(You already know who I finna do it aboutš. Flaujae. Iām doing it for Flaujae.)
Name-Dropper
Flauājae Johnson x fem!reader
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Summary: Your already known in the industryārapper, influencer, and little sister to a hip-hop icon. But when I drop my debut album and name-drop Flauājae the internet goes feral.
Warnings: Explicit lyrics, strong language, suggestive content, public tension, mutual obsession
Word count~ 0.3k
My name been in rooms I wasnāt even old enough to walk in.
People like to think I came outta nowhere, but they forgetāI been around legends since I was in baby Phat. My debut wasnāt a SoundCloud freestyle or TikTok snippet. Nah. It was a feature. On a Lil Wayne track. And Nicki Minaj too. I was 16. Still in uniform. Spit a 12-bar verse in one take while Birdman watched from the booth. They said I had Lauren Hill in my tone, Foxy in my eyes, and Missy in my pen. But none of that meant anything to me. āCause that was just a Tuesday. And Lauren? Thatās Mama.
Yeah. That Lauryn Hill.
And no, I didnāt grow up easy because of it. She made me earn everything. Said talent wasnāt enough. Said this world eats girls like me for breakfast. I aināt even get my first cosign from her until I sold out SOBs off a mixtape.
So when I dropped my first full album this year, it was a moment. No skips. All truth. I poured every version of me into those songs. The sweet, the rage, the divine, the down bad. And yeah, I talked about women. Real plain. Real casual. I always have. But one track? One track had a name.
āFlauājae.ā
Didnāt censor it. Didnāt hide it in a metaphor. I spelled it out in the second verse, clear as day.
āIf Iām ever courtside, she better stretch right / āCause Iāve been plotting since her mixtape mic nights / Said she only do music, Iām tryna change typesāā
Twitter exploded. Blogs ran wild. āWhoās the mystery rapper obsessed with Flauājae Johnson?ā āAre we witnessing the start of the gayest beef-turned-fling of the year?ā Meanwhile, I was eating shrimp in Turks like it wasnāt my name trending in every bracket forum.
I waited weeks. No response. No shade. No bars. Silence. So I popped out.
LSUās game was packed. Student section going feral. I pulled up like the stage was mine. High boots, trench dragging, lips glossy and outlined, camera-ready. I sat courtside. Dead in front of the bench.
She didnāt look at me first. She waited ātil the second quarter. Fast break, finish at the rim, crowd goes wild. Then, just before the inboundāshe glanced. A real look. The kind that makes your chest clench.
Game ends. LSU wins. I knew they would. Then the mic hits.
Unannounced performance. Special guest. I step onto the court with a live band, no background vocals, no dancers. Just me. Beat drops. Track seven. The crowd screams before I even open my mouth.
I walk the court like a runway. Rap her name right to her. Let the lyrics drip from my lips slow. I donāt wink. I donāt flirt. I tell the truth.
And Flauājae? She donāt hide it. Donāt duck. She just smiles. Cool. Collected.
I finish the song and walk off to a standing ovation like I didnāt just confess on national television. Two days later, she posts a story. Black screen. White text.
āType changed.šÆā
I just smiled.
āCause mama didnāt raise no fool. She raised a legend.
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