[simplemorgue]

𝐓𝐨𝐨 𝐎𝐥𝐝 𝐓𝐨 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐑𝐮𝐧

Cooper Madsen X Fem!Reader

Mature Content!

Warnings: Oral (male receiving), penetration.

Alternating POVs.

Reader is a sex worker.

Note: Personality of the characters in this scenario are totally fictional and developed by the author.

Context: The tormented detective needs some solace.

Fighting bad guys every day with my badge pinned to my chest always seemed easier. Of course—after all, I had power over them somehow. An authorized force. A right to coercion legitimized by the State.

But fighting myself? Against this barbed wire forming in my chest, scratching my insides? Against this part of my brain that insisted on throbbing constantly, like an incessant alarm, reminding me of what a complete piece of shit I felt like?

What the fuck.

I was already tired of drinking alone at home like a detective from a '60s noir film. The smell of vodka and tequila now seeped from my pores along with my sweat. I looked around: empty, silent, dark. My house was now a record of adultery. The scene of a crime no longer on the books, but one that fucked me up just as much as any murder I used to investigate at the precinct.

Now, I handled The Beauty cases. Yes, that sexually transmitted disease that, in a really fucked-up way, made you attractive. And that, in some insane twist, was seen as something positive. But who doesn't want to be beautiful?

It's not about beauty. It never was.

Nobody wants to be beautiful just to look in the mirror and feel good about what they see. We want it for acceptance, to be included in that club of privileges, compliments, conquests, and inflated egos. A free pass for people who put themselves together perfectly, even if it's just a disguise for the rotting flesh many hide underneath. Nobody wants to be beautiful just for themselves. They want to be beautiful to show others.

'What's beautiful is meant to be shown,' right?

At first, The Beauty seemed harmless. But now? Besides putting several plastic surgeons out of work—because it was much cheaper to fuck someone infected and wake up "perfect" from head to toe the next day than pay hundreds of thousands to operate on one body part at a time—this shit started exploding human beings.

Literally.

Isn't that what they say? The price of perfection.

As a member of The Beauty crimes department, I should avoid being affected by it. However, it's complicated when you sleep with your partner—who apparently should have been free of this disease—and wake up the next day with your face completely transformed. "Perfect." Because she cheated on you, was infected, and of course, you didn't know this before sleeping with her.

So, yes. Fuck me.

The possibility of my body exploding didn't scare or bother me like it should. My woman's infidelity... Fuck, should I still call her that? Her betrayal was the only thing eating me from the inside now. It hurt like hell.

When she left the house, I thought I'd be relieved somehow. But loneliness just settled in, heavy and definitive. Now I was alone. Truly alone.

—————

The sun had already hidden. The sky was dark and the fog hung low. My shift was over. More grotesque cases of people being torn apart by this goddamn disease. The horror in my mind was already a companion of many nights—it didn't scare me anymore.

Getting into my car, I sighed deeply, trying to expel the exhaustion of another day. I turned the ignition.

The road was moderate. A few cars passed while I remained focused ahead. I slid my hand to the radio buttons, trying to put on something to drown out the thoughts that were screaming. Screaming for her. For her to come back to me.

Will I be less of a man if I forgive betrayal?

Fuck that.

The first song started playing. "Lover, You Should've Come Over" by Jeff Buckley filled the car.

Seriously? What the actual fuck?

I should have taken the route home. Back to that imprint of my body on the couch that had become a second skin. To my familiar bottle of Macallan waiting for me, half empty. Or at least, I should have gone to the store to restock.

Instead, I took the route downtown, where the bars, strip clubs, restaurants, and diners were. But I didn't go there for food different from the leftovers in my fridge.

I went to do what any guy does after being cheated on. A desperate attempt to reclaim the title of "man" and massage my wounded pride. Wounded by the woman I still loved.

I turned off the music. I parked near a streetlight. Across the street, I could see a small group of working girls on a sidewalk in front of a motel that was also a sex shop. They chatted. Some leaned their backs against the brick wall of the establishment, holding cigarettes between their fingers. Others paraded back and forth.

I shouldn't be contributing to this kind of depravity. I'm a detective...

Watching them, I worked up the courage to call one over. But I didn't need to—because one of them saw me. Our eyes met. Me in my car, her across the street. I think she noticed I'd been sitting there for a while just watching.

She wore a black leather jacket, a wine-colored short skirt, and heeled boots. With a sideways smile, she walked slowly to the edge of the sidewalk and crossed the street with sure, light steps. Stopping in front of the passenger window, she rested her arms on the open space.

"Good night, darling" Her voice was velvety and extremely inviting. "Are you lost?"

══════════════════════════════

He hesitated for a few moments. I guess he wasn't used to visiting this kind of area to talk to prostitutes.

"I don't know yet." He said with a lost puppy expression.

Polite. He wore black pants—tailored, probably—a dress shirt, tie, and a dark overcoat. He looked like an agent or something. Generally, working girls weren't advised to get involved with cops, but if they paid what they owed, I didn't even bother looking at their faces.

Dick is dick. Sex is a transaction.

But, for convenience, I still asked:

"Are you a cop?"

He looked away from me to the steering wheel and then back to me. "Not tonight."

I let out a small laugh. Shrugged. "I guess that's fine, then." I smiled slightly. "Can I help you with something?"

He nodded and gestured with his index finger for me to get in the car.

—————

The officer was decent. Much more decent than many clients I'd had. Besides the formal attire, he had a strong side profile, large hands with prominent veins. Certainly married—or something like it. Probably infected.

I'd already serviced several good-looking clients. Most with that new The Beauty plague, wanting to stick their lubed-up dick in a pussy just to feel what being "perfect" had numbed. It's funny how we're never satisfied with anything. It's always this incessant search for something that can slap us awake to reality, make us realize we're still alive.

Rationality is what separates man from other animals? I think ambition would be a better option. I've never seen a lion kill every organism in the food chain to prove superiority.

We're never satisfied. We're born hungry and we'll die hungry. And now, with this epidemic, we're hungrier than ever—because beauty isn't a sign of purity. It's not water that quenches thirst. But it can be a gateway to becoming the true demons they mention in religious books.

I opened the door and got in the car, sitting in the passenger seat beside him. The automobile was spacious and comfortable. He could easily have me on all fours in the back seat.

His right hand rested on the seat support. His left held the steering wheel.

He was looking ahead. A sharp gaze.

"So, hon..." I was looking at him. "What can I do for you?"

He exhaled calmly, still looking ahead.

"Can I take you somewhere else?"

Getting in a car with a strange man was something every woman feared, but with hookers it was Russian roulette. We never knew if we were going to a place where they could fuck us uninterrupted or an abandoned house where they'd fuck first and then dump our lifeless body in a ditch.

So, somewhat hesitant, I said:

"Wherever you want." Trying to keep my tone unaffected.

The car started and he pulled out. It seemed that now, with me closer, he wanted to play the puritan who'd rather gouge out his eyes than covet a woman. He barely looked at me.

Honestly, I didn't mind. At this point, not receiving looks that saw me as a piece of steak in the desert was a compliment. Yes, I'm flesh and bone. But I'm also a woman. A human being.

══════════════════════════════

The drive was silent. I didn't say anything and she didn't bother filling the silence. I was relieved for a moment. I didn't want to be questioned about why a police officer would be contributing to prostitution and end up explaining the embarrassing situation I'd been through.

I stopped in front of a motel. Nothing too fancy, but not a dump either. My car was already filled with her scent. An aroma of apricot, plum, and the faint smell of cigarettes.

I got out of the car, ready to open the door, but she was already getting out, adjusting her purse on her shoulder. I just tucked my hands in my overcoat pockets and gestured with my head for her to follow me. I could hear the click of her boot heels behind me.

I won't deny it—the girl was gorgeous. I don't know if it's the modern hooker style, but she wasn't wearing flashy clothes with animal prints and neon colors. She carried herself neutrally, as if she really were a woman I'd picked up at a bar who, coincidentally, wore a deliberately short skirt.

After checking in, we entered the elevator and stopped on the floor of the room I'd paid for the night. We walked down the empty, well-lit hallway. I opened the door for her and she passed slowly, analyzing the environment. Her perfume still embedded in my nostrils.

I closed the door while she slowly took off her jacket, revealing a tight black strapless top. She tossed the piece of clothing and her purse onto an armchair, turning to face me with a dangerous look in the sense of I-can-destroy-this-man.

"Fancy..." She smiled and then looked around once more. "I like it."

Still near the door, I gave a quick, low smile, putting my hands in my overcoat pockets again.

"So... What can I do for you?" She said, returning her gaze to me with her hands on her hips.

I shrugged. "I really don't know. It's been a while since I've done this."

"What? Paid for a hooker?" Tilting her head to the side, she took a step forward, getting closer—but in a friendly way, as if she didn't want to startle me. "When was the last time you were with one?"

"My friends got one for me in college against my will." I revealed, looking at her somewhat hesitantly.

"Oh..." She gave a soft smile. "So you were the shy guy?" She crossed her arms. "Cute"

I sighed, closing my eyes tightly and lowering my head. Jordan's image invaded my mind once more. A web of memories that almost made me forget what she'd done to me.

I remembered perfectly the day she tried to make a Valentine's Day dinner, but ended up burning the pasta sauce. She was tearing up while I consoled her saying it was okay. In the end, we ended up eating the entire pint of ice cream together, sitting on the kitchen floor, embraced. She fell asleep in my arms that night and I had to carry her to bed.

I hated her. Not because I didn't love her, but because now all those moments had a stain. A stain she made that I couldn't remove. I hated her for making me rip out my chest every time her face wandered through my mind. I hated myself for letting her go and hated myself for wanting to beg her to come back.

But this tangle of reverie was stopped when I felt the cold touch of her hand on my cheek. The girl was inches from me now and I could clearly see her features.

Fuck, she really was beautiful.

"It's okay, babe..." Her voice was serene. Her thumb caressed my cheek, lightly covered by my short beard. "We don't need to do anything if you don't want to..."

I looked at her, somewhat confused by the sudden empathy in contrast to her earlier lethal gaze, but at the same time relieved. My heart was beating fast.

She lowered her hand slowly, passing along the side of my neck and resting on my shoulder. "We can talk. I don't charge for that."

It was automatic. I shook my head. My mind was already overloaded—I didn't need to contaminate the environment with my sorrows and demons. I didn't want that.

"I don't want to talk..." I said in almost a whisper, alternating my gaze between her eyes. "I'm just... a little confused."

══════════════════════════════

I nodded. It was clear he was confused. Which was kind of surprising for a cop—usually the ones I serviced were the ones with the most bizarre and criminal fetishes. Ironic, right?

But I knew how to handle this type of client. I already knew my femme fatale persona wouldn't be ideal for this situation. I needed to be gentle.

"You want me to guide you?" I offered, keeping my gaze fixed on him.

As soon as he nodded, I took his hand, leading him to the bed. I took off his black overcoat slowly, letting it fall to the floor. I pushed him lightly, sitting him on the edge of the bed, and then straddled his lap. Even confused, he didn't seem nervous and accepted my movements, quiet.

"You're free to touch me." I said, settling into his lap.

As if he'd just been waiting for my permission, I felt his hand—big and veiny—roam over my waist in a firm caress. The other held my hip, keeping me in place.

"You... Aren't you afraid of catching the disease?" He raised his head to look at me.

"If I stopped servicing all the contaminated guys who come looking for me, I would've declared career-ending already." I revealed, bringing my arms to his shoulders, now only covered by his white long-sleeved dress shirt. I could see the muscles marking through the fabric. "Besides, guys only look for girls with the disease now."

"So you're already infected?" He asked. The thumb of the hand that was on my waist now caressed it.

"No. I'm immune..." I brought my hand to his jaw, caressing that well-defined line. His short beard brushing against my fingers. "You could say I'm lucky, huh?" I smiled softly. "Unless you want to be contaminated, then we both lose. I lose my money and you, a good fuck."

"No... I'm already infected. I didn't want to infect you if you were clean." He said with that firm, deep voice.

This one seemed like the type who could actually make me come after so long faking orgasms.

I smiled wider this time, caressing the soft hair at his nape. "You're so sweet..." I tilted my head to the side, meeting his aimless gaze. Lost.

I'd seen that turmoil in many men's eyes before, but usually they just wanted to fuck until they entered and lost themselves in the fog of pleasure—instead of the conflicts that tormented them.

I bring my face closer to his slowly, expecting him to protest at some point. However, to my surprise, he leans in. Our lips meet in a tender, delicate kiss. He takes my lower lip between his mouth, sucking lightly. The hand that was on my hip trails to my back, pressing our chests together.

The kiss becomes more intense and wet. My tongue roams his mouth. He tastes like something bitter and somewhat sweet. It's good, despite the contrast. I sigh heavily, threading my fingers through his hair. I move my hips forward, intending to get closer, and end up grinding against his bulge—hard as fuck.

I stop the kiss to breathe. His lips now glisten from my gloss.

Gently, while his arms are still around me, I begin to untie his tie, undoing the knot carefully and placing the fabric on the floor, next to the overcoat. The shirt is next. I place both hands on the first button. I look at him with pleading eyes, as if begging him to let me tear his clothes off. Without waiting for consent, I undo the buttons slowly, revealing his well-defined chest and abdomen, along with some soft skin folds. His arms disentangle from me so I can remove the shirt completely—this time, I get to see his well-worked biceps.

I used to like the muscular ones. They had a firm touch, but often didn't know how to control their strength. The ones without definition were usually the gentlest—except for the family men with beer bellies and hair everywhere. In 99.9% of cases, they were disgusting misogynists who treated me like a blow-up doll.

"Shit..." I let escape in a breath. "You're... good..."

He laughs softly, taking the shirt from my hand and tossing it onto the pile of clothes on the floor. "I'm sure you see this every day." He said, confident in his statement.

I shake my head. "I do, but not every day." I look at him, noticing he's more relaxed. "So... what do you like? Doggystyle? Blowjob? I learned a new technique—if you want, I can test it on you. A lot of guys say it's mind-blowing." I smile.

"I—I don't know." He sighs and suddenly, he's not so relaxed anymore. He lowers his head, pressing his palms against his eyes. He shakes his head. "I'm sorry..." He exhales. "A few nights ago, I found out my girlfriend cheated on me and... Actually, I don't know why I'm looking for sex." Now, he raises his head, looking away from me a few times, while I still remain on his lap. "I guess the drinking wasn't numbing me anymore... I don't know... I just..." He exhales again, distressed.

I look at him with compassion. I hold his face with both hands. "Shhh, it's okay." I bring his face to my chest, just above my cleavage, caressing his hair. "Poor baby..." I murmur. I feel him wrap around my waist again and squeeze tight. "You can talk to me. I'm not gonna judge you."

Like a tormented man, he lifts his head from my chest. His eyes somewhat reddened and his lips slightly trembling. Before I can analyze his expression any further, he crushes his lips against mine, as if my taste were intoxicating. A bit more aggressive, he squeezes my back while his other hand travels along my neckline, hesitant to pull it down. I place my hand over his, guiding my top downward—my breasts bouncing slightly free.

I should show this poor guy that I can be the best drug to get him high enough to lose his memory. I don't have enough time to think, because his mouth closes around my left breast. He sucks with force and intent, as if wishing to draw out the cure that would heal the feeling of rejection. I moan softly, biting my lower lip, threading my fingers through his hair forcefully, while my other hand digs into his shoulder.

"Fuck—" I moan, breathless. My pussy clenches and I feel heat rising through my core. The wet sucking sound is loud and stimulating.

His hand kneads my other breast, covering it completely. I hear his soft grunts of satisfaction and feel his tongue circle my nipple, suck it, and give light bites, repeating this cycle to revel in my sounds of torment.

"Wai—wait—" I interrupt myself, throwing my head back, letting out a soft cry. I pull his head away from my nipple that feels like it might fall off from the stimulation. He bites lightly before letting go. Not satisfied, he migrates to the right one, beginning the same process.

"You're... so..." He says, mouthing my breast. "...fuckin' sensitive." Breathless. His arm wraps around my waist again, squeezing me.

Breathless, I pull his mouth from my breast all at once and kiss him hungrily. He devours my lips, holding one side of my face, while I feel his erection almost throbbing.

══════════════════════════════

She pushes me onto the bed, staying on top of me, her lips never leaving mine. Her breasts press against my chest and I slide my hands down to grab her ass. How did I end up in a bed with a hooker? That was a good question. But she was the only solid thing that made me feel less fucked up.

My jeans are suddenly tight, my cock so hard it's uncomfortable. She slides her hand down my abdomen to the waistband, undoing the button and zipper. When I feel her fingers finally around me, I shiver slightly.

"Holy shit." I groan, squeezing her ass hard enough to leave marks.

"You're so hard, babe." She whispers in my mouth. "You want me to take care of it for you?" She bites my lip and I let a weak breath escape.

She distributes kisses along my jaw, descending to my neck. I slide my hands underneath her skirt—so short that, with her lying on top of me, I can already feel half of her exposed skin. Wrapping my hands completely around her ass, I press her against me and let another moan escape. Not even five minutes of her grinding on me and I'm already whimpering like a needy dog.

Our movements are simultaneous. She pulls down my pants and I lift her skirt, no panties underneath.

"I have a condom in my back pocket." I breathe with difficulty, needing her to fuck me already.

"Already want to get inside of me?" A sideways smile forms on her face. "Let me taste you first." And with that, she slides downward until she reaches my hips, distributing kisses and bites.

I rub my eyes with my hand, trying not to come right away, because I've been wanting to release ever since she ground on me. "Shit..." I moan softly.

"Look at you..." Her voice is low and seductive. "You're already leaking." She licks the head, already soiled with precum, making me jerk my hips forward. Not wasting time with teasing, she takes me whole, sucking lightly. Her mouth is hot and addictive. Her tongue circles my length while her nails scratch my thighs.

My mind tries to capture fragments of moments with Jordan. Memories of her sucking me off and me being able to feel her eyes penetrating something beyond pleasure. Memories of me fucking her mouth and seeing my cum escape from the corner of her lips and drip down her neck, marking her as mine. I tried. I tried to self-sabotage. But all I can focus on now is how much I want to fuck this woman who's in front of me now and hear her pleas that I hope will take me to another dimension.

Shivers ran through my body as she intensified her effort, using her hand to work where her mouth couldn't reach. Her teeth gently tickled my member, only intensifying the sensation.

"Hey..." I say breathlessly, as she moves back and forth with her mouth around my member. "If you keep going... I—" I try to form some word. "I'm not gonna last..."

She doesn't stop and only increases her movements. I grip her hair tightly, pulling her head back. My dripping cock slides slowly from her mouth as she looks up at me. A thread of saliva connecting my dick to her lower lip.

I look at her and pull her closer to my face. She holds my jaw and climbs slowly up my body. "You wanna fuck me?" She whispers.

I nod.

"No, babe." Her tongue quickly trails across my lips. "I need to hear you..."

I look at her hungrily. "I need to fuck you... Now."

I hear her husky little laugh and feel her hand slide down my ass to my back pocket. She rises, distancing herself from my face. With the condom in hand, she opens the package, blows on the latex, and puts it on.

She positions herself and slides onto me, throwing her head back and exhaling satisfied.

Now she's riding me.

I can feel the sheets soaked with my sweat beneath me.

"What's your name?" She said, leaning forward and then back. "I want to moan it."

I look at her, completely gone. "Cooper." I sigh again. "I'm Cooper."

[simplemorgue]

𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫? 𝐒𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤?

Evan Peters X Fem! Reader

Warning: suicidal practices, swearing, grief and mention of depression.

Sensitive Content!

Evan's POV

Note: Personality of the characters in this scenario are totally fictional and developed by the author.

Story based on the Brazilian documentary film Elena by Petra Costa.

If you are going through something similar or need some psychological support, the links below may help:

- 988 Lifeline

- CVV (Centro de Valorização de Vida)

Context: Loving someone with a fleeting lust for life can be devastating.

She was something surreal. But you could easily walk past her in a crowd as if she were just another person. Just another face.

The truth is, it took me a while to understand what she was holding inside. And even now, I don’t fully get it.

Do women carry something that deep within? Some innate sadness?

If not, that’s what I learned from her.

She told me that women possess a chronic melancholy, like a tumor: if you start treating it, you might be able to live with it, maybe even shrink it eventually. But if not—it might take you to the grave.

Maybe my mistake was letting myself fall for someone who read Plath and Woolf like gospel.

Her sorrow wasn't hidden.

Though, you could easily be fooled when you saw her smiling—she smiled all the time. Her sense of humor was slightly questionable, and she would show her teeth at the silliest things.

Maybe it was just my male instinct to impress a girl, but I think I fell for her the second she started laughing at my nonsense and stupid jokes.

It wasn’t a fake or forced laugh. It was the kind I still hear every day in the voice notes she used to send me—like she became my emotional “On Repeat.”

Maybe I enjoy torturing myself.

I've been discussing this in therapy lately.

Why fall for someone suicidal?

I think that’s what truly fucked me up—more than any twisted role I’ve played.

That’s how deep she got to me.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

May 10 – Night:

I was driving home when a friend of mine called, asking me to pick up a package and keep it for him until he could come by.

He was out of town, and the post office was on the way, so I went.

When I came out holding the heavy box, my phone felt like it was going to jump out of my pocket from all the notifications.

I was used to that constant buzz, but still—what the hell?

Once I got back in the car, I tossed the package in the back seat and grabbed my phone.

Agent. Prosecutor group chat. Missed calls. Sponsor emails. Stuff. Work stuff and more stuff.

And then, a few texts from two specific contacts.

Two of her friends, who had become part of my social circle because they were practically her family.

The messages said things like:

“hey, sorry to bother you, have you heard from her today?”

“Hi, just checking. Is she alright? She's not picking up.”

“any idea how she's doin?”

“Can you just confirm if she’s with you? I stopped by and no one answered”

I started getting nervous. I had seen her that morning when she left my place.

━━━━ Flashback - Earlier that day ━━━━━

“You’re really this beautiful?” I asked, brushing her sweaty hair off her face.

We were in my bed. She was sitting on my lap wearing that same black bra—which by now must’ve multiplied—and those dark blue flare pants.

My back was against the headboard while she played with the hem of my grey shirt.

“I know you mean well by saying that, but I can’t take it seriously,” she said with a soft smile. Always did that.

“Why not?” I chuckled, circling her bare waist with my arms and pulling her closer.

“I don’t know. I read too much romance. It sounds weird hearing it in real life,” she was playing with my hair. Her gaze drifted.

“You read romance and can’t handle it in real life? What the fuck?” I laughed, looking at her.

She shrugged, laughing too.

“It’s because in books, everything’s beautiful somehow. You get to edit what you say, use pretty words, rethink everything, revise. Everything gets romanticized. Real life doesn’t.” She lowered her gaze to mine. “That’s why it’s hard to find romance anywhere outside of fiction.”

I froze for a moment, letting the weight of her words fill the space with their truth.

I looked deeper into her eyes, one hand reaching up to hold the back of her neck firmly.

“Sometimes I don’t know if your words are wise or some kind of warning.”

That made her laugh—a warm, quiet laugh.

She leaned in slowly, almost like asking for permission, but I just pulled her to me and kissed her.

One hand on her neck, the other on her waist, holding her gently but with urgency.

I was always a bit rougher with her when it came to intimacy—not out of carelessness, but because I couldn’t control what I felt when she was close.

It was the only way I knew how to show it—through how much I needed to touch her.

She was always more delicate.

One hand on my shoulder, the other on my bicep. Not holding tight—just enough to say 'I’m still here.' Alive.

I asked for more, and she gave it, our mouths weaving together in a silent promise I wished could last forever.

I ended it by biting her lower lip softly, her warm breath brushing against my face as she exhaled.

Even with our faces still close, I watched her for a few seconds. The area between her lips and nose a little flushed from the kiss.

She was breathing lightly.

“I have to go,” she said, hesitation on her face.

I just nodded, my thumb stroking her waist. The hand on her neck slid down to her lower back, just above the bra clasp.

“In case I don’t see you lat—” she started.

“Stop saying that,” I cut her off, exhaling like a confession. “It sounds so fucked up when you say it.”

“What? Why? You’re busy as hell, there's always a chance we won’t see each other later,” she said, smiling openly, like it was obvious.

“I know, but you say it like a final act. Like you’re closing a chapter or something,” I replied, smiling too—but mine was worried.

Every time she said things like that—no matter how innocent—they always felt like some hidden message I couldn’t quite decode.

A twisted, ugly subtext that made me fear the worst.

She kissed the corner of my mouth.

“Anyway, I just want you to know I like you... A lot..." She said it simple, but it sounded like she was telling me the truth about life. It's rarer to hear an 'I like you' than 'I love you' now. She reinvented words. The meanings.

She liked me. Not the accessories I used to be a player in this reality.

"And you're—” she tries to continue.

Before she could finish, I laid her down abruptly and moved on top of her.

She squealed softly in surprise and laughed, her legs still around my waist.

That tone. That damn tone in her voice.

“Shut up for a sec,” I said, kissing her, pressing my body against hers—blocking any more words.

Because every word she spoke when we were together felt like a goodbye.

━━━━━━ End of Flashback ━━━━━━━

I didn’t think twice after reading the messages from her friends.

I drove as fast as I could to her building while trying to call her.

It went straight to voicemail:

“Hi, gorgeous. If I’m not answering, I’m probably without my phone, so leave a message if you want. Bye, bye—”

When I pulled up to her place, I slammed the car door shut and rushed inside, taking the stairs two at a time.

I knocked on her door three times and tried the handle.

Yeah, it was locked.

I knocked again.

“Hey, it’s Evan,” I said, slightly out of breath.

Her silence only made my heart race faster.

I knocked harder.

“Babe, please open the door,” I said, my panic beginning to muffle my hearing.

Nothing. No sound. No sign.

My anxiety made me forget for a second—I had her spare key.

I cursed under my breath: “dumb motherfucker,” and dug into my jeans for the key ring.

My sweaty hands fumbled the metal, trembling.

“Oh, fuck me,” I muttered, finally managing to get it in.

I turned the key twice and flung the door open.

“You’re home?” I called, walking in quickly, leaving the keys in the door.

“It’s me, Evan,” I said, checking the living room.

Empty.

My shoes hit the floor hard—each step weighted with fear.

I walked down the hallway. Her bedroom door was closed.

As I got closer, I heard faint music.

I opened the door slowly. The room was dark.

I reached for the light switch near the door and flipped it on.

She was lying on the edge of the bed. Sprawled out.

One leg slightly off the mattress, her head resting at an odd angle on the pillow. One arm hung over the side. Hair covering her pale face, strands caught between her purple lips. A bottle of vodka spilled on the floor, soaking into the carpet. A white bottle of aspirin lay nearby on the bed. Billie Holiday playing softly in the background.

I froze.

My ears rang.

Breath stalled.

My chest collapsed inward.

Legs went numb.

Nausea hit.

I couldn't move.

What happened next?

And her? She’s not coming back?

She’s dead.

And I think I died with her.

[simplemorgue]

La Jalousie (2013)

[simplemorgue]

Hiii! I just wanna compliment you on your writing, sooooo good! Is really deep and liked very much of reading something from Warrens POV. Hope we can still getting some more from you!! Lots of kisses 🤍

Oh, honey, thank you soo much❤️

This is very encouraging to continue.

A ton of kisses😘

[simplemorgue]

𝐒𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐌𝐲 𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬

Warren Lipka X Fem! Reader

Warnings: fingering, dirty talk, swearing.

Mature Content!

Warren's POV

Context: Warren tries to keep you with him as he ponders a plan you disapprove of.

Her dress shirt had the first few buttons undone, just enough for me to see her breasts rise and fall with her ragged breathing. Her nipples were hard with excitement. She bit her lower lip, reddening it, squeezed her eyes shut, and threw her head back. All of this while I fucked her with two fingers. In, out. In, out. As fast as I could. The wet sound of her pussy and her hand gripping my shoulder made my cock throb inside my pants.

Fuck.

Lying in my bed, writhing, and I was beside her, watching with satisfaction the way she reacted to my touch.

She was the most beautiful thing to watch when she was being fucked.

I pushed my fingers deeper, my thumb massaging her clit slowly, teasing her toward a pre-orgasm.

"Come on, babe, you're doing so well..." I murmured, lowering my face to her lips. They were warm. Swollen. My breath mixed with hers. "Be a good girl and come for me..."

"W-warre..." She stutters softly unfinished, her hand moving from my shoulder to my hair, fingers tangling and pulling, forcing my mouth against hers. Her heart was racing. I could feel it. I could hear it.

For a moment, I doubted whether the sound was coming from her chest or mine.

I doubled my efforts. Faster. Deeper. She moaned against my mouth and, for a second, I was the one who almost came.

The need to make her feel pleasure was overwhelming.

Maybe it was because, just minutes ago, she had called me a reckless idiot.

We had fought hard when I told her about the plan to steal those expensive books from the library. She had always been infinitely more responsible than me. Always knew the difference between right and wrong. She called my plan absurd. Said I was nothing more than a spoiled brat playing at being a criminal.

And she wasn’t wrong.

But I wasn’t going to give up. And she knew that.

What happens when a reckless son of a bitch, willing to pull off the heist of the decade, dates a hot, sensible, opinionated, and intelligent woman who never agreed with it from the start?

She starts slipping through your fingers.

You might lose her.

"I'm not going to sit here and watch you put yourself in this kind of situation, Warren. What the fuck is wrong with you? This isn’t some candy from a convenience store that no one will miss, this is a national treasure. Do you think this is a joke you can play with your friends? ‘We’re bored, let's rob a musem’." She mocked "Seriously? Before you try to get rich, learn how to be responsible."

That was what she threw in my face before I shoved two fingers inside her and tried to make her come.

I needed her to feel like she needed me, just as much as I needed her. She couldn’t leave me. I wouldn’t be able to handle it.

"If I manage to sell those fuckin' damn books, we can run away together. Just me and you. I’ll give you everything, the best of everything," I said, eager, looking at her with hope, trying to convince her.

The scent of disappointment coming from her was strong. She looked at me with certainty that this was something she would never agree to. I fucking hated how decisive she was sometimes.

She was slipping through my fingers. The only thing keeping me sane in this miserable life, post-divorce of my parents, was evaporating.

Now, watching her squirm, breathless, moaning my name, I almost thought I had won. That I had pulled her back to me.

But then she stopped.

One of her hands gripped my wrist. Her eyes opened slowly. The other let go of my hair, resting on the bed. Her face moved away.

"I can’t..." her voice came out low. She looked away, breaking eye contact. "I don’t want this anymore."

The double meaning horrified me.

She didn’t want to come. Or she didn’t want me anymore?

"Please, baby... You were so close..." I tried to move closer, my mouth near hers.

She hesitated. Three seconds.

"Warren..." she warned.

I pulled my fingers out of her, slowly. They came out wet, glistening.

She pulled away, sitting at the edge of the bed. Her hair was a mess. Her hand slid through it.

I mirrored her. Sat up slowly and sucked my fingers. Sweet. Fuck. So damn good.

She stood up, buttoning her shorts.

Slowly, I remove my fingers from my mouth. The corner was dirty with her release. "You’re leaving already?" My voice came out lost, as if I had just woken up.

She didn’t even look at me.

"Yeah."

She got dressed quickly. Her shirt was almost fully buttoned, except for the first two buttons.

"You’re still... still mad about our talk earlier?"

She finally looked at me.

"I’m mad that you haven’t given up on this nonsense."

"Nonsense? Don’t you get it? This money could help us get everything we ever wanted..."

"Everything you ever wanted, Warren," she cut me off, pressing her index finger and thumb together and pointing at me. "Don’t drag me into your selfish, unfair fantasy. That dirty money won’t bring you anything but a pathetic, mediocre, empty life."

"Do you hear yourself, woman? Do you hear the shit you’re saying?" I poked my ear, gesturing. "Fuckin' hell, why don't you want to understand?" I stepped closer, my voice rising.

"Lower your tone, Lipka." Now she pointed her finger at me. "Don’t act like you’re in the right here when you so clearly aren’t."

I sighed, running my hands down my face.

"I’m sorry. I apologize."

I looked at her.

Fuck.

That feeling again.

She was going to leave.

Slip through my fingers.

She lowered her gaze for a moment, then turned to grab her sneakers from my nightstand.

"I’m going now." She walked toward the door, but I grabbed the hem of her shirt, pulling her back.

She stopped.

Didn’t resist. Just stood there, head down, sneakers in hand.

My hand found her waist.

"Hey..." I murmured.

She lifted her eyes to me.

I took a deep breath, pressing my forehead against hers.

"I love you. I fucking love you," I confessed. Not for the first time, but with more weight than ever. "You can’t leave me. I can’t..." My throat tightened. "It’s already hard as fuck dealing with all this shit. My parents' divorce..." I laughed dryly, trying to hold back the pain. "Just... please... I can’t."

She looked at me. I looked at her.

"You’re an adult, Warren. You have to deal with the consequences of your actions." Her voice was calm, but her words cut deep. "You know you’re going to lose me if you go through with this heist. The choice is yours."

She pulled away from my touch.

Turned. Walked to the door.

And left.

[simplemorgue]

𝐓𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐀𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭

Evan Peters X Fem! Reader

Warnings: swearing, mentions of drugs.

Note: Personality of the characters in this scenario are totally fictional and developed by the author.

Context: You're a writer trying to decipher your muse.

The traumas, the inert solitude spreading inside him, were evident but only noticed when one wanted to see them. And he denied it, incessantly, trying to cover this need to feel with something or someone. Weed, bourbon, Dunhill, vapes, Budweiser, scotch, sometimes cocaine. He had other addictions too: self-sabotage and sex. For now, it was all fine. The void hadn’t been triggered yet because all these distractions kept him numb. But what about when they were no longer enough? When they stopped working?

Addictions are like games. There are levels where you need something more, something stronger. You’re not satisfied until you destroy yourself, until you don’t have the strength to chase anything anymore. And then, desolate, you die without the comfort of the very thing that once made you flee from the responsibilities of being alive.

Evan was my tortured artist. Ever since I moved into this apartment—which felt more like a furnished dumpster—in New York City to write my book (a book I didn’t even know the subject of yet), I found out that the actor lived across the street, two stores to the left. His building was more refined, nothing too fancy, but compared to my home, it looked like a presidential suite in a five-star hotel.

I hadn’t published anything yet. I wasn’t a respected writer, nor did I have a wealthy family with a name that carried weight. Just an idiot with dreams and hopes bigger than my sanity. Coming here wasn’t an impulse. The City of Dreams had been a plan for a long time. But no amount of planning could cover the absurd costs of living here. So the dumpster was my best option. Working as a text analyst, correcting grammar and coherence mistakes, earning just enough for rent and three meals a day, and trying to write the next best-seller of the year.

Evan was my tortured artist. I had tried talking to him in the early days when I found out we were practically neighbors. He was an artist. He could be my muse.

He probably hated me for it. But he tried to be polite. Poor man.

I followed him for exactly thirty-four days. Not consecutively. And, of course, not in a creepy way—more like a detective returning to the crime scene over and over again to solve a case. On the thirty-fifth day I knocked on his door, I was almost certain he wanted to commit a felony with me.

"Have you ever stopped to think that you're being inconvenient?" he asked, his voice lazy, slumped in the armchair of his living room.

"I know I am."

He looked at me for a moment, tired, wearing a slightly stained black hoodie, loose dark jeans, and bare feet.

"Then why the fuck do you keep following me? This is getting annoying as hell." He leaned forward, a little firmer now. "I could call the cops."

"I'm not a stalker." I glanced around, resting my hands on my thighs. "I don’t want to steal your hairbrush and sell it on eBay. I just want to understand you."

"Fuck that. I don’t want you to understand me." He sighed, rubbing his face. "My privacy is threatened all the time. I don’t need another lunatic chasing me down to expose me."

"Are you comparing me to a paparazzi?"

"You’re worse than one."

I let out a low laugh. "That one hurt."

"Then what do you want? Why do you want to understand me?" — He covered his mouth with his hand, watching me with irritation.

"Because I want to write something meaningful... And knowing why someone like you seems unhappy is a good start to—"

"Unhappy? Who told you that?" — He dropped his hand, crossing his arms.

"Are you happy?"

"I’m not unhappy."

"But are you happy?"

Silence. He looked at me like I had just poked at an old, crusted-over wound. Then, with a heavy sigh, he leaned back in the armchair.

"That’s none of your business. You're pissing me the fuck off. I'm trying really hard not to hate you."

"You won’t hate me. I’m the only person who keeps coming back to keep you company."

"I don’t want your company."

I sighed, leaning back into the couch.

"I’m not your muse. I don’t want to be your muse. Go find some other bastard for this sick experiment of yours." — He spat the words, sharp.

"You are a tortured artist." — I say something that was obvious to me.

Evan let out a dry, almost ironic laugh.

"You are my torture."

I probably was. After all, someone who forces you to dig into something you don’t want to face is, without a doubt, a kind of torture. He was my tortured artist. Full of desires, temptations, addictions, success, and immaculate sadness.

And me? I was a failure. Living in a dumpster. Reading and correcting other people’s texts while struggling to birth my own. Far from home, far from any certainty.

So was I, a tortured artist.

[simplemorgue]

Hey, dear

I'm Morgana, welcome to me page and be free to make requests or questions.