Stories about Y/n creating bonds with characters from series and films.
(I don't own the characters)
PG-13!
1. **Language:** Mild to moderate profanity, but not extreme or pervasive.
2. **Violence:** Some intense or realistic violence may be present...
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The bass of Swalla by Jason Derulo and Nicki Minaj rattled through Zoey's packed house, the kind of loud that made your chest hum. Y/n leaned against the kitchen counter, a shot of tequila scorching her throat as she gripped the glass. Zoey, across from her, clutched a beer, eyes bugging out like she'd just heard the wildest gossip.
"What the fuck?" Zoey blurted, loud enough to cut through the music.
Y/n rolled her eyes, swirling the tequila. "No need for all that, Zoey."
Zoey leaned in, undeterred. "Why the hell are you dating Rumi again? Have you forgotten how you two were caught screaming at each other in public? I still remember that time you punched a wall during one of your fights with her."
Y/n sighed, the memory stinging. "Last year, Rumi went through hell after her cerebral vasculitis diagnosis. She was with Jinu, I was with Mira. I couldn't even be there for her, just watched her post about crying, scared she was gonna die. When I ended things with Mira, Rumi was single too. I just wanted to support her after all that stress, and... we ended up back together."
Y/n and Rumi had been on and off since 2012, teenage sweethearts with a messy history, now trying again in 2027.
Zoey raised a brow, taking a swig of her beer. "And where's she at now?"
Y/n glanced around the crowded room. "We were talking earlier, but she went to the bathroom. Haven't seen her since."
Zoey shrugged. "Anyway, I got shit to do. Some dudes are smoking weed in my room, and I'm about to kick their asses out. Go find Rumi." She pushed off the counter and headed upstairs.
Y/n wove through the party, dodging sweaty bodies and spilled drinks, until she reached the bathroom. Empty. She stepped back, muttering, "What the hell?" when her foot landed on something squishy. Lifting her shoe, she gagged—a torn condom wrapper. "Gross," she hissed, scraping it off with a shudder.
She pulled out her phone to call Rumi, but her thumb hovered over Mira's contact instead. Memories of easier times with Mira flickered—laughs, late nights, no baggage. With Rumi, things were intense. Y/n loved her fiercely, but Rumi had never been an easy girlfriend. Every breakup left scars, and every reunion felt like Y/n had to grow up all over again to make it work.
Shaking her head, Y/n focused and dialed Rumi. The music drowned out any chance of hearing a ring. She slipped through the crowd to the basement, where the noise dulled to a low thrum. Dialing again, she froze when she heard a faint ring nearby.
Rumi sat slumped on the basement floor, surrounded by three empty Bud Light bottles. Her eyes were glassy, her breathing slow. Y/n's stomach twisted, memories crashing in. Back in 2016, Rumi threw a party to celebrate her song Golden blowing up. They were dating then, but Rumi wouldn't even let Y/n inside—sat on her couch chatting with some guy popping opioids while Y/n stood outside, humiliated. She'd gone home that night and drank herself numb.
