Felix is kind of really horribly, despicably lucky as shit that he got away with the lie he used about Edd & Molly's deaths. It was sort of the perfect distraction for Rosemary specifically, creating this heart-rending image of her children, alive, but so scared and so alone that they run off into the woods and accidentally drown in the river. She fixated on that vision so completely, and that was really the foot in the door that allowed her to blame herself. Constructing this scenario in her mind where she could have been there, could have comforted them, could have saved them. Letting her get wrapped up in the fantasy of this stretch of time that never really existed, where she theoretically could have been there for them. If she found out what Felix really did, she honestly may have just killed him.
driver!simon rescuing runaway bride!reader from the church where your wedding was supposed to take place. you’d left it all–your family, your phone, your responsibilities, your no-longer-husband-to-be–behind so you could sit in the back of simon’s cab and tell him all the reasons you ditched.
“he's just… he's boring. he likes to eat dinner the same time as our 74-year-old neighbor! he didn’t wanna go anywhere or do anything. he’d come home after all day at work, just to half-ignore me. doesn't believe in kissing for any longer than 0.7 seconds. and dear god–simon, is it? right?–the sex…”
simon lets you unleash it all as he circles in the streets, adding in his two cents here and there when you take a second to breathe.
“so a fuckin’ knob then, huh? too bad you got all pretty for’a bloke like that… y’sure he wasn’t the 74-year-old?”
that last one pulls a laugh from you that makes simon think about that pub on the other side of town.
half an hour later, there you are, in the pub. still in your gown and veil. simon’s arm wrapped tight around your side as the two of you squish against the wood of the bar.
surrounding you is a clamoring of happy drunks, who toast loudly to the assumed “marriage” between simon and yourself. for some reason, you don’t correct them. nor does simon, who instead holds you tight and shoves his tongue into your mouth after the tenth chant of kiss! from the rest of the pub.
you kiss him back, groaning at the touch that reaches to grip your chin. when you pull away, simon holds his breath at the tipsy grin on your face, a warm feeling running through his cock when you turn back to your glass and chug until the top of your lip is covered in foam from the second beer he bought you.
“alright?”
you bob a nod at simon’s question as he thumbs away the mess at your lip with dark eyes.
fourteen minutes later…
the pub bathroom is already small enough. feels even smaller with simon hanging over your shoulder and yanking you back by the hips. the fastening of your dress has been ripped well past your ass, buttons scattered under the sink you're holding onto for dear life. squeezing the sides of the porcelain every time simon pumps into you.
“f-fuck…” you whine, and simon digs himself deeper. “ah!-there-there…”
his cock is hitting deep. heavy. wet and stretching you out in a way the man you’d abandoned earlier. (what was his name again?) he even uses the veil still tucked in your hair to keep the view of your face nice and clear for him to stare at you in the mirror. the sight of you, groaning with running mascara, makes it easy for simon to imagine another world where you're his new, pretty wife.
mrs. riley. his missus.
“y’know… i’ll eat supper whenever y’want. kiss ya right. don’t quite like ignoring pretty things either,” he grunts in your ear, balls smacking loudly in between the slurred sentences. the wet peck he gives you under the side of your ear precedes a tragic pause of his thrusts. while you take the break to catch simon’s gaze in the glass before you, he pants with deep huffs.
god, you look a right mess. make up ruined. lips swollen. veil scrunched and the top of your dress tugged low enough for your nipples to show. simon looks over it all at the same time before peeling his front from your back so he can watching something else.
there’s a ring of cream at the base of his cock that’s still stuck halfway inside your pussy. your lips are spread wide, properly stuffed, and pulsate with a gentle rhythm.
“…you memorize your vows?”
you blink at the low question, trying not to squirm anymore than you already are. “uh. y-yeah? i think. why?–"
“go on, then,” simon directs, one of his arms wrapping around your front. with a tight tug, he stuffs himself the rest of the way, clenching his teeth at the way your voice cracks in the middle of a loud moan. scrunching his nose, he sniffs. then resumes fucking you.
slower.
harder.
like a proper husband should.
it takes you a while to sputter the first few words. simon is patient enough because the pay off is better than he imagined.
the recited promises are broken, but there. real-sounding enough just over the wet plaps that simon can flutter his eyes shut and pretend he’s the one you wrote them about. that you’ll always give yourself to him, to laugh everyday with him, to love him through it all.
the man proves himself easily, that much is obvious by how you end up squirting on his cock and down his dress; the way you sob his name and accidentally blubber out delirious i love you’s; how the three words you chant out like a prayer cause him to spill deep inside you as he makes sounds he’s never made for anyone else.
simon loves you back. feels like it, at least, when he comes with shaking legs and can’t think of anything worse than a future without you. he ends up sure of the fact when the first thing you utter, in a tired, hoarse voice, after finally finding your breath is–
“i meant to ask earlier… do you have a smoke?”
simon grins a bit, almost laughing. red stains on his teeth from how hard you made him bite his lip.
note: is this bad? pls don't let this be bad. anyways, runaway brides must be the new thing and i think @tojisteddy n i share the same brain :3
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
stormborns
