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summary: Stiles new girlfriend looks nothing like you…. she’s the complete opposite
warnings: use of y/n, slight angst?, ex!stiles, smallest amount of cursing, lwk jealous y/n, reader is described to have dark brown curls and brown eyes, pretty short
notes: based on sabrina carpenters song ‘opposite’ from emails i can’t send, this was my first time writing a fic based/inspired by a song
“Oh, so you do have a type? And it’s not me”
The first time I saw the two of them together, I almost didn't recognize him.
Technically almost everything about him was still the same. He was wearing his old red t-shirt with some stupid Star Wars reference on it and his favorite red flannel. The same one he would always let me where, the one he would give me when it got chilly, the one i always used to steal from him. The same one that he always said I wore better than him.
He’s leaning against his locker talking to some of his friends like he usually does after 4th period. Laughing at something Scott said, head tilting forward the same way it always does when he laughs too hard, his eyes shut and shoulders shaking slightly. It’s almost the same sight as always.
The only difference now was the girl standing with him.
The girl who’s tucked under his arm, instead of me. Like she belongs there. Like it's been her place since the beginning of time, like it wasn't me just a few months ago in that very spot.
Since then I have seen them everywhere. It's like the universe is trying to play some cruel joke on me. No matter where I am, I can't escape them, I can't escape her. It didn’t matter if they were truly there or not. That's what sucks about life: you can never get away from the things that haunt you.
When I'm at home, she's there. I look in the mirror and I see what he didn't want. What wasn't good enough for him. I see all the features he once said he loved… I see the opposite of what he has now.
“Oh so you can reply? Just to not me”
I watch him as he texts her in the middle of class, hiding his phone behind his english textbook. He’s a few seats in front of me to the left, her to the right.
They glance at each other watching the others' reaction to their message.
I wonder if they're planning to watch a movie this friday like we always did, has he convinced her to watch Star Wars with him yet? Or are they making fun of the way Mrs. Clemons voice squeaks when she raises it, we used to always text about that during class.
But that was before he stopped replying to me. That was before he said he should focus more on class since that's why we were at school. At first I understood, I mean that was reasonable, but then not wanting to text in class turned into him not replying to me completely.
The end of our relationship was just unanswered texts and missed calls.
It started with late replies and different excuses on why he didn't answer, as it went on it slowly became complete radio silence.
I began to wonder if what he's always wanted was the opposite of me. Did he always prefer blue eyes over brown, “Fuck if i would’ve known that I would’ve got contacts” I joked to Kira once.
I laughed, she didn’t.
Instead she just stared at me with the look people get when they feel bad for you but don’t know what to say.
A part of me wonders if things would've been different if i looked like that, if i looked like her. If instead of the deep brown eyes, the kind that disappear in the dark, I had bright blue ones, the ones that people notice the second they look at you.
I wanted to throw my phone across my room when I saw the post. Stiles had posted a picture of the two of them on his close friend's story on Instagram. They were cuddled up on his couch, his arm around her shoulders, sharing a blanket, there was a bowl of popcorn in her lap, the two of them were smiling at the camera, the text on the screen said movie night with the film and red heart emoji.
We never unfollowed each other, he never removed me from his close friends, so he knew I would see it, and yet he still posted it. He knew that I would notice how they were doing the same thing we used to do, I probably have an almost identical picture of us somewhere on my phone. The only major difference being the girl that looks nothing like me.
I don't understand any of this. Why her?
She didn’t have the same dark curls I spent half my life learning how to take care of. She didn't have the same brown eyes that Stiles used to swear were his favorite color in the world. Her skin wasn’t the same rich brown as mine, the kind people compare to honey. Hers was pale and smooth, the kind people compare to milk.
Maybe I should take this as a compliment. Maybe the reason she looks nothing like me is because there isn’t anyone like me. Maybe he couldn't find someone with the same curls, the same brown eyes, the same everything, so he just didn’t try.
But that doesn't seem right, because that's not true.
There's so many girls at our school with dark curls that bounce when they walk. Girls with deep brown eyes that look almost black in the wrong lighting and girls with warm brown skin in every shade you could imagine.
She looks nothing like me and yet he still looks so happy. He could've found someone like me if he wanted to. He just didn't.
This whole time he was holding out to find the opposite.
He never wanted someone like me, he wanted someone like her.
And maybe the difference between us wasn't just the way we looked, but everything else too.
She seems soft, quiet, easy. The kind of girl who doesn't roll her eyes when Stiles rambles for too long. The kind of girl who doesn't argue with him about random topics or interrupt him just to prove she's right.
I've never been the ‘easy’ type. I'm sarcastic, loud sometimes. The kind of person who calls Stiles out when he's being ridiculous. The one who teases him, argues back, and rolls her eyes when he’s being dramatic.
I've thought about what it would be like to be that girl, the one with the straight blonde hair that falls neatly down her back and blue eyes that catch the light every time she looks up at him.
Or the one who just laughs at everything he says instead of teasing him for it. The one who listens quietly when he rambles instead of turning it into an argument.
If I looked like her, if I acted like her, would we still be together? Would he still be mine?
No.
Even if I tried to change, he would still end up with her anyway.
I know it.
Maybe it's because she knows how to be quiet when he talks. Maybe she lets him take up all the space in the conversation. Maybe she lets him be the center of everything. Maybe she's the kind of girl who steps back just enough so he can stand in the spotlight.
Maybe she just agrees with everything he says. When he starts going on about something, some theory, some ridiculous idea, she just nods along like it makes perfect sense. Maybe she loves the picture because he’s painting it, even if it's not the one she would've drawn herself.
I was never like that. I've always had my own opinions and was never afraid to let him or anyone else know. Stiles used to tell me that was one of the things he loved about me.
He used to say a lot of things.
He used to tell me how he loved when I argued with him about random topics, how he loved how my curls looked when they were messy, he used to tell me that even though I had brown eyes like most people, mine were special and different from all the rest. That they were even better than the rare eye colors out there, like blue or green. He used to always tell me how beautiful I was, how my beauty was unmatched.
Now I just can't help but wonder if when he said all those things, was I being lied to?
Every time he told me, he loved something about me,
Every time he told me he loved my hair, my eyes, my laugh, my stubbornness, when I would wear his clothes, when I laughed too loud or too hard, the way I would sing loudly in the car to the radio when it was just us but under my breath with others. Was he lying when he said he loved me?
Because if any of that was true he wouldn’t be with her…
right?
If he loved any of those things about me he would still be with me, or at least someone like me. He wouldn’t be with the girl who was the total opposite. The girl who is everything I'm not. The version of a girl I could never be.
Maybe it's not the fact that she's nothing like me that bothers me, but the fact that she isn't me.
the mississippi heat had already set in by midmorning, clinging to your skin like a second layer of clothes. the fan buzzing lazily on the counter as you pinned the hem of miss marjorie’s sunday skirt did little to cool you down. your hands moved on autopilot—steady, sharp, precise—while the voices outside the window did what they always did best.
talked.
it was the one hidden perk that came with being the most sought out seamstress in the delta. on the days when the sun beamed without remorse and the wind flew by without a care, talking as one downed a cool glass of water seemed like the perfect way to pass the time. whether it be on the couch, porch, in the grocery store, or barbershop: people talked. that meant you—and the other shop owners of the delta like the chows—could know all the town’s drama without ever having to open your mouth.
the loud hum of the fan drowned out majority of the conversation, but from the words you managed to gather—“shot,” “back,” “the twins”— you knew it meant nothing good.
“you hear that mess,” miss marjorie sniffled as she dabbed her nose with her handkerchief. the hot summer heat brought out the worst of people’s allergies, you included. “talk about the twins back in town.”
“i heard,” you said evenly, “seems like it’s the talk of the delta.”
before word of the twins’ arrival, you could tell something was different. maybe it’s because the air felt thicker, hotter, or maybe it’s because of the quiet hum in your gut as the days passed that told you someone you’d never wanted to see again might appear. finishing the hem, you clipped the thread before standing to help the older woman off the stool. glancing sideways, miss marjorie eyed herself in the nearby mirror as smoothed out the skirt. twirling with a smile, her eyes darted towards you as she reached for her pocketbook.
“i swear your work tops that of the finest french designer. i can’t thank you enough for getting me in on such short notice.”
“oh miss marjorie, you’re too kind. it’s just a simple hem,” you chuckled, crossing your hands in front of you. even after all this time as a seamstress, it seemed like you’d never get used to people complimenting your work.
“how much i owe you?”
“five cents.”
placing the change in your hand, miss marjorie left with a smile as you walked behind the register. normally, you wouldn’t take walk-ins, at least not when you were swamped with orders. but sometimes, on rare occasions, people like miss marjorie caught you on a good day: a day in which you were being generous.
you were two pins into your current project—your neighbor’s wedding dress—when the bell above the door rang. sighing, you reluctantly left the back of the shop (what you deemed your office) and headed towards the front to greet the unexpected customer. you had no pickups scheduled until later in the day, and miss marjorie was the only walk-in you felt generous enough to take.
“good evening! welcome to l/n’s. i’m so sorry but i cannot take anymore walk-ins for today, but if you’d like, i can schedule you an appointment.”
you gave your polite customer service spiel without looking up as you walked. you wished you would’ve. maybe then you would have realized the slow, confident steps that made your floorboards cry weren't those of someone who was a frequent customer, but those of someone who was a person you’d wish to never see again after the day he left.
elias “stack” moore.
“y’know, you should’ve charged that old lady more than what you did.”
your polite smile fell into a deep scowl within an instance. although it’d been seven years, the man—whom everyone called stack, but you called elias—still looked the same as the day he left. his facial hair was still full, his suit was crisp and pressed, and his smirk was still as crooked as ever. the years etched themselves into his face in the best way. he looked older, stronger, but no less dangerous. he was the kind of man who could sell you a pipe dream and leave you chasing after its smoke.
“well, elias. not everyone is as money hungry as you.”
raising his hands, stack took a step back. “i didn’t come to start no trouble.”
“you can’t help but start trouble everywhere you go. is that why you’re back in the delta after all these years?”
“i’m back in town on business,” stack replied.
silence filled the room as stack took the liberty to walk around and scan the room. the last time he was here, your shop was still new and could barely stand off the ground in comparison to the stores around you. he’d offered his help to you, but you being you, you vehemently refused.
“hell no! there’s no way i could take this money elias. are you crazy!”
you whispered yell at the man who—once laid beside you in bed—now buttoned his shirt back up. the warmth of your room grew cold as reality started to sink. stack had no problem with loving you all throughout the night, but he could never stay till the morning.
“you need it don’t ya? a business like yours ain’t gon run itself without a little cash.”
“this isn’t just a ‘little cash’ elias and you know it. if the white man catch me with this, they gon think i stole this.”
“you didn’t steal it. i did.”
“exactly!”
“looks good in here,” he said, voice soft as he pointed to the windows. “you added curtains.”
“i added a lot of things,” you hmphed, “you would’ve known if you hadn't vanished off the face of the earth for seven years.”
a breathy chuckle slipped past his lips as stack waved his finger at you. his teeth grazed the tip of his finger before biting down on his lip, as if to bite down the slick response he so desperately wanted to spit back.
“i deserved that,” he said as he stepped closer towards the counter. “honestly deserve a lot worse.”
your eyebrows furrowed and your arms crossed as you stared down the man you once called your lover. “why are you here elias? and what’s this talk of a “business?” the delta don’t need no more trouble.”
“like i said, i'm not here for trouble: i’m here for business,” he grunted as he straightened out his suit jacket.
“my brother and i are opening up our own juke joint called club juke, and it opens tonight. everybody who’s somebody in town gon be there. the only person that’s missing is you.”
a hearty, genuine laugh in disbelief flew past your lips before you could stifle it down. stack’s eyes squinted as his brows furrowed, confusion painting itself on his face. you didn’t mean to laugh, but the more his words sunk in, the harder chuckled.
“boy if you don’t get the fuck out my face,” you scoffed. “the amount of nerve you have to waltz into my shop after seven years of being gone to ask me to come to your little juke joint is unbelievable.”
“like i said y/n, i didn’t come here to start no trouble,” he muttered as he backed away from the counter.
“then what exactly is it you came here for? to annoy me?”
“i came here to invite you to have a good time. maybe come and see what i built, instead of hearing about what i broke. that’s all.”
your eyes never left him as you watched his every move. taking off his hat, stack bowed his head before heading toward the door. wrapping his hand around the handle, he paused before looking back at you.
his eyes shone with a look that was foreign. sadness? remorse? regret? all things that didn’t make sense to you. at least not when coming from the man who held no remorse when he left you alone in bed in the middle of the night.
giving you a firm nod as he tilted his head and placed his hat back on, stack opened the door. the bell chimed once more and the door slowly slammed shut as he began walking back to his car. and you couldn’t help but watch.
peeking out the front window, you caught a glimpse of delta slim in the passenger and sammie in the backseat with his guitar. sighing, you shook your head before heading behind towards the back.
you were doing good. you hadn’t thought of the man who’d shattered your heart for years. you’d even managed to begin to get over him. and just like that, with a simple invite, stack had reentered your mind like the parasite he was.
you didn’t get as far along on the wedding dress as you had hoped. instead, your day was filled with constant bell ringing, chatter, and the talk of the opening of club juke. it started when your afternoon client came to pick up the dress you’d tailored for her.
“i can’t thank you enough y/n. i swear this couldn’t have come at a better time. the opening of the twins’ club is tonight and this dress is perfect!”
it only grew after that. the joint was something you tried to suppress in the back of your mind the second stack stepped out of your shop, but with every client that came waltzing in look for a new dress, new shirt, or new pants to wear the the opening of “club juke,” your jaw clenched a little tighter and you smile grew a little faker.
however, what you couldn’t fake was how much money you’d made in the span of a few hours after the word of the twins' arrival swept the town. it was like they were an enigma. their energy was powerful and drew people towards them. some looked up to them in awe, some cowered away in fear, and some looked down on them like the sinners they were. yet, it didn’t stop people from spending their hard earned money at your shop buying the ‘perfect outfit’ for the grand opening.
dusk began to fall as quickly as dawn rose, signifying the closing of your shop; however, as you stood wiping down the counters, the sound of the bell ringing once more caused something in your chest to tug. not hard. just enough to make you pause.
you didn’t look up right away—you couldn’t. he didn’t deserve to see you flinch. you felt the energy around you shift as if the atmosphere itself cowered at the sight of him.
“what now, elias?”
throwing the rag over your shoulder, your turned to face stack: arms already crossed and lips already frowned. he no longer looked like the polished man who entered your shops earlier. now, sweat puddled along his forehead and soaked parts of his suit; his crisp, pressed suit jacket was gone, revealing a striped button up underneath; and his pants suit was ripped down the seam, revealing his ankle length socks.
“well that’s no way to treat a paying customer now is it,” he smirked as he twirled a stack of bills between his fingers.
“i don’t need nor want your blood money. plus—as the sign says on my door—i’m closed.”
“oh c’mon y/n. i ripped my pants leg while moving things around at the juke joint. figured i’d come to the best seamstress in town to get this lookin’ right,” he smirked, eyes glowing in the shadows of the sunset.
“i’ll even pay you triple what these folks ‘round here pay.”
your tongue poked the inside of your left cheek before alternating to the right as you leaned on the back counter. the money you’d made from today alone was definitely more than you’d made all week; however, the money in his hands was enough to buy you the fancy beads your neighbor wanted on her wedding dress and then some. plus, there was a part of you that couldn’t muster up the strength to say no to stack, even if he didn’t offer you money.
letting out a deep exhale, you grabbed your sewing kit and stool before leaving the safety the counter provided you. not like stack would ever do something to you, but his presence was enough to cause you to slip back into your old habits. snatching the money with a scowl, you plopped the wooden stool in front of him before sitting down. opening your kit, you quickly threaded the needle before examining stack’s suit leg to see just how bad the damage was.
the quicker you could finish this, the better.
“tryin’ to impress someone?” you asked.
“maybe,” he said. “or maybe i just want to look sharp when i’m standing under my own roof.”
“it’s cheap,” you muttered, as your hands examined the fabric. “the stitching’s lazy. that’s why it ripped so easily at the seams.”
“figured you’d say that,” he smiled. “that’s why i brought it to you.”
shaking your head, you couldn’t help but to roll your eyes at the man standing above you. “flattery don’t earn you a discount. especially when i already took your money.”
“wasn’t tryna earn a discount,” he responded. “just a little more of your time.”
you paused as you pulled the needle through the fabric of his pant leg. he was better at this now—less cocky and suave than before. now, he was patient. waiting. and that was dangerous. you didn’t trust patience from men like him. men like him always had something up their sleeve.
still, you didn’t tell him to leave as soon as he entered like you swore you would. and you didn’t refuse to sew back his pants. instead, you sat in silence as you focused on stitching back together the accident he caused while he focused with reverence on the woman—whom he still loved—sewing his pants back together.
pulling the last stitch in tight, you grabbed your scissors before sniping the thread loose. you tried your best to tie the thread as close to the hem as possible, but it was still a little loose.
“there you are,” you said, cracking your knuckles as you rose from the stool. “all patched up!”
turning towards the mirror, stack eyed himself, so much so that for a second you thought he was staring more at his face than the pant leg.
“damn, y/n! you’ve gotten better since the last time i saw you.”
you wanted to spit out a snarky remark along the lines of “yeah well it’s been seven years,” but the words got caught in your throat as you stared at the genuine smile creeping on elias’ face.
“hell, even the white folks gon wanna come in here and buy everything out.”
“i swear you’re hyping me up too much,” you laughed as you rolled your eyes at his antics. “besides, they love what i make , just not that i’m the one who makes it.”
stack’s eyes move from you to his wrist as he checks the time on his watch. he told smoke he’d be back before night fell, and it was slowly getting closer and closer to the time where the moon ruled the sky. giving his thanks once more, stack headed towards the door, but not before saying one more thing.
“i really hope you come through tonight. they really got it set up all beautiful down there. save me a dance, or don’t. i’ll wait either way.”
sighing, silence fell once again as you watched him leave your shop as he left you more confused and conflicted than ever. turning to look at the dim shop behind you, you quickly grabbed your dancing dress from your office before closing up shop.
you weren’t going to club juke for stack. no, you were going to unwind from the most stressful day of your life. at least, that’s what you told yourself as you got in your car and drove towards your house with the intention of getting ready.
club juke looked like it didn’t belong in the delta.
not because it was too fancy—it was far from it. it was the old farm mill turned into a makeshift club within the span of hours. the foundation of the mill looked unstable and shaky as you parked alongside the mass of other cars. however, as the sound of music from within flooded your ears, one thing you could tell was that club juke had heart.
and that was worth more than anything in the delta.
the sign “club juke” was hand painted red, something so simple yet neat that only could’ve been done by grace chow herself. conversation and laughter spilled out of the open door as you made your way to the entrance, eyes landing on cornbread before his landed on you.
“my, my, my. look at what the cat dragged in,” cornbread tisked as he stood in front of the door.
his eyes shifted from your head down to your toes as he gave you a once over. your dress was a deep red-orange, cinched just right, and just loose enough that you could dance with ease. your hair was down and free: a feeling you could finally start to feel in the energy of the club surrounding you.
“oh stack is gonna lose it when he sees you,” cornbread muttered. stepping to the side, he beaconed you forward.
“what’s the entrance fee?”
“oh don’t you worry about that, y/n. i think stack would kill me if he found out i made you pay to get in. now go and have a good time.”
smiling with a nod of your head, you thanked him before stepping into what seemed to be the start of the best night of your life. lights hung across the ceiling like fireflies, delta slim sat playing on the piano, and people you’d never seen dance before were dancing.
the people were alive and the building was on fire.
stack hadn’t lied. he, smoke, along with the others who helped them, really built something real. the stage was real. the bar was real. even the few chairs they managed to snag in such short notice were real. folks sweat and danced on the floor like they didn’t have to go to church in the morning. in fact, they danced like tomorrow wasn’t promised.
spotting annie at the bar, you quickly headed over there to speak and get a drink. her eyes widened as a wave of shock painted her face.
“y/n! i didn’t expect you to make it.”
“yeah, well i was convinced that i needed to come. heard it would be a good time, and by the looks of it, it is.”
“trust me, you wouldn’t have wanted to miss this. so, what do you drink? there’s irish beer, italian wine, and corn liquor.”
your eyebrows furrowed at the mention of the former two drinks. irish beer and italian wine wasn’t native to the delta, in fact, you never even heard of it. knowing the twins, they only got their hands on it because of a scheme.
“i’ll just take the corn liquor please.”
“alright, that’ll be five cents.”
you reached in your pocketbook, digging for the spare change you’d thrown in in a hurry. just as your fingers clutched the last cent needed, a large brown hand—one you’d grown familiar with—slid a nickel over to annie as he took the seat beside you.
“drink’s on me,” stack said, eyes scanning you up and down and you stared at him with mild annoyance.
“i was gonna pay for that y’know?”
“a lady should never pay for her drinks.”
your eyes slanted in irritation as annie slid you your drink with a knowing look. although smoke and stack were completely two different people, there were still brothers. more than that, they were twins, identical twins. therefore, she better than anyone else knew exactly what you were going through the past seven years, seeing as she was going through it two times over with the loss of her child.
sipping in silence, your eyes danced everywhere but towards the man beside you. maybe it was the nerves or the alcohol, but no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t stare stack in the eyes for more than five seconds as his gaze upon you intensified.
“didn’t think you would come,” he mumbled as he took a long sip from his beer.
“didn't think you remembered how to throw a party,” you quipped with a smirk.
“i remember a lot of things,” he whispered, his cocky, nonchalant facade falling for just a second; yet, it was still long enough for you to catch it.
you looked at him. really looked at him.
he was sweating a little. not from nerves—just from working the room, making sure the whole damn thing didn’t fall apart. you could see the strain in his shoulders, but also the pride in his eyes. this place meant something to him, and in turn that meant something to you.
standing up, stack took a final swing of his drink before reaching out a hand.
“dance with me.”
but you don’t move. at least, not at first.
“i didn’t come here to be seen on your arm. i came here to unwind. to have fun.”
“then come unwind and have fun with me,” he rebutted, eyes sparkling in the yellow of the string lights. “just this one song.”
you stared at his hand for a beat too long. then, with a small sigh, you stood. the band—which included delta slim and sammie—slowed down. the floor shifted from sweat-soaked twirls to close-pressed sways. stack pulled you in like he remembered exactly how you liked it. your waist fit perfectly against his rough palms as he swayed the two of you back and forth.
however, you didn’t let yourself melt. didn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how much his touch affected you. but you didn’t pull away either. it was quiet between you—quiet enough to hear your heart banging against your chest. quiet enough to hear your thoughts that screamed for you to pull away, to leave before things went south. but as your brain tried to reason with logic, your heart overpowered it with love.
“this don’t fix anything, elias,” you mumbled as you laid your head against his brooding chest. the words got caught in the fabric of his shirt, but stack was still able to understand them.
“i know.”
“i mean it. one song doesn’t undo seven years.”
“it ain’t supposed to.”
“then why ask?”
he looked down at you, expression soft, vulnerable, something he rarely allowed anyone—even you—to witness.
“because i needed to know if you still felt anything at all.”
that stopped you. just for a second. if you hadn’t been keeping up with the easy two-step sway, you would’ve stood there frozen forever. his hand was warm at the small of your back. it felt familiar. it felt wrong. it felt right.
you hated how much you missed this. hated how the rhythm pulled your body before your brain gave permission. hated how your body reacted to his touch as if it was second nature.
but you didn’t stop dancing.
because even though you weren’t ready to forgive, maybe you were ready to feel something again.
second pov stories be losing me so bad. like i would not be making these terrible decisions do not wish this on me it almost feels like evil eye. like EYE did that? did I? really?! a shrimp fried this fucking rice??
ok i have a story but its long should i break it up into a series. but ppl fake dont be reading a whole ass series of stories it fake all gotta be together.
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having a boyfriend is rlly rlly ghetto. like acting like a bird just tends to creep up on you
i used to be like halle cmon ddg?? but i get it. like i get it. its like a sleeper agent. the idiocy just activates right under your nose and then one day you wake up CONFUSED. HOWWW did i get here omg
anyways i gotta write abt y/n being a bird one time for the one time
@bbgkoo tumblr literally refused to let me reply to u 😕 but
HIIIII thank you for asking, it’s okay i GUESS this semester isn’t that bad. how’s college treating you?! nd DRY? UR TOOOO KIND i just can’t find it in me to write anything worthwhile cause i gotta read MADDDD books 👎🏽 when i post again it’s gonna be rusty down. and i’m open to any suggestions at all!! i’ll force myself to stan someone if the writing is good enough 🧏🏽♀️
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𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: this is based on a literal Vybz Kartel song but it’s named after a Kelis song. and if you’re not caribbean or from nyc and know nothing abt Vybz … just know i put u on 🙏🏽 also this is gonna be the first instance of what i like to call After!Jude u gon get me soon enough 🤞🏽 + i wrote jude like a man FR so buckle in ❤️
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: cheating, items thrown, self h*rm ideation, smoking cigs around babies — it was a diff time ya just vibe w me but also DONT smoke around babies
Long ago, she’d grown accustomed to the wooden tobacco scent of cigarettes and the way that they seeped into the necks of her most durable shirts. In her earliest memories, she would be sat between her grandmother’s legs and the older woman would be braiding her hair for school. Her grandmother, a rather young woman considering her title, balanced a lanky cigarette between her lips as she added barrettes to the ends of her hair before moving on to the next braid. Now, the eye-stinging, lung-burning, herby smell of cigarette smoke reminded her of easier times– of the hairs at the nape of her neck being roughly brushed up into a plait, of her face being slathered in Vaseline, of her grandmother’s roughened voice chastising her grandchildren for running in her house.
She smoked her very first cigarette at the age of sixteen. As she placed the cigarette between her lips, she thought of the woman she had lost four years prior whose heavy hands would spoon-feed her gently. Her grandmother. She thought of the woman’s comforting words and sloppy kisses and head pats and Sunday breakfasts for her and all of her cousins. As she’d puffed the cigarette for the very first time, she easily recalled braids and the smell of the hair grease and that one Godforsaken red brush with the roughest bristles she’d ever felt in her life. As she’d exhaled, she’d been slapped with the clearest image of her grandmother she’d seen since the woman was alive. In truth, the woman had begun to slip her mind as the clock ticked by, though as she smoked her very first cigarette she swore she’d felt the warmth of the woman’s aged hands on her back, rubbing soothingly.
At eighteen, she kicked the habit. It was bad for aging and her fear of lung problems stemmed from the matriarch she’d loved so much. She cried for days at the absence of her grandmother’s presence, finding her lost in the haze of the sweet-smelling smoke. Still, she threw out her pack of Newports and grew used to the dull state of living without her first best friend.
The next time she would see her grandmother was when she was twenty, as the cigarette between her lips lit fiery red at its tip and the stingingly familiar scent– something akin to perfume to her– wafted around her head. Where others smelled cigarette smoke, instead she smelled comfort. She smelled hair grease and pancakes and her grandmother’s home, and when she pressed her eyes shut, she could even imagine herself waking up in the mornings in her grandmother’s arms– she could see the dust particles swaying around her, she could even feel the grainy fabric of her grandmother’s orange curtains between her two fingers.
When her eyes opened after two long minutes of her childhood, her boyfriend of three years stood in the doorway with furrowed brows and a bothered look in his deep brown eyes. She had been crying long before then.
In the beginning Jude had been tentative. Playing with the skin on his nails, he would bring the topic up slyly and then go quiet when the conversation got too real: Kids. Children. A baby.
She knew that he wanted three kids– a boy, two girls, the same as her– as he wouldn’t shut up about it when they were younger. Now it all seemed too real to him, she supposed.
His full lower lip would stick out in what his wife called a pout and he would search his right and left for something to toy with. If he reminded himself to do neither then his leg would start bobbing. If he stopped his leg then he would change his seating position frequently, too fidgety to stay still.
She told him that there was no rush. They’d just gotten married. They were both young. Children could wait.
He’d gotten ahead of himself. Grateful for her support, he placed his palm behind her head and brought her lips to his in what became a searing kiss. His hands dropped to her neck, then to her waist, then he stopped kissing her to watch her eyelashes flutter against the apples of her cheeks. Snow glazed over their windows, the glare from their tree lights melting it quickly. Inside the home, the fire burned slowly.
She found out in February. Someone off-handedly mentioned a glow about her, only to be taken aback when she gasped raggedly in response.
He found out later that day. She sat him down and, now, she fidgeted instead. He wrapped an arm around her and asked what was wrong. When he tried to pull her into his lap and she resisted, his lips parted. Wracking his brain, he asked if he had done something and all she could do was shake her head. He moved her hair out of her face as he waited for her answer.
Two fragile words left her lips. He felt as if he couldn’t breathe. He repeated the words back to her, a breathless whisper. She nodded.
The realization hit him in waves. She was pregnant. She was pregnant and he was going to be a father. Possibly, most pertinently, she was pregnant and he was going to be a father and he wanted to leap for joy and shout it from the rooftop of their house. She was pregnant and he was going to be a father and he was ecstatic about it and oh my God she was carrying their child as they spoke.
Her eyes widened when he slid his hand over her midriff softly. So soft that she would not have felt it had she not watched his actions. She watched his eyes flit back and forth, putting something together privately. Then he kissed her, enfolding her body into the sofa and sheltering her form with his.
Their baby would want for nothing, he promised himself. He would be the best father ever. He would be at every game, every talent show, and everything else the kid would want to do.
Matthew was born on a chilly night in September. Jude remembered the loud cry that quietened when their son was finally placed in his mother’s arms. She welcomed him to the world and the baby all but sighed, snuggling into the familiar warmth of his mother.
Jude remembered that she always had a way with their son. Frowns turned into smiles when she would so much as hum. The baby was wrapped around her finger just as much as she was his tiny one.
He struggled not to be jealous of the immediate affection between the two. It always took him a second longer than her. He could make a bottle, but not as fast. He could change a diaper, but not as quickly. He was there every step of the way for his son. Just not as swiftly.
She had no idea. He smiled whenever the baby responded to her and only her, laughed when their son gripped onto her index finger and wouldn’t let go. She was caught up in the whirl of new motherhood– constant mess, little to no sleep, frantic worrying– to focus on anything other than their son.
He understood that. In fact, he hated himself more for being so acutely aware of his own feelings during this time. Regardless, he would swallow, smile, and kiss his wife goodnight. He would not burden her, he decided. He would just try harder to connect with his son, whose little head would turn toward his mother’s presence even when Jude was cradling him against his bare chest.
Matthew’s piercing cry awoke the couple. Having just fell asleep, she could only crack one eye open enough to catch her husband hoisting himself up drowsily. He murmured something to her about taking care of it and darkness engulfed her once more.
She was awoken some time later by the same shrill call that made her senses go haywire. This time, the baby sounded closer. She sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes just as the bedroom door opened.
Her husband was walking toward her, holding their son out to her.
“He won’t stop crying. Please.” His voice cracked.
She grabbed their son and tried to calm him down as he went on, speaking in a low timbre.
Jude rubbed the back of his head. “I tried to feed him, I changed him, we went for a walk around the house. I don’t know…”
She nodded and held her son close to her chest. She rocked him in a familiar rhythm– Staying Alive by the Beegees. After rocking him to the mental ah ah ahs didn’t work, she spoke to him in a whisper. Still, he cried. She pouted and kissed his head.
“He seems a little colicky, baby,” she informed her husband through a yawn. She thought back to seven years prior, when her Godson had been a newborn and scream-cried in the early hours of the morning. Matthew’s cries were similar. She kissed her poor baby’s cheek and held him tighter. “We just have to wait it out.”
It was only then that she looked up at her husband who sat at her feet. Her lips fell apart at the tear that glistened along Jude’s cheek.
She leaned forward. “Baby, what happened? Are you okay?”
Jude shook his head then palmed his forehead. “Nothing. Forget it.”
“No, why are you crying? What happened?” she pressed.
He blinked extra hard, willing the truth to surface. Salt-flavored tears fell.
“I just. I just thought he was crying because of something I did. And I swore I did everything right but I couldn’t… I wouldn’t be able to breathe if I hurt him. I just–” The corners of his full lips quivered, guilt clawing its way up his soul. He placed his head in his hands.
“Jay,” she mumbled and kicked the covers off. She scooted down the bed carefully, crying baby still firmly in the crevice of her right arm. Her left hand reached out, finding his and caressing his knuckles. “It’s not your fault. He’s okay. You didn’t do anything.”
Jude looked up, finally. The tip of his nose was beet red. “Yeah, but what if I did? What if I give him too much milk? Or– or too little? What if his bath water is too hot? I just– he deserves someone who knows what they’re doing.”
She rubbed his chest, hot from the burning mix of emotions. “He deserves you. You’re such a good dad, Jay, you’re the best dad. It’s okay if you make some mistakes.”
“It’s not.”
“Yes, it is.”
Jude shook his head, mumbling due to the pinching feeling at the back of his throat. “No, it’s not. No it’s not, because you’re not making these mistakes and it all comes so easily to you and no matter how much I read those books I would never have been able to tell that he was cowlick or something because I’m just– My brain doesn’t work like that. He deserves someone else. I’m too–” He bit his lip. His nostrils flared as a new wave of tears overcame him. “I’m just dumb and it’s not clicking for me. I try so hard. I try and try. I love him with everything in me and he just doesn’t love me like he loves you and now I don’t even know how to soothe him when he’s crying. I’m a horrible father, oh my God.”
Her first feeling was panic. For a split second, she wanted to dig her nails into his arm to ensure that he would not leave. The next second, she wanted to cry for even thinking that thought.
“No you’re not. Don’t say that,” was all she could manage at first. She rubbed his cheek. “You’re an excellent father, Jude. I’m in awe of you most times. You don’t freak out when there’s spit-up or poop or pee on you. You wake up every night to be with him. You put him to sleep in, like, five seconds! You’re having a breakdown because you can’t fathom the idea of hurting him in any way. You’re so good. He doesn’t need someone who knows everything, he needs someone willing to love him with all of their heart and he has that in you. We can learn along the way.”
“He doesn’t like me,” said Jude, shaking his head.
Her jaw dropped. “What do you mean he doesn’t like you?! He adores you!”
Jude sniffled, not fully taking heed of his wife’s words of encouragement. His eyes flitted to his weeping son whose bottom lip began to quiver. This was a different form of a cry, he realized.
“He’s getting cold, baby,” Jude informed his wife quickly.
She blindly felt around the bed for something to wrap their son in.
“See? You caught that so fast,” she commended, fingers brushing against something that she could not yet see. She covered Matthew’s small form quickly then concentrated on her husband, rubbing his shoulder. Her ring finger glittered in the pale moonlight.
Jude wasn’t responding. His brown eyes stared off into space. She could see him working his jaw the same way he would all those years ago. No longer was he her husband. Now, he was an insecure eighteen-year-old, tall and anxious and not quite sure where he fit in. She thought about what would have gotten eighteen-year-old Jude out of the rut and then she contemplated calling one of his friends for a pep talk. Trent was a father, too– but she knew that this was too personal. This was not a matter of friendly advice. This was a matter of her husband not feeling worthy.
Then, wails became cries. Cries became sniveling. Sniveling turned into whimpering.
She looked down at her son in amazement. She finally saw what she had wrapped around her baby.
Experimentally, she pulled the cloth from him and his cries picked up. She grabbed something else and wrapped it around him, and if Matthew could speak he would have cursed at her. She grimaced as his legs kicked, strong for such a small human. She tried one more new object then gave in, finding the fabric she had originally cocooned him in. She placed his arms down and swaddled him, giggling softly when he went from full screaming to whimpering at once.
She tapped her husband who gently blinked himself out of his trance.
“Look,” she began, holding Matthew out. “Look what got him to stop crying.”
Jude grasped his son, supporting his head and neck expertly. He lightly tugged on the cloth around the baby before peeking back at his spot on the bed.
The corner of his mouth tugged up. “Is this my pajama shirt?” he asked.
She grinned so big that her tongue was between her teeth. “Of course it is.”
Jude smiled slyly.
His son yawned, then. A big one, where his nostrils flared and his eyes squinted and his fingers spread out. In the next moment, he gripped onto his father’s t-shirt with one sure fist.
Jude chewed on his bottom lip to keep from crumbling further. He placed a soft kiss to his son’s cheek, then laughed a tad when he saw the corner of Matthew’s mouth frown.
“He’s about to start crying again,” he knew.
“Quick! Rock him!” said his wife.
Jude stood, baby in his arms, and swayed. Under his breath, he sang Staying Alive. Matthew’s eyes would droop with every ah ah ah ah that came and then widen if Jude stopped singing for even half a second.
She stood, too. She danced with her boys until Matthew was fully asleep, and then she pressed her lips to her husband’s.
“I love you sooo much,” she told him. “And still, that baby loves you way more than me. Believe me.”
Later, when he was putting Matthew back in his crib, he straightened up and noticed the ice along the baby’s window. He walked over and tapped his index finger against it, remembering the ice from the year before.
Before, when it was just the two of them. When they were buying gifts for all of their friends. When the eggnog was in full swing. When the thought of children would make him squirm.
He rubbed his fingers against the window, smiling when the tips of his fingers came back cold. He took one last look at his son wrapped in his grey Spider-man shirt. He loved that shirt and no one but him could wear it– he had once gotten in an argument with his friend because he’d pretended to spill ice cream cake on it. But he was more than happy to pass it on to his son.
He crossed the hallway to his room and tried to lay down. Two minutes later, he found himself back in his son’s room. He rolled Matthew’s crib across the hall, through the door, and around to his side of the bed.
When he fell asleep, one hand through the bars of the crib and holding onto his son, he knew for sure that he didn’t know what he did to deserve the life he lived.
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𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: this is real old and angsty like not for fake. it’s short though. also i grew up catholic so u gotta bear w the lil references and shit. trigger warning religious talk kinda
She couldn’t remember much of the year if she was being honest.
She could remember her best friends’ wedding.
She could remember Valentine’s day.
She could remember March and April breezing past her, a mixture of Easter and celebrating her friend’s birthday.
She could remember the drowsiness that overcame her in May. She could remember how it followed her well into June.
She could remember her friend’s baby being born, and she could remember smiling down at his tiny squished face.
And she was happy for them, she was. But, when she found herself in her newly quiet home at the end of the day, the reality remained that she was alone. Utterly alone. No one to turn to. No one to rely on. Alone. She felt that this was her fault.
When her friend called and cried to her about new motherhood delivering a swift kick to her backside, she accepted the opportunity to stay with her friends for a few days, maybe even weeks— however long it would take for her friend to get back on her feet with a new addition to the household.
The record was three weeks. July was almost over. Amelie, ever-grateful, had even told her that she could go back home if she wanted. The woman, not wanting to overstay her welcome, accepted that as well.
She had been accepting a lot of things, it seemed. She would leave the following week, after the event that was planned meticulously for the baby.
It was when she was getting ready to go to sleep early— the baby had a habit of scream-crying at the break of dawn and she liked being up with him— that she received a knock at the guest bedroom door. Curious, she tip-toed across the room and found herself opening the door to reveal her tired friend whose smile grew as she rocked her fast-asleep son. [y/n] invited them in and grabbed the baby at once, sitting on the bed with his little body cradled in her arms.
“Okay, I wanted to tell you so that you weren’t, like, bombarded with this,” Amelie began after a small chat about how the baby had just done something cute.
She involuntarily put pressure on her eyebrows, furrowing them together.
Amelie folded her hands in her lap. “You know his baptism is next week and you know you’re his Godmother, of course... I tried to talk Trent out of it, but he’s going to make you know who his Godfather.”
She could feel herself gasp at the mention of you know who. She definitely knew who.
“If it makes you uncomfortable, I get it. And I get it if you’re not ready to see him. I can have someone else step in as his Godmother for the ceremony if you can’t do it. You don’t have to go to the party. What are you feeling?” Amelie asked.
She bit the skin of her bottom lip. She looked down at the almost two-month-old who looked so much like her friends that it was crazy. He was blinking up at her with his bottom lip poked out, looking scandalized. She laughed and rubbed the pad of her finger over his dark waves.
“I’m feeling a little overwhelmed… But I can do it. I don’t care about him. This is for my Godbaby. Right? This is for my Godson,” she cooed to the baby who half-smiled.
“You’re sure?”
“Sure. Yes. Yeah.” She was trying to convince herself more than anything and she knew it. “No one cares about that man, anyway. It’s just Rayan’s day..” The baby smiled as if he knew what they were talking about, and the women fussed over him a bit more. When the familiar weight pressed itself against her shoulders, She sighed. “I need a drink.”
“Go raid Trent’s cabinet, girl. You know he’s not shy about Don Julio,” her friend joked about her husband.
There was a painful twang in her chest at once. Her husband. Her friend was joking about her husband. A man who she shared a child, a home, and a life with.
She could taste iron. She would later realize that she had bit the inside of her cheek open. For now, she chopped the stinging sensation up to the of moths fumbling about in her stomach.
Her friend took her Godson and she was left alone once more. She laid her head on the linen pillow and stared blankly at the room before her. Wistfully, she imagined Amelie and Trent embracing each other at the end of the very long day. She imagined them nuzzling against the other as they gazed down at their sleeping baby boy. Then, she imagined everything that could have been.
She fell into a slumber with remnants of saline tears on her cheeks, and she woke up days later wearing a crisp white blouse and her best earrings. Rayan’s baptism.
He barely left his mother’s arms that day. He was tiny and it was a big day for him and he was wearing a long, pristine white dress that used to be his grandfather’s when he was that small. So Rayan slept, and she tried not to kick open the church doors and run as far as her legs could take her.
She knew he was in the room. She could feel it. If she opened her mouth to speak, she could taste it. If she inhaled too deeply, she could smell it. His presence was the sustenance that her soul had been missing for far too long and she was being punished for it. Her hands were shaking. She slipped off to the bathroom three times before she realized that her issues could affect the day. Being unreliable or looking flaky was the last thing she’d wanted to do after making it so far through the day. When she sat back down in the pews, she crossed her hands extra tight in her lap and kept her neck arched high. She would shake it off. This was for Rayan.
After some time she stood with her friends and made her way to the front of the church. She could feel him behind her. Then beside her. She willed herself not to look at him and focused solely on swearing to remain a key figure in the baby’s life.
For you, I’ll do my best.
He made his pledges after her. She felt as if she couldn’t breathe. He was so close to her. She could feel the echo of his baritone in her feet. She could taste iron, far more pronounced this time.
The baby was placed in her arms, and the metallic flavor dissipated at once. She secured her arm around his head and tugged his gown down. He whined, only to stop a second later when his mother kissed his hand.
The priest asked the Godparents to move closer. She stepped forward and nodded when appropriate. The priest said something that she didn’t really catch. She had been too busy making sure Rayan was comfortable. Brown hands came forward and untied the loose strings around the baby’s neck. He pulled the baby’s hat off. She could hear the ocean in her head.
She leaned forward and lowered her elbow an inch. The priest placed his hands in the tub of water before him and her. He poured water on the baby’s dark tufts of hair. One hand, then two, then another for good measure. Rayan let out a short cry from the temperature of the water.
“It’s okay, honey, you did great,” she whispered to her Godson when it was all over. She held him tighter, closer to her face.
“Maybe he’s cold,” the familiar voice said. “Here, let me put his hat back on.” Brown hands came into view and she watched him make the loose loop-the-loop. Rayan calmed down.
Rayan’s parents came and uttered softly to their son. His mother fought tears. His father let them glide down his cheeks freely, rubbing the top of the baby’s bonnet with a thumb.
“Hey,” the Godfather’s low voice was saying. He was not whispering. Anyone could have heard him. Though, when she thinks back on the moment, she can remember the soft, whispering tickle of his breath hitting her ear. She wanted him to be whispering.
She greeted him back weakly and she did not try to hide it. With everyone focused on Rayan, the awkward encounter would just be their own and she could not muster the strength to make it anything but.
The corner of his mouth quirked up, weakly too, and he said, “You look really nice.”
All at once, she could hear the ocean. She could hear volcanoes erupting. She could feel the familiar sharp chill of ice, and she could smell the smoke of paper burning.
She could not remember what her response was, or if she even responded at all. She could only remember the pain of living without the only man she had loved for months after being together for so long.
Through the fog, a voice prompted, “Let’s get a pic with the Godparents.”
She craned her head and found herself staring at a man that she had gone to school with. Kareem was known for being tall, charismatic, and a photographer. Therefore, she was not surprised that her friend had invited him to the gathering. Though she wished that someone would have filled him in on the current situation before he suggested such things.
Rayan’s parents moved away. She took a half step closer to Rayan’s Godfather. Rayan’s Godfather took a half step closer to her.
For the first time in months, they were pressed against each other.
Her chest felt hollow. Icy. It burned to inhale. It took too much effort to exhale. She lifted the baby so that he was perfectly between them. A brown hand fixed the baby’s dress. Fingertips grazed fingertips. She could taste iron pooling just behind her teeth, and then she smiled.
Her first tear fell when the camera shuttered for the last time. The people were emotional, too. They spoke to the baby in whispers. The Godfather left her side to go gawk at his Godson.
It was only her in the center of that stage. She was alone. There was no one in her corner anymore.
She had no husband. No new baby to baptize. No boyfriend to envision her future with.
She felt as if she was going to drown. She sucked in a burning breath.
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