#thread refreshing time

[0isms]

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→ like this post for this idiot to pop up in your inbox with a starter : specify if you want it silly / serious / angsty / etc or i’ll choose whichever

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[riveroverthesky]

I love watching homophobes try and pretend kids are too young to understand same sex relationships, when my 6yo foster kid keeps correcting me whenever I call Stitch a boy, because she has this false memory of Lilo calling Stitch "she" in the movie, and will not be persuaded otherwise.

My kid has also watched the entire tv series on disney+ and despite knowing Stitch has a girlfriend called Angel, has no problem understanding their relationship, despite no one telling her what a lesbian is.

[wiltenjoyer]

fool that I am, I have just purchased. a lot of fabric.

[infinitie]

blows dust off.

[dragontamer05]

No lie I can't recall the last time I did like just one long continuous thread.

Like sure still doing small side stuff, asks ect but just idk but also letting muses grow and develop through one long continuous - and not always having to say resort to completely dropping if whatever currently is going on has run its course and instead just time skip with it but let it keep going.

And I say this as some one who is also 100% happy to time skip and jump around.

And hey you want to go back in time and explore a scenario that could have happened earlier in their relationship / knowing each other

or jump forward to something way later or even just explore a what if scenario that doesn't have to happen but could depending how things go/ how we feel about it ect

Hell yah love it all - trying to have some time line consistency is good obviously and as long as we can agree on even a loose idea of How they got to Y or where X fits and what not then sure.

Am fine with even the longest of threads eventually getting a wrap up if things simply happen to feel right in the moment and is what gets decided, doesn't have to be an infinite thread - certainly not about to force one to go on if its reached a point it kinda feels dead but idk call me easily attached but there's sometimes where I can still find / feels like their might be still potential to be found in a thread and all it needs is a bit of tweaking.

The chapter came to an end but the book isn't over kinda thing. Maybe all it needs is a small time skip / scene change but there's still things to be explored within said plot/scenario / whatever is going on with the characters - that would still also work/fit within said thread instead of separating.

Similarly but kind of reverse is I am equally as happy generally to return to threads that were long previously dropped/abandoned. Whether cause someone wasn't feeling it any more or simply we ran into a writing wall and at the time were lost on how to continue it so was better not to force it. But if something new comes along be it from plotting / just newer interactions or simply with having time away from it whatever the reason if a spark suddenly arises and hey suddenly what if we connected - old thread to new idea - or any other reason to want to answer/continue go for it.

idk mostly I this is was just a really long rambly way of saying how I miss long threads. Short quick snippets are fun and fine but 9/10 I promise i am very much interested and fine with carrying a thread for as long and far as it'll go.

[ethanhuntfemmefatale]

thinking again about my beloved tracy thephiladelphiastory. what it means for a girl disillusioned by her father to say 'the right time to decide on someone is never.'

[irishais]

y'all know the read-more cut is a thing that's free with Tumblr post creation right

[artemisiatridentata]

caught up with a good friend tonight, we’ve texted and talked on social media but this is the first time in possibly a year that we’ve actually talked on the phone, and it was so refreshing and renewing. he’s one of the smartest and most inspiring people I know — just overflowing with care for people and the planet and actually walking the talk. anyways it turns out we both just started reading The Mushroom at the End of the World: On the Possibility of Life In Capitalist Ruins by Anna Tsing and we’re going to talk again and discuss it once I’ve caught up to where he is and I am SO excited!!! :))

[titsthedamnseason]

“you will see all your favorite people again”

[fingertipsmp3]

Keep getting this glitch on reddit where all the comments are just blank and honestly I think it’s a great way to experience reddit

[ponett]

it really is sad that algorithmic feeds have broken peoples' brains so badly. people really do come here and go "wait, i have to CHOOSE who i follow to get posts on my dashboard???" because a social media site working the way they were always supposed to work is so alien now. people will assume the site is a ghost town because they don't follow enough active users. there has to be a constant stream of New Content every time you refresh, regardless of whether or not said Content is any good

you can never just get caught up on your feed and put the phone down, because that's not what tiktok and insta and twitter and facebook have conditioned users to expect. putting the phone down means you're not looking at more ads and generating revenue for the site. when you venture off of the following feed twitter's algorithm is very transparently designed to show you bait tweets and other things that will make you angry, because getting people to argue is one of the easiest ways to drive engagement. it's no wonder threads just launched with no following feed whatsoever, just an infinite stream of algorithmic slop. these sites don't want you to curate your own experience because then you might develop a healthier relationship with them. that's not what they want. they want addiction

[wrench-jackie]

can't wait for it to be janurary so i can be a person again

[shouyuus]

18+, mdni

inspired by @rabbbitseason's insane sae art right here pls direct all complaints to that-a-way :)

ta!sae who's known campus-wide for being a no-nonsense guy, a harsh grader, and an even harsher tutor when it comes to giving critical feedback. who barely says a word during lectures when the professor's there, content to sit in his corner desk at the front of the classroom, occasionally scanning the lecture hall for anyone who's clearly not paying attention to the professor (participation is 35% of the final grade, so you had better be actively listening/taking notes during class).

ta!sae who always shows up in the same getup -- white shirt, suspenders, clean dark slacks. sometimes, he'd wear glasses, sometimes, he'd be without. who has a habit of absently rolling up his sleeves when he gets really into a passage, even though you can't tell from the flatness of his voice, there's a certain way his fingers always dance when he gets properly invested in one topic or other.

ta!sae who, despite his ice-cold rep, has full office hours, because he is as good as they say (if not better), his comments and critiques, if a little on the harsher side, are always helpful and right to the point, and sure, he's been known to make students with more tender dispositions cry on occasion from his hyper-blunt comments ("and what exactly are you trying to say with this sentence? it goes on for... half the paragraph and doesn't make a cohesive point." "there's no coherent thread between the in-text examples and your examination of them -- did you consider these quotes at all before you chose them?") but it's an undisputed fact that he helps you get better, no matter the method.

ta!sae who's got a weird fan-following amongst the more precocious female students (and a handful of the males as well), but he never pays them much mind, treating them like he does everyone else, brushing off their obvious advances, never blushing when a girl gets too close, tries to run her finger along the length of his suspenders, asks him if he's down to get coffee -- he'd pin her with a flat look and repeat that "office hours are monday through thursday, from 3-5pm" and that if she needs help, she can sign up for a slot just like everyone else.

ta!sae who almost does a double-take the first time you step into his little office, but he manages to keep his gaze steady when you settle yourself across his desk and lay out your notes; he can't help thinking to himself that you're a pretty one. but he files that thought away for later -- it's not like you're the first pretty girl to appear opposite him in this office, and he's sure you won't be the last. but there's something about you... he just doesn't know what yet.

ta!sae who expects you to recoil from his comments, but you don't. you push back, you question him, force him to pause and rethink his viewpoints. he blinks, meets your eyes -- and for the first time, he feels a heat prickling into the skin of his cheeks. who, finds himself glancing at the clock on the wall, only to find that he's held you longer than your allotted time but when you get up to leave, he feels a sharp tug in his stomach, like the urge to lean forward and catch your wrist in his, just to see if your pulse is jumping, like his just did.

"i'll see you in a week, then."

you turn at the door, your eyes bright.

"but i haven't made another appointment."

sae blinks owlishly at you, the hard turquoise of his gaze sharpening beneath the florescent lighting.

"then make one."

you cock your head to the side; the corner of your lip twitches. then, you're turning and slipping through his door.

ta!sae who refreshes his calendar every 30 minutes for the next day and a half until he sees that you've finally made an appointment for the same time next week. and the week after. and, the week after that. he allows himself a tiny smile, turns his phone onto do not disturb, and does not check it again for the rest of that week.

ta!sae who pays a bit more attention to you in class, though not enough for any of the other students to notice. who lets his eyes linger on you, even though you never sit in the first row, whenever you look up from your notes, it's to find him watching you, though the second your eyes meet, he'll blink once, and turn away, going back to the lecture. and when you show up to your second appointment for his office hours, he's waiting for you, his fingers laced casually over his desk, his glasses perched on his nose.

you pause for a second by the door to admire the image -- sharp-tongued as he may be, reticent and even cold-shouldered, he still cuts a startling image, strawberry hair and ocean eyes, set off by the muted woods of the bookshelf behind him, the walnut grain of his desk, the piles of papers and books just a tad messier than one might expect of someone like him.

"come. sit."

you do, dropping into the seat opposite him and pressing your bag into your lap. a beat of silence. you point towards a small manila file on his desk.

"you gave me a b minus on the last pop quiz."

sae glances towards it before his eye slingshot back to you. it takes everything inside you not to shiver at the contact.

"yes, and?"

"i -- i don't think i deserved that grade."

he makes a soft noise and reaches over, tugging your quiz out with near surgical precision. he presses it to the table and flips it around, pushing it towards you, the red marks jarring against the white page, the black in, the faint grayscale of your penciled in answers.

"and why's that?"

"i --" you suck in a breath, "on question three, you marked me off, but my answer was correct. it was just a phrasing issue."

"hm. i appreciate you feel that way. i don't agree."

ta!sae who doesn't waste time arguing with you, but does take your complaints into account. the rest of your session is spent going over the notes from the previous class and clearing up any misunderstandings that might've sprung from the text. by the time you leave, you feel slightly better, but you pause by the door, glancing over your shoulder. you find him watching you, as you so often do nowadays.

"s-since you don't do grade adjustments... do you accept extra credit work?"

sae's eyes flicker with something so akin to hunger it makes your stomach flip. then again, it might've just been curiosity or incredulity, caught beneath the slant-wise light of the small, windowless office.

"no."

"oh... you... you wouldn't even consider it?"

he's quiet for a bit longer this time. then, he drops his eyes to the stack of papers on his desk.

"i'll see you next week."

ta!sae who gets used to seeing you on tuesday nights, for the last 30 minutes of his office hours. who lets you stay five minutes over, and then ten. and then one day, he glances at the clock, and it's almost 6pm. he purses his lips, lets his eyes flicker over the shape of you, scribbling in your notebook, an array of pastel-colored highlighters scattered across his usually meticulously organized desk.

"are you hungry?"

you glance up, your fingers pausing over your notes.

"oh, uh --"

"there's a pizza place around the corner."

you stare at him for a few seconds before your stomach growls and heat washes into your cheeks. you scramble to cram your study materials into your bag, blushing something furious as you smooth a palm over your skirt and stand up.

"y-yeah -- sounds good."

ta!sae who's quiet, watching you dig into your hawaiian pizza, who doesn't question it when you order banana peppers on the side and snack of them like they're french fries, though he does make a face when you ask him if he wants actual french fries.

"not a fan?" you ask, grinning as you take another bite of pizza. his eyes linger on the grease-slicked shine of your lips longer than it ought, before he takes a much smaller, dainty bite of his own.

"no." he offers no explanation, and you don't ask for one.

the next week, he doesn't ask if you're hungry. only stands up and motions for the door.

ta!sae who finds himself a little lost the first time he hears you laugh, the sound of it so bright, ringing through him, reverberating against his bones till he can feel it in his teeth. and not for the first time, he wonders what it might feel like to kiss you, to lick the pizza grease off yours lips, and if your mouth would taste like canned pineapples.

truthfully, he doesn't think he'd mind.

ta!sae who, when he does finally give into the urge and kiss you, it's a barely controlled thing, all teeth and barely-restrained hunger, and it's so much more passionate than you might expect that you jerk back a second later, wide eyes flickering between his as if looking for some kind of hidden explanation. he offers none, only drags you forward by the collar of your dress to meld your lips again, groans against the feeling of your lips on his, licks into your mouth till you're melting against him, hoists you bodily into his lap so you're straddling him proper, his fingers digging into the plush of your hips, trailing down to tease at the skin of your thighs --

"i -- i thought -- you didn't accept extra credit --" you pant, rolling your hips down just to watch his lashes flutter (and they're stupidly gorgeous, aren't they? he's known for them -- itoshi sae, of the unnecessarily long, perfect lashes).

he sucks in a breath, his palms planted on your hips as you rock yourself against him.

"i never said anything -- about extra credit."

ta!sae who is annoyingly stoic, even as you're working yourself into a frenzy in his lap, soaking through your panties, his slacks, and if not for the threadiness in his breath or the way you can feel his cock pulsing inside his pants, you'd almost miss how debauched he actually is on the inside. who grips your waist so hard you're sure you'll find the pale blue ghosts of his fingertips there the following morning (not that you mind), the crescent moon kisses of his nails as he helps you ride his cock over the thin material of his slacks.

ta!sae who, after he's finally had enough of all this foreplay, presses you down over his desk, papers and all, flipping up the hem of your skirt to tug aside your panties, the soft click of his belt coming undone making your shiver, but when you try to turn your head, all you feel is a palm against the back of your neck, his fingers curling around the sides --

"keep still --"

you stop your squirming, but you can't help the way you keen when he feel his cockhead pushing at your sodden folds, or the way your hips jerk forward when he sheaths himself inside you, the stretch of it making your eyes flutter shut, a groan twisting its way from your throat.

"f-fuck --" you gasp, the first time he pulls back and rucks forward again. you hear him hiss out a long breath, feel the pressure of his hand leave your neck, feel him trail his hand down the length of your spine to pull at your arms, locking them behind your back as he starts to fuck into you proper.

ta!sae who does not tell you to keep quiet, because he knows that it's late enough, and his office is the last one at the end of the hallway --

"no one's here this late, usually --" his voice is more level than you'd like; you clench down around him just to hear his breath stutter. but then he's bending over you, pressing his chest to the whole length of your back, pinning you beneath him, his voice hot by your ear as he murmurs --

"c'mon then, let me hear you."

ta!sae who is rougher than you'd expect, fucking you hard enough for the edge of the table to dig into your hips, the tenderness only heightening the pleasure as he leans back, the new angle making your eyes roll back. who yanks you up by your arms, uncaring to the way they strain as he jackhammers into you from behind, groaning low in his throat as he finally reaches his climax, pulling out only to paint the length of your back, right over your blouse, careless of the way you whine -- both at the loss of him and also the thought of him messing up your shirt.

"t-that's gonna stain!" you snipe, pouting as you glance over your shoulder at him, not quite able to muster a full glare, but you hope that you dissatisfaction comes across all the same.

he's a bit breathless, his cheeks a bit redder than usual, but otherwise, he looks stupidly normal for having just fucked you over his desk. he fixes you with a look before letting go of your arms.

"you brought a jacket, didn't you?"

ta!sae who hoists you up onto the desk as soon as you turn around, despite your squeak of surprise, dropping to his knees to bury his face between your thighs. you barely have time to yelp before the sound morphs into a gasp of pleasure as he licks a long strip up your cunt and shoves three fingers into you, curling them up till your vision fizzes out at the sides.

"oh fuck --!"

you glance down to see him watching you, his sea-glass eyes fixed on your face even as you reach down to fist your fingers in his hair, uncertain if you want to push him away for pull him closer.

ta!sae who eats you out with the tactical precision of a surgeon, till you're shaking open above him, rolling your hips into his face, your ass almost falling off the edge of the desk, and when he finally pulls away, your slick shining down his chin, he only licks his lips and reaches into a drawer for a pack of tissues, offering you one while taking the other to wipe at his face.

"i'll see you next week," he says, tossing the tissue away, even as you wiggle your panties back into place.

you let out a soft puff of incredulous laughter. he cocks his head, waiting for you to say something. you fix him with a long look before grinning and rolling your eyes, smoothing down the hem of your dress and picking up your book bag.

"yeah. see you then.

ta!sae who doesn't even startle when two days later, you storm into his office, well outside of his office hours, waving the paper he'd passed back that morning in class.

"you gave me a c plus?"

sae is unfazed by your apparent agitation, shrugging before lowering his eyes back to his book.

"you missed some key parts of the reading. if you bring it by next tuesday, we can go over the specific --"

"i've got your cumstains on the back of one of my favorite blouses!"

for a beat, sae is silent, considering your words. then, he looks up, tugging his glasses off his nose bridge and folding them carefully on his desk.

"they come out with a bit of baking powder and white vinegar. and i believe i made myself very clear at the beginning of term --" he slowly rolls up the sleeves of his white button up before folding his hands delicately on the table, right behind his glasses.

"i don't accept extra credit or any... supplementary work."

you lick your lips at the inflection in his tone, your cheeks flaring with heat.

"however."

you perk up as he glances at the clock on the wall, leaning back to pop the first button of his shirt.

"i do have some time before my next lecture --"

you feel a thrill tingle up your spine as you watch him pop the second button on his shirt with a casual flick of his thumb.

"... and if you'd like to discuss the things you missed, i might make an exception."

you raise your eyebrows, reaching back to shut the door behind you. the click of the lock makes your mouth water.

"to what," you ask, dropping your bookbag by the chair and rounding the table, leaning against the edge as sae's eyes skate down the length of you, lingering on the imprint of your bra peaking through your blouse, "the extra credit thing or your office hours."

the shadow of a grin twitches at sae's lips as he tugs you down into his lap.

"either, both. i suppose... you'll have to wait to find out."

[maopll]

thinking about protective and strong, beefy men yet a softie from the core just for you

They like it when you bury your face within their chest, which gives you a sense of security and them a chance to inhale your refreshing scent. It's his shampoo on your hair, isn't it?

He can't help but feel this pang in his chest of pure adoration for you when they can see or even sense you in their periphery. As if an imaginary red thread tied you two together, two lovers who found the best soul mates for themselves.

He would carry you with ease when you would jump into his arms with no notice and quite suddenly. Fazed? oh please, he loves to carry you even when you surprise him during the most questionable of times when he's busy or tired or even angry...all a little act if yours to uplift his mood even a little :)

Thinking about how he would let out a breezy laugh when he would find you asleep on his chest while he was telling you about his day. You were lulled to sleep by his soft heartbeat. There would be reverberations from the laugh in his chest that would only encourage you to further drive your head between the two soft natural cushions you've found

It gets him lovesick when you would stand on your tip toes just to give him a little peck on his lips before he went to work or get done with his day. He would chuckle at your antics and bend down to your height so you can deliver a kiss on top of his nose or if he's feeling a little cheeky that day, he would escape your attempts of showcasing your love and head out for the doorway while having the BIGGEST shit-eating-grin of all time leaving you all pouty on the doorstep.

Thinking about how he would hold you close to themselves and gently pat your back spelling countless "sorry...sorry.." As you two just fought over something. He does it when he's wrong, and when you also know that you're wrong, the room gets filled with apologies, you both say.

And how he got the most expensive date set around for you as he buys everything that you may glance upon. Oh, you like these flowers? bought. Oh, you like these kinds of candy? no problem, he will buy twice the amount you requested for. He just can't help but spoil you with everything he has, and I mean everything and it will be at your disposal if you just ask for it ;)

— WRIOTHESLEY, alhaitham, zhongli, ITTO, neuvillette, diluc, ayato, TOJI, SUKUNA, nanami, YUUJI, JING YUAN, dr ratio, LUKA, GALLAGHER, diavolo, MAMMON, BEELZEBUB, malleus, vil, JACK HOWL, LEONA, rook hunt, sebek zigvolt

[cloudyzeusy]

If you are still taking requests, I need a dom alpa reader and omega Gojo Satoru story with a hint of a jealous alpha Geto Suguru.

Months after the famous KFC breakup, Geto gets a video from an unknown number. The video is of Gojo with a new alpha (reader), The reader never did like Geto and is using this to antagonize him. Reader is railing Gojo to the point of stupidity, asking him (Gojo is so far gone in pleasure and lust that he is unaware) questions like who does Gojo belong to and is the reader an better alpha than Geto.

Sent ||

The tea had long gone cold.

Geto didn't notice. Didn't care. His fingers curled around the chipped rim of the ceramic cup like a lifeline, something to do with his hands besides refreshing the same blank message thread for the hundredth time.

The thread read:

> Satoru Gojo

> Last seen: 3 months ago

A lie. Everyone had seen Gojo. He was always seen. Across screens, through gossip, headlines—laughing too brightly, moving too fast. Untouchable and radiant as always. But not here, not with him.

Not since the fight. Not since that night.

Not since Geto, in a rare moment of cold fury, had spat words he couldn't unspeak:

"I’m not your fucking anchor, Satoru."

"Then stop pretending you ever wanted to love me in the first place."

And Gojo had left.

No bond dissolution, no formal severance- just a vacuum where Satoru used to be. An ache that pulsed like phantom limbs around the gland where their scents once curled together like ivy.

The room was too quiet now. He’d once hated Gojo’s habit of filling the silence with nonsense—humming, rambling, awful jokes. Now, the silence felt like it was mocking him. He'd gone through every distraction: training, missions, meditation, sex with strangers who didn’t feel right under his hands.

None of it worked.

He hadn’t even realized he was still staring at Gojo’s contact until the phone buzzed in his palm.

Unknown Number. One File Received.

No text. No context. Just a single video file:

VID\_6478.MP4

Timestamped 3:11 AM.

He almost deleted it.

Almost.

But the preview froze him in place: Gojo’s face—flushed, wide-eyed, mouth open mid-gasp. Pale hair damp with sweat. Skin marked.

It looked like a screenshot pulled from porn, which would’ve been amusing, if not for the thing that turned Geto’s stomach:

The mark on Gojo’s neck. Bold. Deep. Fresh. Not his.

His finger hovered over the play button.

Don't. You don't need to see this. Let it go.

But when had he ever been good at that?

The screen flickers, catching the low hum of air conditioning, the shiver of sheets. Then, there he is.

Gojo.

Bare, flushed, and spread wide on dark sheets that make his pale skin glow. His wrists twitch above his head, loosely restrained by a silk tie he probably begged to wear, if the whimper already leaving his throat was any indication.

His hair clung to his forehead.

His mouth hung open.

His blue eyes- glazed - flickered toward the camera, but there was no recognition.

He didn’t know he was being filmed.

Didn’t care.

“Look at you,” The alpha purred from offscreen. Confident, low, and edged with amusement. “Already shaking, and I’ve barely even started.”

A high, gasping moan from Gojo. His hips lift helplessly as the Alpha's hand comes into frame, sliding up his thigh, spreading him further. His cock is flushed and leaking, resting against his stomach, twitching at every breathless pass of hi fingers.

“You’re going to come just from me talking, huh?” You continued, mocking affection lacing your tone.

“That desperate? Or just that needy for a real Alpha?”

Gojo sobbed.

Shook his head—denial?

Begging?

“You gonna answer me, pretty boy?”

“P-please… need—can’t—please, Alpha…”

You hummed.

The camera jostled as you moved, straddling him, casting shadows across his glowing skin.

Your hand caught his chin—tilting his flushed face toward the lens.

“Say it.”

“Say what-?”

“Say who you belong to.”

There’s a pause. Just a second. He blinks, lips trembling—like there’s a ghost of memory pressing behind his eyes.

"You- I belong to you, Alpha,” he whimpered. “Only you-”

Geto’s blood ran cold.

You laughed. Soft. Mean. Knowing.

“That’s right. Not his anymore. Never his again.”

You leaned down. Lightly bit into his neck, over the faded scar that once held Geto’s mark.

Gojo arched. Cried out. In pleasure. In surrender.

“I want you to remember this part,” you murmured. “In case he ever tries crawling back.”

The camera then paused then Geto saw it flicker to Gojo the curve of his neck arched against sweat-damp sheets. His thighs trembled where they were pinned open by strong hands.

“Look at you. So fucking needy, aren’t you?”

Gojo whimpered in response, barely coherent.

The angle shifted just slightly, enough to catch Gojo’s face-tears spilling down flushed cheeks, a delirious smile tugging his lips as he was ruthlessly, methodically ruined by someone else.

And all Geto could do was watch.

He shouldn’t have seen it.

Should’ve closed it.

But he kept looking.

Gojo had no control over himself he just thrust himself back onto the thick cock that Geto couldn't help but notice was bigger than his. He took you like he was made for it.

Back arching. Eyes rolling.

White hair stuck to his face, glowing with the flush of heat.

You moved the camera closer- filming him from above.

So close, so intimate, Geto almost felt like he was in the room.

Like it was his chest Gojo was gripping.

His name on Gojo’s tongue.

But it wasn’t.

The Alpha ripped out a large moan as he milked Gojo for all he was worth. “You moan prettier for me than I bet you ever did for him,” you said, cocky and amused.

Geto flinched.

“You want to come? Then say it.”

“Y-your omega,” Gojo gasped prettily.

“And what about my princess?” you teased.

And Gojo—beautiful, stupid, lost—nodded.

Tears poured from his eyes.

But he smiled.

Like this was what he’d always wanted.

His voice cracked with need.

Every sobbed “Alpha” rang like a bell, each more shattered than the last.

The sound plays on a loop—Gojo’s choked, ragged moans echoing through Geto’s apartment like a haunting.

But Geto’s not watching anymore. Not really. Not the present.

His eyes are locked on the screen, but his mind is far away.

Somewhere softer. Somewhere before

He held onto the sweet memories of the past.

The lights were off, save for the yellow-orange glow of the lamp beside the bed. Gojo was tangled in the sheets, hair messier than usual, a hand lazily tracing circles over Geto’s bare chest.

There was no rush. No pressure.

The lights were off, save for the yellow-orange glow of the lamp beside the bed. Gojo was tangled in the sheets, hair messier than usual, a hand lazily tracing circles over Geto’s bare chest.

Just quiet warmth. A gentle rhythm of breath. The way their scents twined together in the air like something sacred and sweet.

"You smell like temple incense," Gojo had murmured, half-asleep, smiling into Geto’s shoulder.

"You smell like trouble," Geto had replied, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

Gojo chuckled — soft, sleepy. Then, he mumbled “Yours forever.” And Geto stupidly believed that and held onto that fantasy.

He now regretted not taking that leap to completely mate with Gojo when he had him. Instead his marks were subtle, affectionate- they relied on the knowledge that they were perfect for each other.

Immature of him.

Gojo is screaming now. Mindless.

His thighs shake, body trembling beneath the force of the other's thrusts. He had one hand tangled in his hair, yanking his head back so the camera gets every second of his delirious expression.

“Fucking forget him,” You growl. “He never made you feel like this.”

“N-No—he—he didn’t, Alpha—!” Gojo sobs, and the tears on his cheeks sparkle under the camera’s light. “You’re better—always better—!”

Geto flinches.

Gojo was asleep on his chest now. Breathing even. Lips parted, limbs wrapped around him like he was afraid of being taken away.

Geto had watched him for hours. Thinking about how fragile it all was.

He remembered the moment he realized he loved him. And how terrifying that had been.

He’d said nothing.

And maybe that’s where he’d lost him.

Gojo’s voice breaks. His body spasms.

He’s not even looking at the camera anymore.

He’s looking up at him.

He used to look at Geto like that.

Geto’s hands are trembling.

He doesn’t pause the video.

He can’t.

He sits in silence, bathed in the glow of a past that’s been rewritten by your hands. And all he can think is:

“He was mine. He was—”

But he doesn’t finish the thought.

Because it doesn’t matter now.

Gojo whimpered. Then it hits—his entire body locked as his orgasm slams through him, untouched, unstoppable, leaving him gasping and sobbing as his release coats both him and the Alpha's stomachs.

You don't stop.

Not when he shakes.

Not when his eyes roll back.

And especially not when he moans like he’s never known pleasure before.

Then you sank your teeth into his neck—deep, brutal, claiming.

Gojo screamed—a raw, helpless sound that cracked Geto open.

The Alpha raised his head. Blood glistening at his lips. Bite fresh and unmistakable.

“Do you see him now?” you whispered into the camera. “This is mine.”

Your grip tightened on Gojo’s as he writhes, too lost to realize he’s still being filmed.

"He doesn’t even remember you,” you said softly. “But I want you to remember this.”

You zoomed in.

Slow. Deliberate.

Until Geto saw nothing but the mark. The bruised, bitten, bleeding place where his bond used to be.

Now overwritten.

Claimed.

Erased.

---

The screen went black

Geto still didn’t move.

The phone, slick with sweat, cut into his hand.

He already saw it when he blinked.

He could replay it. Didn’t need to.

Gojo’s sobs. The way he begged. The way he arched into your arms like they were home.

Mine, you said.

And you looked into the camera like you knew.

Like it wasn’t just about fucking Gojo.

It was about breaking Geto.

And it worked.

He dropped the phone.

It hit the floor with a dull, final-sounding thud.

No tears.

He leaned back against the wall. Breathing like it hurt.

Not yet.

He could hate Gojo.

But they were there. Waiting.

You, the Alpha who stole him.

But he didn’t. He hated you.

You, who marked over him like he was disposable.

You, who sent this like a trophy.

His hands curled into fists.

Nails bit into skin until blood welled in small, furious crescents.

And finally, he whispered— Just one, quiet sentence. No louder than a breath:

“…You’ll regret that.”

[cloudyluun]

No Cameras Allowed (p2) | famous!harry

Summary: A single photo exposes what was meant to stay hidden, throwing Y/N into a storm of scrutiny, speculation, and Harry’s growing distance. But just when the chaos seems to settle, something far worse lurks beneath the surface, waiting to destroy everything.

A/N: Me: Let’s add some angst.Also me: Accidentally ruins their lives in the process. 😇

This part has it all—smut, emotional damage, and the internet being a raging dumpster fire. If you think things can’t get worse… oh, sweet summer child. Buckle up. 😈

Alsooo!! i opened up commissions, find them here!

Word Count: 5k

Warnings: 

Smut (NSFW, described sex scenes, not very explicit)

Angst (SO much angst)

Jealousy & possessiveness

Arguments, raised voices, and hurt feelings

Public exposure & media frenzy

Slut-shaming, cyberbullying & online hate

Emotional distress, panic attacks, & isolation

Sex tape leak & intense feelings of violation

Betrayal & trust issues

(If any of these are triggers for you, please read with caution or skip certain parts! 💜)

[part 1]

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

You barely make it through the door before the weight of the night crashes over you. Your heels dangle from your fingers, their straps digging into your skin, forgotten in the haze of exhaustion. The dress that once made you feel untouchable—cinched perfectly at the waist, shimmering under the ballroom lights, a second skin of confidence—is now nothing but a burden, suffocating and heavy against your body. The fabric clings to the sweat on your spine, a reminder of the hours spent dancing, smiling, pretending.

The air in your apartment is still. No distant chatter, no flashing cameras, no murmurs of speculation just out of earshot. Just silence. A stark contrast to the whirlwind of the gala, to the tension that still lingers in your chest, wound tight like a coil refusing to snap. You kick the door shut behind you, the sound echoing through the dimly lit space, grounding you.

Your hands tremble as you reach for your phone, the screen illuminating your face with a cold, blue glow. You refresh Twitter. Once. Twice. Again.

Nothing.

No blurry pictures hastily taken from the corner of the room. No speculative threads dissecting stolen glances or analyzing body language. Just the usual: best-dressed lists, articles debating the most jaw-dropping looks of the night, a few clips of drunken celebrities caught mid-slur.

You exhale, a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, and sink onto the edge of your bed. Maybe you got lucky. Maybe the fan who recognized you in that moment—who raised their phone, eyes wide with realization—decided to keep the photo to themselves.

But relief is fleeting. It never lasts long when it comes to him.

Your fingers hover over his name in your messages, muscle memory betraying you.

Maybe you were just overreacting. Maybe the fan won’t post it. Maybe this was just a false alarm—a close call, but nothing more.

You type out a message to Harry but doesn’t send it.

(What would you even say?) "That was close?" "Thought we were caught?" "I can still feel your hands on me?"

You don’t text him. You shouldn’t. You tell yourself you won’t. Instead, you lock your phone and toss it onto the duvet beside you, pressing the heels of your palms against your eyes. As if that could stop the flood of thoughts, the relentless replay of the night unraveling in your mind.

The rooftop.

The cool night air brushing against your skin, a welcome contrast to the heat that had coiled low in your stomach the moment his hand found yours. The city stretched below you, lights blinking like stars scattered across concrete. The faint hum of music from the ballroom below, distant, as if the world had momentarily paused for the two of you.

You remember the way he looked at you—really looked at you. Like he was trying to memorize every detail, as if this moment, this stolen sliver of time, was all he’d ever have. His gaze had burned through you, unspoken words resting heavy between you both. You should have walked away. You should have ignored the way his voice curled around your name, like a secret only he was meant to keep.

But you didn’t.

You stayed.

You let him pull you in, let the night swallow you whole, let yourself forget—just for a second—that there were rules, consequences, a world beyond the rooftop’s edge waiting to come crashing back in.

And now, in the quiet of your apartment, with only the hum of your thoughts and the lingering scent of his cologne on your skin, you can’t escape the truth.

You crossed a line tonight.

And the whole world might find out.

But before the rooftop, before the gala, before the lies and the secrecy, there was a beginning. A first moment. A shift in the air so subtle and yet so undeniable that even now, as you sit in the dim glow of your apartment, you can still feel it humming beneath your skin.

The first time you saw Harry, the world around you dulled. Maybe it was the sheer force of his presence, the way he occupied a room so effortlessly, all slow movements and easy confidence. Maybe it was the sound of his laughter, rich and unhurried, cutting through the noise of a crowded space like he had all the time in the world.

Or maybe it was the way he looked at you—like he had already known you before you had the chance to introduce yourself.

You weren’t supposed to notice him. You weren’t supposed to feel anything when his gaze lingered just a second too long, when his lips curved into that lazy, knowing smile that made your pulse falter. But the second his eyes found yours across the room, something clicked into place. Something inevitable.

The attraction was instant. Palpable.

You remember the way your breath caught when he spoke your name for the first time, the syllables rolling off his tongue like he was testing them, savoring them. The way conversation with him felt different—like an undercurrent of something dangerous, something waiting to pull you under.

You told yourself it was nothing. A fleeting moment. A trick of the light.

But Harry Styles was not the kind of man you forgot.

It started as a game. A dance of words, teasing and laced with something unspoken. A battle of who would fold first.

And you did.

It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. The first time it happened, it was just that—an accident, a misstep, a single night that spiraled out of control before either of you could stop it. A party, too much champagne, the sharp edge of desire pressing into your ribs.

You remember the way his fingers grazed your wrist when he reached for your drink, the way his lips quirked when he caught you staring. You remember the heat in his eyes, the way his touch burned through fabric, the moment his mouth finally crashed against yours like he had been waiting for it, like you had been waiting for it.

It was reckless. Messy. Teeth against lips, hands fisting in fabric, breathless laughter swallowed by the dark. The press of his body against yours, the sheer force of wanting him making your head spin.

And then, morning came.

And you told yourself it was a mistake.

But then it happened again. And again.

Each time, you swore it was the last. Each time, you promised yourself it was just physical, just an outlet, just something to be ignored in the light of day.

But it never was.

Because Harry didn’t just touch you—he unraveled you. He kissed you like he was memorizing you, like he was terrified you’d slip through his fingers the moment he let go. And when the world wasn’t watching, when the cameras weren’t flashing, he looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.

So you made rules.

No feelings. No expectations. No one finds out.

And in the beginning, the rules worked. They made it easier to pretend. They turned stolen glances into nothing more than coincidence, turned fleeting touches into meaningless gestures. They allowed you to lie to yourself—convince yourself that whatever this was, it wasn’t real.

But rules mean nothing when he kisses you like he’s drowning.

When his fingers tangle in your hair like he can’t bear to let go.

When he pulls you into his arms after, as if holding you in the dark is the only thing keeping him together.

And now, with your heart still racing from the night you just had, with the taste of his name still lingering on your tongue, you know one thing for certain: This was never just a game.

But you pretend it is.

You have to.

Because if you let yourself believe anything else, if you admit that this thing between you and Harry has already bled past every line you swore you wouldn’t cross, then you’re left with something fragile. Something that could shatter with a single breath.

So you do what you do best. You compartmentalize.

You throw yourself into work, letting your schedule consume you. Early morning meetings, script read-throughs, press junkets, rehearsals. Your days are meticulously planned, a well-oiled machine running on caffeine and sheer force of will.

When people ask about the gala, you keep your answers light, practiced, as if the night hadn’t ended with you pressed against the wall in a dark corner, Harry’s breath hot against your neck. 

You’re good at pretending. You always have been.

But at night, when the world quiets, when there’s nothing left to distract you, the truth finds you.

Or rather, he does.

It happens like clockwork.

The text usually comes first.

"Awake?"

If you don’t answer fast enough, your phone buzzes again.

"Liar. Open the door."

And sure enough, when you tiptoe to your front door and glance through the peephole, he’s there. Hood up, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie, his frame half-hidden in the dim glow of the hallway light.

You hesitate for only a second before unlocking the door.

The second he steps inside, the air shifts. The easy charm, the teasing, the cocky smirk he wears in public—gone. Instead, there’s something raw in his eyes as he looks at you. Like you’re the only thing in the world that makes sense.

Neither of you speak as he toes off his boots, shedding layers as he follows you into your bedroom. You’re already crawling under the sheets when you feel the bed dip under his weight, his body warm and solid behind you.

A kiss to your bare shoulder. A whispered, “Missed you.”

You tell yourself this is enough. These quiet moments, these stolen nights.

That you don’t need more.

But that’s a lie.

Some nights, it’s reckless. Impulsive.

Your phone vibrates while you’re in the middle of a meeting, and when you glance down, the message on the screen makes your breath hitch.

"Wish I was there. On my knees. Bet I could make you come without making a sound."

You press your thighs together, biting back a smirk. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Knows that for the rest of the meeting, you’ll be restless, distracted, replaying his words in your head.

And later that night, when you finally see him, he doesn’t even let you get a word in before his mouth is on yours, hands roaming, pushing you up against the nearest surface.

"Thought about you all day," he murmurs against your lips, and the moment you part them to respond, he swallows the words whole.

And then there’s the jealousy.

It’s subtle. Unspoken. But it lingers in the space between you.

Maybe it’s an event, a photo that surfaces of you and someone else—just friendly, nothing more. Maybe it’s work, a scene you had to film with a male co-star, your bodies too close, your laughter lingering a second too long.

He never says anything. Not really.

But later that night, his hands are rougher. His grip tightens on your hips, fingers digging into your skin. He fucks you deep, slow, deliberate. Like he’s trying to carve himself into you, trying to erase anyone else’s touch.

"You’re mine," he breathes against your throat, and you don’t argue.

Because you are.

And then there are the mornings. The only time when the heat has burned itself out and there’s nothing left but softness.

The warmth of his fingers tracing patterns along your back. His lips skimming your temple, voice thick with sleep as he murmurs, “So perfect like this.”

Like this.

Like he already knows these moments aren’t meant to last.

And for a while, it’s easy to believe the secret is safe.

That the picture from the gala will never surface.

That no one will ever find out.

At one point, you even joke about it, stretching lazily against the sheets as you grin up at him. “Imagine if someone finds out? They’d probably think I kidnapped you.”

Harry smirks, fingers trailing down your thigh, amusement flickering in his gaze. “You kinda did.”

It feels like a game.

Until it isn’t.

You wake up to chaos.

The sharp, relentless vibration of your phone drags you from sleep, the screen lighting up with notification after notification, the soft glow casting eerie shadows across your bedroom. You blink against the brightness, still half-asleep, reaching blindly for your phone.

And then you see it.

Your name. His name.

Trending. Everywhere.

A cold weight settles in your stomach as you swipe to unlock your phone, your heart hammering against your ribs. Your vision blurs for a second as you take in the headlines, the sheer speed at which the world has latched onto something that—until now—had belonged only to the two of you.

Harry Styles’ Secret Romance EXPOSED! Who Is the Mystery Girl Holding Hands with Harry Styles? Fans Speculate: Harry’s Hidden Relationship REVEALED!

Your stomach twists painfully as you scroll, your hands trembling around your phone. And then—

The picture.

It’s unmistakable.

The two of you leaving the gala, his fingers laced through yours. The way he’s looking at you—not just a glance, not something casual, but something intense. The angle makes it painfully obvious, the intimacy written all over you.

Your breath catches in your throat.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

You were careful. You always were. Every stolen glance, every fleeting touch, every moment behind closed doors—it was yours. No cameras. No press. No speculation.

But now?

It’s out.

And the internet is on fire.

The comments are instant. Loud. Unforgiving.

Some are excited, supportive.

"He looks so happy! Whoever she is, she must be amazing.""I knew it! He’s been glowing lately!""As long as she treats him right, I’m happy for them."

But others—

"Who even is she??""She’s just using him for clout.""She’s not even famous. She’s NOTHING.""Homewrecker. Slut. Gold digger."

The words slice through you, sharp and merciless. They don’t even know you, but that doesn’t matter.

You were naïve to think they’d be kind.

You knew what happened to women in his orbit. You’d seen it before—the scrutiny, the invasiveness, the vitriol. You had just hoped… maybe, somehow, it would be different.

You were wrong.

And the worst part?

You don’t know how Harry is handling it.

You call him.

Straight to voicemail.

Your pulse pounds as you try again, fingers gripping the phone too tightly.

Still nothing.

Panic coils in your chest as you check your texts. No messages. No missed calls.

Just silence.

Meanwhile, your team is already reaching out.

Your phone buzzes with an incoming call from your manager. Your publicist. A flurry of texts asking how to handle the situation.

Do you deny it? Ignore it? Release a statement?

But you have no answers.

Because the only person who matters isn’t answering his damn phone.

Then, finally—

It rings.

You don’t even hesitate. You answer immediately, your voice breathless, frantic.

"Harry—"

But his voice—

It’s cold. Distant.

"We need to talk."

The words sit heavy in the air between you, weighted with something dark, something dangerous.

You hesitate for only a second before whispering, “Okay.”

--

The moment you see him, you know.

He’s waiting for you in his hotel room, standing near the window, hands shoved deep into his pockets. His posture is stiff, his shoulders drawn tight, tension radiating off him in waves.

His jaw is clenched, his lips pressed into a thin line.

He hasn’t even said a word yet, but your chest is already tight.

This is bad.

The door clicks shut behind you, and you take a step forward, arms crossed over your chest like they might shield you from whatever’s coming.

"Say something," you murmur.

Harry finally turns, his eyes locking onto yours. And for the first time since you met him, they’re unreadable.

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don’t know. Maybe that it’s not a big deal?" You shrug, trying to keep your voice steady. "It’s just a picture, Harry. People will talk for a few days, and then they’ll move on."

He lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head. "You don’t get it. This isn’t just about us. This is my life."

"And what am I, then?" You step closer, heat rising in your chest. "Just someone you fuck in the dark?"

The silence that follows is deafening.

His throat bobs as he swallows, his jaw tightening further.

That’s the answer, isn’t it? The thing neither of you have ever said out loud.

"You keep me hidden like I’m your biggest mistake."

His head snaps up at that, something flickering behind his eyes. He shakes his head quickly, voice raw. "You’re not a mistake."

"Then why are you acting like I am?"

You’re too worked up to stop now, to soften the blow, to think before you speak.

"Jesus, Harry. Do you know what it feels like to be with someone who refuses to claim you? Who never reaches for your hand in public, who won’t even look at you too long when other people are around? Like I’m some dirty little secret you have to keep?"

"That’s not—" He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "That’s not what this is, and you fucking know it."

"Then what is it?" Your voice is hoarse now, the frustration bleeding into something more vulnerable. Something fragile. "Because to me, it feels like I’m always going to be the girl you love behind closed doors but pretend not to know when the lights come on."

That gets him.

His entire body stiffens, his fingers twitching at his sides.

Love.

You said love.

And you don’t take it back.

His breath is uneven when he finally speaks. "I just—fuck, I didn’t want this for you. I didn’t want you to go through this."

You stare at him, the fight temporarily knocked out of you.

"What?"

He exhales, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "The media. The rumors. The hate. The way they tear apart every woman I’ve ever been seen with. I didn’t want you to have to deal with that. You don’t deserve it."

"So you were protecting me?" The words taste bitter on your tongue. "By making me feel like I don’t exist?"

Harry’s eyes squeeze shut, and for a second, he looks wrecked.

"I didn’t mean for it to be like this."

"But it is."

It hangs between you, heavy and unmovable.

Neither of you speaks. Neither of you moves.

You don’t break up.

But something between you fractures.

The distance is immediate.

A coldness that lingers in the spaces where warmth used to be.

Harry doesn’t text as much. Calls grow infrequent. Conversations turn shallow, safe, as if you’re both terrified of touching the wound too soon, of reopening something that’s still bleeding beneath the surface.

You don’t reach out either. Maybe it’s better this way.

Maybe space will fix what words couldn’t.

But then—something shatters the fragile truce.

You’re sitting on your couch, scrolling mindlessly, when the clip appears.

A headline first.

HARRY STYLES BREAKS HIS SILENCE ON DATING RUMORS

Your stomach knots.

With shaking hands, you press play.

The video starts mid-interview, Harry perched on a plush chair, microphone in hand. He’s wearing one of his usual tailored suits, his hair messily tousled in that effortless way only he can pull off. The crowd laughs at something he just said, the interviewer leaning in with a conspiratorial grin.

And then, the dreaded question.

“So, Harry, there have been some rumors lately… A certain photo making the rounds. Any truth to it? Are you seeing someone?”

The air in your lungs turns solid.

Harry stills, just barely. It’s subtle; the faintest stiffening of his shoulders, the almost imperceptible tension in his jaw. But you see it. You know him.

And then he smiles. That easy, practiced grin, the kind that charms the world but makes your stomach twist.

He laughs, brushing the question off like it’s nothing.

“People love to speculate, don’t they?” he says lightly. “I’m just focused on my music right now.”

Your heart stumbles over itself.

No denial. No confirmation.

The interviewer doesn’t let it go.

“So, you’re saying you’re single?”

The silence lasts half a second too long.

And then—

“Yeah,” Harry says, smooth and effortless, not a single waver in his voice. “I’m single.”

The world stills.

You can’t breathe.

The clip ends. Your screen fades to black. But the words linger. The weight of them presses down on your chest, heavy and suffocating.

"I’m single."

Like you never happened.

Like the nights spent tangled together, the whispered confessions in the dark, the way he held you like he never wanted to let go—none of it meant anything.

Your hands tremble as you exit the video, but it’s too late. The internet is already burning.

#HarryIsSingle trends within minutes.

Fans take his words as gospel. Theories shift. Maybe you were just a hookup. Maybe you made the whole thing up. Maybe you’re obsessed with him.

The hate floods in fast.

Your DMs. Your mentions. A hurricane of strangers dissecting your life, your worth, your place in his world.

You’re a liar. A desperate fangirl. A delusional girl who thought she was special, who was using Harry for his fame.

And worst of all?

Harry doesn’t reach out.

Not even a text.

You don’t cry. Not at first.

You just sit there, numb, watching your phone vibrate with notifications you refuse to read.

Then the anger comes.

Slow, simmering, bubbling up from the depths of something raw and wounded until it erupts.

That night, when your phone finally lights up with his name—just a simple, “Hey”—you don’t respond.

But he doesn’t let it go.

An hour later, there’s a knock at your door.

You hesitate for only a second before pulling it open.

Harry stands on the other side, hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes scanning your face. And the second he sees your expression, he knows.

“You saw it.”

Your laugh is sharp, bitter. “Saw what? You telling the whole fucking world you’re single?”

He exhales heavily, dragging a hand through his hair. “It’s not that simple.”

You scoff. “Isn’t it? Because from where I’m standing, it looked pretty fucking easy for you.”

“It wasn’t easy,” he snaps. “But what was I supposed to do? Announce to the world that we’re together? Let the media tear us apart?”

Your eyes flash. “Better to pretend I don’t exist, right?”

He takes a step forward, his voice tight with frustration. “You’re twisting this.”

You shake your head. “No, Harry. I’m finally seeing it for what it is.”

Silence.

A long, painful pause where neither of you know what to say.

And then, barely above a whisper—

“You don’t get to do this to me. Not again.”

His brows furrow. “Again?”

Your throat tightens. The truth sits heavy in your chest.

You swallow hard. “You did this before.” Your voice is hollow, empty. “Back then. When we started this. You acted like it didn’t mean anything. Like I didn’t mean anything. And I let you.”

Harry’s expression crumbles. Guilt flickers in his eyes, his lips parting like he wants to argue, to tell you you’re wrong.

But he doesn’t.

Because he knows.

“That’s not true.” His voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“Isn’t it?” Your voice breaks. “Because that’s how it fucking feels.”

For the first time, he has no defense.

And you don’t have the energy to fight anymore.

You take a step back. Your chest aches, your eyes sting, but your voice is steady when you say it—

“Just go, Harry.”

He hesitates.

But you don’t waver.

Finally, he nods. Turns. Leaves.

And this time—

You don’t think he’s coming back.

You didn’t think things could get worse.

You thought the storm had passed. That the damage had been done. That the worst of it was behind you.

But then—your phone rings.

It’s your manager. Their voice is clipped, urgent. “You need to see this.”

Your stomach drops.

There’s something in their tone. Something that makes your skin prickle with unease.

You pull your phone away from your ear, heart hammering as you open the link they sent.

And then—your world crumbles.

The screen loads. A video. Camera footage. Grainy but unmistakable.

You. Harry. The gala night.

The intimacy of it—the way he’s touching you, the way he’s whispering things only meant for you—it’s all out there, laid bare for the world to see.

You feel like you’re going to be sick.

Your vision tunnels, fingers tightening around your phone as the weight of it all crashes down on you.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

This was yours. His.

Something private. Something that was never meant for the world to see.

And now—it’s everywhere.

Your hands shake as you scroll.

Trending: - “Harry Styles sex tape” - “Who leaked Harry’s video?” - “Y/N is ruining his life”

The internet is cruel. Ruthless.

The comments flood in, thousands of voices screaming over one another:

- “She probably leaked it herself for attention.” - “Poor Harry. He deserves better than this mess.” - “She’s disgusting. A clout chaser.” - “She’s trying to trap him.” - “Harry needs to leave her for good.”

They defend him. They attack you.

As if you planned this. As if you wanted this.

As if this isn’t your literal worst nightmare.

Your breath comes too fast, too shallow. You try to inhale, but your lungs won’t cooperate.

Your phone slips from your grasp, clattering onto the floor.

Harry is calling. Again and again.

You don’t answer.

Because what could he possibly say to fix this?

Nothing.

There is no fixing this.

But that doesn’t stop him from trying.

Within the hour, your phone won’t stop vibrating. Your manager. Your PR team. News outlets. Lawyers. And then Harry, over and over again.

Then: a knock at your door.

You freeze.

Your hands grip the edge of the counter, knuckles white.

You don’t want to see him. You don’t want to look him in the eyes, see whatever shattered version of him is waiting on the other side.

But you do.

The door creaks open.

And there he is.

Disheveled. Jaw clenched. Eyes burning.

A storm contained within flesh and bone.

He steps forward, into your space, into your orbit, like he’s drawn to you despite the wreckage between you.

His voice is raw, barely above a whisper. “Are you okay?”

You laugh. A sharp, bitter sound. “Am I okay?”

Your eyes burn as you shake your head. “Harry, the whole fucking world just watched us—watched me.” Your voice cracks, but you force yourself to keep going. “And they think it’s my fault.”

He exhales sharply, his hand raking through his hair. “I know. I know, and I’m going to fix this.”

“Fix it?” You step back, the words tasting like poison. “How the fuck do you fix something like this?”

He looks at you then—really looks at you—and there’s something in his eyes. Something wild, desperate. Guilt. Rage. Fear.

But before he can answer—before he can try to convince you that there’s a way out of this—

Your phone dings.

The sound cuts through the moment like a blade.

Your heart pounds as you glance at the screen.

Another notification. A new article.

And then—

Your breath catches in your throat.

Because it’s not just about the leaked tape anymore.

It’s worse. So much worse.

Your entire body goes cold as you read the headline:

“EXCLUSIVE: INSIDER REVEALS WHO LEAKED HARRY STYLES’ SEX TAPE.”

Your vision blurs, hands trembling as you click the link.

The page loads. Your stomach drops.

And then—

The name staring back at you makes your blood run cold.

You don’t realize you’ve spoken out loud until you hear your own voice, barely a whisper.

“No… No, that’s not possible.”

Harry’s eyes snap to you, his expression shifting instantly.

“What? What is it?” He reaches for the phone, but you yank it away, gripping it so tightly your knuckles turn white.

Your head shakes, disbelief crashing over you in violent waves.

Because the person who leaked it…

It wasn’t some hacker. It wasn’t a random invasion of privacy. It was someone close. Someone you trusted.

And now?

Now, the real betrayal begins.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

[part 3]

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