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invisiblekatanaartwork · 2 months ago

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Artist’s Blog #138 - The Beach Girls and The Monster (1965)

A Groovy Introduction to The Beach Girls and The Monster

Stereotypes often feel subjective. For me, the 1960s are perfectly captured in The Beach Girls and The Monster. It’s one of my favorite films, and the intro is exactly how I imagine that incredible decade. It sets the tone for the entire movie. Don’t expect a deep storyline, stunning effects, or a cinematic masterpiece—just sit back and enjoy a vintage adventure. If you’re around my age, this might be how you picture 1965 too. For those who actually remember 1965, your experience might be different. If so, share your thoughts in the comments. Now, grab your surfboard—let's go surfing!

1960s Fashion in The Beach Girls and The Monster

I may have mentioned this before, but I have a confession to make. I often regret certain decisions, especially missed purchases. My wife and I, both antique junkies, were on vacation in Florida when I found a handmade pink and white 1960s bikini. It was priced at $65, and I passed on it. In hindsight, I should have bought it. The Beach Girls and The Monster opens with similar bikinis and classic ‘60s shimmy dancing on a beach to surf rock. At this point, I’m half-expecting the monster to join in the dance. After all, it’s 1965—monsters weren’t exactly terrifying back then, right?

A Retro House Tour in The Beach Girls and The Monster

Let’s talk about some of the "1960s stuff" in The Beach Girls and The Monster. The house in the movie really caught my attention. According to IMDB, it belonged to the film’s art director, Shirley Rose, and her husband, Henry. Located at 816 Glenmere Way in West Los Angeles, the house is now blurred on Google Maps. You can, however, watch a YouTube video of it today here. I think it was far more impressive in 1965. The view over the city lights of LA from the poolside is breathtaking, even in an old film like this. Inside, the house features a bar with steps leading down to it, allowing a character to serve drinks at the proper level, casually grabbing a Coke from the fridge. The photo below is of the house today.

The house also boasts various 1960s furnishings. Highlights include the eclectic wall textures, unique light fixtures, a pottery kiln, and an unusual doorbell. The rooms feature multiple wall textures—one might be brick, while another has period-patterned wallpaper. The living room fireplace is quite impressive. There’s a wooden wall with a patterned cutout leading into the bar, providing partial visibility into the next room. And there’s what looks like an indoor wind chime, which is actually a doorbell. You can see a similar one here. I’ve never seen one before. It’s clear from these glimpses that the Roses were quite affluent in 1965. Look at the lights I'm referring to in the screenshot below.

Scooby-Doo Vibes in The Beach Girls and The Monster

Though Scooby-Doo, Where Are You? didn’t premiere until 1969, The Beach Girls and The Monster shares a similar vibe. The monster is obviously someone in a costume—this is clear from the start, especially considering the film was made in 1965. As the plot unfolds, this becomes even more obvious. In the final scenes, a second mask is found, and during a confrontation, the monster’s mask is removed, revealing a man. The "meddling kids" are then in a car chase with the police, ending in one of the most hilariously fake crashes I’ve ever seen. This scene could be from a bad special effects reel. When the son tries to approach the crashed car to check on his father, who was the monster, the cop says, “You can’t get within 50 feet of that vehicle.” And just like that, the film abruptly ends.

Speaking of cheesy effects, the driving scenes deserve a mention. Have you ever seen those old movies where a stationary car is surrounded by projected footage to create the illusion of movement? That’s exactly what The Beach Girls and The Monster does. The film features some standout vehicles, like a '63 Corvette Stingray, a '63 Cadillac Eldorado, and a '59 MG A 1600—all of which look great on screen. I never thought I’d say this, but I actually liked the Stingray more than the Caddy—Wow! Check out all the classic cars in the movie here. The photo below is of a model car but, this is very similar to the Stingray you get to see in The Beach Girls and The Monster.

Surf Culture Highlights in The Beach Girls and The Monster

Night surfing just doesn’t sound like a good idea—though, to be fair, I’d need to learn how to surf during the day first. If you’re into surf culture, this movie is a must-watch. Here’s why: The Beach Girls and The Monster includes a fair amount of filler. Normally, I’m not a fan of filler, but it works here. The movie features authentic vintage surf footage, projected within a 1960s high-end home, giving viewers a genuine taste of surf culture and ‘60s tech. This pairs perfectly with the movie’s score. The opening song, “Dance Baby Dance,” written by Frank Sinatra Jr., is a catchy surf rock tune. The soundtrack seamlessly transitions between surf rock and music reminiscent of The Pink Panther skulking around.

Naturally, surf rock means beaches, girls, and bikinis—and The Beach Girls and The Monster has them all. This brings us to the film’s most comedic moment: a nighttime beach party. I haven’t laughed this hard in a while at something so poorly executed. Did kids really have beach parties with dancing and bonfires in 1965? If you know, please let me know in the comments. This scene features ventriloquist puppets, annoying voices, spontaneous singing, make-out sessions, and silly glasses with springy eyeballs. Thankfully, this filler segment doesn’t last too long.

Unexplained Twists in The Beach Girls and The Monster

Like many films, The Beach Girls and The Monster has several unexplained elements that don’t quite add up. For instance, one character is hobbling from an unspecified accident, unable to save a friend from the monster, make out, or even go to work. Yet, he somehow disappears from conversations like a ninja, scales cliffs, and steals cars. When the police arrive, their sudden appearance is unexplained—no one called them, there were no gunshots or screams. Someone, please explain—who called 911?

1960s Beach Party Fun in The Beach Girls and The Monster

Despite its flaws, The Beach Girls and The Monster has enough 1960s beach party fun to make it a memorable movie from that era. If you watch it expecting a fun, nostalgic trip filled with shimmy dancing and a goofy monster, you’re in for a great movie night. But if you’re hoping for scares or suspense, you’ll be disappointed. Retro fans, antique collectors, sci-fi enthusiasts, horror history buffs, and vintage surf lovers will likely enjoy this film. You can even watch it for free on YouTube here. If you have answers to any questions I’ve asked in this blog, please share them in the comments.

In conclusion, if you know of other movies like The Beach Girls and The Monster, please share your recommendations. I genuinely enjoyed this one. On an art-related note, the poster for this movie is fantastic—I’d love to frame a copy and display it if I could find one at the right price. Follow my art journey on social media, visit my website, and consider buying my art here. If you liked this blog or the movie, please share it. Peace.

#The Beach Girls And The Monster #1960s Horror #Retro Movie Review #Vintage Surfing #Classic Cinema #1960s Style #Monster Movies #Beach Party Vibes #Pop Art Inspired #Obscure Horror Film

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believing-is-seeing · 1 year ago

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1941 Cadillac "60 Special"

Car Show, Bountiful, Utah, USA

June 16, 2023

#photography #Cadillac #60 Special #1941 #1941 Cadillac #vintage car #vintage vehicle #vintage #classic car #classic vehicle #classic #antique car #antique vehicle #antique #car #vehicle #car show #june 2023

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cas-backwards-tie · 6 months ago

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Chapter Three: Fate Rewritten

The Missing Title

Helmut Zemo x Reader

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: After bumping into Sharon, you're escorted back to her apartment in High-Town. What lies in wait is way more than you'd anticipated in store for your night.

Words: 6.4k

Warnings: Partying, Alcohol, Power Dynamics, Semi-Smutty, Inferences toward sex, Age Gap

Mentions of: Government, Betrayal, Treason, Hypocrisy, Grief

A/N: I've been waiting so long to get to this part! Ahhh, I feel like this is really when things will start to change, considering the reader's backstory and her growing relationships with the guys. Not to mention that some of the main plot points are finally being set in motion. I decided to not fully wind up writing them together since the chapter got so long, but I'm sure it'll def pop up in flashbacks later on down the line.

It's safe to say that you're more than a little out of it by the time you guys get into Sharon's vehicle. She insists on driving, and the guys need a good view of Zemo to make sure he's in check. That leaves the three of you in the back: Sam, you, and Bucky. As your journey takes you back a similar way you'd come, you can't help but still be fascinated with the lights. What's Sharon got in store for you all? What's her plan? While you're not super familiar with her, you wonder what she was doing in Low Town Madripoor in the first place. Surely, she hasn't been following you all this whole time.

Once she parks outside a luxury-style apartment, you follow Sam out the back door and follow Sharon into her place. "Woah," you whisper, taking in the fact that not only one security guard--slash--doorman stands out front, but two. Through a big metal sliding door lies an art exhibit, glass containers lined with neon blue lights illuminate different sculptures and craftsmanship. Real antique and pricey-looking things.

"Looks like breaking all those laws is treating you well," Sam comments as he walks beside Sharon alongside the containers. Whatever she'd been going through when you'd first had your run-in has clearly dissipated as she seems to come to life upon Sam's teasing.

"Well, at some point I thought if I had to hustle, might as well enjoy the life of a real hustler. You know how much I can get for a real Monet?" She asks, gesticulating with her arms as she explains her situation. While Zemo lingers a few steps behind you with Bucky trailing, you can't help but slow your steps upon this information.

"Easy, deactivate your hustle mode," Sam warns, "You sell fake Monets." He wants to clarify. While Sharon might pretend to allude to a profited criminal life such as Zemo, Sam clearly thinks she's a goodie-two-shoes.

"No, she means real. This gallery specializes in stolen artwork. Monet. Van Gogh. Classics," Zemo explains nonchalantly as he follows Sharon, continuing to round the exhibit.

"So it's true then? What they say..." You ask them, eyes shifting from Zemo onto Sharon, then finally Bucky who stands a few feet before you while Sam occupies the space by your side.

"It's true. You know, half the artwork in museums like the Louvre is fake. Real stuff sits in places like this," Bucky answers, eyes still taking in the pastel-dotted canvas.

"There's no way," you whisper to yourself, voice trailing off as you take in the scenery. Heading down the two steps, you approach Bucky's side, eyes scanning over the Monet painting before you. You've seen his other works in museums, though now you know they were fakes. Regardless, you don't think you'd be able to tell the difference.

"Okay, guys, I see what you're doing. You're more worldly than good old Sam," your friend complains, still stationed where you stood a few moments ago.

"Yeah? What's Google say?" Bucky asks, a playful tone curling around his words as he physically rounds Sam. This elicits your attention as you shift your gaze onto Sam, glad he's now enlightened onto the, well... not-so theory of conspiracy you and Bucky both seem to know about.

"No shit," Sam exclaims, clearly bewildered by the thought. In all honesty, you can't blame him. To think people would do something so greedy and frivolous? Useless? It takes seeing it firsthand to really believe, and it seems Sam's eyes are finally opening to that aspect.

"Come on, guys-" Sharon calls from the stairs, Zemo waiting a few steps behind her as they stare in your general direction. "You need to change. I'm hosting clients in an hour," She informs.

While you don't question her, you are curious as to what sort of clients and business she does... besides selling art, that is. There's a world of art, of course, yet you know that there's only so much a lifestyle of it can afford. Following the group upstairs, you're taken aback by the fact that this whole place is starting to seem like Sharon's.

"Of course, I've got all this stuff out here for you guys-" Sharon eyes the men, "-but I've got a few things you can borrow for tonight. Come with me," she commands.

Following Sharon through a series of archways and pristine doors you find yourself in a massive bedroom. Intricate patterns are embroidered on the comforter, and through an open doorway, you can see that there's a walk-in closet. It's precisely where she's led you, her hands gesturing for you to follow. "I know. Nice right? Every girl needs a walk-in," she comments before chuckling to herself.

Taken aback by the wide array of shoes on the shelves, purses on hangars, coats, dresses, pants, and shirts all hang neatly in their place, their own rack for each category of piece. Though you aren't sure where to even start, let alone if you even want to. Everything is too expensive, you couldn't possibly use them. Sharon speaks up.

Her fingers run across the fabric, only stopping once she spots something, though her back is to you and therefore your view is obscured. "Try this on, I have the shoes to go with them and together? I'm sure you'll have a great night!" She says over her shoulder before winking. With a quick hand she tosses the hangar to you, which you scramble to catch. "I'll see you downstairs, then."

The dress is a plain black fabric, a halter top cut, two slits on either side of your hips at the start of your thighs. It's a little more exposing than what Zemo had picked, though with everything that's happened tonight, you feel for some reason that you can't bring yourself to care. If someone sees something, it's not like it's the end of the world. Besides, with this dress you could wear a thong or panties. Though the panties would have to be matching or sexy, intentionally meant to be seen as a fashion statement. Deciding to just go for the dress, no bra needed and your panties already discarded, you're glad for the comfy snug fit the fabric offers. It's far more stretchy and accommodating than Zemo's. The shoes you have on work, the only thing left to do is to put your hair up. Finding a claw clip on Sharon's vanity, you figure she won't mind if you borrow it for tonight. After all, it's a lot less intimate than a dress.

With a wet wipe from the bathroom, you're all good to go. Makeup is natural enough to pass as anyone, hair is different, so is your dress, and while the shoes may not be, with the darkness of the gallery you're sure no one will notice. Especially not if there's going to be drinking; and no good party lacks a variety of drink. Heading back to the foyer Sharon had originally brought you to, you find the guys settling in nicely.

Taking in the intricate pieces placed throughout the room, you inspect each one carefully. "Much better," Sharon comments, heels clicking against the wooden floors announcing her return.

"What's going on, Sharon? You don't ever wanna come back home?" Sam asks. The shuffle of fabric and the faint tinkling of metal tells you he's changing his shirt again! Trying to find something suitable for him is practically impossible, and this, you swear. Out of your peripheral vision, you see Sharon place something on the arm of the couch while Zemo stands by the bar.

"They'll lock me up if I ever step foot back in the States. Madripoor doesn't allow extradition," She informs.

"Good to know," you joke to yourself. Fingers running along the smooth wood of the desk behind the couch, you don't notice how the comment seems to have everyone's eyes lingering on you for a moment before Sam chuckles and shakes his head.

"Look, sorry I didn't call, but after the Blip and the chaos, I just..." He attempts. This piques your interest, not initially intent on eavesdropping, though this sounds like something a lover might say. Did Sam and Sharon-? You don't wanna know... do you?

"Look, you know the whole hero thing is a joke, right?" Her tone softens, a genuine question reaching out to form some sort of connection. An attempt to regain a friendship, you think. "I mean the way you gave up that shield, deep down you must know it's all hypocrisy."

Eyes rising from the necklace displayed by the clothes rack, your eyebrows furrow in surprise. Wasn't Sharon CIA? To join the government so outright, then denounce it only a few years later? Something's fishy about it and eerie in a way you don't like. Even if what she's saying elicits a subconscious subtle nod of your head.

"He knows. And not so deep down," Zemo comments with a raise of his drink. This garners everyone's attention for a moment. You can't help but stare as you linger on him. Curious... Questioning.

"By the way, how is the new Cap?" Sharon asks, hands in her pockets. You aren't CIA by any means, but you know how to read body language. She's clearly got her guard up, but for what? You're not sure.

"Don't get me started," Bucky groans.

"Please, you buy into all that stars and stripes bullshit," Sharon argues. You round the room, peeking through the windowed panes of the glass doors into surrounding rooms to see what goodies lie there. If the rooms you've seen so far are anything to go by, you're sure the rest of the apartment complex is loaded with treasures. "Before you were his pet psychopath-" it doesn't take looking to know she's referring to Zemo, considering her positioning and emphasis, "-you were Mr. America! Cap's best friend."

Although you don't comment, you can't help the way your lips curl inward in a silent attempt at holding back any sort of chortle or chuckle from emerging.

"Wow. She's kind of awful now," Bucky comments. While you might guess he may be joking sarcastically, you can't be sure. Is he just insulting her? Being passive-aggressive? You can't tell.

"Karli Morgenthau and at least seven others have taken the serum," Sam informs, passing you as he rounds the couch the other way and sits across from Bucky.

"You guys really should steer clear of all this for your own safety," Sharon warns. Being in Madripoor and clearly in a position of wealth and selling artwork underground, she must know the rumors.

"We know it's a risk, but we won't leave until we find the person who cracked the code," Sam responds, unfazed and defiant of her advice. Elbows on his knees he leans in closer.

"We got a name. Wilfred Nagel," Bucky discloses. Sharon gets up and crosses Bucky to get to the bar, Zemo gets out of her way and walks toward you to sit in the lone chair by the side table.

"Nagel works for the Power Broker," Sharon replies. A dissatisfied hum rumbles in your chest. You don't want to think about the past, nor worry about how you're going to find the Power Broker to stop the supplier.

"We need your help, Sharon. I can get your name cleared," Sam offers, all the men's eyes intent on her as she pours a drink. Fingers running over the edge of a tapestry hung on the opposite wall, you listen intently.

"You haggling with my life?" She asks, tone sounding genuine to you.

"Not like that," Sam corrects.

"I don't buy that," She responds, and really, you can't blame her. "You pretending like you can clear my name."

You have to admit that Sharon is starting to grow on you in some sense. She's smart, that much is clear. While you don't outwardly boast the things you know will be demonized, she does, and you can respect her for that, if anything. Though you haven't weighed in much, you've been listening. Of course everyone has their judgments and suspicions, and while you may be leaping to conclusions, there's a fishy suspicion brewing in your mind. You only wonder if anyone else is catching onto what Sharon is putting down. Eyes flickering over to Zemo for a moment, you notice him meet your gaze. Immediately looking back to Sharon, you can't help the tiny smile that snags at your lips, blush forming on your cheeks. Originally intending to gather intel, for some reason you couldn't handle the pressure of his gaze.

"-I'm willing to try if you are," you zone back in on what they're saying. "They cleared the bionic staring machine, and he killed almost everybody he's met," Sam points out. A chuckle escapes your lips and you shrink in on yourself, not having expected that.

"-I heard that," Bucky comments to Sam, though his eyes and dissatisfied look are aimed at you. You don't even have to see it from your peripheral to feel his stare, the sense of it sending an internal sort of shiver down your spine.

"I don't trust charity," Sharon posits, intent on finishing their conversation.

"All right, a deal then. You help us out, and we get your name cleared." Sharon accepts Sam's extended hand and they shake on it. Downing her drink, she places the used tumbler aside and starts toward the door you'd entered from.

"Well, I sell to some pretty connected people. Lay low, blend in, enjoy the party. Try to stay outta trouble. I'll see what I can find." With that, she's out of the foyer and onto whatever business it is that she's doing.

"Trouble," Zemo repeats playfully with a shrug of his shoulders, a mischievous look in his eyes.

"Yeah, that's what you better not be," you warn. Eyes meeting his, you can't help but find that his playfulness has spread to you, even if you know you can switch into gear and act in accordance with the mission if need be.

"Well, you know me," Zemo taunts. With a swig of his drink, he lays the finished glass atop the coaster on the table beside his chair.

"That's the problem," Bucky quips, standing as Zemo moves to follow where Sharon had gone.

--------

You have to admit, with wherever Sharon stands in your likes, she can throw a good party... that much is clear. Originally determined to view all the authentic art pieces lingering around the gallery, it hadn't actually taken as long as you'd have thought. With a drink or two offered along the way, you can feel yourself start to loosen up. Hors d'oeuvres are littered throughout the party, and with Sharon being such the great hostess, you hardly feel the usual sense of guilt for indulging when it comes to fancy parties. It also doesn't help that they're really good and you hadn't eaten a lot, really, since Zemo's jet was scarce of in-date snacks. Eating expired foods wasn't really a risk you were willing to participate in today.

As the night goes on you find your way to the dance floor after a little persuasion from Sam. While you all might still be focused on your mission, the excuse of blending in is one of necessity. It's not really a party if there isn't dancing, right? The Avenger eventually decides to ditch you in favor of making small talk with some of the other partygoers. He's most likely trying to seek information, knowing him.

Dancing with Sam was different than dancing with Zemo. You hadn't anticipated for this to happen, but considering he's maintained a central viewpoint for the boys, that just so happens to be the dance floor. He's discarded his jacket at some point clearly as his chest is in full display in the plum sweater he's donning. It'd started off friendly, simply busting out your lamest dance moves for fun in the same vicinity. Yet, as the songs played on and you grew closer in distance to make conversation, the vibe between you shifted.

There's a reason they say not to mix drinks... and now you know why. It takes a matter of a half hour for your resolve to break, the inner dialogue, the constant fighting of the comical angel and demon on either shoulder bickering with one another. Overall, the devil had won- there was no use in denying what you want, that you have a plan, and are pursuing it. You're going after what you want. Using any chance to get closer, any excuse to feel his hands on you. the recent memory of his hot breath fanning across your neck, the spark when your lips met... it's still heavy on your mind and hot in your blood.

"You should know this one," you joke across the few feet between you as you sway to the music, the beat of the music ramping up, the bass and beats getting faster and faster toward that familiar climax you all know so well. 'There's not a soul out there-' bouncing to the rhythm, you let your hips sway as your arms find their way above your head.

'Give Me,

Give Me,

Give Me A Man After Midnight~'

It's a remix, the techno music is very different from the original, however, you can't deny you enjoy the song. It's fitting if nothing else. If anyone were to ask why you want this, you couldn't explain it--not rationally--and looks aren't a good enough reason, you know that better than anyone. While there are certain characteristics that could be said of his mannerisms and personality, you wouldn't dare to compliment or lead to the ego of a madman overextending its peace. Many would argue it already had, after all.

He doesn't seem to mind either. Whether you're simply keeping up the act, even if it's unnecessary here, you both find yourselves indulging in the ambiance around you. Breath heavy with the adrenaline of dancing and the higher temperature of lots of bodies on the dance floor, you're being bumped and jostled by the people around you. His hand extends at some point, loosely wrapping around your waist as the two of you draw nearer to one another. Over all, it's safe to say that Sharon may just have predicted your 'great night'.

As it draws closer to the wee hours of the morning, Sam makes his way around to advise you all of making it an early night. Tomorrow is supposed to be busy, so it makes sense. While the four of you head upstairs in a staggered manner, you find that once you're changed and sat on the bed that you still don't feel ready to officially end the night. Eyes drawn to the red dress and accompanying apparel you'd borrowed earlier, you can't help the thoughts that follow. However lewd they may be, it doesn't stop your mind from drawing up a vague plan.

Part of you knows it's a bad idea, that you shouldn't do this, but then again... what's the worse it could lead to? A one night stand? There's no reason that leads you to believe, rationally, that any of the same thoughts are going through his head at all. Therefore, you continue your trapse down the hallway. The wooden floors creak every so often, and you don't miss the way that Sam's clicking fingers on the keyboard come to a momentary halt before returning to its previous pace. It'd go unnoticed if you didn't know better, but you know he's well aware of your presence, just as you are of his.

You'd already thought this through--the excuse--the lie. It's a shame, really, to have to lie to a friend whom you love dearly... yet, you know there's no telling the truth in this circumstance. Yet, there is... isn't there? After all, you know it'd be taking a play from Zemo's book, you're sure, no doubt, but anyone who's smart knows that all lies hold some semblance of the truth. Hence, your excuse; smooth and comforting material weighing your hands down by your stomach, you're about to walk past the back of the couch when his soft voice stops you.

"You're going to visit him?" It's a reasonable question, a check-in. Something to note, since, he is a criminal... a dangerous person. Someone to be kept in check. Unpredictable, as they'd said.

"Just returning these," you answer, lifting the bundle of clothing and the accessories of your disguise for Sam's viewing.

"I'm sure he could care less, but, by all means-" Sam extends his hand in the direction of the hallway. "If he tries anything-"

"-call out, I got it. I'm only planning on dropping this off. Maybe asking him something if he's up for conversation. But it shouldn't be too long. Don't worry," you attempt to reassure him. "You should get some sleep soon, too, you know? Especially if we're to do this in the morning," you shift the topic, intent on reminding him of what you hope is tiredness showing, even if the bags under his eyes grow heavier with the hours.

With a nod in your direction, Sam lets his attention drift back to the computer screen, intent on whatever work it is he has waiting within the digital world. Though you'd like to say this relieves you, lifts a burden from your shoulder, it only makes the weight on them sink further into you. Whether it's dread, guilt, or shame at all of the incredulous scenarios that run through your mind in possible what-ifs of the conversation to play out between you and the Baron, you can't do anything but shake your head in an attempt to dissuade them. Bare feet padding across the wooden floor, you notice how the dim light that peeks from under the door gives your heart a reason to speed up. Really, its the realization that you've never truly been alone with this man since you've met. The rumors, perhaps, the danger they claim he holds... the possibility of a supposed madman snapping at any point is equal parts exhilarating and yet, still terrifying. At least when you let yourself truly contemplate this fact.

With a hesitancy at the door, you lift your small fist up to the carved oak, lingering... debating. While you'd thought all resolve had fled the moments after you'd downed your fifth shot... the buzz of alcohol has long since seemed to dwindle away from your mind, the accelerating carefree feeling emptied from your veins and replaced by the cautiousness of someone who Sam would tease is entirely, all you. Determined to defy the limits of the box your closest friends place you in for one reason or another, you gently knock on the door.

There's no response. Something you'd expect, if not for the way that there's a shuffle of fabric and then a sigh on the other side. "Come in." Cold golden ornate knob within your grasp, you turn it and push the heavy door open enough for you to slip inside before quietly closing it behind you.

"Hi." It's the first word that comes to mind, the only thing you can think to say, to break the silence between you as he takes in your bare goosebump-riddled legs and the satin robe you have on.

"Hello," he returns the sentiment, unmoving from his position, torso upright against the headboard as he lies in bed, legs outstretched before him. "What a surprise to see you, Schön. Though I should've guessed from the light footsteps and quiet knock. James would certainly not allow me a moment of privacy, nor Sam." Sitting up a little straighter, his hands clasp in his lap. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Swallowing your shyness, as you can't simply stare at him forever--that'd be far too embarrassing--you lift your arms a bit for emphasis. "I thought I would return these to you." There's a wooden chair with a striped pattern of cloth covering the cushiony seat standing by the vanity. That's where you place the pile of folded clothing and shoes. Although you're no longer facing him, you can feel his gaze lingering on your figure. When you turn around again, he has his head tilted, no doubt thinking about something.

"You can keep the clothes, Schön, I don't need them back. However, I'm sure you knew that. Why are you really here?" He questions.

"What if I really was just here to return the clothing?" You offer, mirroring him unconsciously with a little tilt of your own head.

"Then I'd say you're courteous, and ask how you liked the outfit I picked out for you," he retorts. Even from across the room, you can spot a flicker of something within his irises. Whether he's playing with you, toying with you, or testing you, you're unsure. This question, however, puts you on the spot. A bemused smile graces your lips and you don't try to hide it. Taking in his state of wealth, you decide not to comment on how expensive you thought everything was, as you'd rather not know. It's better to play on his level.

"I... thought it was very nice. Not something I'd normally wear, but for a nice evening out, I think it was a good pick. The shoes were cool, the gems on the back," you recount.

"The color suited you wonderfully. Brought out your features, just as I'd predicted," he comments with a somewhat smug look upon his face. Seemingly half-placated with the notion, though there's still something gnawing at the seams of his resolve. "There's another reason you're here, whether you're willing to admit it or not." This is a test, you're well aware.

"Mmm," the hum leaves your lips before you can even begin to think of a retort. Turning on your spot, you can't help but run your fingers along the carved wooden back of the chair, walking your fingers along it and taking a step further into the room as you think. "Am I?" You stop moving, offering a look in his direction. "What if I said that you intrigue me? That I wanted to ask you how you do it?" You posit.

Tongue sneaking out to wet his lips, the Baron listens intently. Though he silently chuckles to himself at you returning his question with another question, the second half of your thoughts elicit a narrowing of his eyes. This notion has caused pause for his own thought. "Do... what, Schatz?" He plays along, subconsciously leaning a little closer despite being across the room.

Though the various thoughts and moments from tonight race across your mind, there's one theme that you can't bear to continue reliving. One thought, one realization that you know will have you getting nowhere in the coming days. Jaw threatening to clench down on itself, you can't help but sigh as your hands ball up into fists by your sides. "I... tonight, I just noticed how... in every instance, no matter what seemed to be going on, you... didn't seem scared. Like nothing fazed you," it comes out a whisper. Those final words. Though you'd been trying to search for the right words, everything came out how it wanted to, yet in the end you couldn't help but whisper the truth. It seemed like nothing fazed him. Meanwhile you... were downright terrified. Scared in a way no one has made you feel. Ever. And the worst of it is that you know it's not over. Tomorrow you will get up, alongside the rest of your friends and acquaintances and get geared up and ready to face a man who's only haunted your past.

"Oh..." Zemo responds, your name falling off his lips as if you were simply a child, a silly girl that he feels pity for. Something shifted in his demeanor by the time you finally raise your eyes to meet him again, not sure when you had dropped your vision to the floor. Possibly too embarrassed to admit the truth.

It's this moment... that's when things changed, you think. Time settles in the space between you, the air thick and heavy with confusion and a cluster of effervescent emotions bubbling up and out of you both into the air, a swirling and confusing domination of raw emotion. There's no denying what's there; the truth, the matter of your age held right before you in time like a reflection of your souls. While you'd both endured a heaviness of trauma encumbered in your life time and time again, there's no denying that he's the older man, that he's experienced more... seen more, done more, lived more. And you... well, let's save the stereotype for literature digests, will you?

"Don't-" you warn, the rise of embarrassment hitting you like a brick wall as you begin to march toward the door with a speed that leaves him in a whirlwind. What surprises you both, however, is the way that as soon as your hand is reaching for the doorknob, his is roughly placed atop it. His hand effectively trapping yours underneath. You hadn't even heard him get up, yet you can feel the heat coming off his body only inches away.

"Come," he beckons, "listen." With gentle hands he peels yours away from the knob as he guides you over to the side of the bed, simply sitting. A pat of his free hand on the empty space beside him lets you know what he wants. Really, you'd want it too... if it weren't for the conflicting emotions in your stomach making you want to tear up.

He seems to pick up on your hesitance as he stands once more, hands tentatively moving to ghost over your shoulders, tacitly asking for your permission. When you don't push him away, he places them on you, hands encompassing your satin-covered shoulders. "You have to understand, Meine Süße," he starts, voice holding a softer tone than you've ever heard him use. "I joined my country's military as soon as I was eligible. From the time I was a recruit to the time I eventually became a Colonel..." Zemo sighs as he tears his gaze from you, the motion eliciting your gaze on him in turn. "The point is, I have been through more, seen more, than you and anyone will ever know. And despite my training, the truth still remains... disregarded by most."

Soft hand sliding down your shoulder to your wrist, his long fingers gently wrap around it as he guides you toward the bed. Sitting, you follow suit beside him, shoulder to shoulder as his arm winds its way around your shoulder. "As I see it, there is only reason to be afraid of death if one feels they have something left to live for. Would you agree?" While speaking you'd noticed his gaze, even if no longer stationed on you, become more far off and glazed over. As you silently ponder on his words, his eyes find your face, gauging you no doubt.

"Yeah, I suppose so... though are you saying you don't have anything left to live for?" You prod, eyes shifting between his as you attempt to read him, the two of you finally making eye contact once more.

"I did, once, yes. Though your friends would most likely also claim my recklessness only provides evidence for this theory," he answers. Zemo may not mention it explicitly, but you know that he's referring to his family. You'd heard the stories from Sam, the details from Bucky. That's why he tried to destroy the Avengers. Or did, considering the rift he'd created.

"Maybe... but you know that most people would argue that when you don't feel you have a reason to live anymore, that's an opportunity to find a new one, right?" You offer. Brushing your hair behind your ear, your vision drifts from his face toward the wall before you both. "And don't get me wrong. I understand. I do, really... I'd be lying if I said that I felt I had any sort of reason right now, but... I also think there's a certain cynicism in giving up hope. Maybe it's my naivety... my lack of experience in life comparingly... but I believe there's hope for everyone."

He hums in contemplation, "Perhaps." It's the only answer you receive, his eyes still lingering on your face for a moment before he, too, finds his own spot on the wall across from the bed. Neither of you move, still stuck in quiet consideration.

Held safe within his warm arms, there's a relaxation that finds you in the blue. You hadn't anticipated the night going this way, and yet... you wouldn't change it for anything. The answer was unexpected, but you can't deny that you'd gotten an answer. Heart thumping steadily in your chest, you finally take in a deep breath before leaning back just enough to peer up at him from underneath your thick lashes. "Thank you, Zemo," you whisper. There's no reason to be loud, not when the night is so quiet, so still, and there's only so much room between you.

"Helmut," he offers, a slight nod of his head downward in your direction, a squeeze of your hand in reassurance.

"Thank you, Helmut," you repeat, teasing slightly as you use the name he'd offered. An amused smile graces your lips and his grip on you loosens, glad to see you're no longer feeling beaten down. Unbeknownst to the both of you, while his grip has loosened, the distance between you is increasingly closing. In a matter of seconds, you can't help but jump off the ledge you'd been teetering off all night long- diving into the ocean that is Helmut.

Pressing your lips to his gently, the shocked gasp that resonates through his closed mouth easily turns into a hum as he returns the kiss, then draws out into a growl as his hand roughly finds your cheek, gripping it tightly with a desperate need. A whimper involuntarily leaves your throat as this happens, unsure what you've unearthed. Slowly forcing himself to pull away, his forehead rests against yours as you both breathe deeply, in need of the oxygen that streams into your lungs and filters through your blood. "Why?"

It's a question you hadn't anticipated receiving from him. An answer that you weren't prepared to give. Even if you both knew of the inklings and sparks that'd been building and dancing around you all night. "Because you were right," an airy laugh echoes in the space between you, "earlier. I did want something else, even if I wanted this, too." A smile stretches upon your lips, and the contagion spreads, Helmut mirroring it as an amused smile of his own tugs at the corners of his lips. The moment is short; a brushing of your noses against one another as you breathe in the same light-hearted air. Each of you tempting the other to be the first to lean in and capture a kiss from the other. Some unspoken instinctual game, perhaps.

Lips darting in for another peck, you're not surprised when his hand moves from cupping your cheek to rounding your head in search of a hold, a grasp of some sort. His hand winds into your hair, fingers gripping it tenderly. Pulling you in with his lips, he draws back, making you careen after him in search of his lips. Yet the instant he lies back, hands moving mindlessly down to your hips to help you straddle him and stay steady, the spark is interrupted. Helmut lies on the bed, a look crossing his face that leaves you knowing.

How can one read a stranger like they're a book they'd left open on a coffee table, passed by dozens of times? The heat where your clothed sex meet his undeniable erection. a spark sated in nips and kisses you'd been teasing each other with all night, yet there's something unsaid. "We don't have to," you voice it. "I don't want you to do anything you don't want to." The hand that's not secured on his chest and holding you up runs down the front of his robe, the thick and cozy material running beneath your fingertips.

"I want to..." his voice trails off, "I just..."

"Don't want to offend her. I understand," you answer for him. Lips pursing into a thin line, the upward tilt of the inner corners of your eyebrows betray that semblance, showing your empathy. Even if to him it might appear as some sort of pity. "Though... if I may?" You inquire.

"You may," he encourages, curious to hear your thoughts. Warm splayed hands lie on your thinly robed hips keeping you steady and preventing you from grinding down on him and teasing further, even if you aren't presently doing so. A precaution, nonetheless.

"I know I didn't know her, and I've only heard a little, but... if there's anything I can say, I'd think she'd want you to be happy." The sentiment lingers in the air, and you offer him a saddened smile, quickly intent on clarifying. "And I'm not saying that to get you to sleep with me, I just... I think you should know. If anyone hasn't said it, I think any wife that truly loves her husband would eventually want him to find happiness again. However, it may be."

Silence settles in the air for a moment, and his lack of response elicits a spike of anxiety as you continue to voice your thoughts. "I know it probably doesn't mean anything coming from me, a stranger, but I still do believe in what I said," you chuckle, "and that includes people some may otherwise consider criminal, but... I believe there's hope for you. To find another reason."

"Verdammte Hölle," he curses. One of the hands on your hip squeezes for a moment. "I know," he acknowledges, "I just..."

"Haven't since?" You question, noticing the slight pinch of his brows. It's a guess, a posture in relation to the circumstance you both come from.

"Exactly," he affirms. Searching your eyes, you leave him no room for doubt as you lean down so you're chest to chest.

"Then we'll take it slow. If that's what you want," you reassure him, eyes searching his for some sort of clue into his thoughts.

"Yes, just bear with me, Schatz. It's been a while for me," He reveals, a hint of red tinging his cheeks. Whether it be from blush, embarrassment, or lust, you can only think of how handsome it makes him look in the golden light pouring from the bedside lamp.

"Me too, don't worry," you reassure. Hands resettling themselves on his chest, you both lean in, lips easily finding their way back to one another.

~~~~~~~~

translations:

Schatz = treasure, sweetheart, darling

Schön = lovely, beautiful, nice

Verdammte Hölle = fucking hell.

Meine Süße = my darling, sweet, dear, honey

forever taglist: @ohdamnadam , @safarigirlsp , @jynzandtonic , @moonlightsolo

tmt taglist: @wheres-mylove , @ashy-kit

#baron helmut zemo x reader #helmut zemo x reader #tmt #the missing title #the missing title series #my series #my writing #mcu reader insert #marvel reader insert #helmut zemo x reader smut #tfaws reader insert #the falcon and the winter soldier reader insert #read tags on top

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norcumii · 3 months ago

Text

I read the Twilight books once – I think it was some time after the third one came out, and a very nice lady who shared a bus stop with me had nothing else to talk about except her new favorite books. She even gave me a copy, and I was willing to read ‘em. It was a nice gesture, and I was pretty deep into the realms of depression and such where anything that might be a distraction was welcome.

I honestly don’t recall much of the stalking and other classic bits people reference as horrible – I’m sure that’s a direct result of said depression. The thing I remember most is the part that enraged me, the one thing that often made me toss my kindle aside and pace about in utter frustration.

Y’see, at that time I had also JUST been learning how to drive stick. Something like within two years at most, I had gone from a what was only technically a driver to having to know how to drive a manual – with training, at least. (Though mainly in Pittsburgh. That was more the trial by fire.) And the thing you need to understand is that I do remember Stephanie Myer went into excessive detail about cars.

And apparently the sparkly vampires liked their fellow antiques old cars. Or fancy speedy bullshit, where manual gearing is considered classy, more precise and more high brow (I also used to have a friend who was really into cars who told me these things). Bella *checks notes to make sure that’s the right name* goes into MASSIVE detail about how her dad got her HER VERY OWN VEHICLE and it was suuuuuuch a let down because it was an old clunker of a truck.

Me? I was ecstatic. I was going to see a character learning to drive stick! Or at least a nod would have to be made towards “Good thing I learned to drive that tractor that one summer!” or some such excuse and that would make me feel awesome about how yes, this is a relatable element of Growing Up and Adulting!

N O T H I N G.

Not.

ONE.

Single.

Word.

I was baffled. Then I was furious. It wasn’t even that I felt cheated, it was that this was such a basic thing that nevermind sparkly vampires or werewolves, an utter lack of mentioning the challenges of driving stick for a new driver, even in the slightest passing, was utterly world breaking to me. No immersion for me, it was just GONE.

Oh, I read all of the first two books (though the second one was more because I had Theories about the weird maybe telepathy and shit that was really just depressive hallucinations or something bizarrely lame like that?). Or, more accurately, I speed-read through those bastards, desperate to get to the next part where cars were described in excessive detail BUT THE ACTUAL EXPERIENCE OF DRIVING STICK – OR NOT, SINCE SHE’D BE USED TO A MANUAL DUE TO HER SUPPOSED SHITTY PICKUP – WAS NEVER EVER ONCE MENTIONED.

I didn’t bother reading the third book, because it was clear by then that it just wasn’t gonna happen.

Anyway. Give this somewhat irrational obsession pet peeve of mine, I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that I just ragequit a book where a bunch of superheroes were on a runaway train without sufficient e-brakes only ELECTRONICALLY CONTROLLED from a mere three points across a WHOLE DAMN COMMUTER TRAIN which is your most significant form of travel in the Near Future.

I DON’T CARE HOW FAR IN THE POST-APOCALYPTIC FUTURE YOU ARE, THERE’S STILL GONNA BE SOME KIND OF NTSB EQUIVALENT ESPECIALLY IF YOU STILL HAVE ENOUGH OF A MURICA TO HAVE A CIVIL WAR FOR GODS’ SAKE AND THEY’RE STILL GONNA HAVE REGULATIONS SO THIS SORT OF SHIT DON’T HAPPEN! That’s not how vehicles should fail! Yes I checked wikipedia to make sure this wasn’t somehow a horrific failure in current design I didn’t want to imagine! And for crying out loud, I understand that the characters are teenagers and panicking, but teenagers are vicious (affectionate), and if your friend has an adaptive mutation that evolves depending on the danger of a situation then you learn to step up and shove your friend off the speeding train.

#twilight #reading problems #books #driving #vehicle #to be fair I was already having a number of issues with this book #but this is making me reconsider if this really belongs in the 'meh freebies' folder or the 'bad freebies' folder #I developed at least one other plan to stop the speeding train all before the characters developed theirs and let's just say #I get that they are teenagers but I am Less Than Impressed with their results #it bothered me all night so surprise I get to vent to y'all!#thank you for coming to my TED talk #long post #i think

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direwombat · 7 months ago

Note

Crime boss au for sybeli 👀

ahhhhh thank you gen this was such a fun little exploration of the quasi formed "mobster syb" au i have floating in my brain. eli strikes me as too much of a hermit to be an effective mob boss, but in an au where syb gets involved in organized crime to pay off her daddy's gambling debts...well...i think she'd be able to run hope county from the shadows :)

also lmao whoops this ended up being almost 2k (but then again, as i always say...anything under 5k is "short" for me).

[SEND ME A PAIRNG + AN AU SETTING]

The great part about living in Middle-of-Nowhere, Montana, Eli finds, is that there usually isn’t a soul around for miles.

The bad part about living in Middle-of-Nowhere, Montana, is that when an uninvited soul does come knocking, there isn’t anyone around to help.

He’d been disarmed of his rifle so swiftly that he didn’t even notice the other man circling behind him to throw a burlap sack over his head. His hands were forced behind his back, the zip ties quickly snapped into place around them, and he’d been shoved into the backseat of a vehicle.

Blind as he is, he has no idea where they’re going, and he knew better than to ask. The kind of people who kidnap a man from his home aren’t the kind to answer his questions. He sits silently, shifting his weight uncomfortably, desperately trying to keep his hands from going numb under his weight. His jaw is clenched and his ears strain for any familiar sounds that might give him a clue of where they’re taking him.

The purring of the engine. Soft chatter, some of it in a language he doesn’t understand but thinks might be French. The crunching of gravel as they trundle along the dirt roads of the Whitetails.

And then traffic.

Traffic. Other cars around them. Civilization. Town.

They have to be heading towards Falls End. He hasn’t been sitting long enough for it to be anywhere else.

He guesses it’s about twenty minutes later that the vehicle pulls to a stop and the driver cuts the engine. The second he’s pulled from his seat, Eli is hit with the stench of beer, stale cigarettes, and deep fried food, and while muffled, the distinct sound of classic rock blares from a jukebox nearby. A heavy hand shoves between his shoulder blades and he stumbles forward. Every step he takes is hesitant, fearful he’ll walk himself straight into a goddamn wall.

But his handlers guide him with gruff instructions. “Keep going straight,” and, “face right,” and “stop.” A door creaks open and the overwhelming sounds and smells only get stronger as he’s ushered inside what he assumes is likely the Spread Eagle. The sack is pulled from his head, hair lifting in a staticy mess.

It doesn’t take long for his eyes to adjust. The bar itself is dimly lit and the halls behind it, just past the restrooms and kitchen, are even moreso. A single lightbulb flickers unsteadily overhead and he’s guided once more towards another door. He’d only ever been back here a handful of times -- back when Casey had been kind enough to let him store the game he caught in the restaurant freezers, before he built his own -- and had simply assumed this particular door was to the Fairgrave's office, where they kept their books and receipts.

But as one man pushes the door open, it isn’t any of the Fairgraves he sees occupying the space.

Instead, there stands a woman he’s never seen before. A woman with short, dark hair, dressed in a crisp white button up and black pinstripe vest and slacks. Garters wrap around her biceps and her cuffs are rolled up to her elbows -- not that it prevented blood from flecking and spattering onto it. She leans against a heavy mahogany desk in the center of the room, smoking a cigar and filling the room with clouds of smoke. Her hands are bruised and still adorned with brass knuckles while jazz plays quietly from a record player off in the corner.

The room itself is warm, almost cozy -- styled like an antique library. Dark wood bookshelves line the walls. Heavy curtains, deep red in color, are drawn over the window, blotting out the light, or, more accurately, preventing anyone from seeing what’s transpiring inside. The space is adorned with antique, velvet clawfoot couches and chairs, and at the center stands a heavy mahogany desk. A plush carpet covers the hardwood floors, and laying on that carpet is a man whose face has been reduced to paste.

Eli’s blood goes cold and he swallows thickly. He feels like he just walked back in time or stepped foot on the set of a film about 1920s gangsters.

The woman’s gaze flicks over them before settling on one of the men standing behind him. “Clean that up, would’ya?” she says, less of a request and more an order. Then, she looks to Eli and tilts her head towards one of the chairs. “You. Sit.” He freezes for a moment, deer in headlights, and it isn’t until she shoots him a glare that clearly says Don’t make me repeat myself that he shuffles forward and takes a seat.

The other two men grip the unconscious body by his arms and legs before dragging him off, leaving a red smear across the hardwood floor.

The door then shuts with a damning click, and the woman’s attention is solely on him.

“Little birdie tells me you know how to build things where they ain’t supposed to go,” she says, gingerly letting her brass knuckles slide off her hands. She tucks them in her pocket. “That true?”

He swallows thickly. The bunkers he’s built for himself and a few others are violating zoning laws and he maybe bribed a friend in Falls End to help him get permits regardless. Are the structures technically illegal? Yeah, but it isn’t like he’s hurting anyone with them. “Who’s asking?”

“Someone who’s willin’ to pay you a lot of money for comparatively little work,” she says evenly.

Alarms, sirens, and all other manner of warnings go off inside Eli’s mind. Getting involved with a woman like this one can only spell bad news for him. It’s never just one job for people like her. “I’m good,” he grits from between clenched teeth.

Her brows lift in surprise. “Are ya now? ‘Cause that ain’t what I’m hearin’.” She grins. Smugly. Knowingly. Cruelly. “Those alimony and child support checks are a real bitch, ain’t they?”

Eli’s jaw clenches even tighter, the vein at his temple throbbing in anger. Not only does she know about his finances, she also knows about his ex-wife and kid. “What do you want?”

“I want you to do a job, Mr. Palmer.”

“And if I say no?”

“Don’t see why you would,” she shrugs. “Like I said before, you’ll be handsomely compensated. But, I s’pose if you really ain’t wantin’ to play ball, maybe I let my good friends over at the sheriff’s department know that one of your bunkers is storin’ a helluva lotta oxy. Hell, maybe all of ‘em are.”

Something in her smile shifts at the threat -- her expression hardens to stone and the teasing glimmer in her eyes fades. She isn’t fucking around. He believes she can and would frame him for drug crimes. But then a question scratches at the back of his mind. Is one of the bunkers he built being used to store drugs? He’s not proud of how his voice shakes. “This is extortion,” he says, as if the moral judgment behind it means anything to her.

She barks a laugh and it's one of pure, and utter amusement. “Of course not Mr. Palmer. This is just blackmail. I’m askin’ ya nicely.” She tilts her head to the side, drinking in the sight of him tied in front of her. She then quirks a brow. “Whether or not it turns into extortion is entirely up to you.” Her gaze then slowly rakes over his body appreciatively and Eli barely suppresses a shudder. “Though I must confess, it’d be a shame to do anything to that face of yours.” She regards him, considering. “How do you feel about your kneecaps?”

“I like’em as they are,” he says hoarsely

She hums and nods. “So you understand what I’m askin’ of ya, then.”

Fuck him. Either he says no and ends up in the hospital or worse, in prison, or he says yes and ends up in the employ of someone who definitely isn’t on the right side of the law. And while the thought of affiliating himself with someone so casual about violence makes his skin crawl, at least the latter option means that his kid is still taken care of.

Slowly, he nods. “Think so.”

“Glad we could come to an agreement,” she smiles, as if she hadn’t coerced and threatened him into it. Setting her cigar down and pulling a butterfly knife from her other pocket, she circles behind him and cuts the zip-tie binding his wrists together. “You’ll get half your payment up front along with detailed instructions of what it is I want you to build. You’ll receive the rest upon completion. Understood?”

Eli rubs at the chafed skin around his wrists. “Yes ma’am.”

“Good.” She goes to sit at her desk and she takes another puff from her cigar. “Now, you strike me as a smart man, so consider this a courtesy rather than a warnin’: don’t go gettin’ any stupid ideas. You take that down payment and run, and I promise you, y’ain’t gonna make it very far. See, I got a hound who takes his job very seriously and he’s been beggin’ for me to take him huntin’. I’d hate to see you end up between his teeth. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good,” she says, already moving on to the stack of files piled on her desk. “Someone will contact you within the week.” There’s a beat of silence where Eli remains where he is, unsure if he’s been dismissed and too afraid to assume. She glances up at him after a moment and says, “The hell’re you still doin’ here.” Her jaw juts out to motion to the door. “Get.”

With a nod, Eli hastily rises and shuffles to the door. He takes one last hesitant glance over his shoulder only to find the woman engrossed in whatever she’s reading. Quietly, he opens the door and shuts it behind him. He half expects the two men from before to throw a bag over his head again and drive him back to his cabin, but the hallway is empty.

Exhaustion hits him like a ton of bricks and the siren song of booze and greasy bar food calls his name. He shuffles out into the bar, ducking and weaving between drunk patrons and wearily slides onto a barstool. “Whiskey, on the rocks,” he says when Mary May stops by to take his order. She pours him a glass and he spends the next hour or so nursing it before knocking the rest of it back in a single go.

When he places the cash down on the bartop to pay, Mary May shakes her head. “You’re drinking on the Boss Lady’s tab tonight.”

He blinks in shock. “That so?” he says slowly. Well, in that case, he might as well order something nice. “What’s her favorite?”

The corners of Mary May’s lips quirk into a smile and she pulls a laminated cocktail menu from underneath the bartop. Placing it down in front of him, there’s a drink called ‘Sazerac de La Roux’. Cognac, absinthe, a sugar cube, and two dashes of Peychaud’s Bitters.

Eli considers for a moment, and then says, “I’ll take one of those.”

#herald!syb might be a scumbag but mobster!syb is classy af <3 #my fic #r: the shrike to your sharp and glorious thorns #oc: deputy sybille la roux

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