mazeeelabyrinth - Tumblr blog

mazeeelabyrinth · 1 month ago

Text

*⁀°▪︎♡ he's cheating on you inside your home

*⁀°▪︎♡ lads x f!reader

tags: angst, smut, hurt no comfort, ntr/cheating/infidelity, creampie while being caught, vaginal sex, guilt, endearments/pet names: good girl, pipsqueak, sweetheart, love, cutie, my dear, ooc, Sylus is smoking, all the reader did was screaming and running away (lmao)

wc: 1K

masterlist ❀ ao3 ❀ navigation

*⁀➷ Caleb

You knew the moment you stepped through the door something was wrong.

The air crackled—not just with Evol, but with sex. Raw. Filthy. Loud.

You tiptoed past the kitchen, past the living room—your heart already folding into itself—until you heard him. “Fuck, yeah. Take it just like that, good girl, just like her—hah—fuck—fuck!”

Caleb’s voice. Rough and low.

That voice you heard whispering promises into your ear on sleepless nights. That voice that once swore he’d kill for you—die for you.

Now he was using it to defile someone else.

And when you turned the corner—

Her legs were over his shoulders, her back arched off the couch where you had blown him last weekend. His hands dug into her hips, his cock buried so deep inside her it looked like he was trying to crawl inside her body. The necklace you gave him clinked softly against the woman’s throat.

You screamed.

He flinched. Froze. His cum spilled inside her as he turned to see you standing there, fury and heartbreak written in every line of your body.

“Wait—pips—fuck—I didn’t—”

But you were already gone—your sobs grew faint in every step you took away from the place you called your home.

And Caleb? He stood there, still inside the other woman, his mouth parted, your name trembling on his lips like a prayer he’d never get to say again.

*⁀➷ Sylus

The penthouse was unusually quiet, save for the unmistakable, obscene wet sounds from the bedroom.

You were surprised how tender he sounded. “Yeah… just like that. You like my cock, don’t you? Wanna stay stuffed full all night, sweetheart?”

You walked in. And the world stopped.

He was on top of her, red eyes heavy-lidded and glazed with bliss. His silver hair was matted with sweat, jaw clenched, abs flexing as he pumped into her slowly, cruelly, his voice low and full of affection. Affection you thought was only yours.

You had heard him call you those exact words.

She whimpered. He growled as his cum spilled inside her with a hiss, forehead pressing to hers.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered.

Your scream nearly broke the windows. He turned mid-orgasm—caught between the throes of pleasure and the jarring slap of betrayal.

“Shit.” His voice was hoarse. “No. Sweetheart, wait!”

You ran.

And for once, Sylus didn’t chase you.

He just collapsed beside the woman, his orgasm ruined, guilt drowning him like a tide.

He lit a cigarette with trembling fingers and whispered your name like an apology he knew he’d never be able to give you to your face.

*⁀➷ Zayne

You came home late. Exhausted. Expecting him curled up on the couch with those reading glasses sliding down his nose and his stupid herbal tea half-finished beside him.

Instead, you heard it before you saw it. “Oh gods, your pussy’s perfect—so tight—don’t stop clenching like that, f-fuck—so fucking needy.”

Zayne’s voice was gravel and lust. Doctor-smooth. Clinical and debauched.

You thought it was just for you. That you’re the only one who would get to see his vulnerabilities.

You rounded the corner with your keys still in hand, disbelief pulsing through your veins like venom.

He was on his knees on the floor. One hand pressed between the woman's thighs, the other wrapped around her throat like he owned her. His hips were snapping forward, fucking her with practiced precision, eyes half-lidded and mouth parted like he was in a trance. Sweat dripped down his temples.

You’d seen him like this before—with you. And that was the part that shattered you.

“Zayne!? You… you—”

His head snapped toward you. He didn’t stop moving. Couldn’t.

You watched him cum inside her. Watched his perfect, sculpted body tremble with release—and then the horror bloomed in his eyes.

This wasn’t your Zayne. Your stoic yet caring Zayne. No. You couldn’t believe it.

He pulled out like she was poison. “Wait—no—don’t go, please, it wasn’t supposed to be—it’s a miscalculation. Love, please! Don’t leave me.”

You ran.

And behind you, Zayne was still buckling his pants with shaking hands, eyes wild, begging a god he didn’t believe in to reverse time.

*⁀➷ Rafayel

The loft smelled like oil paint and sweat and something more carnal—something wrong.

You barely had time to put your bag down before you heard the rhythmic slap of skin. The guttural groans echoing off studio walls.

Rafayel’s voice was unmistakable.

"Ohhh baby, so fucking good. Goddamn, you feel like heaven. Gonna make me paint you like this. Fuck… fuck me—”

You walked in and your world turned red.

She was bent over the easel, moaning like a whore in heat. Paint smeared across her back. His cock was buried in her from behind, hips moving in tight, desperate circles, and his hands smeared crimson on her hips—was it paint or blood?

You didn’t know. Didn’t care.

You saw his face as he tipped his head back in release. That perfect, devilish smirk crumbling.

“Yes—fuck yesss!”He came.

And then he saw you. “…Cutie?”

He stumbled back, softening inside her, paint dripping from his fingers, heart pounding visibly in his chest.

You screamed.

He didn’t move. Just stared, shellshocked.

Like he’d just killed the only thing he ever truly gave a damn about.

*⁀➷ Xavier

He didn’t hear you come in. Of course not.

He was too busy.

Xavier had her spread open on the low table, her knees bent, wrists pinned by one hand while his other dug into the base of her spine. His hips moved in slow, hungry rolls—deep and deliberate—his face twisted in something close to worship.

“...you feel like her,” he mumbled. “Tight like her... warm... gonna—fuck—”

You heard your own name.

He moaned it despite fucking another woman.

You turned the corner and everything inside you imploded.

Xavier’s blue eyes locked onto yours the moment he came, his cock twitching inside her, body trembling with quiet, explosive release. His mouth opened—but no words came.

You stood frozen.

He pulled out fast—too fast—like his own body disgusted him. The woman whimpered. He ignored her.

“My dear…” He reached for you. You stepped back.

“No. Don’t you dare.”

You left him standing there, cum-slick and terrified, his eyes wide in that innocent way you used to think was sweet.

Now it just looked pathetic.

He sank to his knees, hands covering his face.

And for once, the hunter was the one who’d lost everything.

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mazeeelabyrinth · 1 month ago

Text

⋆ ˚｡⋆ PROJECT BUNNY ⋆ ˚｡⋆

⋆ ˚｡⋆˚ ♡ Chapter II: System Error: Unexpected Input

You glanced at the chat, watching as X-Devoted’s name remained calm in the frenzy. The same name that had haunted your shift, now haunting your stream.

No. Not the same. It’s not him.

⋆ ˚｡⋆˚➷ Pairing: lads lis x afab!fem camgirl!reader

⋆ ˚｡⋆˚➷ Tags: 18+, eventual smut, porn with plot, porn w/ feelings, camgirl au, canon divergence au, stalking, paranoia, crying while masturbating, unreliable narrator, second pov, dark romance, reverse harem, shameless smut, explicit, voyeurism, praise kink, porn, ooc, sex toys, clothing fetish, cosplay, ddlg (daddy dom/little girl), pet names, live masturbation, power play, strip tease, sex work, streaming culture, parasocial relationship, obsessive parasocial behavior, dirty talk, reader is not mc, reader has a day job, reader is addressed as "Bunny" or "PixelBunny" on stream, masked identities, veiled threats

⋆ ˚｡⋆˚➷ Word Count: 7.9k

A/N: sorry this took too long, I've suffered from writing-block-titis

➷ MASTERLIST ➷ AO3 ➷ NAVIGATION

You slid the latte across the counter with the same shaky hands you used to edge yourself on stream six hours ago. It was a miracle the foam heart art didn’t come out looking like a cum-stained potato.

“Order for Xavier!” You chirped, instantly hating yourself for the lingering bratty lilt.

He walked up. Paid. His fingers brushed against yours. He took his latte with a polite nod, the cup held in long fingers like it was too precious to spill.

“You might wanna try our Bavarian donuts. They taste good.” Goddamn it, your customer-service-slave self just had to offer something. Something creamy and sweet—almost reminded you of something inappropriate.

Those blues lingered on your face a bit longer once more. You didn’t breathe, eye twitching for his reply. Up close, he smelled faintly of clean linen and something darker underneath—like ozone before a lightning strike. Yes, you figured that out.

Then finally, the corners of his lips tugged in a subtle smile and quietly left you several bills of tip. But he didn’t thank you again. He just nodded, slow and polite. And turned to leave.

Calm. Measured. Gone.

“Thank you, Xavier. Come again,” you said, still sporting a polite smile as you watched the back of his head.

With a shuddering breath, your hand slowly stashed the bills into your pocket, moving as if you were involved in a drug deal in broad daylight. Heck, you ignored the tip jar sitting on the counter near you. Handsome customer, handsome tip—whatever tip you were talking about.

Most importantly, the crisis was averted—or so you thought.

You spun back toward the espresso machine. Then paused. Something was wrong. Another cautious glance thrown over your shoulder, slow enough you could almost hear your cervical spine creak.

The cute motherfucker didn’t leave.

You wished he would just take the latte and walk out like a normal hot guy with cheekbones sharp enough to slice God.

But no. He sat. Right by the window, in the corner, where golden morning light spilled across the wood in long, lazy strips. The seat with the best view of the register. The one that conveniently gave him full range to watch the counter, the café, and you.

Xavier—if that is his real name—was lounging in the corner of the café like he belonged there. Like the low thrum of café chatter and the hiss of milk steamers were made for him. Like a man with nothing urgent but endless time.

One leg crossed over the other, a paperback novel in his lap—spine cracked just enough to say: yes, I’ve read this more than once. Though you were pretty sure he hadn't turned a page in the last twenty minutes.

Every so often, he sipped his latte—precise, methodical—and casted his gaze out the window like he was watching the rain.

Only... it was not raining. And he was not really watching anything.

Sure, customers were always welcomed to lounge in the café—natural, expected—but something about him staying bothered you more than it should have.

You sneaked glances in between drink orders and fake smiles, hoping you were subtle.

He didn’t pull out a laptop. Didn’t fiddle with his phone. No earbuds, no distractions. Just sipped his drink, one hand cupped loosely around the cup, eyes casted out the window like he was people-watching. Like he was casually, disinterestedly omniscient.

As if he enjoyed being there. Maybe he did.

And you were starting to unravel. It felt like it was being streamed. But worse. Because this camera had a breath.

You could feel his gaze, even when it was not on you. Like a ghost fingertip tracing the dip of your spine through your apron.

Calm. Curious. But not unkind.

Every now and then, when you thought he was not looking, you still kept throwing glances. And when you were looking—he was, too.

Never long enough to be obvious. Never short enough to be meaningless. Just little flickers of attention, like he was checking something off a list in his head.

You were not being stared at—that would be obvious, borderline flirty. It would be like a cheesy romcom only if your stomach did not flip with dread, instead of butterflies.

No. It was the kind of awareness that creeps under your skin like static. As if, at any given second, he could flick his gaze your way and read you like your stream chat log.

You busied yourself wiping tables, fetching milk refills, laughing too hard at a coworker’s shitty joke. But every time you passed by his peripheral, you swear you could feel it:

That flicker of recognition.

That tightening in your gut.

That stupid, traitorous thought: Could it be…?

Ah, you’re just sleep-deprived.

The latte you made him now sat cold and unfinished. He has been there for over an hour.

One coworker asked, voice pitched higher than normal. “Think he’s waiting for someone? He’s so cute.”

Another giggled, “Hope he’s not a mystery shopper. I over-steamed the milk twice because I was distracted.”

One reply had your cunt clenching in a sudden spike of anxiety, “Maybe he’s stalking someone.”

That made you wiped down a counter with unnecessary force. The memory of a certain user—X-Devoted—whispering filthy praises into your brain last night made your ears burn.

Xavier.

You told yourself it wasn’t him. That it couldn’t be. X-Devoted was just a username, just one of your top five high-tier simps, the kind who never turned his camera on but always made you repeat his name when you came.

“Say it.”

“Louder.”

“Good girl.”

You bit your lip as you scrubbed out a mug that already looked clean. You could still feel the ache from last night. The way you rocked back onto your heels, trembling and teary, trying to squirt for the camera because he had said please.

Minutes later, you nearly knocked over a tray when someone ordered a chai and says “extra hot,” and your filthy brain immediately rewinded to X-Devoted’s voice note—

“Say you want it hotter. No—moan it, Bunny.”

You dropped a spoon.

Your coworker gave you a look. “You good?”

You nodded too fast.

“Caffeine withdrawal,” you lied, teeth bared in a nervous grin. “I’m fine. Totally fine.”

It couldn’t be him though, X-Devoted’s voice was deeper. But what if it was altered…?

Your train of unwarranted thoughts was cut off when you heard a coworker giggle just near the espresso machine behind you.

“Oh stop, Lysander,” Sarah cooed, quiet and flirty, probably batting her eyelashes at her companion.

Oh right. She and your manager were “secretly” dating as if the whole café staff didn’t know about their afterwork shenanigans in the office. Rolling your eyes, you left them and headed back to the front counter.

The hours blurred. You did what you always do:

You steamed milk. Burnt your wrist on the espresso machine. Got powdered sugar in your hair. Listened to your coworker drone on about her astrology boyfriend, “He’s a Gemini, but like, emotionally monogamous.”

You scrubbed a suspicious brown smear off the bathroom sink. Your playlist repeated itself. Twice.

You were just a barista.

Just a broke girl in a bunny headset who came so hard last night she saw stars and then woke up to this soul-leeching job that pays you enough to afford a few nice vibrators and some instant noodles.

You do not have a stalker. You do not know this man. He is innocent. Stop assuming the worst, you are fine.

Except when you glanced back—he was still there. He ordered one refill and a Bavarian donut, then went right back to his silent vigil—silver hair catching the late morning light like he stepped out of a sad film and into your smut-saturated breakdown.

The morning dragged like a heavy cuff wrapped around your ankle. And you felt exposed as the clock ticked. Even your name tag now stared back at you like an accusation.

PIXEL.

You hadn't changed it. You forgot to.

Well, fuck. Moreover, fuck your bubbling caffein-induced paranoia.

You grimaced at the nickname. You never told your manager your screen handle—not entirely. It was just the stupid name tag. Coincidence. Nothing to unravel there.

By the time the lunch rush fizzled out into yawning silence and mopped floors, your legs were jelly and your patience threadbare. Xavier finally had left—quietly, without a word, his cup placed neatly on the table like a gentleman who was never there.

But his absence somehow felt louder than his presence.

You blinked and it’s 3:58 PM. Two minutes to freedom.

“Hey,” your manager called from the back. “Before you go, can you empty the feedback box? It’s getting full.”

You sighed. Figures. No overtime pay for digging through paper Karen rage. But still, you nodded, grateful for something to do that didn’t involve thinking about that customer.

You headed over to the corner, grabbed the key, and popped open the metal box marked “SPILL THE TEA 🍵” beside the community corkboard, filled with curling coupons and forgotten dog-walking flyers.

A cascade of crumpled notes spilled into your hands. You crouched beside it with a sigh, and started pulling scraps of paper like it was confetti from the world’s saddest birthday party.

The usual mix of bad handwriting, coffee orders disguised as critiques. Mostly it was receipts scribbled with complaints, napkins with hearts drawn in coffee, one kid’s crayon sketch of what might’ve been a bear, or possibly your shift supervisor.

More usual crap like:

“Great chai!”

“Give Sarah a raise.”

“Someone left a diaper in the bathroom again. Ugh…”

“Great service! Coffee was too hot like the shy-hunk barista.”

“I bumped into my crush today, he bought me a box of macarons ♡ — Layla”

“I saw a bug. Might’ve just been a raisin. Still.”

One sketch of what might be a penis. You snorted. Typical.

But one folded slip caught your eyes. It was neater than the others. Thick ivory paper. No handwriting on the back. You opened it, expecting another “hire hotter baristas” complaint. Instead:

"I had a strange dream last night. She was moaning in it.”

Your stomach dropped.

That’s it—no signature, neat handwriting in blue-inked pen. Just that single sentence, cleanly folded.

Slanted slightly to the right.

Your throat tightened as you glanced back across the café, half-expecting to see him—but the seat in the corner was empty. Only the imprint of his weight lingered in the cushion, and a paper coffee cup still half-full. The sleeve was turned inside out.

You hesitated. You didn’t check it. Not yet. Not with the others watching. Not while your hands were shaking.

Maybe it was just a note from a straight-laced man suppressing raging hormones as though he was a seminarian training for priesthood—using the feedback box as though it was a confessional booth for his sinful, filthy dream.

Or maybe it was written by the “crush” of that girl who received a box of macarons, dreaming of her moaning, therefore, the treat.

Still, you folded the note back and stuffed it in your pocket, trying not to think too hard. Trying not to imagine a pair of glacial blue eyes watching you through a flickering screen.

— ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ —

Your body was running on caffeine, sin, and fumes—but you have got one last mission before you crawl back into your den of pink neon depravity. After locking up your apron and clocking out with a dead-eyed smile, you traded your customer-service persona for your real one: mildly dazed, moderately unhinged, and perpetually overstimulated.

The fluorescent buzz of CUP O' SUNSHINE! was replaced by the hum of city noise as you stepped out into the dying light of the evening. A symphony of neon reflections and distant sirens.

The air was thick with the scent of rain-soaked concrete and distant sea salt, a blend unique to Linkon’s coastal sprawl.

Each step echoed the weight of the anonymous note now crumpled in your pocket. The words—“I had a strange dream last night. She was moaning in it.”—looped in your mind, intertwining with the memory of Xavier's lingering gaze.

It was still folded tight in your pocket, burning a hole through the fabric like a hot brand. You had not dared read it again—not since slipping it into your trousers with trembling fingers.

It didn’t even say anything, not really. It was vague and could be written by any customer. But it read like a whisper pressed to your ear in the dark. Like someone saw you. Like someone knew.

You fished out your phone to check the time.

Parcel delivered. P.O. box.

Great. You had almost forgotten.

You took a right at the alley with the mural of a weeping koi fish and headed toward the post office, pulling your hoodie up over your head. It was an oversized black one with a small, pink bunny embroidery sitting on the chest area—cute, discreet. Camgirl-meets-coffee-goblin chic.

You made your way to the Bloomshore District, its vintage charm offering a brief respite from the modern hustle. The post office here was quaint—sandwiched between a payday loan shark and a discount pharmacy—with brass fixtures and a bell that jingles as you enter.

The fluorescent-lit interior was as soul-sucking as ever, but your fingers twitched with anticipation. You unlocked the little metal door marked B-3029, and there it was—tucked in like a filthy little love letter from the void:

A box. No sender listed. Light. Wrapped in matte black tape.

You grinned like the unholy gremlin you were. You know what it was. One of your high-paying patrons—maybe Syl.Draconia, maybe Mr. WhiteCoat, or C.Pilot—had DM’d you cryptically mid-stream a few nights before.

“You’ll know which end is yours.”

“Designed for repeat destruction.”

“I had it custom-made.”

It was nothing too scandalous this time—maybe. Just new accessories for your Pixel Bunny persona: lace cuffs, ribbon chokers, a cropped sailor blouse that would barely cover your nipples. Though oftentimes, you would receive surprise items usually from any of them.

You ran your fingers along the corner of the packaging, heart hammering, heat blooming in your core from the memory of last night’s stream—how you had let yourself fall apart for them.

Your lips twitched.

A part of you was flattered—she would be, your pastel-drenched persona with her fluttering lashes and soft “ohs,” “ahs,” and “oopsies.” But you? The real you?

You felt somewhat… suddenly conflicted. Still, you needed the money. Receiving gifts helped lower the expenses for various streams.

And like a sinner walking out of church, you clutched it to your chest and slipped it into your bag as you left. Its weight feels heavier than it should.

You tugged your hoodie tighter, exhaling into the collar. Your second destination was only a few blocks away now. Discreetly tucked between a bookstore and a bubble tea shop, the little adult boutique was one of the few places in the city that felt judgment-free.

The clerk knew you by now—never asked questions, always tossed in a free bottle of lube if you bought anything battery-powered.

Just as you turned around another corner, nose buried in your phone, distracted by a text from R.tist!c about how he wanted you to reenact Ophelia drowning in pearls next stream…

When—bam—you slammed shoulder-first into someone.

“Oh shit—sorry!” you blurted, staggering back a step.

Your boring tote bag slipped. So did their belongings.

Your phone clattered to the ground, followed by what looked like a sketchpad and a purple gift box, tumbling onto the pavement with an offended thwack.

Your knee knocked into their dropped package. You were already crouching, grabbing it with one hand, handing it over without even looking up.

“My bad, seriously—I'm in a rush.”

You're red-faced, head-down, hoodie hiding your features as you reach for your phone and scurried, leaving trails of regret and lingering paranoia.

Behind you, the man stooped to gather scattered sketches and his sketchpad. His voice, laced with irritation, reached your ears:

"Watch where you're going, you—"

He paused, the rest of his sentence swallowed by the city's noise.

You didn't look back.

The man straightened, brushing non-existent dust from his white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal paint-stained forearms. His dusky purple hair—damped from the drizzle—fell over his eyes, which glinted with irritation. He watched your retreating figure, disdain playing on his lips, as he tucked the sketchpad under his arm.

"Rude bitch," he muttered, low, like the man was not used to being ignored.

The voice was sharp, rough like charcoal on canvas. Familiar in a way that had made your spine bristle.

You tucked it away. Add it to the file in your mind marked ‘Weird Shit That’s Probably Nothing’—just like the anonymous note. Just like Xavier’s stare.

Just like the growing ache in your gut that said someone was watching, waiting, peeling you apart layer by trembling layer.

Soon, you pushed open the frosted door of Aphrodisia Noir, the boutique bell jingled softly as you stepped inside. You were greeted by lavender lights and the quiet thrum of synth music. It smelled like latex, perfume, and just the faintest hint of scented candles. Safe. Familiar.

Rows of tastefully arranged toys—nothing garish, nothing gross. You breathed out. For a moment, your mask slipped. You’re not Pixel Bunny here. You’re just tired, poor, and horny enough to justify spending your tip money on something that vibrates at three speeds.

“Rough day?” Lilith, the clerk, called. Her full lips curled in a knowing smirk, painted with matte black lipstick, a stark contrast to the fairness of her skin.

“Kind of,” you replied, giving her a smile. “You got new ones?”

Lilith blew her vape, deliberate and languid as though she had all the time in the world. The white cloud of vapor slightly obscured her pallid face.

“Got new eggs, cuffs, lubes n’ then some,” she finally said, hopping down from behind the counter. “Come.”

— ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ —

By the time you stepped back into your tiny apartment, the sun was long gone. Night had poured into the city like dark velvet, and the windows hummed with distant hover traffic and muffled nightlife static.

The door clicked shut behind you with a finality that felt like exhaling after hours underwater.

Your apartment was still dim—one narrow strip of LED pink licking up the wall, casting a soft glow over the cluttered haven of a broke girl with expensive secrets: cosplay wigs hanging like trophies, unopened mail balancing precariously on your microwave, and three empty energy drink cans sharing space with a bottle of lube.

The silence was sacred here. No espresso machines. No suspicious notes. No silver-haired men sitting like predators in public cafés. Just you.

You undressed slowly—shedding the mundanity of your barista disguise. Off went the uniform shirt, damped with a day’s sweat. Off went your stockings, rolled down your thighs like shed skin. You stepped into the bathroom, took a quick warm shower, ate takeout dinner, brushed your teeth, took a piss like a normal human being.

Everything you wore in your “real” life felt like a costume now—one you shed with the grace of a practiced sinner.

You set down your tote containing the parcel from the post office on the bed, fingers fumbling with tired muscle memory. The boutique bag from Aphrodisia Noir rested beside it, a tangible reminder of your indulgence.

A subtle reminder of who you were about to become.

You were still you, technically. Just… a different flavor—barista by day, cam girl by night.

And any minute now, she would return.

Pixel Bunny.

The brat. The tease. The virtual siren with a cutely stammered “H-hi everybun~!” and the kind of thighs that looked better parted.

You pulled the cropped sailor blouse over your bare chest. It was baby blue and dangerously tight—your nipples pressed against the fabric like secrets dying to be spilled. You wrapped the lace cuffs around your wrists. Clipped on the oversized bunny ears headset. Tied the satin ribbon choker snug around your throat.

Skirt? Barely there. Bent with your hips like a good sub and rode up too high even when you’re still.

The new toy—long, sleek, and remote-controlled—sat pretty on your desk, still in its packaging from Aphrodisia Noir. You unwrapped it slowly, teasing yourself with the plastic crinkle before slipping it into your thigh-high stocking band like a hidden dick-shaped dagger.

The mirror didn’t lie. You looked edible. A bratty little tease begging to be ruined.

Soon, you propped yourself onto the bed with a sigh, eyes already flicking toward your desk.

The rig was waiting.

The ring light loomed like a hungry moon.

The pastel setup, untouched since last night, still smelled faintly like arousal and body spray and plastic.

You checked the time—ten minutes until showtime.

Your heart was already pounding. Not from nerves. Not entirely.

No—you wanted this. You wanted them to see you, wanted them desperate. Most importantly, wanted their credits, their praises, their silent need bleeding through usernames.

The screen glowed with a brief countdown before bathing you in an ethereal haze of soft filters and lo-fi beats that bloomed through your mic. You perched delicately on your bed, the camera tilted just enough to catch the swell of your thighs, the curve of your waist, and the coy fall of your lashes.

The chat slowly exploded—48… 86… 793… viewers entered the chat. Bunny and heart emojis flooded the loading screen.

And then, finally—PixelBunny is live.

Syl.Draconia 💎 has entered the chat. 🐇

Mr. WhiteCoat 💎 is watching.

C.Pilot tipped 999 credits: hey Bun :D

R.tist!c 💎 has entered the chat. 🐇

You pouted, voice trembling in that perfect practiced tone—sweet, shy, bratty to the bone.

“G-good evening, everybun. I… I’ve missed you…” Your words melted into a soft giggle. The bell on your choker jingled.

Syl.Draconia: Youre late bunny.

Mr.WhiteCoat: I’ve been waiting for exactly 15 minutes.

R.tist!c: tsk dirty muse

R.tistic: at least youre finally here i had a shitty encounter i need this

C.Pilot: that skirt better be shorter than last time.

You shifted on the bed, letting the camera catch just enough thigh to drive them wild. Messages flew. Tips dinged. Your viewers—your patrons—were already hard and hungry behind their screens.

You grinned. The rush of power had hit you hard and fast.

Mr. WhiteCoat: Are you still sore from last night, Bunny?

R.tist!c: i want to draw you like this legs open skin blushed soaked

Syl.Draconia: That outfits indecent. Its… perfect.

C.Pilot: Bunny brought a new toy. let’s watch her squirm. >:)

“You noticed…? T-this toy’s special. I got it j-just for tonight.” You shifted your weight, letting the skirt ride up just a little more. “Should I let you watch me try it on, mm?”

You held up the toy and giggled when the chat exploded. Emojis. Threats. Obsession.

Yes.

now

Good girl.

be obedient.

You scooted back on your bed, legs spreading just enough to tease the outline of what was to come. “Let’s see who begs the prettiest tonight,” you whispered, lowering the toy to the damp strip of lace that barely covered your cunt.

The vibrations started low. Your breath caught—lips parting, lashes fluttering. You imagined them all in the dark, fists clenched, muttering your name like a prayer or a curse. Each one thinking you were his alone.

You pulled the toy back into view and trailed it along your thigh, your fingers trembled with more than just performance. There was a pit in your stomach—a twisting knowledge that maybe one or two of them saw you today in the real world.

You swallow hard as you slid your sheer panties aside, finally exposing that cunt your patrons had always wished to devour and dump with their cum. Push the toy in—slowly, deliberately—and let the moan slip out like a secret.

Chat went feral.

But beneath it—underneath the teasing and the tips and the slutty little moans you had let out for them—there was a flicker of something else. X-Devoted was not in the chat yet, which reminded you of a certain customer from the café today.

A whisper in your head that maybe X-Devoted was indeed Xavier. Maybe he had started guessing. Worse, maybe he had already connected the dots after the café incident—therefore, the cryptic note.

Curses. The paranoia was slowly affecting your performance. But for now… you arched your back, pressed the toy to your inner thigh, and let the cam roll.

X-Devoted: Dont stop. I want to see how long u last without saying my name

Your eyes snapped to the chat, heart racing. The note from the café, the eerie familiarity of Xavier’s gaze—it all swarmed back like a hornet’s nest poked with a stick. X-Devoted’s username was finally there, sending the same kind of commands he always did, the same kind of dark poetry that made your body respond like it was on cue.

You took a deep, shaky breath and forced a giggle. “Someone’s eager tonight, aren’t they?” You whispered, winking into the camera, even though the gesture was lost in the haze of your own fear and excitement.

Mr.WhiteCoat: Don’t let them distract you, Bunny.

R.tist!c: youre mine tonight no need to entertain boomers

The tips grew more frequent, more desperate, like throwing coins into a fountain of desire. You tried to focus, to ignore the way your palms were suddenly slick with something more than anticipation.

C.Pilot: you’re doing so good baby. just remember who loves you.

Syl.Draconia: So close little bunny. I want to feel it.

You slid the toy back into your quivering cunt, the buzzing a distant echo of the pounding in your ears. You needed this. The money, the power—the escape. But as the vibrations grew stronger, so did the fear that maybe, just maybe, X-Devoted knew. Maybe he had seen through your digital veil and found you.

And as you watched your patrons’ names flicker and pulse with each tip, your eyes blurred. The line between PixelBunny and your real self grew thinner than the lace of your panties. The toy grew slick with your need, with their need, and your thoughts swam with images of Xavier’s calm gaze.

“W-who’s going to make me c-cum first?” You asked, voice shaking with the tension of the day’s events.

R.tist!c: its gonna be me bunny

X-Devoted: Dont rush. Take ur time

C.Pilot: no one else but me, your boyfriend.

Mr. WhiteCoat: That’s it, PixelBunny. Push it in deeper.

Syl.Draconia: Shift slightly on your left. Let me see that cunt come perfectly.

You glanced at the chat, watching as X-Devoted’s name remained calm in the frenzy. The same name that had haunted your shift, now haunting your stream.

No. Not the same. It’s not him.

The tips grew more frantic. The vibrations grew stronger. You felt like a marionette dancing on strings of desire, each pull and push from your patrons echoing through your clenched fist around the toy. They didn’t know the turmoil behind your smile—the tremble in your voice.

They thought it was all for them.

And maybe it was.

Maybe the anonymity of the internet was a paper-thin veil. Maybe X-Devoted had recognized you—his favorite little rabbit—and was now watching you with the same detached curiosity as he had at the café. Maybe the note was his way of saying hello.

But X-Devoted’s messages remained the same—his usual blend of sweet and sharp, of control and adoration. He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. You told yourself that, even as you felt his eyes on you, even as your body responded to his commands.

It’s not him, was it? Xavier was not X-Devoted. What happened in the café was all just a coincidence. Xavier is a common name.

The toy thrummed inside you, the vibrations building to a crescendo that matched the frantic typing in the chat. The camera caught the shimmer of your tears—tiny pearls that clung to your lashes. The patrons took it as part of the act, assuming they were tears of pleasure, not fear. The tips grew more frantic, the words more demanding.

Mr. WhiteCoat: Poor Bunny.

R.tist!c: yes baby spread those legs wider

Syl.Draconia: Take it out show us how wet you are.

C.Pilot: you’re so beautiful when you’re crying. and full of my cum.

With trembling hands, you pulled out the toy, the wetness coating it reflecting the soft pink glow of your room. The chat exploded with lewd comments and tips—each one adding another layer to the pressure building in your chest.

You spread your legs wider, displaying yourself like a peep show doll, all while trying to ignore the voice in your head that whispered, "What if Xavier's was indeed watching as X-Devoted?"

You began to rub your clit with shaky fingers, the chilly air in the room a stark contrast to the heat building between your thighs. Each touch sent sparks through you, and you threw your head back, moaning for the camera. The tips grew more generous, the messages more urgent.

Mr.WhiteCoat: Insert another finger, PixelBunny. I know you can take it.

R.tist!c: look how pretty you are

Syl.Draconia: Give us what we want.

C.Pilot: that’s it baby. let go for me.

X-Devoted tipped 2500 credits.

X-Devoted remained silent, just giving tips but not saying anything—just like Xavier did in the café. His absence in the chat was a palpable presence that sent a cold shiver down your spine. You knew he was there, watching.

You could almost feel his gaze boring into you—calculating, assessing.

You slammed the toy back inside, the sound of it echoing in the quiet room. Your eyes squeezed shut as you bit back a scream. The orgasm ripped through you, a storm of pleasure and panic that painted your face in shades of ecstasy and dread.

The chat erupted into a symphony of digital applause, each ding of a tip a validation of your submission.

Your breathing slowed, the tremors of your body subsiding. The chat had moved on to the next act of the show—asking for more, demanding more. You knew you had to give it to them. After all, they were the ones keeping you afloat.

You leaned back on the bed, the plush pillows enveloping you in a soft embrace as you caught your breath. The toy lay discarded beside you—a symbol of the power they had over you. You picked it up, the sticky residue of your climax making your hand cling to it.

Mr.WhiteCoat: That was just a warm-up, PixelBunny. Focus. I can see that you are quite distracted.

R.tist!c: show us what you can really do

Syl.Draconia: More, pet.

C.Pilot: good girl. keep going.

The messages were a blur—each one a reminder that you were not just a girl in a tiny apartment, but a goddess in a digital world where you held all the power. But outside, in the real world, you were just a café worker with a secret.

X-Devoted: U are so beautiful, Pixel

Oh god.

Your digital nickname. The same nickname you were flashing back at your café shift. The very nickname that was written on your name tag, which was Xavier had stared at too long in the cafe’s counter today.

For god’s sake, it’s NOT him! Stop worrying.

"I-I need a break, Daddies," you whispered to the camera, trying to keep your lilt light and playful despite the tightness in your throat. "Just a little bit. Bunny will be right back."

The chat was a mix of whines and understanding nods. They knew you needed to recharge, to sip from the chalice of your own reality.

You slid off the bed, the skirt riding up and leaving you exposed in a way that made you feel both vulnerable and thrilled. The cold air kissed your skin, sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the chilly temperature of your room.

You padded over to the kitchen, the plush carpet silent under your bare feet. The fridge hummed—a comforting sound that was the background noise of your life outside of PixelBunny. You grabbed a bottle of water, twisting off the cap with trembling hands.

The condensation felt like a lifeline to reality, a reminder that you weren't just a body for their pleasure. You took a sip, the cool liquid soothing the dryness of your throat.

Leaning against the counter, you let the weight of the day—of Xavier’s gaze and the mysterious note—settle on your shoulders. The stream was a respite, a place where you could control the narrative, but it was becoming harder to ignore the threads connecting your two lives.

You stared into the darkness outside the kitchen window, wondering if Xavier was really out there, watching.

When you returned to the bed, the chat had moved on. They were discussing the latest trends, some were sharing memes, and sending more tips than ever before. It was as if the break had only served to stoke the fires of their lust.

You took a deep breath and climbed back onto the bed, picking up your persona like a well-worn costume.

"I'm back," you trilled into the microphone, the sound echoing in the quiet of the night. "And I brought something extra special." You held up a bottle of cum lube that Lilith had given you as a freebie this evening, the white bottle catching the light from the ring. "Someone's going to get very full tonight."

The chat exploded with excitement.

Mr. WhiteCoat tipped 1500 credits: There you are, PixelBunny.

R.tist!c: what brand is that bunny ill mix it with my paints

Syl.Draconia tipped 3000 credits: Youre giving me ideas what to send you next Bunny.

C.Pilot: I've missed you baby

X-Devoted: Ur naughty as ever, Pixel

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. Tonight was about them, not your paranoia. You were PixelBunny, and PixelBunny didn’t get scared by strange customers at her day job. PixelBunny didn’t get nervous about someone knowing her secrets.

The stream picked up again, your voice steady and sweet. You slipped back into your digital skin like a glove, the fear and doubt of the day peeling away to reveal the bratty, flirty veneer that made men drop their wallets. The camera was your shield, the lens a barrier between the real world and the fantasy you spun.

"Well, well, well," you cooed, licking your lips like a kitten eyeing a bowl of cream. "My Daddies are being so generous tonight." You winked at the camera, your eyes sparkling with the kind of mischief that made men like X.Devoted, Mr. WhiteCoat, and the others crave more. "But which one of you Daddies is going to make me beg the prettiest?”

You squirted a dollop of the cum lube onto your fingers, the clear gel glistening in the soft light of your room. "This is for the Daddy who can make me scream the loudest," you whispered, stroking it over your clit, watching the chat light up with their eager replies.

Syl.Draconia tipped 3700 credits.

Syl.Draconia tipped 2000 credits.

Syl.Draconia tipped 1850 credits.

Syl.Draconia tipped 2000 credits.

Syl.Draconia tipped 3000 credits.

Syl.Draconia tipped 5000 credits.

Your heart skipped a beat as the message from Syl.Draconia filled the chat. His series of ludicrous tips had hit you like a thunderclap. It wasn't the first time he did such a thing. It was just you only received huge tips from him during private streams—whether with the other four VIPs or during one-on-one sessions.

With him in the best mood, you wouldn’t know which would reach climax first—your or your stream’s credit quota.

“Oh my god, Daddy Syl!” You dramatically moaned, rolling your eyes for more effect. “Oh Daddy, you’re as generous as always.”

Syl.Draconia: My apologies. My pet landed on the keyboard.

Syl.Draconia: But go on. Strip for us Bunny. Show us your treasure.

C.Pilot: show off. nobody cares about your stupid pet.

R.tist!c: whoever you are i thank you in behalf of my muse

Mr. WhiteCoat: Think of it as a fund for your new costumes, PixelBunny.

The room grew hotter, the air thick with anticipation as you read the message out loud, your voice dripping with faux reluctance. You knew the drill—the more you resisted, the more they’d want to see. With a dramatic sigh, you began to peel off your costume, the fabric clinging to your sweat-slicked skin.

Mr. WhiteCoat: Slower, darling. I want to savor it.

X-Devoted: Yes, let us see all of u

The tips continued to pour in as you stripped away the last of your clothing, leaving you bare and exposed to the hungry gaze of your viewers. The coolness of the room washed over your naked skin, a stark contrast to the heat in your cheeks. You knew you were playing a dangerous game, but the thrill of it all was intoxicating.

You straddled the pink gaming chair, your legs spread wide for the camera. The cold leather bit into your thighs, sending a shiver through your body that was met with a chorus of approval from the chat. The cum lube felt sticky on your skin, a constant reminder of the performance you were putting on.

You began to rub your clit in slow, deliberate circles, watching the numbers climb higher and higher with every pass of your fingers.

R.tist!c: yes just like that

Syl.Draconia: Spread wider I want to see everything.

C.Pilot: you’re so perfect Bun. I wanna suck on that clit.

Their words were like a symphony, each note hitting just the right spot to make you feel wanted, needed, desired. You leaned back, arching your spine as the pleasure began to build again. The camera captured every shiver, every gasp, every drop of sweat that trickled down your body.

Mr. WhiteCoat: So, so pretty.

X-Devoted: Ure mine Pixel

The chat grew more frenzied, the tips coming in so fast they were a blur on the screen. You could feel their eyes on you, their hands moving in sync with yours. You were theirs, and they were yours. The power was intoxicating, but the fear of Xavier’s knowing gaze lingered in the back of your mind like a shadow.

You reached for the dildo you had set aside earlier, a thick, realistic toy that was a favorite among your patrons. The coldness of it against your skin made you gasp, the sound echoing in the silent room. You lubed it up, the sticky gel mixing with the sweat between your legs, and slid it inside you, the stretch sending a bolt of pleasure through your overstimulated cunt.

The chat erupted into a cacophony of moans and demands, each patron trying to outdo the last. You lost yourself in the rhythm, the plastic filling you up, the vibrations of the toy still humming against your swollen clit. The fear of Xavier slipped away, drowned out by the need to satisfy the men who had come to expect your undivided attention.

Mr. WhiteCoat: Take it all, my little slut.

R.tist!c: oh baby youre going to make me cum on my easel

Syl.Draconia: Look at all that cum lube. Imagine its my cum filling you up Bunny.

C.Pilot: that’s it, baby. take it like a good girl.

You threw your head back, letting the pleasure take over. The room spun around you, a kaleidoscope of colors and sounds that blurred into one overwhelming crescendo. You were PixelBunny, the queen of your domain, and they were your devoted subjects.

The dildo slammed into you, the force of your hips meeting it with each thrust. Gaming chair creaked in protest, creating a salacious symphony along with the wet squelch of the phallic toy. The camera captured every drop of sweat, every twitch of your body as you approached the edge.

The chat was a flurry of messages, each one more demanding than the last. But it was X-Devoted’s message that made your heart race.

X-Devoted: Whos watching u, Pixel? Whos making u feel this good

You bit your bottom lip, trying to ignore the question that seemed to hang in the air, thick with the scent of your arousal and lingering anxiety. You didn’t know if he was just playing along or if he truly knew. The doubt was like a snake coiling in your stomach, tightening with each breath you took.

Mr. WhiteCoat tipped 2000 credits.

R.tist!c tipped 1500 credits.

Syl.Draconia tipped 3000 credits.

C.Pilot tipped 2500 credits.

The tips were like a siren’s call, luring you closer to the precipice. Your breaths grew shallower, your movements more erratic as the climax approached. The toy was a part of you now, an extension of their desire that you wielded with precision.

R.tist!c: fuck bunny i can almost feel you around me

Syl.Draconia: I want to bury my face in you, taste you.

C.Pilot: you’re going to make me go over my limit again.

Their words were like a drug, a sweet poison that fueled your performance. You knew you were close—so close that you could almost taste it.

But it was the silence from X-Devoted that had you second-guessing everything. Still, the show must go on.

“Oh god! Yes, yes! Daddy, I’m gonna cum!”

With a final, desperate push, you came hard. Your cunt spasming around the plastic cock as your juices created a frothy mixture with the cum lube.

The orgasm was like a hurricane, a force of nature that swept through you, leaving you trembling and gasping for air. Thick, frothy liquid sluiced down to your thighs, until it pooled on the chair—coating the dildo’s shaft and balls as if it was a real cock showered with cum post-climax.

The chat erupted with digital applause, but all you could focus on was the empty space where X-Devoted’s name should have been.

You stood up and collapsed back onto the bed, the toy slipping from your grip to land with a wet thud on the floor. The room was still spinning, the echo of your own moans ringing in your ears. You felt exposed, raw, and more alone than ever before. The thrill of the performance had been replaced by a cold, hard reality.

The chat grew quiet, the tips slowing to a trickle as your patrons retreated to their own corners of the internet. You laid there, the sticky lube drying on your skin, the coldness of the room a stark contrast to the heat of your performance.

Syl.Draconia tipped 1500 credits: That was spectacular my sweet Bunny.

C.Pilot: made me cum so hard on my screen. as expected of my girl.

R.tist!c: damn bunny you made me forgot to tell you i sent you a gift today

R.tistic: its a surprise tho

Mr. WhiteCoat: Don't forget to hydrate, PixelBunny. Get some good rest.

You knew you had to end the stream, to pull the curtains closed on the part of you that was PixelBunny. But as you reached for the desktop, the fear of Xavier’s knowing gaze crept back in. What if he had been watching? What if he knew?

With a trembling hand, you typed out a quick goodbye, the keys sticky with the mixture of your cum and the lube.

"Thank you, Daddies. Don't forget to visit my wishlist!" You giggled, trying to keep the tremor from your voice as you ended the stream.

The room felt eerily empty without the glow of the camera, and the sudden silence was deafening. You lay there for a moment, trying to catch your breath, the aftershocks of your orgasm still pulsing through your body.

As you gathered your discarded clothing and the now-silent toys, X-Devoted’s message echoed in your mind. It was his usual sign-off, but today it felt loaded with meaning. You couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew something—that he was watching you closer than ever before.

The DMs from X-Devoted popped up on your screen, a stark contrast to the quiet emptiness of your room.

X-Devoted: Lately, Ive been busy with work and visit cafés to unwind when I have the time. I tried normal ones, a cat cafe, maid cafés, they were all cute and pastel. They reminded me of u

X-Devoted: But Uve done maid costumes already

X-Devoted: …I am thinking maybe U could try barista roleplay some time. Ill send you outfits soon when I have them

Your stomach twisted into a knot at the proposal. The line between your stream persona and your real-life job had always been clear, but now it felt like it was blurring, as if he had reached through the screen and grabbed a piece of you to pull into his own twisted game.

The thought of playing out a scene that mirrored your everyday life for their entertainment made you feel sick.

But you had to respond. You had to keep up the act.

You typed back with forced enthusiasm, "Oooh, Daddy, you know I love a good roleplay! And thank you in advance for the outfit! ♡"

But as you hit send, your heart raced, and your palms grew slick with sweat. The idea of bringing your café job into the stream was terrifying—it was your sanctuary, your escape from PixelBunny.

You couldn’t let them take that from you too. The thought of them watching you, knowing who you really were, was too much to bear.

You had to find a way to regain control.

To keep your two lives separate.

But as you laid there, the direct messages from your other patrons continued to flood in, each one a gentle reminder of their devoted obsession. Mr. WhiteCoat's concern for your well-being—it was as if he could sense the shift in the air, the panic that X-Devoted had brought to the surface; R.tistic’s flirty compliments, and Syl.Draconia's possessive tips.

They were all a part of the same web, the same shadowy world that had grown more tangible with every passing day.

And then there was C.Pilot whose sweetness had always been tinged with something darker. His messages had been more intense tonight, more competitive and parasocial.

The weight of it all became too much, and you couldn’t help but spiral. Your thoughts raced, your breathing grew shallow.

Who were they, really? How much of your life had they infiltrated? Was there any part of you that wasn’t theirs to command?

The room grew smaller, the walls closing in as you stared at the ceiling, your heart hammering in your chest. The siren call of your next paycheck, the thrill of their attention, the fear of discovery—it was all too much.

You curled into a ball, the coldness of the room seeping into your bones. The whispers of your patrons' voices, their kinks, and their desires swirled in your mind, a maelstrom of need and obsession that you had once found thrilling but now felt suffocating.

How did you let it get this far? How did you become a puppet in a show you didn’t write? You were the one in control—or so you thought.

But now, as you lay there trembling, you couldn’t help but wonder if the real PixelBunny was the one being played.

The anxiety grew, a monster in the dark, feeding on your fear and doubt. The only thing keeping it at bay was the knowledge that you had a part to play in their twisted games.

But even that was slipping—because if Xavier was X-Devoted, then your real life was about to collide with your digital one in a way you never could have anticipated.

The countdown to your next stream had already begun.

And there was nothing you could do to stop it.

➷ TAGLIST

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