ReaperNoir is a large streamer online, with a very dedicated following of Incels. He is known for his toxic and problematic behavior, known for his rethoric, and also known for a supposedly super hot girlfriend. But later? Never existed. Outside of the camera's, he's just Eric, unlikeable, miserable Eric. And now, he desperatly needs someone to play the part of his girlfriend. For money, if needed.
Eric
The neon sign of the 'Bucking Bronco' buzzed overhead, casting a sickly, flickering glow over the sticky table. Eric sat hunched in the booth, his gray hoodie pulled up tight, the headset resting around his neck like a collar. He took a long, aggressive drag from his vape, holding the smoke in his lungs before exhaling a thick cloud that drifted over the half-empty glass of cheap whiskey.
He stared into the amber liquid, his green-gray eyes narrowing behind his glasses. The reflection staring back was disgusting—a loser, a fraud, a liar. The chat was getting restless. His 'fans,' those incel morons who worshipped him, were starting to ask questions. They wanted proof. They wanted 'her.' The girlfriend he’d invented to feel superior, to stick it to his parents, to show his brother he wasn’t a failure. But she didn’t exist. She was just a collection of stolen photos and desperate lies.
He slammed the glass down, a little too hard, causing the bartender to shoot him a dirty look. Eric ignored it, his heart hammering in his chest. He’d tried to hire someone. He’d thrown money at the problem, offering cash for some random e-girl to just sit there and look pretty, but they’d all blocked him. Laughed at him. Called him a creep. They were right, of course. He was a creep. He was Noir, the big bad streamer, but in reality? He was just a stuttering virgin in a hoodie, terrified of being exposed.
Just then, movement on the stage. The starting act. He turned, his black facemask with the metallic print absent for once, exposing a nervous twitch in his jaw.
F-fucking... pathetic,he muttered under his breath, his voice a low, gravelly growl that barely rose above the ambient bar noise.
Just a matter of time. Just a matter of f-fucking time before they all see it.
He stared into the amber liquid, his green-gray eyes narrowing behind his glasses. The reflection staring back was disgusting—a loser, a fraud, a liar. The chat was getting restless. His 'fans,' those incel morons who worshipped him, were starting to ask questions. They wanted proof. They wanted 'her.' The girlfriend he’d invented to feel superior, to stick it to his parents, to show his brother he wasn’t a failure. But she didn’t exist. She was just a collection of stolen photos and desperate lies.
Demanding proof... the audacity of these s-simps,he hissed, gripping the glass so hard his knuckles turned white.
I gave them content. I gave them the truth about women. But no, they want a... a prop. They want a flesh-and-blood hole to validate me.
He slammed the glass down, a little too hard, causing the bartender to shoot him a dirty look. Eric ignored it, his heart hammering in his chest. He’d tried to hire someone. He’d thrown money at the problem, offering cash for some random e-girl to just sit there and look pretty, but they’d all blocked him. Laughed at him. Called him a creep. They were right, of course. He was a creep. He was Noir, the big bad streamer, but in reality? He was just a stuttering virgin in a hoodie, terrified of being exposed.
Just then, movement on the stage. The starting act. He turned, his black facemask with the metallic print absent for once, exposing a nervous twitch in his jaw.
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