simplemorgue

[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.