I mean... fucking explain to me how i find this super hot?
@sinfulsanctuary He looks like he attended a funeral and i find it hot to imagine that we met at said fucking funeral. It also looks like he's bloody rich and he probably was the one who killed the person in that casket.
...I suddenly feel like i'm married to a powerful mobster or something.
What the fuck, Martine? I blame you all for this.
*looks at the picture again. Saves it*
@arelyhb What did I do now?
Fandom: N/A | Characters: Sebastian Stan | Written: July 2016
It had been a classy funeral. Classy and elegant. The tragedy aside, you were proud of it. The minister's speech was the perfect amount of touching, bringing tears and sad smiles to people's face, but not sending them into ugly cries. The flowers matched the church, the day, the season, and the man in the casket. The song was beautiful, sung a cappella by a friend of a friend, spine tingling in the church's excellent acoustics.
Yes, you had done a good job with your husband's funeral. And to top it off, you played the part of grieving widow excellently. And you only felt a little bit guilty for not feeling sad.
As the casket was lowered into the ground, you mulled over the events that had led to this.
Nine years ago, you were in your final year at the university. Working at a local coffee shop to earn just a little something extra so you could indulge in your hobby, the one thing that kept you sane through all the pressure of wanting to graduate summa cum laude.
One bright spring day, a car parked outside your shop. A large yellow SUV with tinted windows. A big, burly, and sinister looking man, or beast, walked out of the front passenger door, opened up the door behind him, andhe walked out.
Your eyebrows raised as the man walked into your shop. He was deadly handsome. And equally charming, you soon learned.
As he walked towards the counter, you noticed people shimmying away slightly, as if they couldn't stand to be that near him. He ordered a black coffee and requested your company as he drank it. You decided you could use a break, and indulged him.
A year later, you were married. He had seen your paintings at a gallery in town and knew he had to have you.
You weren't sure if you loved him, but he was filthy rich and provided for you, indulged you, cared deeply for you, the sex was great, and for now, that was enough. You got to play the perfect wife, dress up to be on your husband's arm at parties, be the gracious hostess at garden soirées. You could work if you wanted to, or you could waste away the days painting. You bathed in beautiful dresses and shoes and jewellery. It was a good life.
Where his money came from and what he did for a living, was never something you talked about. But a year or two into the marriage, you started to suspect things. A couple of years more, and you were sure. Somehow, you didn't mind. Yes, it scared you slightly, but you were confident he would do anything to keep you safe.
Until six months ago. Strange e-mails started showing up in - not your inbox - but your drafts folder. E-mails you had never written yourself. Sonnets, poems and quotes, all about love. You complained that your account was hacked, and your husband had a new one made for you, reassuring you that not even the NSA could get into it.
But the drafts showed up again. For some reason, you didn't say anything, thinking you should gauge the situation first. It's not like the e-mails were hurting anyone.
The more drafts showed up, the more intrigued you became. You started becoming curious, and one day got the courage to write a draft yourself. The next day, whoever it was, replied. Not a direct reply, but something vague that still made you sure they had seen your attempt at reaching out.
Your husband started working longer hours. He was short with you when he was home. You started seeing more of his yellow SUVs in the streets around your house, driving back and forth, slowly. This annoyed you, and you to keep from lashing out, you spent your days painting and reading all the messages in your drafts folder.
To your astonishment, you felt yourself falling in love with the writer, or the attention they showed, or the words they chose, or the consistency of it all. You were so absorbed in it, you were taken aback when your husband's right hand thug showed up and told you none-too-gently that your husband was dead.
One bullet to the forehead.
There had been no investigation, no autopsy. This was strange, but not really a surprise. You figured an enemy of your husband had murdered him, and most likely large sums of money had changed hands to hush it up.
You didn't cry. You didn't feel anything. But you did your duty, and organized the most beautiful funeral, shed a few tears through the preparations.
So here you were, shaking hands and receiving hugs, accepting condolences and wishes for the future, and all you could think of was your meeting with the lawyer in three days. The will was to be read.
The crowd thinned. You had a few words with the minister and turned to leave. A group of people caught your eye.
Large, angry looking men surrounded a slighter built man. He had dark hair, slicked back, and wore dark sunglasses. Still, you could tell his eyes were firmly trained on you. As you moved closer, you noticed an expensive dark gray suit under a long black coat.
The closer you came, the further away the bodyguards moved. There was something familiar about the man, and something that drew you in.
He took off his sunglasses as you stopped in front of him. Baby blue eyes stared at you, dark lashes creating an alluring effect. His tongue darted out to wet his pink lips, and then he spoke.
"The most radiant moments of love are made in the dark." Warm, smooth voice, sending shivers down your spine.
That, that was a sentence you had read many times these past few months.