Imagines (Beyonce x y/n)

I can fix him

The hush of 11 PM was a sacred thing in the Knowles' household, a fragile peace that settled after Mr. Knowles, the Attorney General himself, had retired to his study, and Mrs. Tina Knowles had finally let go of the last dish rag. For Beyoncé, it was the signal. The careful, almost imperceptible scrape against her window screen, followed by a light tap, lighter than a moth's wings.

Y/N.

He was a silhouette against the streetlights, tall and lanky, his movements fluid as he shimmied up the trellis her father had meticulously pruned just last spring. Beyoncé would push the window open, holding her breath, and he'd slide in, smelling faintly of the night air, and almost always, the sweet, cloying scent of cannabis. She hated that smell.

he landed with a soft thud on her carpeted floor, his eyes, quick and darting in the dim light, found hers. A familiar, crooked smile played on his lips. "Hey, Bey."

"Hi," she whispered back, a smile mirroring his. He crossed the room in two strides, not heading for her, but for the nightstand. From his pocket, he pulled a wad of bills large denominations, crisply folded and dropped it onto the polished wood. A dull thud, heavy with unspoken questions.

"What's this?" she mouthed, though she knew. It was always money. Large amounts, too large for a teenager, too large for anything honest, she suspected. He just shrugged, that same crooked smile, a hint of defiance in his eyes.

He didn't say, 'It's for us.' He didn't say, 'It's for your future.' He just dropped it, a silent offering, or perhaps, a burden.

She picked it up, stacking it neatly next to the growing pile in a shoe box hidden under her bed. She intended to save every dollar of it for him. For when he needed it, for when he finally saw a different path.

While she went to school, tracing the lines of algebra and Shakespeare, he was out there, earning this. She knew where he'd rather be, what he'd rather be doing, but she clung to the hope that this was for something more.

"You smell like..." she began, wrinkling her nose.

His smile faltered. "Don't, Bey."

"You promised," she pressed, her voice a little firmer this time. "No smoking, remember?"

He sighed, running a hand through his short dreads. "I'm trying, okay? It's been a long day." He moved towards her bed, collapsing onto the sheets, the faint scent of weed blossoming around him. She knew it would cling to the fabric, a silent accusation when her mother did laundry.

He was barely at school, and when he was, it was usually to make his claim on her, a possessive arm slung around her shoulder, a challenging look for any boy who dared linger.

She wanted him to meet her parents, to see him in the light of day, to introduce him properly. But that was a firm no. His quick, almost violent denial had brought them closer to a breakup than anything else.

"My mom asked me again today," she confessed, sitting beside him, picking at a loose thread on her comforter. "About meeting you. She's starting to get suspicious."

He just grunted, turning his head to look at her, his expression unreadable in the dark. "Don't trip, Bey. We're good."

But she wasn't so sure. The gaps in his life, the shadows that clung to him, felt wider and darker with each passing night. She was Beyoncé Knowles, daughter of an Attorney General, living a life of privilege and order

He was Y/N, a mystery, a whisper of the streets, and the only disorder she truly craved.

The fluorescent lights of the local grocery store hummed a familiar tune, competing with Tina Knowles's cheerful hum as she navigated the produce aisle. Beyoncé pushed the cart, her attention divided between her mother's animated conversation about organic kale and her phone.