here,” he says.
It’s such a simple thing.
And it lands exactly where he knows it will.
Your breath catches, just barely.
“Occupational hazard,” you repeat, even though it doesn’t sound as convincing this time.
“Is that all it is?” he asks.
You should say yes.
You should laugh it off, turn away, put something, anything, back between you.
Instead, you hold his gaze.
“That’s what we said,” you remind him quietly. “Normal, right?”
His mouth tilts slightly, not quite a smile.
“Right,” he echoes.
But neither of you steps back.
There’s a beat, just one, where everything feels suspended. The noise outside the room fades, the movement, the voices, all of it blurring into something distant.
It’s just this.
Just him.
Just you.
You can feel it, the moment right before everything tips. The one you’ve stood in before, the one you promised yourself you wouldn’t walk into again.
You know how this goes.
You know exactly how this ends.
His hand brushes yours.
Light. Accidental.
Not accidental.
Your fingers twitch, like they’re deciding whether to pull away.
They don’t.
“Tell me to leave,” he says quietly, and for the first time tonight, there’s no edge to it. No teasing, no challenge.
Just…something honest.
You look at him.
Really look at him.
At the way he’s waiting, like he already knows what you’re going to say.
Like he’s counting on it.
You should.
You should tell him to go.
You should mean it this time.
Instead…
“Don’t,” you say.
It comes out softer than you intended. Smaller.
Not don’t leave.
Just don’t.
And it’s enough.
It’s always enough.
Something in his expression shifts, relief or something like it flickering through before it settles into something warmer, closer.
Familiar.
His hand finds yours again, more certain this time, and you let it.
Of course you do.
You’re already here.
Already halfway back in.
The rest is just inevitable.
Morning comes in slowly.
It always does here, through half-drawn curtains and thin slats of light that stretch across the room like they’re testing the space first, unsure if they’re welcome. It’s softer than the night was, quieter, like the world is giving you a chance to pretend nothing happened.
For a second, you almost take it.
You lie there, still half-asleep, eyes closed, wrapped in warmth that feels unfamiliar until it doesn’t. Until it settles into something your body recognizes before your mind catches up.
Then you remember.
Not all at once. Not sharply. Just pieces, drifting back in like echoes.
The dressing room.
His hand in yours.
The way you didn’t pull away.
The rest comes after that, slower, heavier. Laughter that felt too easy. A door closing behind you. His voice softer than usual, saying your name like it meant something. Like it always means something, even when it shouldn’t.
You open your eyes.
The room is still. Quiet in that early-morning way, where everything feels suspended between what was and what comes next.
And he’s still here.
Billy is sprawled beside you, half on his stomach, one arm thrown loosely across the space between you like it belongs there. Like it always has. His hair is a mess—worse than usual—falling across his forehead, his breathing slow and even in a way you’ve never really seen when he’s awake.
For a moment, you just…look at him.
It would be easier not to.
It would be easier to get up, to slip out before he wakes, to leave this where it belongs, in the dark, in the version of you that only exists when the lights are low and the music is loud.
You don’t.
Of course you don’t.
Your fingers move before you think better of it, brushing lightly against his arm where it rests between you. It’s absent, instinctive. The kind of touch that doesn’t ask permission because it already knows the answer.
He stirs slightly, breath hitching just enough to pull you back into yourself.
You freeze.
Wait.
But he doesn’t wake, not fully. Just shifts closer, like he’s chasing warmth in his sleep, his hand brushing your side before settling there, heavy and familiar.
Your chest tightens.
This is the part you never prepare for.
Not the night before. Not the pull of it, the way it always feels inevitable once you’re in it. You know how to exist there. You know how to move through that version of this, where everything is soft and electric and easy to mistake for something more.
It’s this that gets you.
The quiet.
The stillness.
The way it almost looks like something real.
You swallow, eyes tracing the lines of his face like you’re trying to memorize something you already know too well. There’s no edge to him like this, no sharpness in the way he speaks or looks at you. No distance, no push and pull.
Just…him.
You let yourself have it for a second.
Just a second.
Your hand lingers a little longer than it should, resting against his arm, your thumb brushing lightly over his skin like you’re not thinking about it.
Like you’re not already bracing for what comes next.
Because you know it will.
You always do.
Eventually, he’ll wake up. He’ll pull back, just slightly. Not enough to hurt all at once, never that obvious. Just enough to remind you that this—whatever this is—doesn’t stay like this.
It never does.
You exhale slowly, staring up at the ceiling now, letting the weight of it settle back into place.
You meant it, last time.
You did.
When you said you were done. When you ignored his calls, when you told yourself that you weren’t going to keep doing this—this cycle, this back and forth, this almost-something that never quite becomes anything more.
You knew better.
You know better.
Your gaze drifts back to him anyway.
To the way he looks like this—unguarded, softer than he ever lets himself be when he’s awake. To the way his hand still rests against you, like he reached for you without even thinking about it.
Like it’s instinct.
Like you are.
And maybe that’s the problem.
Not that he doesn’t care.
But that he only does, like this.
In pieces.
In moments.
In the quiet hours before the world comes rushing back in.
Your lips press together, something tight and almost fond pulling at the corners of your mouth despite everything.
It would be so easy to stay.
To let yourself sink back into this, to pretend that this version of him is the only one that exists. To hold onto this moment and stretch it out as long as you can before it inevitably breaks.
You could.
You know you could.
Instead, you close your eyes for a second, steadying yourself.
When you open them again, nothing has changed.
He’s still here. Still close. Still warm.
And you, you’re still exactly where you swore you wouldn’t be.
A quiet breath leaves you, something softer than a laugh, more resigned than anything else.
“Yeah,” you murmur, barely above a whisper.
You already know how this goes.
You’ve been through it before—fell in, fell out, said no more.
You meant it.
You did.
Your hand shifts slightly, curling into the sheets instead of reaching for him again.
But you don’t move away.
Not yet.
Maybe not at all.
Your gaze lingers on him for one last second before drifting toward the window, where the morning light has fully settled in now, soft and golden and deceptively gentle.
thank you ao3 for being an archive and not an algorithm. thank you for letting me like things without consequences, thank you for being free with no ads, thank you for having lawyers to defend our freedom of speech. thank you tag wranglers. thank you to all authors and thank you ao3
Rules: Answer these with your top three from 2025 (not released in 2025, but experienced or hyperfixated on). (thank you @sweetpeapod for the tag <3)
Tag, you're it: @fivenightsatsunnys, @28bohemianmoonsbohemian, @daisyjonesgf, @bitterreid, @alloftheimagines, @sugarcult, @chaotic-ppeach, @soupinspector, @infraredparadise & anyone who wants to
Celeb Crushes:
Joe Keery, Sophie Thatcher, David Corenswet.
Movies:
A Million Ways to Die in the West, Some Like it Hot, Thunderbolts*
Games:
Stardew Valley, The Last of Us Pt. II, League of Legends
Books:
Sunrise on the Reaping, The Importance of Being Earnest, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.
TV Shows:
Arcane, The Addams Family, Stranger Things.
Band/Artist/Musician:
Fleetwood Mac, Conan Gray, Cage The Elephant.
Content Creators (up to your interpretation):
Umm, I don't know about this one. Will always love writers and artists, so I'm going to go with that <3
Three Things That Got You Through 2025:
My bunny, buying plants, taking naps (and fanfiction, of course)
finding a queer community in Lithuania is so hard because wdym I missed every single festival that happened without even hearing the slightest whisper about it r u joking
I don’t even know how to start making lgbt friends in this hell hole
Sometimes I get sad when I see a character have love interests that are only white. Kinda reminds me I’m not in the “beauty standard” or that most people’s automatic thought is a white person. Or when a show has no (or very little) none white characters. Like it really reminds me I am outside the norm.
Maybe it’s why as a kid I really wanted to be white (even now there’s a part of me that still feels that way). I just am glad we’re getting more diversity.
I just want POC characters (shout out to south east Asia fr) that just exist. Like their whole character doesn’t revolve around being POC. Like yeah they mention it but they get to be a PERSON…anyway
one time melody got so sick that she genuinely could not take care of herself. daisy promised to take care of her, but ended up going to rehearsal anyways. the band was so confused as to why she was there and daisy's defense was: "but she's coughing like she has the plague. it sounds like she's hacking up a lung."
billy, even though melody annoyed the shit out of him (at the time), he was still worried and ended up going himself to check on her. she looked like a dying victorian child, no joke. so, billy gave her medicine, helped her get comfortable, and even held her hair back once.
billy denies ever doing any that for the rest of his life.
melody did respect billy being sober, but would get shitfaced at every party they went to in hopes he would take care of her (he did once but he refuses to admit it)
thyme "starry" andromeda — any / all — 17 years of jokes not landing — genderfluid + panromantic + asexual — con gái miền tây ( vietnamese american ) — pacific standard time — dungeons & dragons nerd — aspiring actor — shitty photo editor — wannabe writer — dead poet — tortured artist — cringefail but cute — sharing kisses like candy — reaching for the heavens, closer to the stars . . . !
. . . and what have we done? ( if you want it )
rules — main masterlist — taglist 🏷️ — tag guide — posting sched.
a very starry christmas 2025 — 200 follower event — color my tree!
inbox : open ! / closed ! — taken anons : 🐦 🍂
new york or nowhere new york or nowhere new york or nowhere new york or nowhere new york or nowhere new york or nowhere new york or nowhere new york or nowhere new york or nowhere new york or nowhere new york or nowhere new york or nowhere new york or nowhere new york or nowhere new york or nowhere new york or nowhere new york or nowhere new york or nowhere new york or nowhere new york or nowhere new york or nowhere new york or nowhere new york or nowhere
if im remembering the map of panem correctly, a decent chunk of district 4 is in oregon. as an oregon resident (#doxxed) i can tell you that it rains. so fucking much. like light sprinkles throughout fall but then winter hits and it’s permanently wet always. whoops.
living in d4 all his life, finnick is used to the rain. really, he loves the rain. he’s feeling the rain on his skin bc no one else can feel it for him only he can let it in. anyway he’s the kind of guy that checks the forecast but like. still doesn’t bring an umbrella bc he’s too tough for an umbrella he can handle getting a little wet he’s a MAN.
or at least. that’s what he says. in all reality, it’s because the rain keeps him grounded. the smell of the wet grass and leaves, each cold droplet that falls onto his skin, it reminds him that he’s alive. that he survived his games, that he survived the rebellion, and that he’s okay now. he’ll take walks in the rain late into the night, and won’t bring a jacket despite your protests.
sometimes you’ll wake up to darkness, a storm pounding against your window and thunder sounding in the distances as lighting flashes, and the space beside you in bed is empty. the sheets still smell like salted caramel and vanilla, and your tempted to curl into them and to get lost in your dreams again, but you feel a tug in your chest telling you to go outside.
you grab coats, one for yourself and one for finnick, and go out to the front. he’s there, standing on the cobblestone path leading up to your porch, absolutely drenched from the rain. you call out to him, staying under the porch overhang to not get wet, and you’re surprised he can even hear you over the rain as he turns and his eyes meet with yours. you think he’s been crying, though you can’t tell where the rain stop and his tears start.
you’re quick to descend the steps of the porch, immediately pressing yourself into his chest as his arms wrap around you and he buries his face in your hair. the two of you just stand there for a moment before you pull away to wrap the coat around his shoulders, coaxing him back inside.
you run a hot bath, the two of you curling into the small tub together as you warm up in the hot sudsy water. your hands are gentle as you wash his back and his are loving and tender as he washes your hair. you almost fall asleep in the bath, but he manages to get you out and dry you off with a warm fluffy towel.
you don’t ask him what happened when you get back into bed. you don’t pry or nag or berate. instead, you only tell him two things. the first: to bring a jacket next time; you don’t want him to get sick. the second: to wake you. you don’t want him to be alone anymore. and you don’t like waking up alone all that much either.
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Desc. : Panem's most publicized situationship.
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Make them speculate.
Make them wonder.
Distract them.
Entice them.
Convince them.
He tucked your hair behind your ear, kissing your temple as he did so. Your insides turned. "Are we on or off today?"
"He didn't say."
"Hm.", he murmured against your forehead. "It's up to us, then."
You took a sip of your champagne.
Listen, Finnick Odair was a fucking menace.
Seven years. Seven years of this shit.
"Do you never wonder what it'd be like if we actually did end up marrying each other?"
"The entire Capitol would burn down.", you scoffed softly, eyes running around the room.
"Snow would be pissed, for one. It's a will-they/won't-they until we do."
"Which we won't."
He pouted, shaking his head as he brought your hand to his chest. "You wound me."
Your whirlwind romance had swept Panem off its feet. According to their knowledge, you'd first met at a Post-Games party, after your first time as a mentor, and you couldn't keep your eyes off each other. Cue the mess.
On and off. Sometimes, never, and always. That was you and Finnick, in the eyes of Panem.
It wasn't exactly all false. In the beginning it really had just been you, Finnick, and a couple of nights that neither of you wished to label. But there was no sex, that was what was morbidly hilarious here. Just deep, drunken conversations.
In Panem, the most intimate thing you could do with someone was not sex, no, it was developing a true connection, and that's what had happened all those nights — what had scared you both.
So sue you if you didn't want to label that shit. It'd only end badly for the both of you.
Sure, Finnick might have thought he might, possibly, maybe want more. But that was only on late nights when he was watching the moon or nostalgic footage of District Four on the TV, but at the end of the day, both of you knew this decision was the best.
Toxic, definitely, but at the end of the day, although his long string of dalliances followed his reputation everywhere he went, he always came back to you.
Panem thought it was because no matter how twisted, he always loved you.
Snow thought Panem would like that.
You preferred that than actually discussing with him why he always came back.
"Off.", you replied.
"We've been 'off' too many times this year. Snow's going to freak."
He was right. "Fine. Is Caesar here?"
His eyes flicked around the room, scoping it out. "Yes."
You groaned. "He's going to lip read, then."
Caesar Flickerman was a dynamic host as well as an expert lip-reader. You'd only found that out on your second year of this charade, when Finnick had been talking to you about missing home - taboo topic around the Capitol - and Caesar had caught it.
All over the news the next day. He'd had to cover it up and say he meant you were his home. The Capitol went positively feral.
"Look at you, all sexy.", Finnick whispered, with his maddening smirk. "For me?"
"For me." He rolled his eyes. Wrong answer, his glare told you.
"Tell me, gorgeous.", he breathed, hands placed tantalizingly and strategically on your shoulders. "Do the cameras love you as much as I do?"
His iconic line. He'd come up with it three years ago, and it was a cop-out for when he was too tired to come up with any other segue, and besides, the Capitol loved it. It was basically code for you to chill out on the responses, because he was way too exhausted that day.
"Do the cameras love you as much as your family does? Or do you just live here, now? In the Capitol? In the limelight?"
Wait, what?
"I live in my district. Most of the year." The hell was he doing?
"Do you now, beautiful? And why is it you're always here?"
"Why are you always here?"
"Photo ops, of course. Snow needs his best out here all the time to make the Capitol as spectacular-looking as he needs.", he replied, eyes glistening.
"I'm here for the same reason."
"Yes, but you act like you don't give a shit where you are. Like you winning the Games was nothing. Like you being bestowed with riches - more than most, actually, because of the hot little outfits that you model- is nothing. Impassive, deadpan, nonchalant, innocent but too-cool-for-school Y/N.", he mocked.
No way was he actually letting anyone lip read this.
"Caesar's not here, is he?"
He chuckled, nodding. "You're right. I just needed an excuse for you to listen."
"I will not have you judge me."
"Let me kiss you, Y/N."
"What?"
"Please."
"I am not going to let you kiss me. We've got... we can't act as if we've had this conversation in private. It has to progress slowly. Every single moment of ours must be 'accidentally' captured, and jus—"
"Same page?"
He always asked you that before he did something he thought would get the cameras off your back for a couple weeks.
"No! No, no, not this time, what?", you hissed through gritted teeth, doing your damndest to work on your ventriloquism skills.
He rolled his eyes, his lips moving to your cheek. "Let. Me. Kiss. You. I swear, you'll understand."
Finnick's knuckles on your jaw, he tilted his head, as if to say 'come on, I'm already this close'.
You acquiesced.
He leaned in, pressing his lips to yours, before murmuring against them. "Kill Snow with me."
You didn't pull away, you didn't push him away, you didn't frown, you didn't scream. You just froze.
"Johanna— everyone, basically, is on board.", he said, in between kisses to your unresponsive lips. "And the Mockingjay. She... god, Y/N, please, I can tell you're two seconds away from killing me, but please—."
His kisses kept growing more feverish by the second, his hands cupping your face and using it to pull you closer. It was getting increasingly hard to ascertain whether he was addicted to your lips or the words he was corrupting them with.
"Finnick, Finnick, wait—"
"Please, please, Y/N." He was begging. He was pleading. "Just... shh."
"I'm not — stop.", you hissed, and he begrudgingly pulled away, though his lips lingered on your neck. "I'm not going to kill anyone. Not Snow, not you— though I should probably kill you for this. What if you're mic'd? Snow's done that befor—"
"You wouldn't be doing any of the killing, my love.", he smiled against your neck, his hands pulling you flush against his body, and something told you it wasn't even because this whole conversation was supposed to be a secret anymore.
He was drunk. You'd only seen Finnick drunk a couple times - the nights that had led you two to being friends (?) and being spotted talking (obviously fucking, according to the Capitol) - but it had never been this bad. He'd always had some form of control over his faculties.
"Finnick, there's cameras right now, we can't—"
"I'm in love with you, Y/N, more than the cameras."
One good thing about Finnick was that his words never slurred when he was psychotically, unforgivably inebriated. They simply hastened.
"Okay, Finnick, I'll get you back to your—"
"Like so much, and I—"
Before he could say something that could be picked up by the cameras around you and analysed by Caesar, you shook your head, covering his mouth with your palm.
He frowned, making unintelligible noises against your hand.
You rested your forehead against his as you whispered. "We'll talk about this later. Get some rest."
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Hours later, you knocked lightly on the door to his room before walking in gingerly.
He lay down, looking up at the ceiling as though it had every answer he could possibly need.
"Finnick?"
"I'm... a failure."
Shit. "Now, Finnick, remember what you have to do when you think like this? Think of your family. Who you're protecting."
"Oh, my god, princess, it's not himself he's disappointed at."
Johanna motherfucking Mason.
"Johanna?"
"In the flesh. But I won't be for long if you don't listen.", she reminded, elbow on her knee.
You closed the door behind you, locking it as you turned on the light. "You're in on this? It's crazy talk!"
"It's a rebellion. It supposed to sound out-there until you actually do it.", she snorted, hopping off the bay window and stretching.
"It's that District 12 Victor, isn't it? Everdeen-something? She's got you guys all riled up."
"Katniss Everdeen, yes. The Mockingjay."
"Jesus, you guys are all fuckwits."
"C'mon, baby, that's no way to be. I thought you were the polite, innocently sexy one? The one who could never even call someone stupid, let alone a fuckwit.", she pouted.
"Snow will kill everyone you've ever loved."
"He already is. Except it's slower, torturous. This way, we're nipping it at the bud so our kids don't have to go through this bullshit again. What about, uh, you two?", she teased, raising a brow as she gestured between you and a plastered Finnick groaning the headache away. "Your cute little Capitol-bred lovechild will still be made to go through the Games. You don't want that, huh?"
You groaned, yanking open the bedside drawer supply of water bottles, passing it over to him. "Jo."
She raised a brow, sitting next to you. "Y/N."
"You can't kill Snow."
"Watch me, sweetheart."
"Jo, this isn't even funny. She lucked out, alright? Katniss, you said her name was? She lucked out big time. Snow's seething. He's seething, and—"
"We know."
"Lie back down, Finnick, you're drunk."
"I'm hungover. This was a big deal for me, okay? I was nervous you'd react just like this and jeopardize it all, okay? Needed liquid courage. Cut me some slack."
"I'm leaving. I'm not going to fucking sit here and listen to you talk about a rebellion when the Capitol's at their strongest and Snow's at his angriest, it's your funer—"
"You're going back into the Arena!"
You paused at the doorway, your fingers on the frame like it was your only tether to reality. "What?"
"Heavensbee. He told us that the Quarter Quell will reap previous Victors."
"What?"
"Snow wants - needs - Katniss dead."
Your attempts to force breath to stay in your lungs proved futile when you realized exactly what that meant. "You guys are going to try protecting her?"
"We have to."
"No, actually, you don't. Finnick, please don't tell me you're going to volunteer if you aren't reaped."
He groaned, rubbing his face over his hands as he sat up. "There's one chance, and this is it. She is it."
Good lord, you were fucking surrounded by idiots.
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The moon was the only beauty you'd found in the Capitol.
Finnick had taught you to look at it. Especially when you were scared. Worried. Or feeling nothing. Or feeling everything. Or feeling too many things.
It worked, actually, but this time, you looked at the moon, and all you could remember was when eighteen-year-old Finnick pointed the moon out to newly-sixteen-year-old you.
"Beautiful, right?"
"Yes."
"Do you know it controls the tides?"
"What?"
"Yeah. That was my reaction when I first heard it, too!", he'd whispered. "It's your sweet sixteen, right? So just go ahead and pray that the tides change. Wish on the moon."
"Tides change?"
"You know, that this whole 'we're-in-love-spiel' can stop."
This had been the first ever year of this goldmine of a plotline for Capitol TV.
"I want to go home."
You'd said that some three times the past couple hours, but you knew Snow wouldn't let you do so.
"I know. Wish on the moon that you can do that, too. Wish on the moon you can spend all of your birthdays with the people you love. Well, besides me, of course.", he'd grinned, nudging your shoulder to make you laugh. "Just wish on the moon."
You'd closed your eyes to do just that.
"It'll take care of the rest.", he'd whispered.
Sweetest boy on Earth, he was back then.
Right now? Ugh. You wished on the moon that he'd get a brain.
A knock.
"What?!" Fine, snapping may not have been the best thing for you to be doing, as your blood pressure was already terrifyingly high.
"Can I come in?"
"Yeah, Finnick. Sure. Come in.", you mumbled, rubbing at your forehead.
"I... I can't even begin to apologise. Um... that was—"
"No, it's fine, you're good, it's wh—"
"No, that was... there is no excuse for that. Springing all that on you, and giving you all but five seconds to... I— I don't even know what I was thinking."
"Johanna got in your head, it happens.", you shrugged, watching as he frowned, sitting down opposite you on your bed, elbows on his knees and hands clasped together. Huh. Your tone was understanding, but your words gave him pause.
"Same page?"
"I'd say we are."
"I don't know.", he muttered, picking at his knuckles for a second before turning to you. "Are you with us?"
"Okay, we're not on the same page."
"I thought not."
"Finnick, this is madness. Snow is at his angriest because he got his ass handed to him by two kids from District Twelve. Twelve. Like...", you scoff-laughed, gesturing wildly to illustrate the sheer bizarrity of the situation. "That shit doesn't happen every day. He's got us both going on more calls because the Patrons need to be pacified. Hell, he's now planning to send us all back into the Arena?!"
"Exactly! Don't you think it's enough?"
"What? Finnick—"
"Enough bloodshed, Y/N, please! Yeah, we're Careers, but when has that ever meant we were safe from the bullshit of the Capitol? Hm?"
"This isn't about us being Careers. It's about the fact that you could die!"
"We're going to anyway! It's like Johanna said! He's killing us slowly! We won't be able to live with ourselves once we're old and not wanted anymore!"
"FINNICK!"
"What?!"
"The first rebellion caused the Hunger Games. What the fuck do you think a second rebellion is going to bring? Hm? Mass genocide of the Districts? An arena with even younger kids? Every rebel and their families becoming Avoxes?! Are you fucking insane?!"
He paused at that. Silence. Good. At least he wasn't deluded enough not to consider the probability of failure.
You stared at him for a little while, before sighing. He wasn't weak, far from it, but you had just violently burst his bubble, the only thing he probably had going for him. And it must have been huge -and have been on his mind for a long time, a perfectly formulated plan that he was very excited about - seeing as he hadn't said anything to you.
He had a habit of doing that.
He never wanted to give you anything that wasn't just perfect.
He'd brought you back this seashell one time. From District Four. It had taken about five months for him to find the perfect one, with the best weight, the best colour, shape, texture, girth, whole shebang.
He stored your return-gift of a trident - you were masonry and weaponry district, after all - in a literal vault in District 4, until you gave him a tiny charm-version. He wore that around his neck.
Another time, he'd decided he'd write you his impression of your district from his Victory Tour. But that day, he'd been incredibly nervous, so he didn't look anywhere but his feet, and oh, how they longed to be home! In the sand, with waves kissing at his heels.
He figured he'd pretend he'd seen you in the crowd, all those years ago. In reality, you'd have only been about twelve, though you were raised above your parent's heads, so it was possible he could have seen you.
He hadn't, though.
For the case of this very humble birthday present, however, he pretended like he did. He took the wildest guess he could, that your hair was not tied up that day, and began to talk of your home.
How lovely everything had seemed.
How excited you looked.
You loved it. You really had. And he loved that you loved it.
And this whole rebellion thing was no different. He knew you'd be reluctant, but he also knew you'd secretly pray on the success of it, and he'd meticulously spent ages going through everything, every single thing, to make sure it was absolutely perfect for you, to make sure you could never call it anything but the best gift you'd ever gotten.
This, though? This argument had thrown him for a loop. You had a point. One he hadn't thought of.
"I'm—", you sighed once more, shaking your head. "Hey, I'm sorry, I... that was harsh."
He bit the inside of his bottom lip. "Mm."
"Finnick, I really am."
"Yeah, I know. I just... what if we don't fail, though?"
Wish(on the moon)ful thinking.
"Then great. But is that a chance you really want to take?"
"What if it is?" It's quiet in your room, and his response is almost engulfed in the silence, but you manage to catch it.
"Don't you think that's what the First Rebels thought?"
You were just dynamite today, weren't you? Finnick loved it when you were like this, but a tiny bit less when it was directed against him.
At least he knew he was an inch closer to receiving your amazing hugs.
"Yeah. Yeah, no, for sure."
You nodded softly, and then he kissed you.
And once more, corruption blossomed on your lips. "But you're deluded if you think when we're in that arena, I'm letting you kill Katniss."
"I won't have to if my theory is right."
"What theory?", he scoffed against your lips, pulling you closer as his hands crept up into your hair.
"That Snow will do things specifically to kill Katniss, and the only way anything will ever work is if you, I dunno, find a way to save Katniss and yourself and Peeta and Joha—"
"We're hacking into the arena."
He really hated kissing you when you didn't reciprocate, but he had to for the next few seconds when you froze, before pulling you away. "What?"
"We're... I can't tell you, but we've got District 3 in on it, they're going to get a wire and basically, like—"
"What, blow up the arena? Are you sure you're feeling okay? Are you still hungover?", you asked, placing your palm on his forehead.
He rolled his eyes, taking it in his and kissing it once. "I promise, I am perfectly fine. And yes, we have a solid plan—"
"Holy shit, this is what you meant by 'the Capitol Patrons give me information' ? I figured it was about the next Games, so you could help your tributes win, not... fuck, Finnick! This is treason!"
"I DON'T GIVE A SHIT!"
You glared at him as he stood in sheer fury. "I'm sorry for yelling."
Wow. Sweetest boy on earth and you'd made him miserable. How do you do it?
"It's alright."
"I don't care that it's treason, alright? But we need to end this bullshit. Okay? So I will ask you for the last ever time, Y/N, because you know that whatever you say next will affect whether we see each other again. Are you with us?"
You licked your lips, picking at the duvet. "Can I have some time?"
"Reaping Day."
"Reaping Day?"
"Reaping Day. I'm not even kidding."
Yeah, he almost never was.
Fuck.
"I'll tell you by Reaping Day."
"Okay."
He didn't leave. It was a long moment of either meeting or vehemently avoiding each others eyes.
"I'm sorry about the yelling.", he repeated.
"You're not volunteering."
"What?" He was halfway out the door when you said it, and he was this close to slamming it.
"If you're not reaped, you take it as the odds being in your favor and shut up. Alright?"
He turned to you, slamming the door and leaning on it with crossed arms. Incredulity painted his face. "Are you kidding me?"
"No."
"Who are you to order me around? Fucking Snow?"
"I'm—"
"Who?! My on-screen-propaganda-lover?!"
That stung more than you'd expected it to.
"Fine. Fuck you! Go ahead and volunteer. Like a fucking dumbass. Go get yourself killed because you can't handle the truth! This is how it is and how it'll always be!"
"It doesn't have to!"
"Yeah, tell that to District 13!"
"Oh, if only you fucking knew!"
"Knew what?! That your half-baked 'plan' is bound to fail?!"
"If you're such a fucking loyalist, go tell Snow the big 'half-baked' plan!"
"Maybe I will!"
"Yeah, go! Go right now, scurry off, become the fearless Savior of Panem, the title of the Most Loyal goes to you!"
You stood, attempting to shoulder past him, but honestly, you should've known better. He grabbed your arm. "If you're going, stay on your knees in front of him so we can shoot you in the back of your head when we storm the Capitol." Pretty picture he could paint, you'd give him that. He could paint a dazzling romance and a grisly murder all just with words.
"That's if you do it. You won't."
"Yeah? Watch us."
You mirrored his clenched jaw. "Let. Go."
"You don't like me holding you?", he asked, tilting his head in mock curiosity.
"No."
"In the Snow regime, in the Capitol, sweetheart, that word has no meaning.", he spat.
"Does treason? Does murder? Does anarchy?"
"Snow gave you a comprehensive list of his favourite vocabulary, how cute."
"Oh, fuck off, Finnick, alright? Let go."
"Are you with us?" He shook your arm.
"No!"
"Are you with us?" More desperation this time. But he knew you, and his eyes held a calm that suggested he knew exactly where your heart lay. With him. With the idea of a free Panem.
"I'm not!"
"ARE YOU WITH US?!", he snapped, finally yelling once more.
"YES!"
The silence had snuck back in unnannounced.
"This is why I love you. You're a fucking trip."
Great. You were not only having to play an innocent, his lover and now a rebel, but you were also, evidently, to play jester for him, since he thought you were so fucking amusing.
"Do the cameras love you as much as I do?"
Oh, my god, he was being funny now, was he?
"Don't die.", you scoffed.
"Not if you won't. Same page?"
You scrambled to come up with a plan. Rig District 4's reaping? Fucking how? Beg Heavensbee for a glimpse into the arena? You barely knew if he was actually on your side, no matter how much Finnick seemed to trust him. Tell Snow and not include Finnick or Johanna or Katniss or — okay, too many variables. Oh! Wait! When he was busy protecting Katniss in the arena, you'd be busy protecting him. Okay. Could work. Right, okay.
He kissed your temple, looking down at you expectantly. He had no idea what he'd do if you hated his gift. "Right.", he muttered, after a little while of watching you play with the hem of his shirt. "I gave you till Reaping Day."
You nodded, and he whistled lowly, looking out at the window, his eyes brightening. "But... you know it's Full Moon Day today.", he grinned.
So you two sat there watching the moon for... quite a while, actually.
Wishing that the other would just fucking listen for once.
Finnick Odair was a fucking menace.
But he was also the sweetest boy you knew.
So, if you had to be on the same page, you would be.
"Same page.", you affirmed, finally, when it got too late and his hands went slack around your shoulder, and your eyes started getting heavy. You were truly, in entire honesty, unable to fathom a future where the rebellion worked and Panem was free.
But your plan was at least still intact. No matter how this clearly poorly thought out rebellion went.
At least, with your plan, he'd be alright, either way.
( ☆ ) . * i’m talkin’ deckin’ all the halls . . . i’m talkin’ spikin’ eggnog !!
f!groupie!reader x billy dunne — billy dunne masterlist
a very starry christmas 2025 — day #002
summary : you’re just a groupie, there’s no way in hell billy dunne of all people could see you as anything more than a body to warm his bed. but when you have too much eggnog at a holiday party, secrets spill and his kisses are suddenly filled with something more than just lust.
warnings : inebriation, suggestive content, reader thinks too lowly of herself, billy dunne is whipped and stupid, cami isn’t with billy in this universe bc free my girl fr she deserves better 😔, camieddie realness
word count : 2.1k
Exhaustion tugs at you as you stretch out on the warm sheets of some hotel bed, a laugh escaping your lips as arms tug you back when you try to leave.
“Don’t go,” Billy murmurs, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. “Stay.”
“Why should I?” you tease, twisting around in his arms to face him, hand moving to trace along his jaw.
“Because.”
“Because?”
“Because I want you to,” he says, as if that’s reason enough.
“You’ll see me tomorrow,” you say. “I’ll be backstage.”
It’s not that you don’t want to stay. You do, of course you do. You’ve been in love with Billy Dunne since you’ve met him a year ago. Not because of his cocky rockstar persona. Not because he’s a big name. But because your first night together, he was so incredibly raw and vulnerable with you. You don’t know what it was. You remember you were both doped up as all hell, that the night was a blur of clothes coming off and his hands and lips all over your body.
You remember what happened after, but just barely. When he lit a joint and shared it with you, the two of you still a mess of tangled limbs in the bed as the smoke curled around you. Billy told you a lot that night, though you don’t think he meant to. About his childhood, his family, his problems with the band. He told you about how he’s never really had a serious relationship, but seeing Camila and Eddie together made him want something like what they have.
He told you about how he always thought he was jealous that Eddie got Camila first, because Billy always thought she was pretty, but that he realized that wasn’t the case. That really, he was jealous of their relationship. That he wanted a connection that deep and that honest. He didn’t want Camila, he just wanted to be loved the way she loves Eddie.
You didn’t realize someone like Billy Dunne could be so honest and vulnerable after a few joints, but you’ve never forgotten that night.
His voice snaps you out of your thoughts as you feel his fingers tracing circles against your skin. “But I want you here now,” he murmurs, hands roaming your waist and hips, moving down to give your ass a light squeeze. “C’mon, we can go for round two. Or we could just get dressed, put on a movie. I’ll even cuddle if that’s what you’re into.”
You have to laugh again at his sheer ridiculousness but relent, relaxing into his arms. “Fine. We’ll cuddle,” you say, fingers tangling into the hair at the nape of his neck.
“Tomorrow night’s party is gonna be Christmas themed,” he mentions absentmindedly.
“Are you asking me to bring the eggnog or the whiskey?” you ask, curling into his touch.
“I’m asking you to bring your pretty self so we can sneak away and make out,” he says, waggling his brows in a way that makes you laugh.
“Couldn’t you make out with any girl you wanted?” you tease, pretending that the thought of him kissing another girl doesn’t make your heart ache in your chest.
“I could,” he says. “But I want to make out with you.”
Why? you want to ask. Why me? I’m just some groupie you’re hooking up with. You could have anyone you wanted.
The words stay in your throat, though, not wanting to ruin the moment. Instead you say “I think your exhaustion is catching up to you,” with a small laugh.
He huffs, hand squeezing your hip now. “Maybe you’re right,” he sighs.
“Then sleep,” you snort, tugging the covers higher on your bodies.
“Will you be here in the morning?” he asks, a hint of something that sounds like hope lingering in his voice, though you refuse to believe that’s what that is.
“I don’t know,” you answer honestly. “Depends on whichever one of us wakes up first.” You both know the answer is really yes.
Billy think it’s just because you’re a deep sleeper, that you just always wake up late. The reality is that you pretend to stay asleep. Sometimes he actually does wake up first, but usually it’s you that’s up early. But you don’t leave. You hardly even move. Instead, you always curl back into his side and try to fall asleep again. It usually works, and you sleep until he shakes you awake, but some mornings you just lay there, eyes closed as you inhale his scent of cigarettes, whiskey, and the coconut conditioner he swears does miracles for his hair.
You pretend that you’re not waking up in a hotel room with some rockstar you don’t really know. That instead, you’re home in bed with a man that loves you. A man that doesn’t just sleep with you, but one that takes you out to fancy dinners and buys you gifts. A man that dedicates his music to you, that lets you linger backstage not as his groupie, but as his girl. You let yourself pretend that what you have is romance and not just rock ‘n’ roll until Billy inevitably wakes up each morning and shatters your fantasies.
You sigh as he yawns, rolling onto his back to stretch out as he tugs you onto him so you can lay your head against his chest, his heart a steady rhythm beneath your ear. “Goodnight,” he mumbles, switching off the bedside lamp.
“Night,” you murmur, your throat tight as it holds back an I love you.
Upon entering the party the next night, vials of cocaine stuffed into your coat pockets and a bottle of whiskey dangling from your hand, you’re greeted by some of the girls you know and travel with. You set down the bottle of whiskey on the drinks table and pop it open, filling a cup with more booze than you do the eggnog from the punch bowl.
You’re tugged into the corner by some of the girls you know, who are quick to pass around joints as they bump their cups with yours. You feel a bit bad for not remembering all of their names, but you’re sure they don’t mind all that much.
One of them giggles as she stares off a bit and you follow her gaze to see Billy, leaning against a wall in conversation with some other groupie. You tell yourself you’re not jealous, that he can do whatever the hell he wants, but a little voice in your head convinces you that he doesn’t seem interested in her. You delude yourself into believing that—even as he talks to this girl—his eyes flick over to you, his gaze lingering long enough to burn holes into your very being.
“What’s so funny?” you ask, tearing your eyes away from Billy to focus on her instead.
“He’s totally in love with you,” she says, nudging you lightly with her elbow.
“I think you’ve had enough eggnog for tonight,” you huff.
“I’m being serious!” she insists. “He definitely sees you as more than just a fuck. None of the guys I’ve ever hooked up with have stared at me like that outside of the bedroom. There’s like… a spark there!”
“Unless you mean the spark of his lighter whenever I bum a cigarette from him, you’re delusional,” you laugh, taking a long drink from your cup.
“I think you’re just lying to yourself,” she states. “You clearly believe me. Or, at least, you want to believe me. But you don’t want to get your hopes up. I’ve done the same thing, you’re not weird for that. I mean, sleep with a guy enough you’ll start to think he actually cares, it’s only like— human nature. But it’s never been like this for me. I’ll stare but they never stare back. I mean, clearly there’s something there!”
“Even if there’s something there,” you say, putting emphasis on the if, “you’re still right about me not wanting to get my hopes up. I don’t want to believe that something could happen and then get disappointed, you know?”
She sighs. “I guess, yeah. But drunk words are sober thoughts, right? So maybe just get him hammered and ask and if it goes badly, he probably won’t remember by morning.”
You stare at her, blinking a few times. “How are you simultaneously the smartest and dumbest girl I know?”
She only shrugs, turning and wandering off to talk to others, seemingly not offended by your comment.
You don’t notice Billy approaching until you feel a hand grab at your arm, and you jump and whirl around so you’re face to face with him. He laughs at your reaction as his arm trails down to grab at your hand, tugging you along with a quiet “C’mon.”
It’s a bit of a blur as he whisks you away into some closet, breathy laughter escaping your lips as he trails kisses down your neck as soon as the door is shut, tugging the neck of your top down desperately to reveal more skin.
“Billy,” you mumble, hands tugging at his hair.
“Yeah?” He peers up at you, lips red and swollen from attacking your skin.
“I just got here,” you say.
“So?”
“So I don’t want to show up and leave after five minutes,” you say, tugging him off of you.
“Why not?” he asks. “You know I could show you a better time than any party could.”
“I think you think too highly of yourself,” you bully lightly, yelping as his head dips down to nip at your neck in retaliation.
“Come on. There will be other parties,” he mumbles. “Think of this as your Christmas gift to me.”
You snort but relent. “Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Fine,” you drag it out as if to make a point.
As soon as you’re back in the hotel room, Billy is on you again, lips attacking your skin as his hands are quick to rid you of your clothes. You laugh as he basically throws you onto the bed and tackles you in more kisses, pulling him back by his hair.
“What’s gotten into you lately?” you ask, a bit breathless.
“Don’t know,” he all but whines. “I just— I need you so fucking bad.”
“Hold— hold on—” you say, trying to stop him as he resumes the onslaught of his teeth on your neck.
“Hmm?” he hums against your skin, sending shivers down your spine.
You press your lips together, debating on if you should ask our not. That girl’s words linger in your mind though, and self preservation wears out. “What is this?” you blurt, hands gripping at his biceps.
“What do you mean?” he asks, head lifting again to look at you properly.
“I mean this. Us. What… are we?” you ask. “Because some of my friends are convinced that this is something more than just us hooking up but I don’t know—”
Billy gets off of you, sitting beside you on the mattress as you sit up as well, tugging a sheet over your body. “What do you want this to be?” he asks, one hand lingering on your covered hip like he can’t bear to be apart from you.
“You’ll laugh.”
“I won’t.”
“I want this to be something real,” you say. “I want to be more than just a groupie that you like having sex with. I want to love you and I want you to love me but I know that that’s crazy—”
“It’s not,” he’s quick to say. “It’s not crazy. Fuck, I’ve been trying to tell myself that I don’t want the same. That you wouldn’t want a serious relationship with a rockstar out of all people. That you’d never be able to fully trust me if we started dating. I mean, you know I don’t have the best reputation. I don’t want you to get into a relationship you don’t feel secure in. But… I want that too. I want you.”
“You do?”
He nods. “I do.”
There’s a beat of silence as the two of you just sit there, avoiding each other’s gazes, before you speak again. “So… now what?”
“Do you want to… try?” he asks.
A smile tugs at your lips as you give the barest of nods. “Yeah,” you say. “I want to try.”
Billy lets out a sigh of relief as he tugs you close again, hand moving to pull the sheet away from your body as his lips land on yours. This kiss is different than the ones you usually share. It’s softer, more tender. His tongue teases against your bottom lip but there are no teeth. His hands are almost reverent as they explore your body, his kisses trailing down lower and lower until his head is between your thighs, nipping lightly at the skin there.
“Merry Christmas,” he mumbles. “I love you.
You sigh, hands tangling into his curls as you give a light tug. “Merry Christmas, Billy. I love you too.”
a/n: mmm i should rewatch almost famous. i think of this film whenever i write groupie!reader lmao.
romaincrisis
