Gimme Some Morra
Copyright© 2026 by Dark Apostle
Chapter 1
Fan Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 1 - A fanfiction written some years ago when I worked nights, based on what would happen if I met Eddie Morra from Limitless. This is just a fun piece I decided to look at recently. Not edited by Steven and has two chapters only. A one shot and a Mary Sue, because fuck it why not. I hope you enjoy. This is a short but don't expect gratutious sex.
Caution: This Fan Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa
The gravel crunched outside at ten past ten. I heard it before I saw it—the low purr of a Mercedes S-Class rolling up the drive, its headlights sweeping across the stone façade of the manor house like twin searchlights. The engine idled for a moment, then died. Through the tall Georgian windows of the lobby, I watched the driver step out first, adjusting his cap, and walk around to the rear passenger door with the practised efficiency of a man who opened doors for a living.
The passenger who emerged unfolded himself from the car the way certain men do—unhurried, deliberate, as though the world could wait the extra two seconds it took him to button his jacket. He was tall, north of six foot, and his suit was cut close enough to his frame that it had to be bespoke. Charcoal, single-breasted, no tie. He exchanged a few words with the driver, their breath fogging in the cool night air, then shook the man’s hand with both of his—a politician’s handshake, I’d later realise—and retrieved a leather overnight bag from the boot.
The lobby was quiet. It usually was by this hour. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked its slow, patient rhythm, and the fire in the hearth had settled into a low amber glow that threw soft shadows across the oak panelling. I’d been reorganising the stationery drawer for the third time that evening, which should give you a fair indication of how eventful the shift had been up to that point.
He came through the revolving door with his bag slung over one shoulder, and my first impression hit me the way first impressions do—all at once and largely right. Intelligence. Confidence. Not the performative kind, either, not the puffed-chest swagger of someone who needed you to know they mattered. This was the quieter variety. The kind that sits in the bones.
His hair was cropped short and neat, military-adjacent, and his skin had that deep, even tan that spoke of actual sunlight rather than a bottle. Broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist, and he moved with an athlete’s economy of motion. But it was the eyes that caught me. Blue—so pale they were almost lavender, the colour of a winter sky just before the last light goes. They swept the lobby once, taking inventory, and then landed on me.
He smiled.
It was the sort of smile that ought to come with a warning label. Disarming wasn’t a strong enough word. There was warmth in it, and a flicker of mischief, and something else I couldn’t quite name. I found myself straightening behind the desk, pulling my shoulders back, squaring up as though I were suddenly on parade.
He nodded. I returned it.
“Good evening, welcome to our hotel.”
“Thank you.” His voice was warm, smooth, with that unmistakable transatlantic lilt.
I picked up on the accent immediately. “American?”
“Correct.”
“Where have you travelled from?”
“New York, New York,” he answered, sing-songing the words like he was channelling Sinatra and knew it.
“Ah, the city that never sleeps. The Big Apple. A place I’ve travelled too once, actually.”
He tilted his head, genuinely curious. “What did you think?”
“I got food poisoning.” He blinked. “Hey, at least it was memorable.”
The laugh that came out of him was full and real, the kind that crinkled the corners of those pale eyes and echoed off the lobby’s vaulted ceiling. A couple of the hunting portraits on the wall seemed to look down disapprovingly. They could get in line.
“I will need a couple of things off you, if that’s okay, sir?”
“Of course.”
“If I could kindly take your full name?”
“Edward Morra.”
“And fifty pounds.”
“Huh?”
“Just joking.” I held up my hands in mock surrender. He laughed again—easier this time, like he’d recalibrated his expectations for the evening. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
“True.”
“However, I do require credit card details. The boring, legitimate kind.”
“Of course.” He set his bag down on the marble floor and pulled out a slim leather wallet. His fingers moved with a surgeon’s precision—or a card player’s—and produced a black American Express. Not the platinum. Not the gold. The black. The Centurion. The one they don’t even let you apply for; they come to you.
I let out a low whistle before I could stop myself.
He caught it, offered a small nod and a conspiratorial wink, and slid the card across the mahogany counter. “I trust this is fine.”
“Yes, sir.” I picked up the card, feeling the weight of it—titanium, heavier than a standard card, cool to the touch. “You should speak to AMEX, sir. We have partnership deals with them. Quite generous ones, actually.”
“Oh, I wasn’t aware.”
I nodded. “If you’d like, I can sort out the paperwork and have it emailed to you. Saves you the hassle.”
“That would be nice. Thanks.”
I placed the card into the reader and swiped. Paused. Let the silence stretch a beat. “Declined.”
His expression froze.
“Joking.” I smiled. Punched the numbers in properly, the machine whirring and clicking its quiet approval. “Sorry. My sense of humour gets a bit macabre at this time of night. Occupational hazard.”
“No problem.” He chuckled, shaking his head, but there was something appreciative in the way he looked at me—an appraisal, almost. As though I’d passed some preliminary test I hadn’t known I was sitting.
The screen populated with his details. His profile loaded. And there it was, nestled among the corporate affiliations and membership tiers—a line that made me pause for half a second.
“The Senate.” I blinked. Looked up at him. “You’re an American Senator?”
He met my gaze, and I caught the faintest flicker of surprise—perhaps even respect—cross his features. He nodded slowly.
“I’m surprised,” he said. “Most people outside the States don’t give a damn enough to know or care about American Senators.”
I shrugged. “I’m half American, sir, so I have something of a vested interest. I don’t follow politics religiously, but I do find it interesting when I come across it. Your picture was in the New York Times, the profile piece. That’s when it clicked.”
He studied me for a moment longer than was strictly necessary, then nodded again, apparently satisfied.
“Let me get your key, Mr Morra.” I gathered everything—key card, welcome packet, the little folder with the Wi-Fi code and breakfast times—and stepped out from behind the reception desk. “You’re in Main House, so if you’d kindly follow me.”
“What about my luggage?”
“You had it delivered today, correct?”
“Yes.”
“The concierges took it up to your room this afternoon. Two cases and a garment bag, if the log’s accurate.”
He nodded.
“Okay, let’s go.”
“It does make my life easier,” I said, winking as I led him toward the main staircase, and he laughed—a comfortable, unhurried sound that filled the corridor.
The manor house was different at night. During the day it was all honey-coloured stone and manicured gardens and the distant thwack of croquet mallets. After dark, the corridors took on a different character entirely. The wall sconces were dimmed to their lowest setting, casting pools of amber light between long stretches of shadow, and the old oak floorboards creaked and groaned beneath our feet like a ship at sea. Portraits of former owners lined the hallway, their painted eyes following us with that particular brand of aristocratic suspicion that the English upper classes had perfected over centuries.
“So I have to ask,” he said, falling into step beside me.
I nodded. “Go on.”
“Are you a vampire?”
“No,” I chuckled, “although I’m not keen on garlic, so you might be onto something. Why d’you ask?”
“You work in a manor house. Only at night. I figure you’re permanent nights?” I confirmed with a nod. “And you have this thing about the Transylvanian accent.”
I stopped mid-stride. “You picked up on that?”
“Yeah.” He grinned. “When you said ‘welcome,’ there was a definite Dracula inflection on the W.”
I pressed my lips together, caught. “I can’t help myself sometimes. It gets quiet in here. A man has to entertain himself.”
“It’s cool. I like a sense of humour.”
We both laughed, and the sound bounced down the corridor and was swallowed by the dark.
As we walked, I couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes worked. They didn’t just look—they consumed. Every painting, every architectural detail, every shift in the grain of the wood panelling seemed to register and file itself away somewhere behind those pale irises. He clocked the fire exit signs, the spacing of the doors, the slight water stain in the ceiling plaster that maintenance had been promising to fix since February. It was the gaze of a man accustomed to entering rooms and knowing everything about them within seconds.
We reached his room—a corner suite on the first floor overlooking the south lawn. I demonstrated the key card, tapping it against the brass plate until the light clicked green.
“Hold it there for a second. These can be temperamental, especially when they get near mobile phones. If it plays up, just pop down to reception and I’ll remagnetise it.”
I pushed the door open, stepped in, and flicked the master switch. The room bloomed into warm light—table lamps, reading lights, the subtle glow of the bathroom beyond. The curtains were already drawn, the bed turned down, a single chocolate mint resting on each pillow like a full stop at the end of a very comfortable sentence.
He followed me in and surveyed the space with those scanning eyes. King-size four-poster bed, mahogany writing desk, a sitting area with two wingback chairs upholstered in deep green velvet. His luggage stood neatly by the wardrobe—the concierge team had arranged it with almost military precision.
“Not bad,” he said.
I gave him the tour—thermostat controls, the television remote and its seventeen buttons that did roughly four useful things, the minibar and its eye-watering price list, the bathroom with its rainforest shower and complimentary Penhaligon’s toiletries. I showed him how the blackout curtains worked, pointed out the room service menu and the direct-dial number for the night desk.
“Thank you.” He leaned against the doorframe of the bathroom, arms folded.
I shrugged. “It’s my job, sir. But I will say, it’s nice talking to you, Mr Morra. I can see how you became a senator. You’re very enigmatic.”
A faint flush crept up from his collar. On a man that composed, it was almost startling. “Thanks.”
“Listen, I’m in all night, so if you need anything—anything at all—please don’t hesitate to give me a call. Dial zero from the room phone. I understand what it’s like to have jet lag, wake up at three in the morning, and not know which continent you’re on, let alone which county.”
He nodded, absorbing the information the way he absorbed everything else—completely.
“Thanks for the info,” he said, and offered me his hand. We shook. His grip was firm, measured, and as our palms met, I felt the subtle press of something being transferred—paper, folded small, slipped into my hand with the practised ease of a man who’d palmed tips in handshakes a thousand times before.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t mention it.” He slid his hand from my grip, and I closed my fingers around the note, holding it discreetly at my side.
“One last thing before I go.” He straightened. “Would you like me to set you an alarm call for the morning?”
He considered it for a moment, head tilted.
“No thanks. I’ve got my iPhone.”
“I use mine for the same thing. Very handy. Sleep well, sir.”
“You too.” He stopped. Blinked. “I mean—”
“Don’t worry. I know what you mean.”
He chuckled, and I pulled the door closed behind me with a soft click.
I stood in the corridor for a moment, alone with the creak of the old house settling around me, and opened my hand.
A fifty-pound note. Crisp. Purple. The Queen staring up at me with her usual expression of mild disapproval.
I let out a long, low whistle. Folded it carefully, slipped it into my breast pocket, and walked back toward reception with a skip in my stride that hadn’t been there ten minutes ago. Fifty quid. For being pleasant and showing a man to his room. There were worse ways to earn a living.
I saw him again in the morning, just after six. He emerged from the stairwell in full running gear—compression leggings, a fitted long-sleeve top, trainers that probably cost more than my monthly rent. He was stretching his calves against the bottom step of the staircase, rolling his ankles, loosening up with the focused ritual of someone for whom physical fitness was non-negotiable.
“James.”
“Mr Morra, good morning. I didn’t see you at four—I trust you slept well?”
“Yes.” He chuckled, bouncing lightly on his toes. “Is there a good jogging trail?”
“Short or long?”
“Does size really matter?”
I blinked. Then laughed. “In this case, I would say definitely. For anything else I plead the 5th.”
He laughed.
I pulled a property map from behind the desk and traced the routes with my pen—the three-mile loop that skirted the lake and wound through the beech wood, versus the seven-mile circuit that climbed the ridge and came back down through the deer park. He listened, memorised, nodded once.
He handed me his room key. As the card passed between us, my fingers closed around another folded note. Another fifty. Purple. Crisp.
I thanked him, and he smiled—a quick, genuine thing—and jogged out through the front door into the grey morning light. His footfalls crunched across the gravel and then softened as he hit the grass, and I watched him go until he disappeared past the treeline.
I looked down at the note. Shook my head.
His money. His prerogative. If the man wanted to distribute Her Majesty’s purple currency like confetti, I was hardly going to intervene.
He stayed with us for the better part of a fortnight. Not continuously—he’d disappear for a day or two, London presumably, then return in the evening with his overnight bag and that same easy smile. Over the course of several nights, I got to know him. Or at least the version of himself he chose to present.
Eddie, as he insisted I call him, was charming in that particular way that successful people often are—attentive, warm, generous with his laughter—but there was always something operating behind those pale eyes. A calculation. A reading of the room that never quite switched off. He seemed like a decent man, genuinely. But you could never tell with people. Especially people who wielded power the way most people wielded cutlery—instinctively, without thinking.
On his sixth stay, Eddie invited me up to the room to ask me a favour.
The corridor was silent at that hour—half past one in the morning, the house asleep around us, nothing but the distant hum of the boiler and the occasional creak of old timber. I knocked twice. He opened the door in shirtsleeves, top button undone, and gestured me inside.
The door closed behind me with a click that felt heavier than it should have.
“Would you like a drink?” He moved toward the minibar.
“No, thank you. I don’t drink.”
He nodded, unsurprised, and left the minibar closed. “I’ll get straight to the point. I need a favour.”
“It’s nothing illegal, right?”
“No, of course not. But because I’m watched—all the time, by both my government and yours—I can’t exactly move about as freely as you can.”
Made sense. A sitting U.S. Senator on British soil would have enough eyes on him to fill a stadium.
“What do you need me to do?”
He sat on the edge of the desk and folded his arms. “I’m going out on a limb here. You seem fairly decent.” He said decent the way most people said trustworthy—carefully, as though the word cost him something. “I need you to deliver a bag of money to someone for me. It’s a relative. Cash will help them out.”
I studied his face for a moment. His expression was open, steady.
“Are they nearby?”
“No. But I can give you enough to cover a taxi there and back.”
“You’ve given me enough in tips already, and besides, the taxi firm owes me a favour.” He nodded at that. “Where am I going?”
“Thanks.” He crossed the room, reached into the bottom of his wardrobe, and produced a rucksack—plain, black, unremarkable. He unzipped it and held it open.
I whistled.
Bundles of twenties and fifties, banded neatly, stacked tight. Thousands. Tens of thousands, possibly. The kind of money that made the air in the room taste different.
I took the bag from him and slung it over my shoulder. It was heavier than it looked.
“I can trust you, right?”
“I’m a doctor—of course you can.”
He laughed, short and sharp, and slapped me on the shoulder. The grip lingered a fraction of a second. A reminder, perhaps, wrapped in camaraderie.
Besides, the last thing I wanted to do was piss off an American Senator.
He gave me an address—a flat on the outskirts of a town about forty minutes east. I called the taxi, rode in silence with the rucksack between my feet, watching the headlights carve through country lanes.
I knocked on the door at quarter past three in the afternoon. The man who opened it was younger than I’d expected—mid-twenties, heavy-set, with watchful eyes and a jaw that looked like it had been broken at least once. He looked at the bag, took it without a word, and upended it onto the kitchen table.
The cash spilled out in neat bundles. He counted quickly, his lips moving, then looked up at me.
“Did you take any?”
“No.”
He patted me down. Checked my coat pockets, my trouser pockets, ran his hands along my waistband. Thorough, impersonal, efficient. When he was satisfied, he stepped back and nodded, a glimmer of something like approval in his expression.
He peeled a wad of notes from one of the bundles and held it out to me.
“For the job. Thanks, bro. Tell Eddie I said he won’t regret this.”
I inclined my head. “I’ll make sure Mr Morra gets the message.”
“Cheers, bro.”
I went back into work the following night and found Eddie in the lobby, sitting in one of the wingback chairs by the fire, reading a copy of the Financial Times as though it were a novel he already knew the ending to.
“Did he get it?”
“Yes.”
I reached into my jacket and pulled out the wad of notes the man had given me. Placed them on the side table next to Eddie’s coffee cup.
He looked at the money. Then at me. “What’s this?”
“The man gave it to me,” I explained. “For the delivery. But I didn’t feel comfortable taking it. It’s not my money. It’s yours.”
Eddie offered me a wide smile. Not the dazzling, performative one from check-in night—something deeper, something that reached all the way to those pale eyes and settled there. The warmth of it was almost uncomfortable to stand in, like being studied under a very bright, very specific light.
“I was right about you.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. This was a test. To see how much I could trust you.” He nodded slowly. “And you never failed. You were raised a gentleman.”
I shifted my weight, unsure what to do with the compliment. “Manners maketh the man.”
“That they do.” He picked up the wad of notes and pressed them firmly back into my hands, closing my fingers around them. “Keep them. They’re yours. For helping me out of an awkward situation.”
I pocketed them. Didn’t count. That felt important somehow—the not counting.
“Oh—the man said you won’t regret it.”
“I’m sure,” Eddie chuckled, and went back to his newspaper.
Later that night—close to two in the morning, the house utterly silent, the fire burned down to embers—he invited me up once more.
I stood outside his door for a few seconds before I knocked. The corridor was dark, the sconces dimmed, and the shadows pooled in the recesses of the old stone walls like something patient. I felt a flutter of something in my chest. Not quite fear. Trepidation. The sense that I was about to step across a threshold that had nothing to do with a doorframe.
I knocked.
“Come in.”
The room was lit by the desk lamp alone. Eddie was seated in one of the wingback chairs, legs crossed, his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows. The television was off. His phone was face-down on the desk. Whatever this conversation was, it was meant to be private.
“Sit down.”
He gestured to the opposite chair and I lowered myself into it, the old leather creaking beneath me. He sat forward, elbows on his knees, and studied me. Not the casual scan from the lobby that first night—this was surgical. Deliberate. His pale eyes moved across my face as though reading something written in very small print.
I held his gaze. Didn’t blink. Didn’t fidget.
He nodded. Something resolved behind his expression, like a lock turning.
“I apologise for the ruse, but I had to be sure.”
“Of what?”
“Your integrity.”
“And I passed?”
“With flying colours.” He leaned back, but his eyes didn’t soften. “Now I need you to listen, and listen carefully. What I’m about to tell you cannot be discussed with anyone. Not colleagues. Not family. Not the friendly taxi driver who owes you a favour. No one.”
“Understood.”
His eyes narrowed. The warmth bled out of his face, and for the first time I saw the man behind the charm—something colder, harder, carved from a different material entirely. The light caught the angles of his jaw, and in that moment he looked less like a senator and more like something older. Something that brokered in absolutes.
“Let me make this perfectly clear.” His voice dropped half a register. “If you do, I will let you die in the most horrible way you can think of.”
The room seemed to contract. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked. The old house groaned around us.
“O-okay. I’m listening.”
He held me in that cold stare for three seconds—long enough for the message to sink past muscle and bone and lodge itself somewhere permanent. Then the warmth returned, like a light being switched back on, and he nodded.
“The secret to my success,” he said, “is a drug called NZT-48.”
He let the name sit in the air.
“It’s a smart drug. But it’s not just any nootropic stack you can buy off the internet. It actually works. It opens up every part of your brain—every pathway, every connection, every dormant synapse—and puts it all at your disposal. All of it. At once.”
I said nothing. Just listened.
“Within four months of taking my first dose, I was merging two of the largest companies in the world. Within a year, I was a senator. Within two, I was being discussed as a serious presidential candidate.” He paused. “And all of that—every bit of it—started with a single clear pill.”
“Why share this information with me?”
“I want to see how far we, as a people, will go.” He steepled his fingers. “Call it a social experiment. Call it curiosity. Call it whatever helps you sleep during the day.”
“Oh.”
“You are a perfect candidate, James.” His eyes locked onto mine. “You’re intelligent—considerably more so than you let on. I’ve seen it in every conversation we’ve had. You misdirect with humour, you deflect with self-deprecation, but underneath all of that, you’re processing everything. Storing it. Cross-referencing it. You’re loyal. You know when to keep your mouth shut. And this drug will help you in ways you can’t even begin to comprehend.”
I sat back in the chair. The leather exhaled beneath me.
Eddie watched me process it, patient as a fisherman who’d cast his line and was content to wait. He didn’t push. Didn’t elaborate. Just let the silence do its work—and it did, filling the room like water rising in a lock, pressing against the walls of every rational objection I might have raised.
“I’m going to give you, free of charge, five thousand pills.” He reached into his overnight bag—the leather one he’d carried in that first night—and produced a large ziplock bag, dense with small white tablets. He set it on the table between us with the casual weight of a man passing the salt. “I’ve worked out the kinks in the drug. There aren’t any side effects. Not anymore.”
“There were, though?”
He nodded. Winced—genuinely, the first crack I’d seen in his composure. His jaw tightened and his eyes went somewhere else for a half-second, somewhere unpleasant. “Yes. I nearly died. Twice.”
“Ouch.”
He shrugged. A single rolling motion of those broad shoulders, dismissing two near-death experiences the way most people dismissed a parking fine. “From the ashes.”
I nodded. Looked at the bag on the table. Five thousand pills. Five thousand days, potentially. Thirteen and a half years of operating at a level I couldn’t currently conceive of. The maths did itself, unbidden, as though my brain were already auditioning for the upgrade.
He handed the bag across. I took it. The pills shifted inside the plastic with a dry, rattling whisper—like seeds. Or dice.
“We’ll be in touch, James. Count on that.”
I turned the bag over in my hands, feeling the weight of it. “Let me guess—you’ll be watching me?”
He offered me an enigmatic smile. The kind that neither confirmed nor denied but somehow did both. The firelight played across those impossible eyes, and for a moment he looked like a painting himself—something Renaissance, something that belonged on the walls of this old house alongside the earls and the viscounts and all the other men who’d brokered in power and consequence.
I looked at the bag. Then at him. Then at the bag again. Weighed it up—literally, figuratively, every way a thing could be weighed.
“Fuck it.”
His smile widened. Slowly. Like a door opening onto something vast.
“Good luck, James.”
We stood. Shook hands. His grip was different this time—no palmed note, no hidden currency. Just the pressure of his fingers around mine, firm and final, sealing something that felt less like an agreement and more like an induction.
Please allow me to introduce myself I’m a man of wealth and taste
The Rolling Stones lyric surfaced in my mind unbidden as I walked to the door, and I couldn’t shake the feeling—bone-deep, marrow-level—that I had just sold my soul to the devil. That the handshake was the contract and the pills were the ink and somewhere, in some cosmic ledger, my name had been entered in a column I couldn’t read yet.
Fuck it, I thought again.
I left him and closed the door behind me. The corridor swallowed me in its familiar darkness—same sconces, same shadows, same creaking floorboards—but something had shifted. The bag in my jacket pocket pressed against my ribs with every step, warm and insistent, like a second heartbeat.
I didn’t see him that morning. He went out for his run after I’d clocked off, slipping past me like a ghost. Or perhaps I slipped past him. It was hard to tell with Eddie.
I kept thinking about the pills.
All through the drive home, all through the mechanical ritual of locking the flat, drawing the curtains, brushing my teeth. They sat on my bedside table in their ziplock bag, catching the thin grey light that leaked through the blinds, and I lay there staring at them the way a man stares at a loaded gun or an unsigned contract or a plane ticket to somewhere he’s never been.
I couldn’t stop.
Fortunately, I was off that day—first of three days off, back-to-back, a rare luxury in the rota. Which meant I could at least try one. Just one. See what happened. Dip a toe in.
I slept fitfully and woke around noon, groggy, mouth dry. Pulled on walking boots, a fleece, and stuffed the bag into my jacket pocket. There was a forest trail I liked—a path that wound up through the beech wood behind the village and climbed to a ridge with views across three counties. Good thinking ground. Private.
I was halfway up the hill, breathing hard, calves burning, when I stopped. Pulled the bag out. Fished a single tablet from the mass—small, white, unremarkable, the kind of pill you’d mistake for a paracetamol and toss back without a second thought.
I held it between my thumb and forefinger and stared at it. It told me nothing. It was just a pill.
I placed it on my tongue and dry-swallowed. Grimaced at the chalky scrape against my throat.
For a minute—nothing. Two minutes. I frowned. Shrugged. Kept walking. The path curved upward through a stand of silver birch, their trunks pale as bone against the darker woodland behind them, and I was beginning to wonder whether Eddie Morra was simply a very charismatic, very generous lunatic when—
It started.
Not like a switch being thrown. More like a dial being turned—smoothly, steadily, all the way to a setting I hadn’t known existed.