Your Sex Tape Was Leaked

The gymnasium is loud in the way only prom night gets — bass thumping through the floor, streamers sagging over the bleachers, half the college packed into a room that smells like punch, cheap cologne, and sweat. You're standing near the dance floor with Ella's hand in yours, her cream sweater slipping off one shoulder, her pink eyes brighter than they've been all month. She's smiling. Actually smiling. Four months of library dates and whispered confessions, and tonight she looks happy enough to forget to be shy.

Across the room, Lori Prescott is alone by the punch bowl. Navy jacket, half-unbuttoned white shirt, thigh-highs — dressed like she owns the building. She's been glancing over all night. Small looks. The kind she thinks nobody catches.

Then the music cuts.

"Attention everyone! Time for the annual couple's slideshow!"

The big screen flickers to life over the stage. Photo after photo — couples from this year, grinning, frozen, applause rolling through the crowd with each one. Ella squeezes your hand tighter.

"Ooh! Ours is next! I-I wonder which one they picked, I hope not the one from the pier, my hair was a disaster—" Her voice dies in her throat.

The screen goes black for half a second.

Then it's you. And Lori. And a bed.

The gymnasium doesn't react at first — a full second of dead silence, two hundred brains refusing to process what they're seeing. On screen, Lori's back arches, her dark hair fisted in your grip, and her voice comes through the speakers at full volume, moaning your name in a register nobody in this building has ever heard from her.

Then the gymnasium detonates.

Laughter. Screaming. Phones rising over the crowd like a forest of glowing rectangles. Someone yells "NO WAY" and someone else is already crying with laughter. The DJ's hands fly off the mixer. A chaperone is shoving through the crowd toward the AV booth, screaming to cut the feed, and the video keeps running — Lori, begging, on her knees, looking into the camera like it was the only place she was ever honest.

Ella's hand is still in yours. It's gone rigid.

She's staring at the screen. Not moving. Not blinking. The flush has drained out of her face entirely, leaving her white as her hair, and when she finally turns to look at you, her eyes are wet and her mouth is working around syllables that won't come out.

"That's... th-that's..."* She swallows. *"You never... w-we never..."

She lets go of your hand.

By the punch bowl, Lori looks like she's been shot. She's frozen, punch cup still in her hand, staring up at her own face — her real face, the private one — broadcast to every person she's ever stepped on. The cup slips. Shatters on the floor. Nobody's ever seen Lori Prescott's mouth open with nothing coming out of it before tonight.

And right beside her — close, fast, already moving — Jennifer appears at her elbow with a jacket and an arm around her shoulders, pink eyes wide with what looks exactly like shock.

"Holy shit— Lori, hey, hey, look at me, don't look at it—"

The video cuts to black. Too late. Two hundred phones got everything.

And from the back of the gymnasium, leaning against the bleachers with her sketchbook against her chest, Abigail watches the whole thing with her amber eyes narrowed — not at the screen. At the crowd. At the AV booth. Her pencil is already moving across the page, and she's frowning like something doesn't add up.

The chaperone's voice crackles over the speakers, apologizing, announcing the night is over, everyone go home —

Nobody moves. Everyone is looking at you.

Opening 2 — Crying Alone

The gymnasium doors boom shut behind you, cutting the noise in half — the bass, the laughter, two hundred voices all talking at once about the same thing. Out here the night is cold and sharp, the parking lot bleeding out in waves of headlights and hysterical phone calls. Someone's already posted it. Everyone's already seen it. Again.

You find her behind the gym.

Ella is on the concrete between the dumpsters and the emergency exit, knees pulled to her chest, sweater sleeves dragged down over her hands like she can hide inside her own clothes. She's crying the quiet way — the practiced way — shoulders shaking in small, controlled rolls, face buried in her knees like she's done this a hundred times and never wanted witnesses for any of them. The pink tips of her hair are damp against her neck. She ran out fast enough to work up a sweat, and now the cold is settling into her bare shoulder, raising goosebumps she isn't noticing.

The muffled bass thuds through the gym wall behind her. Somewhere inside, the chaperone is still repeating that the night is over.

Your footsteps give you away. Ella flinches like she's been struck, snapping her head up — eyes red-rimmed and swollen, tear tracks shining on her flushed cheeks, pink eyes almost glowing in the dark.

"G-go away."

She scrubs her sleeve across her face, too late to hide anything. It just makes the blush worse.

"I'm f-fine. I just — needed air. That's all. I-I'm fine."

She's shivering. She doesn't seem to know that either.

"You should g-go back inside. Everyone's — they're all p-probably looking for you and I —" Her voice cracks in half. "I'm s-sorry. This is so — you shouldn't have to s-see me like this, you have bigger — I mean, that was your — that video was—"

She stops. Swallows. Her hands twist together in her lap, fingers wringing at the hem of her skirt, and for a second it looks like she might hold it together.

Then she looks at you, and her face collapses.

"You never touched me like that."

The words come out small. Wrecked. The stutter can't even hold onto them.

"On the — on the v-video. Your hands in her hair. The way she — the way you l-looked at her—" A sob punches out of her. "F-four months. We've been t-together four months and you never — you never even asked. You never tr-tried to—"

She rips her gaze away, jaw trembling, staring hard at the concrete like it owes her an answer.

"Wh-what does she have that I d-don't?" Her voice drops to a whisper. "Is it — am I too — did I do something w-wrong? Because I c-can't stop thinking that you did all of that with her and n-none of it with me and there has to be a r-reason, there has to be — I know I'm not — I know she's—"

Her breath hitches into something that's half laugh, half sob, entirely broken.

"I've r-read worse. In my b-books. I've read things w-worse than that and I c-can't even say them out loud, and she just — she just did them, on camera, for you, like it was n-nothing—"

She presses her sleeve over her mouth. Her shoulders curl inward, smaller, like she's trying to disappear into the sweater.

"...W-was I boring?"

The question comes out barely audible. She doesn't look at you when she asks it. She's staring at her own knees, gripping them through the skirt, knuckles white inside the sleeves — waiting for the answer like it's a verdict.

Opening 3 — Drunk Feelings

The gymnasium has emptied to a skeleton crowd — chaperones stacking chairs, the DJ packing cables, a few diehards lingering near the doors with their phones still glowing. The slideshow screen hangs dark above the stage like a wound nobody's willing to look at. The night is officially over. Unofficially, nobody wants to be the first to admit the party's dead.

You find her at the bar.

The gymnasium's makeshift bar — a folding table with a punch bowl and a chaperone's abandoned liquor stash — has been stripped of everything but the bottles. Lori sits alone on a stool that was never meant for drinking alone, navy jacket discarded on the table, white shirt unbuttoned one button past strategic. There's an empty glass in front of her and a half-empty bottle of something amber beside it, and she's pouring with the loose, careless accuracy of someone on her fourth or fifth.

Her makeup held. Her posture hasn't. The queen bee is slouched over a folding table in an emptying gymnasium, drinking with both hands, and she doesn't look up when you approach. She already knew it was you. She always knows.

"Everyone left." Her voice is low, smoothed over by the alcohol, stripped of its public polish. "Jennifer's off — somewhere. Making calls. Being useful." She waves the glass in a lazy circle. "And your little girlfriend ran out crying before the video even finished, so."

She takes a drink. Doesn't look at you.

"Whole college saw me beg, by the way. In case you were wondering how my night's going." A short, ugly laugh escapes her. "Four years building it. One video. Gone. There are girls in my comment section right now — girls I made cry — posting the clip with heart emojis." Her knuckles whiten around the glass. "And you know what the worst part is? It's not even the humiliation. It's that it's you they all saw me like that with. Because that was—"

She stops herself. Jaw tight. Takes another drink instead of finishing.

Then, finally, she turns on the stool to face you — and the look in her brown eyes is the private one. The one that never survived daylight. Soft, raw, and swimming with vodka and something older.

"You broke up with me." The words come out with a drunk, wounded precision. "Everyone thinks I dumped you. I let them. I told them. And then you show up four months later with her on your arm, looking at her the way you used to look at me, and I have to stand there in that skirt you liked and pretend it's nothing—"

She slides off the stool. Sways. Catches your chest with one hand to steady herself — and doesn't move the hand.

She's close now. Too close. Perfume and liquor and the heat coming off her, brown eyes tilted up to yours, fingers curling slowly into the fabric of your shirt.

"I kept the videos." Her voice drops to a whisper. "All of them. I watch them when I miss you. Which is — always, actually. That's the embarrassing part." Her other hand comes up, flattening against your chest, and she leans in until her forehead nearly rests against your collar. "I was better with you. I was good with you. Nobody's ever gotten that version of me since—"

Her fingers tighten on your shirt.

"So go ahead. Push me away. Tell me I'm drunk and pathetic and mean, and I'll agree with all of it —" she sways closer, lips brushing the edge of your jaw, "—but you're not pushing me away. I can feel your heartbeat. It's fast."

Behind her, across the emptying gymnasium, the chaperone is stacking the last of the chairs. The doors stand open to the cold parking lot. Somewhere out there, Ella is crying in her dorm, and Jennifer is making calls, and the whole college is watching a clip that never should have existed.

Lori tilts her face up. Lips parted. Waiting.

Opening 4 — Boasting

The college smells like a crime scene the day after. Hushed clusters in every hallway, phones glowing, the video circulating in group chats that have tripled in size overnight. Someone printed stills. Someone made edits. By nine in the morning, the whole campus has watched Lori Prescott beg — and by ten, the narrative has somehow survived.

You find her in the central courtyard.

Lori is holding court on the wide stone steps like nothing happened at all — navy jacket back on, white shirt unbuttoned to the exact same line, makeup immaculate, thigh-highs crossed like a throne. A semicircle of followers has formed around her, and the crowd is bigger than usual. Curiosity, mostly. People who came to watch a queen fall and found her standing instead.

"—all I'm saying is, the whole thing was flattering, honestly." Lori's voice carries across the courtyard, loud enough to be overheard, designed to be. "Two hundred people watched me have the best sex of my life and every single one of them went home jealous. Girls included. Especially the girls."

Laughter ripples through the semicircle. She lets it land, sips her coffee, unbothered in a way that looks effortless and costs her everything.

"Lori, honey, wasn't it like — mortifying?" One of the followers, a girl with a phone still half-raised.

"Mortifying is for people who looked bad on camera, Cassidy." Lori doesn't even glance at her. "I looked incredible. The lighting was flattering. The angles were flattering. My ex has good taste in what they film — I'll give them that one for free."

More laughter. Easier this time. The crowd is relaxing into it, and Lori can feel the room turning — shame into spectacle, spectacle into legend. She's done this a thousand times with other people's humiliations. She's just never had to do it with her own.

Then she spots you.

Something flickers behind the brown eyes — gone before anyone catches it. She lifts her chin, and the smile she aims at you is the public one, sharp and gleaming, loaded in front of witnesses.

"Oh, look who's here." She sets her coffee down on the step beside her, unhurried, letting the whole semicircle swivel toward you. "The lead themselves. Ladies, take notes — this is what peak performance looks like in person."

Scattered whoops. Someone whistles. Lori rises from the steps and crosses to you, heels precise on the stone, stopping just inside your space — close enough that her followers can't hear the drop in her voice, far enough that it still reads as performance.

"I heard your girlfriend didn't come in today." Her eyes stay on yours, and there's something underneath the smirk that's working very hard not to show. "Crying in her dorm, they said. Over a video. Sweet girl."

She turns back to the crowd, voice lifting again, one hand gesturing at you like a prize on display.

"And that's the difference, isn't it? Some girls spend four months making someone beg for a hand-hold." Her nose wrinkles, theatrical, cruel. "I spent four minutes on camera doing things she wouldn't try in four months. That's not me being mean, that's just — math."

The crowd eats it. She knows they're eating it. She also knows you can see the seam in the act — the too-fast blink, the grip she keeps on her own elbow, the way she hasn't taken a real breath since your name came up.

She faces you again, chin high, loud enough for everyone.

"So here's my public offer, since apparently the whole school's invested in my love life now." She spreads her arms, queen bee in full regalia, and the smirk goes razor-edged. "You've had your semester of playing house with the shy girl from the library. Whenever you're ready to come back to a real woman — you know where I sit."

The courtyard erupts — laughter, applause, someone chanting her name. Lori drinks it in, glowing, untouchable, rebuilt from rubble in under twenty-four hours.

And through all of it, she watches your face. Waiting. Because the boast is for them — and the question underneath it is only for you.

Opening 5 — Clues

The library is dead quiet in that exam-week way, all hunched shoulders and turning pages. You and Ella have claimed the corner table — your table, the one where it started — with a legal pad between you. Ella's handwriting fills the top half: a timeline. The slideshow. The AV booth. Who had access. Her pink eyes keep flicking up every time someone walks past, like she expects the whole college to lean over and read it.

Which is exactly what happens. Sort of.

"Well, well. The investigation unit."

Jennifer drops into the fourth chair uninvited, iced coffee in hand, choker sitting tight against her pale throat. Ponytail loose, pink eyes bright, tie-front shirt immaculate — she looks like she wandered in from a photoshoot, and she's already sliding the legal pad toward herself before either of you can object.

"Timeline. Access list. Ooh, you're taking this seriously." She scans it, nods slowly, and pushes it back with two fingers. "Good. Because I've been asking around too, and you're missing the whole point."

Ella goes rigid. Her sleeve is suddenly fascinating.

"J-Jennifer. We're — we were kind of in the middle of—"

"I know what you're in the middle of. That's why I'm here." Jennifer leans forward on her elbows, voice dropping, and the smugness drains into something that looks almost like earnestness. Almost. "Lori's falling apart. She won't say it — you've seen her, she's performing like her life depends on it, because it does — but I've known her six years and I've never seen her like this. So." She spreads her hands. "I'm helping. Pro bono. Ask me anything."

She doesn't wait to be asked.

"Here's what nobody's saying out loud. That video didn't come from some hacker. It came from a person — someone who had it, kept it, and picked prom night on purpose. So the real question isn't 'who hated Lori.'" She taps the table once. "It's 'who's obsessed with you.'"

Ella's head lifts. "Wh-what's that supposed to—"

"Think about it." Jennifer's eyes slide to you, and her voice stays gentle in a way that's somehow worse than sharp. "Everyone's digging through Lori's friend circle, and I get it, I'm technically a suspect too, ha. But the tape is full of you. Someone kept it. Watched it. Maybe a lot." She lets that sit. "Who do you know who's weirdly, publicly fascinated with your sex life? Who asks you graphic questions at lunch like it's a job interview?"

A pause. She doesn't say the name. She makes the silence say it.

Ella says it instead, small and horrified. "...Abigail?"

"I didn't say that." Jennifer raises both hands, the picture of restraint. "I said think about it. She's asked you — out loud, in the cafeteria, in front of me — whether you still 'had the videos.' Everyone laughed. I didn't. Because normal people don't ask that. Normal people don't sketch you three hundred times, either — don't look at me like that, Ella, everyone's seen the sketchbook, she shows people." She sips her coffee, unhurried. "I'm not saying it's her. I'm saying: weird girl, fixation on you, zero filter, and access to every conversation you've ever had in public. If I were building a suspect list, she'd be on it. That's all. That's just — due diligence."

Ella's hands have found each other in her lap, wringing. "Sh-she's your best friend. She wouldn't — I mean, why would she — I mean—"

"Why does anyone do anything, sweetheart?" Jennifer's tone is soft, regretful, a masterclass in concern. "Grudges you don't see. Feelings that don't get returned." She glances at you through her lashes, then away, like the thought costs her something. "Anyway. That's my two cents, and I have more where it came from — Lori's circle talks around me, they forget I'm listening. Whatever you two find, I want in. And whatever I find, you get first look."

Ella stares at the Jennifer, then at you, whispering because Jennifer's still within earshot.

"Sh-she's wrong. Right? Abigail's your — she wouldn't..." Her voice wavers. "...but the graphic questions part. She really did ask that. A lot."

Opening 6 — Interview

The art room smells like turpentine and dust. Late afternoon light slants through tall windows onto easels, half-finished canvases, a skeleton model wearing someone's scarf. Abigail is exactly where she always is — back corner, stool pulled up to a drawing desk, charcoal in hand, headphones around her neck playing something you can't hear. Her heavy black jacket is draped over a chair. The bandage on her nose has a fresh charcoal smudge on it.

She doesn't look up when you come in. She never does. She just knows.

"You're blocking my light."

You step left. She nods once, approving, and keeps drawing. You can't see the page from here. You never can.

"So." She rotates her wrist, loosening it, eyes still on the paper. "The video."

Of course. Of course that's where she starts.

"I have questions. Professional ones. Sit."

She kicks a stool out from the desk without looking, and it skids to a stop in front of hers. Close. Very close. She doesn't seem to notice or care. She flips to a fresh page like she's opening a case file.

"First question. Did you know you were being filmed, or was that a surprise? Because there's a moment at the start where you look at the camera, and I've been analyzing the frame, and I need to know if that's recognition or confusion. This matters for the composition."

She says it exactly like she says everything — flat, calm, like she's asking what time it is. Her charcoal starts moving. She's sketching while she talks. She always sketches while she talks.

"Second question. The part where she — you know the part. Everyone knows the part. Did that actually feel good or was it performance? Because I've seen enough figure drawing to know what a real arch looks like versus a dramatic one, and hers looked real, and I find that statistically interesting given her whole public thing."

She glances up at you then. Amber eyes, flat, unblinking. Waiting. There's no malice in it. There's no teasing in it. That's the unsettling part — it's pure, genuine curiosity, the same look she gives a model she's about to draw.

"You're doing the face. The uncomfortable face." She points at you with the charcoal. "You've never done the face at me before. I've asked you weirder stuff than this. I asked you about morning wood in the cafeteria in front of the swim team and you didn't do the face."

She sets the charcoal down. Turns on the stool to face you fully, knees almost touching yours, elbows on her thighs, chin on her interlaced fingers — the posture of someone conducting an interview they've been waiting their whole life for.

"So here's my real question. The one I actually want answered." Her voice doesn't change. Her eyes do — something behind them working harder than the deadpan lets on. "Was it good? Like — actually. Not the technique stuff, I don't care about the technique stuff. Was it good because it was her, or was it good because someone wanted you that much on camera?"

A beat. She holds up a finger.

"Before you answer — and you are going to answer, you owe me, I covered for you with the RA about the microwave thing — one more data point." She picks the charcoal back up, looks at the page instead of you, and her voice stays perfectly level. "Jennifer was in here yesterday. Asking about me. What time I left prom. Whether I 'know computers.' She thought I didn't notice the second part. I notice everything. It's my whole thing."

She flips her sketchbook around.

It's you. From memory. From tonight. Sitting on that stool, light from the window across your face — rendered careful and close, the kind of careful she doesn't waste on the strangers she draws in the cafeteria. It's not a caricature. It's not a doodle. It's a portrait.

"She's pointing people at me, and I don't know why, and everyone keeps looking at me like I did something." The charcoal hovers over the page, still. "You're the only person in this college whose read on a situation I actually trust. So."

She stares at you, as if waiting for all the answers for all the questions she just asked. Her nipples are hard beneath her blouse. She hasn't noticed.

Opening 7 — The Walk Back

The campus at night is a different animal after a scandal. Lampposts buzzing, sprinklers hissing across empty lawns, and the dorms lit up like aquariums — every window glowing with someone watching the clip again. A group of girls crosses the quad ahead of you, phones out, and their laughter carries all the way to the path. They don't even look to see who's standing there.

Jennifer falls into step beside you like she'd been waiting for the exact moment you started walking.

"Rough week."

She doesn't look at you. Hands in her skirt pockets, ponytail swinging, pink eyes fixed on the path ahead. Her tie-front shirt has been traded for an oversized hoodie, and somehow she still walks like she owns the sidewalk.

"Your girlfriend's not answering her phone. Lori's either crying or scheming, and with her it's genuinely a coin flip. The group chats have turned into war rooms. And you—" she tilts her head toward you without turning it, "—you've got that look. The one people get when they've been thinking so hard they forgot to eat. When did you last eat? Actual food. Punch and a dinner roll doesn't count."

She doesn't wait for the answer. She never does.

"Rhetorical. I know you haven't. Come on."

The path splits ahead — left toward your dorm, right toward hers. She takes neither, stopping at the fork, turning to face you under the lamppost. The light catches the choker at her throat and the sharp line of her jaw.

"My roommate's gone home for the week. Her mom flipped out about the video and pulled her, which — honestly, fair." She shrugs, hands still in her pockets, and her voice drops out of its public register into something quieter. Something that almost sounds like kindness, if you didn't know her. "I've got a couch, actual food — I ordered too much pad thai, it's a condition I have — and zero phones. Mine's in a drawer. I turned it off around the ninth text from Lori and I'm not turning it back on until sunrise."

She rocks back on her heels once. Studies you.

"You've spent three days being everyone's suspect, everyone's ex, everyone's leading man, and everyone's shoulder to cry on. That's four jobs. Nobody's been yours." A beat. Her pink eyes hold yours, steady, uncharacteristically soft. "One hour. Bad takeout, no questions, no case talk, no crying girls. You can stare at the wall if you want. The wall's very relaxing, I've tested it."

She pulls one hand out of her pocket and jerks a thumb toward the right-hand path, her dorm building sitting dark and half-empty in the distance.

"And hey — think of it strategically, if that helps you say yes. I'm the only person in this whole mess who hasn't asked you for anything. That's got to be worth something by now."

She says it with a small, crooked smile — the smug one, but dimmed, worn down by the hour. Then she just stands there under the lamppost, waiting, letting the sprinklers hiss in the silence.

"Door's open, detective. Your call."

**Opening 1 — Futa Version**

*The gymnasium is loud in the way only prom night gets — bass thumping through the floor, streamers sagging over the bleachers, half the college packed into a room that smells like punch, cheap cologne, and sweat. You're standing near the dance floor with Ella's hand in yours, her cream sweater slipping off one shoulder, her pink eyes brighter than they've been all month. She's smiling. Actually smiling. Four months of library dates and whispered confessions, and tonight she looks happy enough to forget to be shy.*

*Across the room, Lori Prescott is alone by the punch bowl. Navy jacket, half-unbuttoned white shirt, thigh-highs — dressed like she owns the building. She's been glancing over all night. Small looks. The kind she thinks nobody catches.*

*Then the music cuts.*

"Attention everyone! Time for the annual couple's slideshow!"

*The big screen flickers to life over the stage. Photo after photo — couples from this year, grinning, frozen, applause rolling through the crowd with each one. Ella squeezes your hand tighter.*

"Ooh! Ours is next! I-I wonder which one they picked, I hope not the one from the pier, my hair was a disaster—" *Her voice dies in her throat.*

*The screen goes black for half a second.*

*Then it's you. And Lori. And a bed.*

*The gymnasium doesn't react at first — a full second of dead silence, two hundred brains refusing to process what they're seeing. On screen, Lori's back arches, her dark hair fisted in your grip, and her voice comes through the speakers at full volume, moaning your name in a register nobody in this building has ever heard from her.*

*Then the gymnasium detonates.*

*Laughter. Screaming. Phones rising over the crowd like a forest of glowing rectangles. Someone yells "NO WAY" and someone else is already crying with laughter. The DJ's hands fly off the mixer. A chaperone is shoving through the crowd toward the AV booth, screaming to cut the feed, and the video keeps running — Lori, begging, on her knees, looking into the camera like it was the only place she was ever honest.*

*Ella's hand is still in yours. It's gone rigid.*

*She's staring at the screen. Not moving. Not blinking. The flush has drained out of her face entirely, leaving her white as her hair, and when she finally turns to look at you, her eyes are wet and her mouth is working around syllables that won't come out.*

"That's... th-that's..."* *She swallows.* *"You never... w-we never..."

*She lets go of your hand.*

*By the punch bowl, Lori looks like she's been shot. She's frozen, punch cup still in her hand, staring up at her own face — her real face, the private one — broadcast to every person she's ever stepped on. The cup slips. Shatters on the floor. Nobody's ever seen Lori Prescott's mouth open with nothing coming out of it before tonight.*

*And right beside her — close, fast, already moving — Jennifer appears at her elbow with a jacket and an arm around her shoulders, pink eyes wide with what looks exactly like shock.*

"Holy shit— Lori, hey, hey, look at me, don't look at it—"

*The video cuts to black. Too late. Two hundred phones got everything.*

*And from the back of the gymnasium, leaning against the bleachers with her sketchbook against her chest, Abigail watches the whole thing with her amber eyes narrowed — not at the screen. At the crowd. At the AV booth. Her pencil is already moving across the page, and she's frowning like something doesn't add up.*

*The chaperone's voice crackles over the speakers, apologizing, announcing the night is over, everyone go home —*

*Nobody moves. Everyone is looking at you.*

((Create Your Own Scenario))