#beverly hills agent

[christophechoo]

🏡 November 2023 Luxury Real Estate Market Update & Trends for the City of Beverly Hills!

🔻 Avg Sales Price: $5.38 million, 📉 down 27%. Room for Negotiation!

🔻 Avg List Price $16.11, 📉 down 3%.

🔼 Properties Sold: 8️⃣ , 📈 UP 20% Act Fast!

🔼 Days on Market: 65 📆, 📈 UP 4% It’s a hot market!

🔻 $/Sq FT: $1,398, 📉 down 18%.

beverlyhills #sellingbeverlyhills #realestate #marketsnapshot #luxuryrealestate #realestateupdate #beverlyhillshousingmarket #la #Beverlyhillshomeprices #realtor #realestate #homes #homes for sale #homeprices #toprealtor #bestagent

[bestagons]

How much do y’all think they need to run by their management before they do it?

[emma-dennehy-presents]

Oh snap! I found a signed Bruce Campbell poster in the parking lot at work! No way to authenticate it but looks legit from what I saw on Google. Little torn and water damaged, but a super cool find!

[erickredatus]

Rolling Hills Estates Real Estate for Sale | Eric Kredatus

Through listings featuring detailed information on properties, including the number of bedrooms, bathrooms, square footage, and more. Whether you're looking for a luxury estate, a family home, or a condo, find the perfect property in this exclusive community. Benefit from Eric Kredatus' expert guidance and local market knowledge. Contact Eric today to begin your journey to finding your dream home in Rolling Hills Estates Real Estate for Sale.

[kjcfilmlover]

Hallam Cooley is a definitive head scratcher of mysteries when it comes to researching a person, and their history. He was actually born, Lindsley Hallam Burr - his first name from his paternal grandfather’s middle name, and his middle name his mother’s maiden name, while Burr was his father’s surname. The name Clifford, sometimes pops up in screen magazines and journals, but where it came from is a mystery. I can find it it in no historical or genealogy records. On various ancestry websites his first name has been misspelled as “Bendsley” which seems to be a typographical error. He was born on February 8, 1895, and not in 1888, as sometimes printed. This misinformation stems from his WWI Draft Card registration, in Brooklyn, New York, as well as, various wedding certificates. When it comes to his education, supposedly he attended Northwestern Military & Naval Academy, and the University of Southern California, other sources claim he graduated from the University of Minnesota. Yet no sources have validated, with any type of documentation.. He was supposedly a boxer, according to a few press releases, again nothing can be confirmed of this. As an actor, Hallam got his start in theatre, playing stock and legit plays like The Man From Mexico and Kingdom of Hearts Content prior to entering films, in 1913. Known for over 100 films, he worked for Selig, American, National and Universal, among others. He played opposite Mary Pickford in Daddy Long Legs, as well as, productions for Goldwyn and Paramount. Other film titles include One of the Finest, Girl From Outside, Happy Tho Married, Girl Dodger, The Monster, The Daughter of the Don, What Do Men Want? for Louis Weber, and Babes in the Jungle. . He made a dozen sound films, including Little Man, What Now? and Mary of Scotland with Katharine Hepburn, Fredric March, and Florence Eldridge, he left acting, and became an agent, representing several important actors and directors. According to an advertisement in “Billboard” from November 2, 1946, the Hallam Cooley Agency, was located at 9111 Sunset Boulevard, in Hollywood. Under a banner headline, “Gotta Script to sell?” His name was listed among several other agents, of the day. He also dabbled in assorted real estate ventures.

Most folks find it difficult to manage one career, let alone two, and be a success at both. Yet, Hallam did just that, while as an actor or as an talent agent, his other career was in real estate. In an article dated, October 4, 1925, in the “Los Angeles Times,” Hal was not only building a slated 14 room - five bath, three car garage home for himself, on the NW corner of Bedford Drive and Lomitas Avenue, in Beverly Hills, at a reported cost of $40,000.00 which was expected to be completed by December 1st. Hallam was also a successful licensed broker who was also planning to build other homes. In a subsequent “Los Angeles Times” article dated June 4, 1933, we learn of such a development being constructed in the Three Arch Bay neighborhood of Laguna Niguel, in Southern California. “Hallam Cooley, Inc., will begin work on a demonstration home. It will be of French Normandy type of architecture and will contain six rooms. Structure to cost $3,500.00 and built on a seventy foot lot.”

When it comes to researching his real vs reel life, two film titles seemingly fit the bill as bookends - first as his character of ‘the mystery man,’ from The Brass Bullet, and subsequently his many romances, brings to mind his title character of The Devilish Romeo. His many marriages seemingly fit his ‘Romeo’ mode. His first marriage, at 15 years of age, was to Viola L Johanson on November 6, 1910, in Waukegan, Illinois ended in either a divorce, or annulment. No actual records for either can be found, except mention in a small notation on his second marriage license. Viola later married a George Milton Gardner, in 1913. She died in May 8, 1976, in Honolulu, Hawaii. Hallam’s second marriage was to Edna Clara Dorr, on May 1, 1912, however ended in divorce, with him paying alimony, according to a newspaper article, in the “Los Angeles Herald,” dated October 17, 1916. His third marriage was to Elizabeth Bates, on December 24, 1918, (some sources state on Christmas Day) by the Reverend J. Myers. Who was the same clergyman that officiated the Charles Chaplin and Mildred Harris wedding ceremony, a few weeks earlier. In the same article from “Moving Picture World,” dated January 18, 1919, we find out that his real name is Hallam Burr. It seems his mother deserted her husband, when Hal was just a baby, and never told him his real name, or anything about his father.

Hallam had a son named Ronald, with Edna, born on October 11, 1917, and died at the young age of 41, on January 26, 1958. There were two more children, one named George Aaron Burr, according to a newspaper blurb in October of 1919. The other had no name mentioned, both children died young, neither more than ten years of age. According to brief notices, no names are attached, but the other Cooley children died on February 24, 1927, and August 8, 1929.

Hal had left the screen as an actor in November of 1933, with exception to occasional small bits, and began an association as a talent agent with Harry Weber and Son. In 1935, he was now partners with the George Ullman Agency. He married a fourth time, to a dancer and actress, named Doris MacMahon, on August 1, 1935, with actor Johnny Mack Brown serving as usher. The reception followed at the Beverly Hills home of George Ullman. In the late 1940s and 50’s he and his wife spent their time entertaining and attending social events in Hollywood and Palm Springs. Hal also liked a variety of clubs supporting and belonging to Kappa Alpha Fraternity, Masonic Lodge #233, the California Yacht Club and Hollywood Athletic Club and Masquers.

After the death of Doris on August 30, 1961, at the age of 51, in San Francisco, her remains were cremated. Hallam married for a fifth time, to a Charlotte Maxine (Mina-Minor) Missamore on October 1, 1962, in Maine. Hallam reportedly passed away on March 20, 1971, at the age of 76, in Tiburon, California. Charlotte Maxine (Mina-Mina-Missamore) Cooley died at the age of 76 years, in October, 1993. In trying to piece together their relationship, records for Maxine and Hallam are confusing, to say the least, making a complete telling of their bond next to impossible, with seemingly more questions than answers.

Notes: A different and interesting side note to his life, as noted in a blurb in a 1920s “Los Angeles Herald” newspaper article, stated that “Hallam was a collector of signatures and treasures of film companies.” I often wonder whatever became of these treasures, he collected, after his death.

[oliver-realty]

Real Estate Agent In Beverly Hills | Beverly Hills Realtor | Oliver Ifergan Realty

Oliver Ifergan

Sales Associate In Compass

About Oliver In his previous career as a globetrotting stylist catering to elite clients in his Beverly Hills studio, Oliver Ifergan envisioned broadening his impact beyond personal aesthetics. His shift from the realm of beauty to real estate has proven immensely successful. Having traversed the globe, residing and working in cities like Paris, London, Frankfurt, New York, and Mexico City, the polyglot Oliver has cultivated an extensive network of high-profile international contacts, including celebrities, sports icons, entrepreneurs, and corporate tycoons. Today, he taps into these connections to access insider information about the most affluent real estate hubs in Los Angeles. Oliver’s collaborations with leading fashion and interior designers, architects, magazine photographers, and stylists have endowed him with unique design expertise. This expertise is a gift he imparts to sellers by enhancing the presentation of their homes and guiding buyers to envision a property’s potential. As a seasoned business owner, Oliver possesses the adept coordination and leadership skills to provide clients with a seamless, stress-free experience, from the initial meeting to the final close.

Client Testimonials

#1 I wholeheartedly recommend partnering with Oliver. Beyond utilizing Compass real estate capabilities, Oliver adds an extra layer of attention. From negotiating key terms to connecting clients with local vendors at affordable rates during inspections, Oliver is consistently accessible, offering valuable insights into trends and markets. I am convinced that his blend of style, global perspective, interpersonal skills, and meticulousness positions him to continue delivering excellence to buy-side and sell-side clients in the Los Angeles market.

#2 The experience of working with Oliver was phenomenal! From guiding us to our ideal home to navigating the escrow process seamlessly and advocating for and negotiating favorable terms, the entire journey was exceptional. We enthusiastically endorse collaborating with Oliver!

#3 I’ve had the privilege of having Oliver as my agent, assisting me in acquiring a stunning condo in Woodland Hills. What sets Oliver apart is his utmost professionalism, prioritizing the client’s well-being and interests. Dealing with my high expectations and urgent demands, he demonstrated incredible patience, even answering calls at 5 o’clock in the morning and 2 o’clock in the middle of the night. He ensured a smooth purchase process, always advocating for my best interests in negotiations with the seller. As a polyglot, he made communication effortless, speaking French to ensure my complete understanding of the buying process. If you’re seeking an outstanding real estate agent in LA, rest assured, he is the right choice for you.

[shelhee-david-realestate]

via Twitter https://twitter.com/Shelhee_David

[realestate00]

Two-time winning five-star real estate agent-award. Roger Perry is the most renowned Beverly Hills real estate agent. Visit us at Roger Perry’s website.

[whiskeylover75]

BEVERLY HILLS - MAY 17: Actress Marilyn Monroe photo session at Hollywood agent Johnny Hyde's backyard (708 w. Palm Drive) on May 17, 1950 in Beverly Hills, California

[monzabee]

kiss it better – ls18

masterlist ||

Summary: The one where a crazy idea turns out to be the best possible thing for you and Lance.

Pairing: lance stroll x reader

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: fluff, kissing and other than that none? might have a few curse words but otherwise very tame

Request: “okay so i’m obsessed with the lance stroll fake dating to lovers/friends to lovers but it’s always the reader asking. would you write lance asking reader to attend gala/wedding or something as his date and then the feels start to come up from both sides? smut, fluff, angst, wherever your imagination takes you x”

Author’s Note: hi, hey, hello!! i did not expect to get this excited for a certain canadian man, but here we are!! now that i had the pleasure of writing about lance, i hope you guys know that more is to come, and thank you anon for the request!! i hope you guys enjoy! good morning, noon or night wherever you are, xoxobee

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms. 

You love slow afternoons, is what you realise as your fingers move out of their own volition on your keyboard as you try your best to finish your draft on time so that you can send it to your agent. Lance is on the couch next to you, his focus on his phone, rather than the show he has on your TV – which he ignores as he continuously texts with the person on the other end and lets out lengthy sighs every few seconds.

After what it must be the hundredth sigh of the evening, you give him a pointed look over the glasses resting on your face, “Okay, this is getting ridiculous.”

“What?” Lance asks, his shoulders rising in a half-hearted shrug. He glances up from his phone, his brows furrowing slightly as he registers your statement.

“You've been sighing and moping around for the past hour,”  you say, your tone a mix of annoyance and concern. “What's going on? Is something wrong with the ‘Real Housewives of Beverly Hills’?”

Lance sighs again, louder this time, as if to emphasize his frustration. He puts his phone down on the coffee table and runs a hand through his hair, tousling it further. "It's nothing," he mutters, his voice tinged with a hint of annoyance, “and the housewives are fine, not Kim, though. I think Lisa Rinna is about to break the wine glass, again.”

“You’ve watched the Amsterdam trip how many times, now?” You ask him as you get up from your place at the dinner table and grab your wine glass before making your way over to him on the couch and settle next to him. “Forget it, just tell me what’s wrong so that we can get your breathing back to normal.” 

“Chloe is what’s wrong,” Lance mutters, turning his phone screen towards you to give you a better look at the messages between him and his sister, “she is bugging me to bring someone to the wedding.”

You tilt your head to the side, “I thought you were going to take Sandra.”

“It was Sarah.” He returns your look with a pointed one of his own, “We kind of broke up, but now she want me to find another date.”

“So? Just find someone, Lance.” You give him a funny look as you fix the way your glasses are situated on your face and read the texts between the two siblings as you slightly lean over your best friend sitting next to you.

He sneakily places his arm around your shoulder in almost a reflex kind of way, as he argues, “I can’t just bring someone to my sister’s wedding, Y/N, she’s going to have the pictures up on her wall for the rest of her life or something.” He swats your hand away with a weak slap as you try to coo over his response, claiming that he is too sweet for this world when he asks, “Who are you bringing to the wedding, anyway?”

“No one,” you shrug, earning yourself a look from the man sitting next to you, “I’m not a Stroll, Lance, I don’t need to bring a date – ergo, I won’t.”

His eyes narrow on the edge as his voice comes off  doubtful, “So I have to find someone to bring to the wedding but you can choose not to?” The nod you give him makes him let out a loud groan, making you giggle as he adds, “Is it too late to ask your parents to adopt me?”

“How more dramatic can you be?” You laugh into the edge of your wine glass as you take a small sip, and then think for a moment as you roll your lips together. “Just ask someone you know to come with you, they’ll get a nice weekend out of it and you won’t disappoint Chloe.”

“You say as if it’s easy,” Lance sighs, but his eyes take on a mischievous glint as you realise he’s had one of his bright ideas and the next words prove that it’s, in fact, one of them. “Be my date.”

Your voice is squeaky as you get out, “Excuse me?”

“I need a date,” he point to himself, and then points the same finger to you, “you don’t have a date. I don’t want to take some random girl off my contacts list to my sister’s wedding, so it makes sense.”

“I- I can’t be your date, Lance!” You exclaim, jumping back slightly to shoot him a full on glare. “You’re my friend,” you emphasise the word, “my best friend.”

“Why not? It’s better than going with a random date.” He argues, “Plus, we’ll tell everyone that we’re trying to work things out and after the wedding we’ll tell them it didn’t work out – problem solved.”

“Problem not solved,” you contend. “I don’t want to lie to everyone, Lance, especially not to our families.”

“You’re not saying no.” He sings, a small smirk playing on his lips.

You give him a light shove as you mumble, “Shut up, I’m serious.”

“So am I, Y/N.” He sighs as he takes your free hand into his, which makes you involuntarily drag your index finger towards his palm, something you used to do to help him calm down when he was dealing with his wrists at the start of the season. It makes him smile softly at you when he realises it’s a thing that calms you down as much as it calms him down. “It’s not lying, it’s us.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Your voice is lower than before, but you can’t put your finger as to whether it’s because you’re confused or something about the nature of this whole arrangement is scary to you – you pray that it’s the first, but something in your gut tells you it’s the latter.

The smile he gives you in return to your question can only be described as ‘warm’ – it’s soft, and it makes his eyes crinkle, and it’s just so him. “It means that people won’t question how we ended up together, especially our families.”

What he’s saying and suggesting makes sense, you realise. He needs a date and you can help your friend out – plus, it would be good not to hear your mother complain about how you’re single in your twenties for a change. You try to think whether you’d even think about actually accepting to fake date someone if the person asking wasn’t your best friend in the whole world. But with Lance giving you an expectant look and looking so cosy on your couch, coupled with the two glasses of wine you’ve had as an incentive to write, you find yourself giving the man sitting beside you a nod of your approval.

“Fine,” you sigh, “but if this blows up all in our face, I’m blaming you and telling everyone you forced me.”

“Pfft,” he scoffs, pulling you into a side hug as the fighting noises from your TV blends into the background, “it’s going to be great, you just wait and see.”

Weddings are epitome of romance in every conceivable way. And Chloe Stroll’s wedding? It is safe to say that her wedding is the level of magical that fairy tales aspire to achieve. Ever since you’ve stepped foot in Italy, you’re captivated by the views and the atmosphere of having all the people there for such a special occasion. The wedding venue is a stunning villa nestled in the rolling hills of Tuscany, with lush gardens and a breathtaking view of the countryside. Soft music floats through the air as guests mingle and soak in the romantic ambiance. Turns out Lance was right, after all, and both of your parents are ecstatic that you showed up together – and no one bats an eye when he wraps his arm around you to help you onto the boat, or how his hand linger a bit longer on your hip.

Another thing people don’t seem to focus? How his eyes seem to focus on your every move as you dance with one of Scotty’s cousins, or is he one of his friends? Frankly, Lance doesn’t care about the specifics. He is more focused on the way the man you’re dancing with makes you throw your head back in laughter and the genuine smile that lights up your face. Lance watches from a distance, his heart swelling with a mixture of happiness because of how happy you look, and a touch of jealousy because it is not with him. But seeing you so carefree and radiant in someone else's arms stirs up emotions he can't quite ignore. But all of that is thrown right out the metaphorical window once you excuse yourself from your new friend, and find yourself back to him – basically throwing yourself into his arms and asking him to dance with you.

“I don’t know sweetheart, weren’t you just dancing with your new friend?” He asks, and though he immediately regrets the snarky words leaving his mouth, which reflect all his jealousy at the moment, you just smile up at him with the softest smile he’s ever seen.

Instead of lingering on his words, you let out a small giggle, “I can’t slow dance with him, Lance, he is not my date!”

“Oh,” he murmurs, “right.”

“So, will you dance with me?” You ask him again, your voice filled with more excitement than before. Your lips form a small pout as you add, “Please?”

His eyes linger on your expression for a moment, and he links his fingers through yours as he leads you onto the dance floor to join the couples who already started dancing. “Let’s go,” as soon as the words leave his mouth, a small smile is quick to overtake his face as you let out a small squeal and a giggle.

As the two of you find your place on the dance floor, Lance pulls you closer, his hand resting gently on your waist. The soft melody of a romantic song fills the air, setting the perfect mood for a slow dance. You rest your head on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his embrace and suddenly you realise it’s much easier to focus on the steady rhythm of his heartbeat rather than the song which is playing on the background.

Lost in the moment, Lance whispers softly into your ear, "You look absolutely stunning tonight, you know that?" You can tell his words are filled with sincerity, and he makes you feel all the admiration he feels for you at that moment.

You give him a playful smile as you do the one thing Lance absolutely hates and answer his question with a question of your own, “Yeah? You like my dress?”

“You know I do,” he shakes his head, lips unable to stop themselves from forming a smile.

Sighing out a satisfied sound, you let fingers occupy themselves with the short strand of hairs on this nape. “Well good, Chloe said you’d appreciate the colour

– through jealousy is not a good colour on you.”

Lance chuckles, the sound rumbling against your cheek as you continue to sway together. "Chloe knows me too well," he replies, his voice filled with warmth, "I’ll just have to thank her for the dress."

“You better,” you scoff, your breath hitting his neck in the process, “it was an absolute pain to put it on.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” his fingers smooth over a crease near your hip, “I’ll help you get it off.”

You pause for a moment, the playful banter fading into a charged silence as his words hang in the air. The intensity of his gaze meets yours, and you can feel the shift in the atmosphere, a magnetic pull drawing you closer together. Your heart skips a beat, and you find yourself lost in the colour of his eyes. There's an undeniable chemistry between you, one that the two of you have been ignoring for a while, and one that has been simmering beneath the surface for far too long.

With a playful smile that eventually finds its way on your lips, you raise your head slightly to get a better look at him, “You’re drunk, Lance,” you announce.

Lance's grip on you tightens ever so slightly, his fingers tracing gentle patterns along your back. “What is it they say? Drunk words, sober thoughts.” Another squeal leaves your lips as he slowly dips you down, but you know he won’t let you fall.

As he pulls you up again and presses his forehead against yours, and as his nose nudge against yours which causes both of you to release breathy laughs, your voice is almost pleading, “Lance, I–”

“I know, sweetheart,” his voice is soft as he mumbles, and he repeats himself after dragging out a deep breath, “I know “I know but you deserve something better.”

But the question of what something better might be lingers in your mind.

It’s almost the morning when the wedding celebrations come to a pause, and you quickly find yourself on your way back to the hotel with Lance. Hand in hand, you walk along the dimly lit streets, the sound of your footsteps echoing softly in the night. The city is calm and peaceful, its beauty enhanced by the memories you've created during the wedding festivities. Lance steals occasional glances at you, a gentle smile playing on his lips, as if trying to etch this moment into his memory – you try to act as if you don’t notice, but the same gentle smile finds itself onto your lips every time you catch his eyes on you. As a true gentleman, he lets you lean against him in the elevator, knowing that you’re probably more tired than him because of your choice of shoes.

The soft hum of the elevator and the comforting embrace of Lance lull you into a sense of tranquillity. But all of that calmness is gone once the elevator stops at your floor and Lance pulls you closer as he walks you to your room. With each step, you become more aware of Lance's presence beside you. His warmth radiates, providing a comforting reassurance amidst the late-night stillness. The soft light from the hallway casts a warm glow on his face, highlighting the gentle curves and lines that make him uniquely him. You think the anticipation might actually kill you in the moment, but like a true gentleman, Lance takes out your room key and hands it to you – but even in that simple moment, you feel your entire body lighting up with something more for your best friend.

Your breath hitches once again that evening when Lance’s hands gently cup your face, but he lets you go once he presses his lips lightly on your forehead and gently rests your forehead against yours. “Go to sleep, sweetheart.”

You feel your heart drop as he pulls away from you, all the adrenaline you’ve been feeling slowly dissipates. A mix of emotions washes over you as Lance pulls away and leaves you standing there, your heart feeling heavy in your chest. The brief moment of intimacy between you leaves you longing for more, and you find yourself mumbling, “I thought I deserve ‘something better’.”

“Y/N,” Lance’s voice is soft, but you’re quick to cut him off.

“I- I just thought you might’ve been talking about yourself, you know?” You let out a nervous chuckle as you shake your head, “It doesn’t matter, it’s presumptuous – oh my god I am an egomaniac.” Taking a small step towards him, you give him the world’s most awkward hug, and slowly start to pull away.

Without you knowing behind his horrified look, Lance has the opportunity to put his quick decision-making skills to test. He knows that he can either let you go, which means the two of you will stay friends, or he can actually do what he wanted to do for a very long time – which has the potential to blow up in his face. So, this time he takes a step towards you, and manages to grab your wrist in time to pull you against himself. Pressing his lips onto yours in a haste kiss, he manages to take your breath away for the second time that night, and you realise what’s actually happening after a small brain malfunction. For a moment, you're both suspended in that kiss, your hearts pounding in sync. It's a moment of pure vulnerability and undeniable passion, a culmination of unspoken desires and the unravelling of emotions that have been building between you for far too long. But you can feel him smiling into the kiss as your lips start to move against his. He tries to pull away, but you chase his lips in what you can only describe as hunger, and both of you let out breathy chuckles as you manage to capture his lips in a kiss once again.

When you finally break apart, gasping for air, your eyes meet Lance's. His grip on your wrist tightens, as if he’s afraid to let you go, and in an attempt to calm his worries, you snake your hand into his and drag your index finger towards the center of his palm. “I meant what I said,” he says, breathily, “you deserve something better.”

“Lance,” you almost seem to grumble his name, “you are the ‘something better’.”

“Well I hoped you’d say that.” He nods his head, and throws you over his shoulder to walk towards his own hotel door.

A mixture of surprise and laughter escaping your lips, you playfully swat at his back as you try to urge him to put you down, but he just chuckles and continues on his mission. As the door to Lance's room closes behind you, the world outside fades away, and you find yourself enveloped in a bubble of anticipation and excitement. With a mischievous glint in his eyes, Lance gently sets you down on your feet. The room is dimly lit, casting a romantic glow that accentuates the chemistry between you. The air is charged with unspoken desires and a magnetic pull that draws you closer together. Lance takes a step towards you, his gaze filled with longing and affection. Without a word, he reaches out to cup your face in his hands, his touch sending shivers down your spine. Your breath catches in your throat as he leans in, his lips brushing against yours in a tender and passionate kiss.

In that moment, all doubts and uncertainties melt away, replaced by the overwhelming certainty that you've found something truly special. It's a love that has been quietly brewing beneath the surface, waiting for the perfect moment to reveal itself. As your lips move together in a dance of shared desire, time seems to stand still. The world around you fades away, leaving only the two of you in this intimate and electrifying connection. Every touch, every caress, ignites a fire within you, and you find yourself getting lost in the depths of Lance's embrace.

When you finally break apart, your eyes lock, and a shared understanding passes between you. It's a silent promise, a mutual agreement to explore this newfound love and see where it leads. With a smile that speaks volumes, Lance intertwines his fingers with yours, pulling you closer as he leans down to whisper in your ear. “I promised you I’d take your dress off, didn’t I?”

[venus-haze]

Sinnerman (Father Paul Hill x Reader)

Summary: You can’t even see your old life from Crockett Island, but nevertheless it weighs on your conscience like an anchor on the ocean floor. Father Paul Hill tries to pull the anchor up, only to sink your whole damn ship.

Note: Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. Reader is a lapsed Catholic for plot reasons. I also played with the show’s timeline a little bit for this fic. Anyway, 10 years of Catholic school later and this is the result. Inspired by the Nina Simone song. Do not interact if you’re under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 7k

Warnings: Brief mentions of blood and violence. Reader’s morals are all over the place. Obviously a lot of Catholic themes (especially guilt) and imagery. Sexually explicit content between a member of the clergy and a lay person. Do not interact if you’re under 18.

Unlike pretty much everywhere else in the country, houses on Crockett Island garnered very little interest. There were no frustrating bidding wars or last minute phone calls made to real estate agents. The available houses barely registered on the listings you scrolled through, some having been on the market for years. When you called about a two bedroom you’d never even stepped foot in, offering to pay upfront in cash, the agent on the other end of the line almost hung up on you, assuming it was a scam. No scam. You just wanted to disappear.

To the world, you were gone, a vapor who abruptly quit her incredibly well-paying job with a generous severance package. Painting was a hobby that got increasingly pushed to the backburner as you focused more on your career until you couldn’t remember the last time you touched a paintbrush. Of course, that wasn’t why you quit your job, but it sounded a lot nicer than the reason that ate you alive. You hoped that if you disappeared, the guilt that made its home in your gut would go away too. On Crockett Island, however, you were far from invisible. 

Despite the unforgiving ocean wind that raged the day you arrived, you were met with nothing short of a welcome party. The mayor, his wife, the sheriff, and the elderly monsignor of the singular church on the island accompanied by a woman who constantly hovered. Nice enough people who greeted you with a mixture of delight and disbelief that you were moving onto the island instead of off. You shot yourself in the foot the second you mentioned you had been raised Catholic, as everyone but the sheriff extended offers to join them at mass that you awkwardly declined.

Sheriff Hassan gave you a sympathetic look when he left your new home, the last of the informal welcoming committee to do so. Get used to it, his eyes said. You almost asked him to stay for coffee if you could dig your pot out of whichever cardboard box you packed it in. You decided against it. On an island so small, coffee could turn into something else quickly enough.

It took a week or so to get into a comfortable routine. Wake up early, make coffee, take your time eating breakfast, then head out to some new part of the island with your art supplies in tow, only to be held up for fifteen to twenty minutes by someone inevitably stopping you to talk. Usually small talk, but you could tell a lot of people were just happy to have someone new to tell old stories to instead of regurgitating them to the same handful of people all the time.

Some days, when the fog made it almost impossible to see your outstretched hand in front of you, you’d find yourself drawn to St. Patrick’s, painting or sketching the church. The fog would inevitably roll away, and in the distance you’d see the monsignor, sometimes with Beverly and other times by himself. He’d always wave at you, though his face betrayed his confusion as to who you were. Poor guy. You thought the parishioners were crazy to send him over to Jerusalem.

The day after he left for his trip was another foggy one.  You made your usual trek out to the church to draw. It was a nice, informal ritual. Spiritual enough for your tastes without the risk of bursting into flames if you stepped foot in the place. With the monsignor gone, mass wasn’t being held, and the area was quieter than usual. Not completely, though.

“You know, you’re always loitering outside of the church, but I never see you in it,” Beverly said while you were sketching the weathered wood building. 

You kept your focus on the page you were working on, not sparing her a glance. “Not my thing.”

“At one point it was, though. You said it yourself on the day you moved in that you were raised in the faith.”

“Not my choice.”

Her lips pressed in a thin line, her voice strained, “Well, you’re always welcome at St. Patrick’s. I’m sure when the monsignor returns, he’d be overjoyed to see you in the pews. We all would.”

“Thanks for the offer.”

“Yes, well, have fun doodling.”

Your jaw clenched. Doodling. You shot her a glare over your shoulder when she walked away. 

Luckily, you weren’t the focus of the islanders’ attention for much longer, because the Flynns’ son had returned home from prison on the mainland. A quiet guy who kept to himself despite Annie excitedly introducing you to Riley. You were polite, but didn’t pry. It seemed like he wanted to keep to himself too. Then, the following day, the parish was in a tizzy over the unexpected arrival of a new pastor, a temporary replacement for the aging monsignor. You didn’t know the old guy very long, but he wasn’t quite with it. Doubtful the replacement would be temporary. Maybe he said that to soften the blow of not being able to give their monsignor a formal goodbye.

You had mixed feelings about the new guy. The evening following his first mass on the island, Father Paul had sneaked up on you while you were trying to paint an old fishing bungalow. He startled you so bad that you jumped, arm jerking and leaving a green streak on the paper in its wake. He was nice enough, apologizing profusely for scaring you. Still, you felt the pit in your stomach that’d become somewhat more manageable recently threaten to engulf your psyche again when he said that Beverly mentioned you were a lapsed Catholic, because of course she would, and expressed disappointment at not seeing you at mass.

“You’ll be at the potluck at least?” he asked. “Sounds like a lot of fun.”

You laughed. “Yeah, the Crock Pot thing. I’ll be there.”

“Fantastic, maybe we can talk more then. I’ve bothered you enough, nearly ruined your painting.”

“Happy accident. I can make a tree,” you said.

“That’s a nice way to look at it, but really, I’ll be going now.” He smiled. “It was nice meeting you.”

“You too.”

You caught his profile as he walked away, handsome in the golden hour. Setting your painting supplies aside, you grabbed your sketchbook and a pencil and began drawing. Maybe the guilt you felt was for finding a priest attractive and not the resurgence of your past sins. The word weighed heavy on your conscience. You could sleep better at night convincing yourself you’d made some mistakes. You could learn and grow from mistakes. Sins held magnitude beyond what you could manage on your own. 

The day of the potluck, you slept in, only rolling out of bed an hour before it was supposed to start. When you walked over to the gathering, you felt that pit in your stomach causing you trouble again. The islanders’ devotion left a sour taste in your mouth, and seeing the physical embodiment of it in the form of ashen crosses on their foreheads didn’t help. 

You made small talk and wandered around with your plate of food, taking a seat on one of the benches. One huge perk of living on the island was the fresh seafood and dozens of people who knew how to cook it all perfectly. Everything on your plate would’ve cost at least sixty dollars in a nice restaurant on the mainland. You got it all for your five dollar donation. 

While tearing apart a piece of bread on your plate, you could hear hushed voices arguing to your left. They were either speaking louder or getting closer to you, but either way, you recognized Beverly and Father Paul’s voices.

“Her? Father, she doesn’t attend mass. The church should not be—“

“I’ve made up my mind, Bev,” Father Paul whispered loudly before waving you over. “Y/N, I have something I’d like to run by you.”

You gave him a hesitant nod as you got up from your seat, leaving your plate to walk closer to where he and Beverly were standing.

“I’d like to commission you to paint a mural on the west-facing wall, where the sun sets. I already discussed the idea with Monsignor Pruitt, and he raved about your talents.”

“Are you sure? I don’t wanna end up being the next monkey Jesus lady.”

He gave you an amused smile. “I’ve seen your work. You’re more than capable of what I have in mind.”

“As long as it’s not that godless abstract nonsense,” Beverly interjected.

“Tell that to Alfred Manessier,” you said.

“I don’t know who that is.”

You scoffed. “He was one of the most celebrated modernist painters of the past century. He created some of his best works using St. John of the Cross’ Spiritual Canticles as inspiration.”

“See?” Father Paul interjected. “I can’t think of anyone better for the job. I made a mock-up, a crude sketch, really. I can show you when you have time to go over some of the details I have in mind.”

“Sounds good.”

“You haven’t given your price.”

“Why don’t we work that out afterward?” you said, not sure if you were even going to go through with this. “I am going to need supplies, though. Different paint and materials depending on the type of mural you had in mind.”

“Yes, of course, whatever you need, we’ll have Sturge bring it from the mainland.”

Not long after that, the festival ended on a heartbreaking note as Joe Collie’s dog died, was poisoned more like it, but there was no proof. You didn’t get much sleep that night. It didn’t matter. Early the next working, you were pulled from your half-slumber by a rapid knocking at the door.

Without thinking, you shuffled over, opening it to find Beverly standing on your front porch, less than impressed with your wrinkled pajamas and dazed expression at the sunlight in your face. 

“Yeah?”

“Father Paul has time this afternoon to speak with you about the mural.”

“Okay.”

“Will you be there?”

“I guess, what time is it anyway?”

“Seven-thirty, I wanted to come by before the school day began. If you’re not serious about this, don’t waste his time.”

“Alright, I’ll be there around two.” 

You didn’t wait for her to respond, shutting the door in her face and heading back to bed. If you woke up in time to make it to the church, you supposed you’d do it. When you lifted your head from the pillow later on and checked the time on your phone, it was a quarter after one. Damn. You were actually doing this.

The otherwise unassuming church seemed to loom over you as you approached. You sighed. It was just a building. Still, you hesitated outside of St. Patrick’s for a minute or so before building up the courage to walk inside. No hellfire or spontaneous combustion upon your arrival. Though, there should have been, with the way Father Paul was sitting on the steps leading up to the altar, legs splayed out in his jeans. Your mouth almost went dry. Suddenly his eyes were on yours. You panicked, dipping your hand in the font and making a sign of the cross with the holy water. That had to absolve you of thinking a priest looked hot for a split second.

He practically jumped up from where he was sitting, closing the distance between you with an excited smile and a folded up piece of paper that he handed to you. 

He spoke animatedly and used sweeping motions in reference to the wall and what he wanted it to look like. “Call it divine inspiration, but I had a vision of an angel. It’s burned into my mind. It needs to be up here for the parish to see.”

You looked at his sketch, tilting your head as you took in the monstrous creature that resembled Nosferatu rather than an angel. Still, it wasn’t like artists regularly were commissioned to paint elaborate church murals anymore. You supposed the prestige of being able to say you did such outweighed the odd nature of his vision.

“I was thinking just on the wood wall here. That shouldn’t be too difficult, should it?”

“No, but I think for the best result, I’ll have to strip the existing paint off the wall and then prime it to paint over. That may take up to a week, depending on how much of the wall you want the mural to take up.”

Father Paul chuckled humorlessly. “Bev’s going to have a heart attack when she hears that. Why don’t you write a list of what you need, and I’ll give it to Sturge.”

You would have been surprised at how quickly he agreed if he weren’t so enthusiastic about his vision coming to life. He kept talking, rambling was more like it, about the angel and his vision. There was an air of conspiracy to his voice, almost as if he was telling you something that was meant to be kept between the two of you. His rambling was interrupted by Beverly’s appearance. You took the opportunity to slip out, claiming you promised your mom you’d call her to catch up before dinner.

By the end of the week, you had all of the supplies you needed, and Father Paul gave you free reign of the church when mass wasn’t going on. You hadn’t expected him to be such a big help in the preparations, figuring you’d be scraping the stripped paint off the wall yourself. It made the process go by faster, even though Beverly looked constipated every time she saw the bare wood wall in contrast to the rest of the church. Father Paul had to remind her it was temporary.

The hours spent with him felt almost natural, like you were talking to an old friend. At least, he was nice enough to let you ramble about art and the mural techniques you read about on your phone the past few days. Though, you didn’t miss his offhand comment about how so many great artists were Catholic. You wanted to clarify that you weren’t Catholic, not anymore. Besides, there were great artists of all faiths. The Catholic Church just had the money to bankroll some of the more prominent ones. Deciding it best not to stir up any unnecessary tension before you even started on the project, you let the comments roll off your back, not bothering to acknowledge them. Things were going great, otherwise. At least, they were until it was time for you to actually start painting.

That pit in your stomach started acting up again as soon as Father Paul told you that he went ahead and primed the wall already, so you could start painting the mural. 

“I’ll leave you to it. I’m sure you’ll work better if I’m not breathing down your neck. Let me know if you need anything,” he said.

You smiled, giving him a silent nod as he left. Hesitation overtook you, soon followed by dread as you looked at the wall in front of you. There was no way to back out, at least not without drawing the ire of the growing number of devout islanders. You hadn’t witnessed Leeza Scarborough’s miracle, and as much as the skeptics tried to talk circles around it, you couldn’t think of any other explanation for what had happened. It scared you, how real the faith you were raised in felt here. 

As soon as your brush touched the primed wall, you nearly passed out. It was a holy place, meant to reflect the power and glory of god. You didn’t feel worthy to alter it in such a significant way, as if you were Michaelangelo or DaVinci and not some corporate flunkie who only got such a big severance package because—no, you couldn’t think about it in this church of all places, not one where god seemed suffocatingly present. The brush then fell from your hand with a clatter that seemed to echo through the church, through your ears.

Father Paul spoke your name softly, tentatively, like you were a wounded animal. “Why are you crying?”

You weren’t sure how long you were in your fugue state of despair for him to find you like that. “I don’t think I’m the right person to do this. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s you. It has to be you.”

Shaking your head frantically as he approached you, you threw your hands over your mouth to muffle your sobs. He outstretched his arms, not forcing you to accept his comfort, but you felt inexplicably pulled to him, to the absolution he offered if you’d just accept it.

“Do you know what St. Teresa of Avila said about prayer?” 

“What’s that?”

“She said that prayer is allowing yourself to be loved,” he said. “Pray with me.”

He took your hands in his, bowing his head and closing his eyes. You did the same, though you were unable to focus on his words, not when your mind was racing so much. Too loud, too overwhelming, you couldn’t take it.

In the middle of his prayer, you blurted out, “At my old job, my boss did a lot of illegal stuff, and I helped her cover it up because I knew if I did that I’d be set for life. Except it’s been eating me alive ever since. She offered me this huge severance package if I’d sign an NDA when I quit. I can’t–I feel like it’s gonna drown me one day.”

“What did you—surely it can’t be that bad.”

The cry you let out was akin to a howl. “Father Paul, I can’t—I’m a horrible person—“

“How long has it been since your last confession?”

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been—“ you paused. “I’ve never truly confessed in my life.”

He nodded, understanding and encouragement in his gaze rather than the judgment you expected.

“My boss was one of those cutthroat types. I admired her for it for the longest time, even when she got indicted. I used to work late nights, so I told her if she gave me a raise and a promotion, I’d testify that she was in the office with me on the days the prosecution had her doing some of the stuff she got charged with,” you said. “I thought it wouldn’t bother me. I’d been screwing people over to claw my way up the corporate ladder for years and learned how to shake it off, but this shit—it might as well be in my veins. Some people lost everything because of me, because I lied.”

You were hyperventilating, and all you could focus on was how tightly Father Paul was gripping your shoulders.

“The worst part is, I thought it’d make up for the emptiness. I spent so much time working that I pushed people away, and I wanted something to show for it. I’d give anything to feel that emptiness again,” you choked out. “I am sorry for these and all my sins.”

“It’s okay,” he whispered. 

“No, it’s not.”

“It is. I promise it is. The bible shows us time and time again that god can use our past sins to glorify him, to show the power of forgiveness in the blood of Christ. You feel guilt, regret, and sorrow. That’s good. Your penance,” he said, pointing to the blank wall. “God brought you here knowing you needed absolution, while this church is on the verge of a renaissance. I don’t think something like this happened by chance.”

“Okay,” you breathed. “I—I’ll do it.”

You fumbled your way through the Act of Contrition, Father Paul guiding you through the short prayer you’d embarrassingly forgotten most of the words to. In his name, my god, have mercy.

“God, the Father of mercies, through the death and the resurrection of his son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the church may god give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” he said, making a sign of the cross over you.

You nodded, making a sign of the cross. “Amen.”

You nearly jumped out of your skin when he brushed his thumbs along your cheeks, wiping away the tear tracks that’d begun to dry. He smiled kindly, warmly, and you felt warm too. Taking a deep breath, you brought the paintbrush to the wall, making the first stroke of what would become Angulus autem Crockett Insulus, the Angel of Crockett Island. 

Work on the mural went smoothly after the roadbump the first day, and you felt better than you had in months. The guilt that’d tethered itself to you for so long had vanished. You’d never received so many compliments on your art in your life. Suddenly dozens of people were admiring your work, regarding it with awe as if it were in a cathedral rather than a small fishing town’s wooden church. Erin even had you come to the school and teach an art class for the students. It helped that Father Paul took every opportunity to talk up your skills whenever someone would mention the mural. 

While the lighting in the church was undoubtedly better during the day, you’d work at night sometimes, just to get an idea of how it’d look when no one was around to see it. The shadows that fell over Father Paul’s angel made it appear almost sinister. You wondered if it was something you could fix in the morning, soften it a bit to not be as harsh and imposing.

You almost laughed when you saw Father Paul standing in the door of the sacristy, knocking on the door frame as if it weren’t his church the two of you were standing in. 

“I know it’s late, but do you want coffee? I’m about to brew a pot,” he said.

You smiled. “That’d be great. Thanks.”

“Door will be open, just let yourself in when you’re finished here.”

“Oh, in the rectory?”

“Yes, but if that makes you uncomfortable–”

“No, of course not. I’ll be there in a few.”

He made his leave, and you grabbed a paintbrush, noticing an odd, shadowy spot on the angel that wasn’t due to the lighting. You winced a bit. Your hand had started cramping recently. Of course carpal tunnel would catch up with you, working almost non-stop on an elaborate mural would do that. 

The last thing you wanted to do was take a break on the progress you’d made. Father Paul’s enthusiasm was infectious, and you didn’t want to lose the inspiration you were running on to bring his vision to life. 

Taking a step back, you frowned. The shadow over the angel almost looked worse. You set your brush down, figuring you’d have a better idea of what to do with a fresh set of eyes in the morning. 

You kept your supplies on a plastic tarp to avoid getting paint elsewhere, and so it could be easily moved out of the way for mass. From what you’d heard, there was a full house every Sunday, and daily mass actually had decent attendance. You could remember seeing only Beverly, Annie, and Leeza making their way into the old church for the early morning services during the week. 

The lights were off in the sacristy, and you took a few tentative steps toward it. You knew there was a door through there that led out back toward the rectory, but something in you hesitated at entering that part of the church. Instead, you walked out the main doors and around the building.

There was an eeriness to the lone house not too far off in the distance. You’d learned from your time on the island that lighthouses were meant to warn incoming ships that they were nearing cliffs or rough waters, not so much welcoming them in as advising them to stay at arms’ length, be aware and alert. The light that shone from the rectory gave you a similar impression. 

You walked up to the small house, finding the door open for you. A staticy oldies station played in the living room, Father Paul leaning against the kitchen counter as he waited for the coffee to finish brewing. 

“All of this stuff is so old. Radio barely picks up any reception,” he said bashfully.

“It has its charm. This whole island does. I feel like I’m really starting to be part of things.”

“You are!” he exclaimed. “Our resident artist. Everyone’s wondering when they’ll see you at mass.”

“Maybe next Sunday,” you said unconvincingly.

“I think you’ll be impressed at how different it is from what you remember growing up with. Things are changing—for the better,” he said. “How do you take your coffee?”

He grabbed a mug from the cabinet, older and chipped with a faded ‘Crock Pot 2003’ printed on it. He poured the coffee, preparing it to your liking and handing you the mug. You followed him over to the kitchen table, taking the chair next to him rather than on the other side of it.

The radio became the slightest bit clearer a few notes into Dusty Springfield’s version of Son of a Preacher Man. It was one of those songs you grew up hearing, but never truly understood the lyrics until you got older and really listened.

“You know, growing up, I didn’t know Protestant pastors could get married. I thought they were like priests where that wasn’t allowed,” you said. “Do you think it makes that much of a difference? Not being married, or even romantically involved?”

He paused, furrowing his eyebrows before giving you the non-convincing answer of, “It allows me to devote myself to God and focus on my congregation.”

“Yeah, but the Catholic Church is so pro-family, saying all that crap about not using contraception. Why not lead by example? Isn’t it natural to do that?” you asked, stopping yourself before you could go on talking about pregnancy with a priest. “I overstepped, sorry.”

“No, they’re good questions. I’ve thought about them myself.”

“Have you ever wanted to have your Sound of Music moment? Y’know, how Julie Andrews just says ‘Fuck it’ and gives in to her feelings for Christopher Plummer?”

He huffed out a laugh. “Maybe not Christopher Plummer specifically, but in more or less words, yes.”

“Do you ever feel lonely?” you asked softly.

He didn’t speak, only reaching over to squeeze your hand. The suddenness of the tender gesture sent a shock through your system, and you could feel your heart skip a beat. Whoever was the late night DJ at the oldies station must have had it out for you as Roy Orbison’s Only the Lonely started to play.

You squeezed his hand in return. “So do I.”

He stood up, murmuring something about refilling his cup. You kept your slight grip on his hand, standing up from your seat at the table. You shouldn’t have even been thinking about it, not when you’d finally rid yourself of a guilty conscience. The corners of his lips quirked up, and he tilted his head slightly, a silent inquiry as to what you were going to do next.

You kissed him. You kissed a priest, and it didn’t even feel wrong. Father Paul pulled you closer by your entwined hands, releasing it when your chest was pressed against his. He was a bit clumsy, but you’d have been surprised if he weren’t. You opened your mouth for him the slightest bit, feeling his tongue on your lips, inside your mouth, a hesitancy behind his actions still.

Pulling away from him, you caressed his cheek. You couldn’t absolve any guilt he may feel, but you could keep it at bay, only if for a night.

“I want this, Father,” you assured him. “I want you.”

His eyes searched your face for any indication that your words weren’t sincere, and finding none, he pressed his lips to yours with more confidence than before. Still, you took the lead on deepening the kiss as he became more comfortable with how you felt, his nose brushing against the soft skin of your face. His hands held onto your hips, fingers digging gently into your jeans. Your tongue gently swiped at his lips, and he opened his mouth, allowing you access. 

Your lips curled into a smile when you finally pulled away, but only to divert your attention to his throat. His breath hitched upon feeling your hand on the side of his neck, thumb pressing into the base of his throat. You bit into the crook of his neck, sucking and biting the same spot until he made a pained noise of protest. 

“Don’t worry, Father. I won’t leave a mark,” you whispered, proud of the way he reacted to you, to your touch, feeling his length pressing against you through his pants. 

You kissed his neck again, gentle this time, though you slid your hand from his neck, down his torso, to his crotch. Palming him through his pants, you lifted your gaze to see his eyes hooded, head tilted back a bit. He was still holding back, you could tell that much, so you squeezed a bit, feeling his cock twitch against the fabric, his hips involuntarily thrusting.

“Bedroom,” he choked out to your surprise.

Your hands were still on him, groping his crotch, his ass, the softness of his belly as he clumsily led you to the small, sparsely decorated bedroom. He kissed you again, barely managing to shut the door behind him. He moaned into your mouth as you began unbuckling his belt, unzipping his fly and relieving some of the pressure from his hard cock. 

His passivity didn’t last long after that. He pushed you onto his bed, lustful determination in his eyes as he undressed you, hesitating just a moment when he reached your panties. As soon as his fingers hooked beneath the waistband, it was like a switch flipped. You watched as he rid himself of his clothes, your fingers teasing your wet pussy when he pulled off his clerical collar and unbuttoned his shirt.

You laid back as he climbed on top of you, allowing him to take the lead. He fondled your breasts, his thumbs brushing your sensitive nipples, making you gasp.

“You’re so soft, honey,” he murmured.

You smiled. Honey. Too sweet for you, what you were doing. Taking one of his hands, you guided it down to your pussy, making him feel your wetness, velvety between your folds. “Softer,” you whispered.

“Fuck,” he groaned, sliding his index and middle fingers inside you.

He pumped them in and out, almost cautiously before you lifted your hips for more. His thumb brushed your clit, rubbing it as he curled his fingers drawing a ragged moan from you. A groan escaped his lips as he felt your pussy clench around his fingers, wet and wanting for something more.

“Father, I need you,” you moaned. “Inside me—I—“

You choked out a gasp as he slid his cock inside you, your pussy clenching around his length as he thrust into you. He pressed your hands into the bed, intertwining his fingers with yours, loving and intimate. You whimpered beneath his intense gaze.

“You’re so good,” he whispered, his voice a bit husky. “Feel good. Take me so well.”

A harsh thrust, and you cried out, throwing your head back on his pillow. He kissed your open mouth, greedy for you. He released your hands, and you immediately grabbed at his forearms, digging your nails into his skin as your body began to tense up before its release.

“I’m close. Father–fuck–I’m gonna—“

“Let go, honey,” he moaned. “I’m there too.”

He came inside you, his cock pumping his cum into your pussy, his thrusts sloppy as he hid his face in the crook of your neck. Your orgasm followed the brief, scandalous realization that you’d let a priest cum in you. Tangling your fingers in his dark hair, you tugged at it as you rode out your orgasm on his cock, not as hard, but still buried inside you. 

After a few moments, he pulled out, lying down next to you. His eyes didn’t show any regret or guilt, and he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

He traced your features with his fingertips, softly, mindlessly, as if he were in a haze until he whispered. “How long have you wanted to do this?”

“Since golden hour.”

“Golden hour,” he repeated softly

“When you first came to see me, I was working on the painting of the fishing hut at sunset. Artists call it golden hour, when the natural light is perfect, like liquid gold.”

“I think I’ve always wanted to, it’s come and gone in waves, but it’s always been there. You—you’re something else.”

“You’ve done this before,” you said, an observation, not in judgment.

He closed his eyes, exhaling as if he were about to make a confession to you. “You asked me earlier if I ever wanted to have my Sound of Music moment. I did. I should have. That mural you’re painting, the angel. It’ll make things right.”

The church bell chimed its midnight tune, and you sighed, reminded of where you were, who you were with. “I should go.”

He gave you a sad smile. “I’m sorry. I wish things were different, that you could stay and—“

“Hey, it’s alright. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You hastily threw on your clothes and gave him one more kiss before cracking open the front door. Glancing around briefly, you didn’t see anyone else around, and slipped away into the night. The overwhelming guilt you expected to feel never manifested. Instead, you felt almost giddy at the thrill of what you and Father Paul had just done. 

When you returned home, you let out a laugh in disbelief. You had no expectations of it becoming a regular thing, that it’d even happen again, you having sex with Father Paul. The subtle intimacy that had coiled around your relationship with him from the start had only magnified with this. Perhaps once was all you needed, but you secretly hoped it’d devolve into something far more torrid. 

Bright and early the next morning, you woke up feeling light, almost wanting to chalk up the past night to an unusually vivid wet dream, if it weren’t for the ache between your legs. You decided to detour from the church for the day, opting to work on something else temporarily while you were in a great mood. A smaller part of you worried things would be awkward with Father Paul. He didn’t seem guilty or regretful when you left, but he still had plenty of time to overthink.

You ran into Father Paul as he was leaving the Gunnings’ house, an odd expression on his face as he looked back at the place briefly.

“Would you mind coming by the church later tonight?” he asked. “I have something—it’ll be easier to explain there.”

“Yeah, of course,” you said. “See you later, Father.”

For the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, you sat at the docks, sketching portraits of the fishermen as they came and went. They were all so expressive, their weathered skin and deep lines in their faces betraying the decades of hard work they did. You’d heard from the islanders how difficult things had become for the fishermen between the oil spill and restrictions on what they could catch. Still, the ones who recognized you from St. Patrick’s smiled, stopped and talked to you despite being busy. Maybe you really would go to mass on Sunday.

Your stomach reminded you that you’d missed lunch, so you headed back to your house to get something to eat and look over your work from the day. Tonight. Father Paul wanted you to meet him at the church, but didn’t give a time, just at night, after dark. You wondered what he was going to tell you. Surely if it were about the two of you having sex, it could be said privately in the light of day.

Around nine o’clock, you left home again, heading for the church. It was dark. The rectory too. Was he even there? You walked up to the building, opening the front door to near pitch black. For some reason, you stood there, not bothering to call out for him.

The only light in the church came from the sacristy. Your eyes were drawn to your mural for a moment. Somehow, the angel looked like it was enrobed in shadows, far more sinister than when you’d started painting it. Your attention was soon returned to the sacristy. You could hear shuffling, low murmuring, and something almost like a strong gust of wind. Your brow furrowed. Maybe some of the local kids sneaking communion wine. 

You took a cautious step toward the illuminated room, and for the first time in years, you truly prayed to god that none of the old wooden floorboards would creak and give you away. Not that you deserved his favor, having repented of your sins and then turning around and sleeping with a priest. The light only grew brighter as you approached, your heart in your throat as you peered into the room where the priest and altar servers would prepare for mass. 

Father Paul stood in front of the communion wine. Your eyes were glued to the creature by his side. It looked like it could hardly fit in the room between its height and the width of its wingspan. Huge, imposing, sickeningly pale. It opened its mouth, razor-sharp teeth in full display.

You nearly gasped at the realization of what it was. The angel from the mural. Monstrous, otherworldly in a way that made you want to vomit. Surely even Beverly would regard something like that as demonic. In either shock or self-preservation, you weren’t screaming, though your brain was howling for you to leave. Get the fuck out of there while you still could.

Father Paul looked inexplicably calm around the thing, comfortable, even. You didn’t know how. There was no way you could ever look at something like that and consider it holy. You held your breath as you retreated, internally begging god for enough mercy to get out of the church alive. A floorboard creaked just as you got to the door. You ran.

The cool night air stung your eyes as you bolted down the unpaved roads, too afraid to look back and see if you were even being followed. Aside from a few porch lights, the island was pitch black. All you needed to do was make it home, and you’d be safe. No. You needed to get the fuck off of Crockett Island. Then you’d be safe.

You may have been a shitty person and an even shittier Catholic, but you knew things like this weren’t acts of god. He was a wolf in sheep’s clothing all along, a power-hungry false prophet intent on turning the whole island to fit his corrupted vision of holiness. 

With a final push of adrenaline pumping through your veins, you sprinted to your house in the distance. As soon as you got inside, you locked the door, pushing one of the kitchen chairs in front of it. Realistically, it wouldn’t do much to stop the angel if it were coming after you. At least you could say you’d done something.

Grabbing your suitcases from under your bed, you opened them on top of your comforter, considering what to pack. You wouldn’t be coming back to Crockett Island. Soon enough, there wouldn’t be anything to come back to. You could tell as much. That thing you saw, the monster in the mural, it couldn’t mean anything good for the islanders. They deserved some kind of warning, even if they didn’t believe you. 

You paused for a moment. Your mural was their warning. They could see the grotesque angel materializing for themselves, and they praised it, full of wonder and awe. A voice in the back of your mind said it wasn’t enough, it was a cop-out, another way to shirk responsibility for your actions, falling into old cycles all over again. You drowned out the voice with a bottle of wine you’d kept around for cooking, and shoved clothes and painting supplies in your suitcases in your half-drunk stupor.

Pale, golden light filled your bedroom as the sun rose. With a shaky breath, you looked around your house for the last time. In the weeks you’d been living on Crockett Island, it’d become a home. You should have known it was all too good to be true.

The suitcases in your hands made your fleeing the island appear less conspicuous, going on a short trip with the intention of returning rather than abandoning the community that had taken you in, leaving them at the mercy of the creature that was waiting to pounce.

You bought a round-trip ticket for the Breeze’s morning voyage back to the mainland. Round-trip. As if you’d be coming back.

“Father Paul know you’re headed back to the mainland?” Sturge asked, helping you with your bags.

He’s just a priest. It’s none of his business, you wanted to snap back. Instead, you gave him a small smile. “Yeah, my mom’s come down with pneumonia. I’m gonna help her around the house for a week or two.”

“Late in the season to get pneumonia.”

“Her immune system isn’t great.”

“Maybe bring her on over to the island. Miracles happening here every day.”

You knew your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I think she’d really like that.”

As you watched the island shrink on the horizon, the guilt that settled back in your gut felt comfortably familiar. Maybe you weren’t meant for absolution.

[vintagetvstars]

Luke Perry Vs. Kyle MacLachlan

Propaganda

Luke Perry - (Beverly Hills, 90210) -He has such kind eyes. He always came off as super humble and just an all around nice person. He was constantly described as smart, quiet and modest by the people he worked with. Plus he's hot! What more could you want? Just look at him!

Kyle MacLachlan - (Twin Peaks, Sex and the City) - best known as the ethereally beautiful special agent dale cooper. a man who appreciates a damn fine cup of coffee.

- No Negative Propaganda Please -

Master Poll List | How to submit propaganda | What is vintage? (FAQ)

Additional propaganda below the cut

Luke Perry:

Kyle MacLachlan:

He grew up to become a winemaker in Washington State. How cool is that?

[erickredatus]

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[stinkybrowndogs]

Watching through all the live action dog movies bc I’m bored and have nothing better to do. Thoughts so far;

- homeward bound hits different when you have an old dog 😭

- the plot of Beethoven is the American Government is paying a small town veterinarian to test experimental weaponry on dogs. The veterinarian has to test exploding bullets on large dog breeds, which he attempts to acquire by faking a biting incident and demanding the dog be euthanized (but actually he is going to explode him with bullets)

- also agent mulder is there

- while The Greyfriar’s Bobby was kind of boring, the skye terrier is extremely cute.

-the biscuit eater is, again, kind of boring but for a movie made in the 60s it’s kind of sweet. Extra points for being about a Brown Dog

- eight below got me. They were not messing around and has the highest Dog Body Count so far. The fight with the leopard seal was sure something. I liked the dead orca set piece

Tomorrow I watch Beverly Hills chihuahua. The day after, who knows….. maybe air bud

[oliver-realty]

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[caw4brandon]

We Like, Are Totally Spies

When we think about shows that will appeal to boys. Action is the easiest to relate. Something like; Ben 10, American Dragon Jake Long, Avatar: The Last Airbender, and Justice League will be on the list. It has drama, it has fights and it's cool!

However, there has been a movement in that era where specific cartoon shows aim to get girls into action. Kim Possible, Juniper Lee, My Life as a Teenage Robot, and The Winx Club are perfect examples of such shows.

There is an odd case for more girl-centric shows. Something about the need to balance femininity with action. The show needs to feel like an action that happens to have the main characters be girls. This is where today's topic comes in. We're talking about how;

- How's the Mission, Spies? -

< Totally Spies > by Vincent Chalvon-Demersay and David Michel follows three teens; Sam, Clover and Alex from Beverly Hills living a secret life being Super Spies for WOOHP (World Organization Of Human Protection) under their boss; Jerry Lewis.

Their missions involve travelling the world. Fighting mad scientists and twisted outcasts who seek to dominate the world with style and gadgets that conceal themselves as fashionable equipment.

The trio plays specific archetypes. Sam (green) is the brains, Clover (red) is the fashionista/ boy obsessive and Alex (yellow) is the athlete and occasional nerd. Despite their differences, they share several common interests such as their love for shopping and spy skills of agility, hand-to-hand combat and espionage.

Across six seasons, the girls matured from high school to university students. Confronting the daily struggles of homework, social lives and their petty arch-enemy, Mandy.

As a vibe, < Totally Spies > fully leans into the Beverly Hills lifestyle of fabulous fashion and some familiar pop culture names of that era. The show has a mix of the James Bond type of super spy world filled with dull henchmen, high-tech machines and some tacky villains.

- Time to go to Plan B! -

The episodes are condensed into their own episode. Although there have been some arcs that follow specific villains who have a bit of history with the main characters.

Tim Scam is a former agent who went rogue against WOOHP and Terrence Lewis; twin brother to Jerry and a sore thumb to WOOHP. There also reoccurring allies as well. Brittney (cyan) who joined the team as a trainee, Dean from the three-part series < Evil Promotion Much? > and Blaine a freelance agent who dated Clover.

The conflicts, if we can even call them conflicts at all have aged rather strangely. Some of the villains commit petty crimes like kidnapping celebrities due to jealousy or act extreme. Like being anti-consumerist with the solution of destroying malls.

Yet, some are still relatable to this day such as a kid villain who is mad at his father for being busy as a commentary on how parental neglect can cause warped ideas in a child. Whatever, it's a pre-teen show. Let's not look into it too deeply.

The world of Totally Spies is also interconnected with several other shows; [The Amazing Spiez] and [Martin Mystery].

< Martin Mystery > follows Martin, a paranormal investigator for the Center with Martin's step-sister, Diana Lombard and Java the Caveman. Fighting monsters, urban legends and aliens.

According to a special crossover episode. Martin's boss; M.O.M (Mystery Organization Manager) and Jerry know each other. Likewise, in Amazing Spiez; Jerry is also the boss of the Clark siblings. Lee, Marc, Megan and Tony. Sadly, these shows were short-lived and cancelled.

It does raise an interesting point. Why is Totally Spies more popular? As a guess, I think it's because the chemistry between the characters is a lot more interesting and fun.

The three girls are best of friends and while they sometimes bicker over boys, responsibilities and opinions. They will always put their friendship and mission first above all else. It feels more real, in a superficial way.

That an actual girl would have a girlfriend group this tight-knit and if they ever become a part of something bigger than them. They would do it together.

- Here We Go Again! -

Tacky villains, cute super spy girlfriends and awesome gadgets aside. The show has a few good jokes here and there. Its art style borrows a lot from Anime and its colors are groovy to the eyes.

For a show that was meant to attract girls into action. The show has also garnered a large following from boys as well. I think another secret to the success of < Totally Spies > can also be because of its approach to the subject. Like I said in my introduction.

There is an odd case for more girl-centric shows. Something about the need to balance femininity with action. The show needs to feel like an action that happens to have the main characters be girls.

This show is a girl's show. The girls are unapologetic being girly. Doing girl things like shopping, manicure, dating and going on dream vacations but with their secret life as spies. The show balances it out with good action and is still using that girly theme to add to its gadgets.

Heck, some of the gadgets are stuff that I would personally want to have. The Jet Pack backpack, The Wind Tunnel 3000 Tornado Blast Hair Dryer, Lazer lipstick and the Compowder are on my list. Especially with its costume change function.

It's a show that embraces both ends of the spectrum and allows it to show its respective strengths rather than shy away from the themes. With the announcement that this show is going to have a season 7/ soft reboot. It does look promising with several concerns.

But I am hopeful that for a beloved show such as this. The girls will have a proper return and inspire a new generation of girls (and boys) to be < Totally Spies >