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.
I haven't been to tumblr in like a hot minute. I wanted to ask if your Finnick fic "Glimpse of Us" is finished, on hiatus or if you planned anything. I am literally in love with it and it's the first thing I checked an reread when I came back to tumblr.
YES.
it will be back. i’m actually working on my next chapter rn, i just had like the worst breakdown ever cause of college decision szn, but im back im better and im ready to get back on my good shit
ok i’m alive. like actually this time ik what im doing for college ik what im doing with writing. ive never been more locked in than now. everyone give me like TWO days and i will have a new chapter of glimpse of us out.
so like…listened to a lot of 70s music today…melly sent me an edit yesterday of certain characters from a certain show…do we know where this is heading…
