#farmhouse ale

[grandboute]

Merci Peter Gun !

[thebreweryblazer]

Old Hights Brewing Company, Hightstown, New Jersey - Mercer County

[justbeers]

Grisette - Divague

[arc-hus]

Adderbury Hill, Oxfordshire, England - Al-Jawad Pike

[thedaily-beer]

Modern Times + Burial Forgotten Landscapes Sour Ale aged in Madeira Barrels with Plums (Picked up from Modern Times). A 4 of 4. Quite a bit more plum-y and fresh/fruity than I was expecting from something barrel-aged, but it's quite enjoyable. Sour but not puckering, and really offers a bit more funk as this warms up a touch. The plum qualities are really nice.

[brandonsdrunkagain]

Farmhouse Ales Tastings! In my barn no less!

[never-sated]

Tis the season

[notebook91286]

195/365

[radioconstructed]

⌖ ANYONE REMEMBER when I LARPED as a RAE DUNN COLLECTOR for a WEEK to get GOOD CONTENT of me BRAWLING with all the soccer moms in a V.J. MAXX? THAT WAS FUN!

⌖ ANYWAY! I STILL HAVE ALL THE STUFF! WHO WANTS? Make me a DEAL!

[mcmansionhell]

this house may or may not be real

on grayness in real estate

Allegedly, somewhere in Wake Forest, North Carolina, a 4 bed, 5.5 bathroom house totaling more than 6,600 square feet is for sale at a price of 2.37 million dollars. The house, allegedly, was built in 2021. Allegedly, it looks like this:

A McMansion is, in effect, the same house over and over again - it's merely dressed up in different costumes. In the 90s, the costume was Colonial; in the 2000s, it was vague forms of European (Tuscan, Mediterranean), and in the 2010s it was Tudor, dovetailed by "the farmhouse" -- a kind of Yeti Cooler simulacra of rural America peddled to the populace by Toll Brothers and HGTV.

Now, we're fully in the era of whatever this is. Whitewashed, quasi-modern, vaguely farmhouse-esque, definitely McMansion. We have reached, in a way, peak color and formal neutrality to the point where even the concept of style has no teeth. At a certain moment in its life cycle, styles in vernacular architecture reach their apex, after which they seem excessively oversaturated and ubiquitous. Soon, it's time to move on. After all, no one builds houses that look like this anymore:

(This is almost a shame because at least this house is mildly interesting.)

If we return to the basic form of both houses, they are essentially the same: a central foyer, a disguised oversized garage, and an overly complex assemblage of masses, windows, and rooflines. No one can rightfully claim that we no longer live in the age of the McMansion. The McMansion has instead simply become more charmless and dull.

When HGTV and the Gaineses premiered Fixer Upper in 2013, it seemed almost harmless. Attractive couple flips houses. Classic show form. However, Fixer Upper has since (in)famously ballooned into its own media network, a product line I'm confronted with every time I go to Target, and a general 2010s cultural hallmark not unlike the 1976 American Bicentennial - both events after which every house and its furnishings were somehow created in its image. (The patriotism, aesthetic and cultural conservatism of both are not lost on me.)

But there's one catch: Fixer Upper is over, and after the Gaineses, HGTV hasn't quite figured out where to go stylistically. With all those advertisers, partners, and eyeballs, the pressure to keep one foot stuck in the rural tweeness that sold extremely well was great. At the same time, the network (and the rest of the vernacular design media) couldn't risk wearing out its welcome. The answer came in a mix of rehashed, overly neutral modernism -- with a few pops of color, yet this part often seems omitted from its imitators -- with the prevailing "farmhouse modern" of Magnolia™ stock. The unfortunate result: mega-ultra-greige.

Aside from war-mongering, rarely does the media manufacture consent like it does in terms of interior design. People often ask me: Why is everything so gray? How did we get here? The answer is because it is profitable. Why is it profitable? I'd like to hypothesize several reasons. The first is as I mentioned: today's total neutrality is an organic outgrowth of a previous but slightly different style, "farmhouse modern," that mixed the starkness of the vernacular farmhouse with the soft-pastel Pinterest-era rural signifiers that have for the last ten years become ubiquitous.

Second, neutrals have always been common and popular. It's the default choice if you don't have a vision for what you want to do in a space. In the 2000s, the neutrals du jour were "earth tones" - beige, sage green, brown. Before that, it was white walls with oak trim in the 80s and 90s. In the 70s, neutrals were textural: brick and wood paneling. We have remarkably short memories when it comes to stylistic evolution because in real time it feels incremental. Such is the case with neutrals.

Finally, the all-gray palette is the end logic of HGTV et al's gamified methodology of designing houses with commodification in mind: if you blow out this wall, use this color, this flooring, this cabinetry, the asking price of your house goes up. You never want to personalize too much because it's off-putting to potential buyers. After twenty years of such rhetoric, doesn't it make all the sense in the world that we've ended up with houses that are empty, soulless, and gray?

A common realtor adage is to stage the house so that potential buyers can picture their own lives in it. In other words, create a tabula rasa one can project a fantasy of consumption onto. Implied in that logic is that the buyer will then impose their will on the house. But when the staged-realtor-vision and general-mass-market aesthetic of the time merge into a single dull slurry, we get a form of ultra-neutral that seems unwelcoming if not inescapable.

To impose one's style on the perfect starkness is almost intimidating, as though one is fouling up something untouchable and superior. If neutrality makes a house sell, then personality - at all - can only be seen as a detriment. Where does such an anti-social practice lead us? Back to the house that may or may not exist.

In my travels as McMansion Hell, I've increasingly been confronted with houses full of furniture that isn't real. This is known as virtual staging and it is to house staging as ChatGPT is to press release writing or DALL-E is to illustration. As this technology improves, fake sofa tables are becoming more and more difficult to discern from the real thing. I'm still not entirely sure which of the things in these photos are genuine or rendered. To walk through this house is to question reality.

Staging ultimately pretends (sometimes successfully, sometimes not) that someone is living in this house, that you, too could live in it. Once discovered, virtual staging erases all pretensions: the house is inhabited by no one. It is generally acknowledged (though I'm not sure on the actual statistics) that a house with furniture - that is, with the pretense of living -- sells easier than a house with nothing in it, especially if that house (like this one) has almost no internal walls. Hence the goal is to make the virtual staging undiscoverable.

If you want to talk about the realtor's tabula rasa, this is its final form. Houses without people, without human involvement whatsoever.

But what makes this particular house so uncanny is that all of these things I've mentioned before: real estate listing photography, completely dull interiors and bland colors all make it easy for the virtual furniture to work so well. This is because the softness of overlit white and gray walls enables the fuzzy edges of the renderings to look natural when mixed with an overstylized reality. Even if you notice something's off in the reflections, that's enough to cause one to wonder if anything in the house is real: the floors, the fixtures, the moulding, the windows and doors.

This is where things are heading: artifice on top of artifice on top of artifice. It's cheap, it's easy. But something about it feels like a violation. When one endeavors to buy a house, one assumes what one is viewing is real. It's one thing if a realtor photoshops a goofy sunset, it's another to wonder if anything in a room can be touched with human hands. I won't know what, if any, part of this estate costing over 2 million dollars actually exists until I visit it myself. Perhaps that's the whole point - to entice potential buyers out to see for themselves. When they enter, they'll find the truth: a vast, empty space with nothing in it.

The better this rendering technology gets, the more it will rely on these totally neutral spaces because everything matches and nothing is difficult. You are picking from a catalog of greige furniture to decorate greige rooms. If you look at virtual staging in a non-neutral house it looks immediately plastic and out of place, which is why many realtors opt to either still stage using furniture or leave the place empty.

Due to the aforementioned photography reasons, I would even argue that the greigepocalypse or whatever you want to call it and virtual staging have evolved simultaneously and mutualistically. The more virtual staging becomes an industry standard, the more conditions for making it seamless and successful will become standardized as well.

After all, real staging is expensive and depends on paid labor - selecting furniture, getting workers to deliver and stage it, only to pack it back up again once the property is sold. This is a classic example of technology being used to erase entire industries. Is this a bad thing? For freelance and contract workers, yeah. For realtors? no. For real estate listings, it remains to be seen. For this blog? Absolutely. (Thankfully there is an endless supply of previously existing McMansions.)

The thing is, real estate listings no longer reflect reality. (Did they ever to begin with?) The reason we're all exasperated with greige is because none of us actually live that way and don't want to. I've never been to anyone's house that looks like the house that may or may not exist. Even my parents who have followed the trends after becoming empty nesters have plenty of color in their house. Humans like color. Most of us have lots of warmth and creativity in our houses. Compare media intended for renters and younger consumers such as Apartment Therapy with HGTV and you will find a stark difference in palate and tone.

But when it comes to actually existing houses - look at Zillow and it's greige greige greige. So who's doing this? The answer is real estate itself aided by their allies in mass media who in turn are aided by the home renovation industry. In other words, it's the people who sell home as a commodity. That desire to sell has for some time overpowered all other elements that make up a home or an apartment's interiority to the point where we've ended up in a colorless slurry of real and unreal.

Fortunately, after ten years or so, things begin to become dated. We're hitting the ten year mark of farmhouse modernism and its derivatives now. If you're getting sick of it, it's normal. The whole style is hopefully on its last leg. But unlike styles of the past, there's a real, trenchant material reason why this one is sticking around longer than usual.

Hence, maybe if we want the end of greige, we're going to have to take color back by force.

If you like this post and want more like it, support McMansion Hell on Patreon for as little as $1/month for access to great bonus content including extra posts and livestreams.

Not into recurring payments? Try the tip jar, because media work is especially recession-vulnerable.

[ssaeri]

we fall to ashes

☆ tags: alex x gn!reader, he finds something that he never expected to see on your farm, this was going to be angst with an angst ending, but then my sister begged me to not write a sad ending, so have this relieving happy ending instead, LOTS of alex spoilers! ☆

Alex stretches his arms over his head and breathes in deep. In the distance, he hears chickens screaming—a sure sign that he's getting closer to your farm. The walk from his house isn't short, but while his grandparents would complain about the distance, he finds it ideal for cooling down after his harder work-outs. And he gets to see you at the end? He'd say that's a winner winner chicken dinner situation...out of earshot from your coop, at least.

"Hey there! Evelyn's boy!" Pam calls from his right.

He slows to a stop and waves. She sits in the driver seat of her newly repaired bus, window fully open, and takes another swig from her Joja Cola. Immediately, her face scrunches.

"Mornin', Pam!" he yells back. "How's that alcohol detox going for you?"

"Awful." She smacks her lips and holds the can up to her eyes, searching the ingredients for what makes it so fucking nasty. You often joke that it's the bitter taste of capitalism. "I could go for something stronger in this heat. You think the farmer has an extra glass of pale ale?"

Alex's smile tightens. Ever since Pam and Penny's trailer turned into an actual house, Pam's been doing her best to break old habits and he's glad for it—he can finally walk by her without the reflexive gag and hurried steps. You telling me I stink? she used to ask, angry in her drunken stupor, until she remembered why he showed up on his grandparents' steps nearly two decades ago.

She must read it in his expression now because she waves him off with a roll of her eyes. "I'm kidding, kid. Tell 'em I said hi. They're the only one who takes this damn bus anyway. I might as well take a nap." She slides sunglasses onto her face and reclines her chair until he can't see her anymore. "If I'm still here by the time you go home, wake me up."

Classic Pam, he thinks as he continues to your farm. Your dog is already running from the front door to greet him, panting and barking and disturbing your horse's peace.

"Come on, buddy," he laughs, shooing your dog until he can push open the gate. "I was supposed to surprise them."

Alex scratches your horse's ear as he passes its stable. Grape vines twist and sag on the trellises you've set up for the season, the structures nearly bursting with fruit, and he makes a mental note to stop by tomorrow to help with the harvesting. Maybe it could substitute for a work-out. He's helped you ship boxes of produce before and wondered how ripped he'd be after a month of your lifestyle. Between the trellises, the melons are just starting to come in. He doesn't know how long it takes for them to ripen, only that they taste really good when you drop off a basket for his grandma.

He calls out your name. Not in the fields, not in the pasture. Your new greenhouse, maybe? You were muttering something about ancient fruit last night. Or the mushroom cave, something he still can't believe is a feature on your farm. If Demetrius could add that, maybe Alex could talk you into installing an outdoor lifting station.

He walks past your workbench and active machines...

...and walks backwards again, hoping that his eyes are deceiving him. Crystalariums reproducing diamonds to sell, charcoal kilns working double time for enough coal, bone mills churning out fertilizer, geode crushers crunching rocks into pebbles, furnaces roaring as they smelt ores into bars—and right on top of the furthest furnace sits a wrapped bundle he's only seen in his (second to) worst nightmares.

He hears your content humming now, somewhere in the main farmhouse. Under normal circumstances, he would've called it cute, but the sound rings mockingly in his ears as he approaches the darkened flowers. A wilted bouquet. Fuck.

.

.

"Oh, hey there!" Alex called out as you got closer. He tossed his ever-present gridball into the air. "You here to catch fish again? I think you can find salmon in the river this time of year. At least that's what I heard."

Once you came to a stop in front of him, you shook your head, hands still behind your back. "I'm not fishing today," you said. "I actually wanted to give you something."

"Yeah?" His lips quirked into a grin. Another toss into the air. "Wouldn't happen to be a Salmon Dinner with extra lemon, would it? Those are one of my favorites, but I can never catch any salmon myself. Another egg would be cool, too. I've been adding your weekly deliveries to my workout meals."

You only shifted from one foot to the other, unable to take your eyes off his shoes, and a part of him faltered. You weren't intimidated by him, were you? Ever since you found him crying on the beach, he had been a little more flirtatious than usual, layering on the teasing and showing off. Maybe he came on too strong. Haley always told him that subtlety wasn't his strong suit. The grip on his gridball changed as he tossed it higher.

"You okay there? Did I do something...wait, this is—ow!"

The ball bounced off his head and landed in the grass, but he couldn't care less. He pointed to the bouquet in your hands. Not a regular bouquet, but the Bouquet made to order by Pierre. In a place as small as Pelican Town, there was no need for Pierre to have it in constant stock, so when the signature blooms made the rare appearance, they attracted everyone's eyes.

"...you want to get more serious?" he asked, incredulous.

Something in your expression changed, and you drew the flowers back to your chest. "Oh, sorry, did you not?" You gave him a wide smile, already stepping away. "I must've read the signs wrong. My mistake."

"No! That's not—I mean, you read the signs correctly. I, uh, I feel the same way." He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling his face flush. "So I guess we're together now? Should I be asking you out on a date or something? Or wait, are you asking me out on a date? How does this work?"

You laughed, a genuine sound this time. "We can continue the way we were before."

And so you did, but some things changed for sure. He could hold your hand now as you ran errands around the town, carrying half of the gifts you handed out to the townspeople. He could kiss you goodbye at his door in the evenings, though George cleared his throat loudly every time. Alex remembered making some snide comment about his grandpa, who yelled out a gruff I heard that! before being shushed by Evelyn. When It Howls in the Rain was being shown at the town theater, you bribed him to a screening with the promise of Stardrop Sorbet, but as much as he loved the treat, he would've gone anyway—it was one of his favorite movies with one of his favorite people. Good thing he'd seen it before because he spent most of the time staring at your side profile, wondering when he could finally go pro and have you stare at him on a screen.

.

.

Your dog nips at his fingers. He pets it absently. He thought everything was going fine between the two of you. Just yesterday, you came over and had dinner with him and his grandparents. You told them about your mining adventures in the Skull Caverns and, to his horror, showed off your old stitches from Harvey. (George chided your reckless behavior and gave old-timey advice that you nodded along to.) You talked about the new farm you're setting up at Ginger Island—Ancient Fruit wine all year! you told them excitedly. It's a farmer's heaven!—and the Beach Resort you're trying to restore. (Evelyn hummed at your energy, asking rapid-fire questions about the flora there.) You even promised to bring over a season's worth of eggs and leeks as soon as you got your hands on them. (Alex's mind flashed to the old mariner and the mermaid's pendant he could see hanging around your neck in the future.)

So why is a wilted bouquet sitting here, right on top of your furnaces?

No point in guessing when he can just find out the answer right from the source. He takes the flowers and goes to your door, knocking twice. It opens before he has time to second guess his choice.

"Alex! I didn't know you were coming over," you say, beaming at him. He wants to immortalize this version of you: face full of dirt smudges and t-shirt collar soaked through with sweat, yet glowing in your element. Until your eyes drop to his hands. "Oh, that's..."

He sets his jaw. "Can I come in and talk?"

Your expression falters further at his cold tone, but you step back and lead him to the living room. Your dog trots in and settles by the TV, head on its paws, watching with blank eyes. Alex sits in his usual spot and you yours, and suddenly he hates how familiar he is with your space.

It's still silent.

You clear your throat. "So," you start, wiping your palms on your jeans. A nervous tick he knows well. "What did you want to talk about?"

He puts the bouquet on the coffee table between you.

"Right." You pause, likely waiting for him to continue, but he doesn't say anything. "Alex, can you at least be less mean about this? I feel like you owe me that much after all this time together." He says nothing. "Like, tell me what's wrong instead of sitting here stone-faced. Things were okay. Why are you breaking up with me—"

"Why am I breaking up with you?" He barks a laugh. "Baby, I found this outside on your furnace! I'm not going to beg for you to stay, but what the hell is this?"

Your forehead furrows. "What? I wouldn't."

"If it's not yours and it's not mine, then whose is it?"

"I don't know! Alex, I wouldn't—I never even thought about breaking up," you insist. "Why would I lie about that?"

After scrutinizing your stricken expression, his relief comes in waves. He sinks into your couch, hands rubbing at his face.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, just—" He laughs again, the sound mostly air. "Yoba, that scared me. If someone left this here as a prank, I'm hunting them down tonight." He lifts his head to look at you and opens his arms. "Can you come over here?"

You wrinkle your nose. "I'm gross."

"You could be playing in mud with your pigs, and I'd still jump in."

With a roll of your eyes, you hop over to curl into his side and he buries his face in the crook of your neck. You stink, but so does he after a good workout. Now that he thinks about it, he's still in his gym clothes.

"You scared me, too," you tell him, gaze trained on the table. "Not the best thing to see on a Friday afternoon. But now I want to know whose this is. Did you check it for clues?"

"Didn't bother. Thought it was yours." His arm around your waist tightens as you lean forward. "Does it matter?"

But that doesn't stop you. You have the bouquet in your lap now, prying at the blackened ribbon and wrapping. "Look at this," you say, holding it between two fingers. "The ribbon isn't blue, and Pierre always uses blue. The wrap is pretty much disintegrated, but this corner—he always puts his store brand." You suck in a breath. "Oh, duh! Where did you say you found this?"

"The furnaces right outside by the workbench."

"Okay, so mystery solved. This is mine, but not in the way you think."

He raises an eyebrow. "Explain. Don't say you're breaking up with a secret partner because I don't think I can handle a second shock right now."

"I made a wildflower bouquet to put on Grandpa's grave a few days ago, but I totally forgot where I put it, so I made a second one. This one must've been the one I misplaced."

He blinks. "How the hell did you not notice it since?"

"I came back from Ginger Island yesterday and went to sleep right after dinner! The flowers must've wilted from the furnace heat."

"You," he says slowly, pinching your cheek and ignoring your squeak, "are the absolute worst. I can't believe you nearly broke my heart and it turned out to be a whoopsie."

[honey-crypt]

a/n: a request from the lovely @fuerrziah! the rest of my drafts are smut requests and i've been anti-horny soooo... have some short but tooth aching sweet fluff!!

word count: 892

warnings: none

summary: a surprise dinner has elliott questioning what you have up your sleeve. little does he know, you have hidden a mermaid's pendant somewhere at the table.

★ honeysuckles and pomegranates - elliott x farmer ★

Elliott clutched the ornate letter close to his chest, as he approached the entrance to the local farm. He recited the contents of the letter by heart in his mind, as if it was a mantra of good luck. Over and over again, the writer repeated to himself, Meet me tonight at 9pm. I have a surprise for you. Dress up. 

And- oh, boy- did Elliott dress up. His day to day appearance reflected nothing but sophistication and charm in his neatly pressed shirts and bold accents, but his “dress up” attire blew that essemble out of the water. Elliott wore his hair in a low ponytail, secured in an emerald green ribbon. He dressed in a flowy white shirt and paired it with relaxed red slacks, his overcoat shrugged off his shoulders like a shawl. His brown Oxfords echoed against the dirt ground, as Elliott approached his beloved’s farmhouse. 

Outside, the farm was illuminated by bronze lanterns, the core areas sporting at least one. Fireflies filled the remaining darkness out with the occasional flicker of dim light. Elliott knocked on the door and awaited for his beloved. A few footsteps rang out from behind the door, closer and closer until the redhead came face to face with you, his love. 

“Hello, honeysuckle,” the term of endearment rolled off his tongue effortlessly. You beamed up at Elliott, “Hello, pompom~” your tongue, meanwhile, teased out the pet name for Elliott. He let out a snort, uncharacteristically poignant of his usual prim and proper self. Yet, with you, Elliott allowed himself to ‘let loose’ and forgo any formalities. 

“You said in your letter-” he unfolded the precious paper of parchment and double-checked its contents, “That you had a surprise for me?” you nodded and held out your hand, “Lemme show you,” the writer graciously took your hand and followed you towards the surprise. Nested within the lushious orchard on your property, fairy lights shined upon a magnificent scene. A small table with two chairs stood proudly in the center, as soft instrumentals hummed from the radio. A bottle of chilled pomegranate wine rested in an ice box on the table, a plate of freshly steamed crab cakes on each side of the chairs. Elliott could only gawk like a dumbstruck fool at the sight before him.

“What do you think? I got this all set up for you,” your voice brought him back into reality. Elliott blinked and turned to you, “What do I think?” he pulled you close and pressed a chaste kiss on your lips, “I believe you have outdone yourself once again, my dear.”

“I’m glad you like it!” you giggled, your smile ever so bright in Elliott’s eyes. You then gestured to the grand dinner, “Let’s eat,” the redhead nodded in agreement and took a seat at the table with you, his mouth salivating at the sight of his favorite meal. 

Goodness, this must have cost them a small fortune, the writer thought to himself while he dug into the heavenly assortment. As the meal went on, the two of you exchanged recaps of your day, the latest town gossip, and so on. It was just like every other dinner date, but in his heart, Elliott knew something was slightly off about this date, as his nose twitched throughout the dinner. 

“I propose a toast,” his ears perked up at the sound of your sweet voice. You held up your glass of wine and Elliott followed in suit, “Just like old times,” the writer mused. Elliott smiled fondly at the memory, the night he felt the spark ignite in his chest, as he proposed a toast to your friendship. The way your smile lit up the saloon, the way you merrily drank your ale, it was no surprise that Elliott fell head over heels for you. 

“I wish to toast to…” your eyes darted to the ice box, “Our love,” you lifted up the ice box, revealing an all too familiar necklace. Elliott’s jaw went slack at the necklace, the vibrant blue pendant glistening under the moonlight. You grasped the Mermaid’s Pendant and held it out to Elliott, “The moment we shared that drink in the saloon was the night I fell in love with you, Elliott. Underneath your elegant persona, I saw a man full of wonder and laughter,” tears began to swell up in the writer’s eyes, “Elliott, will you do me the greatest honor and marry me?”

“Yes!” he nearly shrieked, forgoing any restraint and practically throwing himself at you. The two of you shared a deep kiss, your hands playing with Elliott’s long ginger hair while he held you as close as he possibly could. When you finally pried yourself off one another, Elliott flashed you that million dollar smile of his and hummed, “Do you want to know something funny?”

“Of course,” you answered, eyes twinkling with curiosity. Elliott rummaged through his pockets and pulled out a small box, “I planned on proposing to you, too,” he opened the box and revealed an identical Mermaid’s Pendant. You broke out into a grin and kissed your fiancé feverishly, pulling away only to put the engagement token around Elliott’s neck. He returned the favor and stared down at your neck, his chest bubbling up with excitement. 

Guess my nose is never wrong about these sorts of things.

[venriliz]

Portia Montez for @rainymoodlet's Rock of Love Bachelor Challenge! <3

in depth info + full wardrobe below the cut! ↓

✮ Portia was born and raised in Evergeen Harbor, an industrial port town known for it's huge import/export businesses and even more so - it's heavily polluted environment especially at the shores of the sickly brown-ish sea. The early death of Portia's mother directly caused by the affects the bad air had on her health has instilled somewhat of a love-hate relationship towards Evergreen Harbor into the then 8 year old girl.

✮ Her father tried his best to raise his daughter by himself but despite his long working hours in a local shipyard the money was barely enough for them to survive, the possibilty of moving away far out of reach.

✮ Early in her youth she found her talent and passion for skateboarding, winning many prizes in junior competitions all over the country. After barley graduating from highschool (some ppl just aren't made for the educational system lol) she became a promising professional and quickly made a name for herself in the skating community all over the world. Her biggest successes were two back-to-back street skateboard world championship titles and several self-invented tricks where named after her. Life was good for Portia not only professionally but personally too after meeting Davide Montez who became not only her manager but als her husband.

✮ Sadly, as the saying goes though - nothing lasts forever and about a year ago, Portia found herself forced to retire from competing professionally because growing up in the bad environment of Evergreen Harbor finally started to catch up with her own health. Her retirement caused her marriage to suffer as well and soon after she announced the end of her career as a professional, Davide called it quits and they agreed to divorce on good terms.

✮ Now with her financial stability and free time to pursue new things, Portia took the chance and applied for the bachelor challenge to win Jackson Roth's heart. This is mostly thanks to her friends pressuring her to try after catching her gawking at one of the billboards with Jackson's photo on it (i mean HELLO?! he's hawt! °-° she just... doesn't like the music lol). Portia is (somewhat) ready for a new adventure and maybe, just maybe she'll find love again! <3

likes:

colors: orange, red, black music: electronica, hip hop, latin characteristics: family-oriented, hardworking, idealistic convo topics: flirting, deep thoughts, affection, talking about hobbies fashion: rocker, streetwear activities: fitness, dancing, wellness, rock climbing decor: industrial, mid-century

dislikes:

music: metal, cottagecore, ranch characteristics: egotistical, argumentative, ambitionless convo topics: evil interactions, arguing, gossip fashion: polished, country activities: fishing, cooking, mischief decor: farmhouse, cute

wardrobe:

[brandonsdrunkagain]

Farm House Ale Share at my barn last month!

[sassenach77yle]

||COUNTDOWN ||SEASON 3 EPISODE 02 || SURRENDER ||

#83daysofoutlander☆

He sat on his favorite rock, near the cave’s entrance, watching the evening stars come out. Even in the worst of the year after Culloden, he had always been able to find a moment of peace at this time of the day. As the daylight faded, it was as though objects became faintly lit from within, so they stood outlined against sky or ground, perfect and sharp in every detail. He could see the shape of a moth, invisible in the light, now limned in the dusk with a triangle of deeper shadow that made it stand out from the trunk it hid upon. In a moment, it would take wing. He looked out across the valley, trying to stretch his eyes as far as the black pines that edged the distant cliffside. Then up, among the stars. Orion there, striding stately over the horizon. And the Pleiades, barely visible in the darkening sky. It might be his last sight of the sky for some time, and he meant to enjoy it. He thought of prison, of bars and locks and solid walls, and remembered Fort William. Wentworth Prison. The Bastille. Walls of stone, four feet thick, that blocked all air and light. Filth, stench, hunger, entombment… He shrugged such thoughts away. He had chosen his way, and was satisfied with it. Still, he searched the sky, looking for Taurus. Not the prettiest of constellations, but his own. Born under the sign of the bull, stubborn and strong. Strong enough, he hoped, to do what he intended. Among the growing night sounds, there was a sharp, high whistle. It might have been the homing song of a curlew on the loch, but he recognized the signal. Someone was coming up the path—a friend. It was Mary MacNab, who had become kitchenmaid at Lallybroch, after the death of her husband. Usually it was her son Rabbie, or Fergus, who brought him food and news, but she had come a few times before. She had brought a basket, unusually well-supplied, with a cold roast partridge, fresh bread, several young green onions, a bunch of early cherries, and a flask of ale. Jamie examined the bounty, then looked up with a wry smile. “My farewell feast, eh?” She nodded, silent. [...]

Nothing out of the ordinary; she had supped with him before, to give him the gossip of the district while they ate. Still, if this was his last meal before leaving Lallybroch, he was surprised that neither his sister nor the boys had come to share it. Perhaps the farmhouse had visitors that would make it difficult for them to leave undetected. He gestured politely for her to sit first, before taking his own place, crosslegged on the hard dirt floor. [...]

After the meal, she packed the basket tidily, leaving out enough food for a small breakfast before his dawn leaving. He expected her to go then, but she did not. She rummaged in the crevice where he kept his bedding, spread it neatly upon the floor, turned back the blankets and knelt beside the pallet, hands folded on her lap. He leaned back against the wall of the cave, arms folded. He looked down at the crown of her bowed head in exasperation. “Oh, like that, is it?” he demanded. “And whose idea was this? Yours, or my sister’s?” “Does it matter?” She was composed, her hands perfectly still on her lap, her dark hair smooth in its snood. He shook his head and bent down to pull her to her feet. “No, it doesna matter, because it’s no going to happen. I appreciate your meaning, but—” His speech was interrupted by her kiss. Her lips were as soft as they looked. He grasped her firmly by both wrists and pushed her away from him. “No!” he said. “It isna necessary, and I dinna want to do it.”

He was uncomfortably aware that his body did not agree at all with his assessments of necessity, and still more uncomfortable at the knowledge that his breeches, too small and worn thin, made the magnitude of the disagreement obvious to anyone who cared to look. The slight smile curving those full, sweet lips suggested that she was looking. He turned her toward the entrance and gave her a light push, to which she responded by stepping aside and reaching behind her for the fastenings to her skirt. “Don’t do that!” he exclaimed.

“How dye mean to stop me?” she asked, stepping out of the garment and folding it tidily over the single stool. Her slender fingers went to the laces of her bodice. “If ye won’t leave, then I’ll have to,” he replied with decision. He whirled on his heel and headed for the cave entrance, when he heard her voice behind him.

“My lord!” she said. He stopped, but did not turn around. “It isna suitable to call me that,” he said. “Lallybroch is yours,” she said. “And will be so long as ye live. If ye’re its laird, I’ll call ye so.” “It isna mine. The estate belongs to Young Jamie.” “It isna Young Jamie that’s doing what you are,” she answered with decision. “And it isna your sister that’s asked me to do what I’m doin’. Turn round.”

He turned, reluctantly. She stood barefoot in her shift, her hair loose over her shoulders. She was thin, as they all were these days, but her breasts were larger than he had thought, and the nipples showed prominently through the thin fabric. The shift was as worn as her other garments, frayed at the hem and shoulders, almost transparent in spots. He closed his eyes. He felt a light touch on his arm, and willed himself to stand still. “I ken weel enough what ye’re thinkin’,” she said. “For I saw your lady, and I know how it was between the two of ye. I never had that,” she added, in a softer voice, “not wi’ either of the two men I wed. But I know the look of a true love, and it’s not in my mind to make ye feel ye’ve betrayed it.”

The touch, feather-light, moved to his cheek, and a work-worn thumb traced the groove that ran from nose to mouth. “What I want,” she said quietly, “is to give ye something different. Something less, mayhap, but something ye can use; something to keep ye whole. Your sister and the bairns canna give ye that—but I can.”

He heard her draw breath, and the touch on his face lifted away.

“Ye’ve given me my home, my life, and my son. Will ye no let me gi’e ye this small thing in return?” He felt tears sting his eyelids. The weightless touch moved across his face, wiping the moisture from his eyes, smoothing the roughness of his hair. He lifted his arms, slowly, and reached out. She stepped inside his embrace, as neatly and simply as she had laid the table and the bed. “I…havena done this in a long time,” he said, suddenly shy. “Neither have I,” she said, with a tiny smile. “But we’ll remember how ’tis.

6 BEING NOW JUSTIFIED BY HIS BLOOD ~Voyager

[deandoesthingstome]

a waiting place

A/N: In honor of @sillyrabbit81 and her milestone event. Congrats friend! I don't know if this is cheating but I took two screenshots, sent one and kept one for myself. I thought it would take me days, but I sat down and this feeling just poured from me.

Her event masterlist is here.

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Reader (my first time with writing him, please be gentle)

Prompt: Slow & Romantic // Geralt // Mirror Sex

Summary: You have finally found a place of your own

Word count: 1.4k

Warnings: there is sex in this story so NSFW, 18+, MINORS DNI

It was rumored to have been made with magic, but when you finally stumbled across the mirror tucked deep in the recesses of the farmhouse abandoned in Ebbing after the start of the Northern War, it was draped in a dusty cloth and looked anything but.

Still, the vibrations were calling, remnants of your ancestors, whose mastery of craft had placed the various pieces of skillfully forged metal and intricately carved wood together around the silver-backed glass. When you touched it, a warmth spread from your fingertips to your toes, and you knew you were home.

Exactly what kind of home had yet to be determined, since your skills were still newfound and you’d yet to master any sort of transformative spells. Backbreaking hard work was all you were able to put into it, but the efforts were worth it once you were able to lay down in a bed of your own making, the mirror standing in a newly prominent place of honor against the wall across the room.

In the morning, you readied a hot bath, filled with nourishing herbs and healing tinctures, and placed a tray of fresh bread flanked by cured meats and cheeses on the small table beside the wooden tub along with a bowl of warm stew and pitcher of ale. 

And exactly three years after your initial meeting, you called out to him, desire coursing through your veins and energy pulsing in your reflection, clearly bound with the mastery of your ancients.

“I am here. I made it. I need you.” You repeated the words in thoughts through the spells you chanted so that when he arrived, he would know why. Pulling someone through space and time was never easy, on them or you. But the yearning was too great, fueling the need to feel his skin against yours, his breath in your ear. 

You helped him out of his clothes and into the water and waited for him to invite you in next, knowing full well the need he’d feel when he’d recovered from the journey. He held your arm and wouldn’t let go, even as his grunts and groans indicated his agitated and depleted state. So you sat next to him as long as you could before it became apparent you’d need to replenish the hot water in the bath soon. 

He reached for you once the steam was rising from the tub once again. You dropped your sleep shift to the ground and let him guide you into the water with him. “The floor will dry”, you told yourself. “This moment may never come again.”

His gaze was tender and grateful and you smiled back at him, pleased at his reaction to being called here.

“Were you finished?” you asked. “Did I time it right?”

“Just,” he grunted.

“I’ve missed you. So very much.”

“I’m glad you survived your trial. Is this where you’ll stay from now on?”

“Need to know where to find me?” you smirked.

“And when. Yes.”

“I imagine there’ll come a time when I’ll need to go back. I can only learn so much more from books; I’ll need another mentor soon.”

“But for now?” he trailed off with a quirked brow.

“For now you find me here.”

With the water cooled and your bodies’ heat risen, Geralt stood with your legs wrapped around his waist, lips still locked against yours, a hand cradling your ass while the other pressed against your back to keep you tight to his chest. He stepped with ease out of the tub and to the bed, where he laid you down and peeled your limbs from him.

“I want to see you.”

“You’ve seen me. We’ve been in that water together for ages. Please,” you reached for him, but he stood still, head cocked to the side regarding your naked form. You watched him breathe in deeply and sigh the air out as he closed his eyes in contemplation. When he opened them again, you could swear you saw sparks as he acquiesced to your desire.

He crawled over your naked body, drops of water from his long silvery hair landing to cool the fire on your skin. But that flame for him would never douse, not in a million years. And while he had given in to your need to touch him and hold him in bed immediately, he wanted to take you apart slowly.

“Is that it?” he asked, head turned toward the mirror where he could make out his image poured over you, your leg draped over his thigh.

“Yes. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

He pulled back, taking you with him as he shifted to his knees and deftly turned you away from him, facing the mirror.

“What it reflects, certainly.” His voice was low in your ear as you watched the backs of his fingers caress your arms and down your sides. You knew his cat eyes could see more details in that image across the room than you ever could, but he did a good job of putting on a whole show of movement you could see as well as feel, placing kisses along your shoulder as a hand returned to cup your heaving chest. He slid his other hand forward around your waist and down over your belly, reaching for the heat between your thighs. Your eyes closed involuntarily when his fingers found their way inside you.

“Please watch. I want to see all of you, especially your eyes, while you come undone for me,” he whispered in your ear.

You wanted to feel all of him inside you immediately; you were practically bursting with the heat of your need for him but since you knew that would never wane, you gave in and watched the mirror while he slowly and methodically stroked you to orgasm. 

You felt yourself floating back to the bed and watched him peer down at you again while he took himself in hand and lined up at your entrance. He let out a long, low groan as he lowered himself to pulse into you slowly. 

“Fuck, you feel good.”

“I’ve missed this too, Geralt. I wish it would never end.”

“I’m going to make this last, alright?” he asked, head pulled back to gauge your interest.

You nodded and smiled, pleased he felt up to a long night after such a journey. You’d absolutely have to place a mark next to the entry in your spell book you’d used to prepare the bath, as the concoction had clearly done its job.

He didn’t lie. For hours, he teased and tortured you with his cock, grinding you deep and slow into the mattress while he caressed your mouth with his. His tongue tangled against yours, leaving only to trace lines of lust along your neck or chest. Sometimes, he’d roll you over him and urge you to take one of your many releases while riding him upright, his hands firm around your waist. 

You lost count of how many ways he brought you pleasure before he finally pulled you to hands and knees in front of him, once again facing the mirror. Once he was fully sheathed inside you, he gently lifted your torso against him, hand gripping lightly at your neck.

“I want you to watch again. Let the source of your true power soak up every bit of ours together,” his voice rumbled in your ear and vibrated against your back. When you nodded, he pressed you back down, chest all the way to the bed while he gripped your hips tight and rocked into you.

Even now, in this position usually reserved for wild abandon, Geralt made love to you. His movement was calculated, his strokes long and deliberate. His eyes sought yours in the reflection, though it was hard to tear your view away from where his hips disappeared behind your ass.

“Will you come with me one last time?” he begged, completely out of character and for a moment, you felt a sadness you hadn’t expected. Surely he wouldn’t let this be the last time you found each other across this vast lifetime?

“If you promise to come back,” you answered, as if you could ever hold back your release once he began to pump in earnest.

“When I can, yes.” 

With that most useless of promises secured, you smiled and nodded again. “Come for me, Geralt.”

It only took a few more strokes before he came with a growl, and you were lost in a blinding explosion of lights. Collapsed next to one another, you steadied your heart rate and burrowed into him as he curled himself around you. His sustained heat would never allow you to sleep long like this, but you sighed with content anyway. 

You had a home to call your own, and Geralt was willing to follow you here when he could, and that was all you cared about for now.

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