#lime stucco

[conkreetmonkey]

holy shit this is long... tldr; I get neurodivergent over masonry

So I've been doing a lot of research on building methods, from the conventional to the old school to the new, and one thing I always found missing from older methods (as in basically anything that isn't either solid concrete or stick-frame) was the lack of hard, impassable moisture barriers on exterior walls. Surely a wall that looks like old red brick on the outside and inside must have more layers in between, right? Where's the housewrap? Where's the bitumen or tar paper? Pretty much all old-school roof materials I've seen have had some sort of waterproof layer under the shingles, but never the walls, floors nor foundations themselves.

Now, I live in a town with a lot of 100 year old buildings, which isn't that old but still predates the prevalence of the 2x4 and the popularization of plastic. I've been in many buildings where the walls on the inside are seemingly the same clay brick material as the ones on the inside. My grandma's basement was seemingly made from assorted stone, and I've seen many basements with walls of brick or cinderblock. Despite the inherent porosity of their materials, these walls hold strong through the harsh Canadian winters and the soggy spring thaw, the wood and plaster up against them free from water damage or mold. It felt impossible. Surely there was something I wasn't seeing, right? Surely you can't just build a 2-whyte brick wall with an air gap in between and some drainage holes and just have it work, right? Where's the mould? Where's the mildew? Where's the water damage, and crumbling from repeated freeze-and-thaw cycles?

I was unable to find a straight answer, despite the fact that I was obviously missing something. You can't just stick insulation, plasterboard and framing joists up against a brick wall that's exposed to outside air on the other side, right? Surely it will rot!

The only things I was able to find were synthetic sealing creams that make things hydrophobic, and something about a metal "dimple sheet" that required you to "decouple" the roof joists from the walls to install it, because it was simply assumed that you'd be installing the product in a preexisting brick house. Both of these things were obviously modern, and heavily flawed as products. The sealants needed reapplied every 5 years and didn't even provide full protection, and the metal sheet, once installed, required that no wood any longer touch the bricks as it would somehow become guaranteed to rot. This isn't even what I wanted to know. How did people 100 years ago build the buildings I know I've stood in, where the bricks were free from chemical sealants and physical moisture barriers yet didn't let the rain in?

Finally, after posting to a masonry forum, I recieved my answer.

There is no secret ingredient.

The exterior layer of bricks simply get wet when it's wet and dry out when it's dry.

Limestone is naturally antifungal and antibacterial, so mold simply cannot grow on materials made from it. Lime plaster allows water vapour to pass through it, yet resists actual liquid water, so at once water cannot become trapped within it and fester, but applying a lime stucco to exterior walls or a plaster to interior ones prevents leakage while allowing water vapour in the air to pass through, and thus the house to "breathe." Additionally, old insulation "fluff" that is now made from foam or fibreglass was then made from wool, which is also naturally antibacterial. And wood, of course, can simply be sealed to prevent decay with a multitude of different methods, if that's even needed, which it often isn't unless it's actually touching a surface that can be expected to routinely become moist.

Old buildings simply weren't built with absolute airtightness in mind. There's no one layer that's 100% moistureproof in an old exterior wall; even water repellant surfaces such as lime stucco allow humidity to pass through. There's no hydrophobic layer of tarpuline, rubber or tar anywhere but on the roof.

Dudes, I'm starting to realize that modern stick-framed housing insulated with pink fiberglass and made of pine, chipboard and plastic wrap... kind of sucks? Like, they have their advantages surely, they're immensely easier, quicker and cheaper to build, and way easier to heat/cool, but they're also flimsy and, quite ironically, actually MORE prone to mold than old school buildings, because once the housewrap under that vinyl siding, stone block veneer or board-and-batten starts to go (and it will eventually), it's a single point of failure, and everything behind it is prone to rot? And if moisture does seep in, it has no way to escape due to the moisture-tight, airtight quality of the home, so it has no choice but to fester? Like, think about taking a hot shower, and the steam that builds up, only removable from the home with a modern HVAC fan or by opening a window. Think about how, if you don't do one of those things, you're all but certain to get mold on the drywall. That's because of the lack of vapour-permeable materials! It simply can't pass though any exterior wall, back outside into the air! The air is stagnant by default!

And look, this is not me claiming that stick-frame is inherently bad, or that old style building methods are always better. Back then they put asbestos in the walls and lead in the pipes, paint and windows. Technology has moved forward, not back, and is continuing to move forward, becoming better, stronger, more efficient. But when the modern home uses housewrap and housewrap alone as waterproofing, it's hubris manifest. It's a sheet of plastic screwed to some plywood with a wide washer. Eventually, there will be a leak, inside or out, and once that happens you're all but guaranteed destructive rot and mold. It's a tradeoff, exchanging durability and ease of maintainence for cheaper construction and better insulation, and sometimes that's justifiable, but nowadays it seems to be the only option in all of suburbia.

Limestone is a great material. It has a variety of uses, it's abundant, it's simultaneously water resistant and breatheable, it prevents mold, and it can even self-heal from minor damage. Clay and stone may be porous, but they're strong. These materials have their downsides, but they're not inferior. Pretty much no material is (except for fucking cordwood, which just plainly sucks ass in 95% of situations). Logs and timber have a place. Concrete has a place. Steel and other metals have a place. Plastic has a place. So long as it's not toxic, it has a place. There is no one best way to build a building, just as there is no one best way to cook a meal; it depends on where you are and who you're serving it to.

And now that I understand the simple genius of lime mortar and stone or clay blocks, I feel bad that they're not really used in the mainstream anymore. Sometimes, it's better to accept that moisture exists and have a multi-faceted system for directing it away from decay-prone materials, rather than to try to "defeat" it entirely with the modern miracle material of plastic, and then cockily build everything behind the plastic out of rottable materials. No home can go forever without repairs, just as no person, tool or machine can. The question is whether there's any redundancy, or if one failure in a crucial area destroys the whole system.

I've always loved masonry aesthetically, and now I love it functionally as well. This world has so many wonderful things in it.

[rarasek]

Porch - Backyard

a medium-sized eclectic back porch image with an addition to the roof

[alongtaleoffashion]

Eclectic Porch

Mid-sized eclectic back porch idea with a roof extension

[fomikrai]

Porch - Eclectic Porch This design for a mid-sized eclectic back porch with a roof extension is an illustration.

[vampiricallyxspeaking]

Eclectic Porch

Mid-sized eclectic back porch photo with a roof extension

[rosy-blossoms]

Los Angeles Flat Roofing Ideas for a massive contemporary green wood exterior home renovation

[cecilepages]

Modern Exterior Los Angeles Idea for a large, contemporary, green, three-story apartment building

[daily-struggle-bd]

Los Angeles Wood Exterior Large trendy green three-story wood exterior home photo

[whostolethetaiyaki]

Contemporary Exterior Los Angeles Large trendy green exterior of a three-story wood house image

[yourmomsawh0r3]

oh my god someone who writes for Marcelo!

Maybe one where Marcello takes reader to meet his mom! Reader is super nervous but he keeps reassuring her that it’ll be okay and that he’s already told her everything about reader and his mom is excited!!

ughh i love this story already! hope you enjoy babe🫶🏼✨

Suegra

pairing: marcello hernandez x f! reader

Marcello’s car rolled to a stop in front of a house that felt like it had a heartbeat of its own. The pastel yellow stucco walls, trimmed with white, were dappled in the late afternoon sunlight. A pair of rocking chairs sat on the front porch, and wind chimes gently tinkled with the breeze. The house exuded warmth just like Marcello himself.

“This is it,” he said, a note of nostalgia in his voice as he cut the engine.

You leaned forward to get a better look, clutching the flowers tightly in your hands. “It’s beautiful,” you murmured, your nerves momentarily eclipsed by the charm of his childhood home.

Marcello grinned. “It’s not much, but it’s home. The porch? That’s where my mom and I used to sit and watch thunderstorms. And that tree over there? I fell out of it once when I was trying to rescue a kite. Mom freaked out. I think she lectured me for a week.”

You laughed softly, picturing little Marcello dangling from the tree, all big brown eyes and mischievous energy.

He turned to you, his expression softening. “You okay, cariño? You’ve been quiet.”

You hesitated, then nodded. “I’m just… I want to make a good impression, you know? This house your mom it’s such a big part of who you are.”

Marcello reached over, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “Hey, listen to me. My mom’s going to love you. I’ve told her how smart you are, how funny, how much you care about people. She already thinks you’re perfect. And if it helps, she’s way less scary than she sounds.”

You gave him a wobbly smile, and he leaned in to kiss your temple before hopping out of the car. He rounded the front, opening your door and holding out his hand. You took it, letting him pull you to your feet.

As you walked up the steps together, you noticed little details brightly painted flower pots lined the porch, each one bursting with marigolds and hibiscus. A small ceramic rooster sat on the windowsill, and a faint melody of salsa music drifted through the open window.

Marcello knocked, but before his hand even left the door, it swung open. His mom stood there, a vision of warmth and hospitality. She was petite, her dark hair streaked with gray, her smile wide and genuine.

“¡Mi hijo!” she exclaimed, pulling Marcello into a tight hug that seemed to compress all the love in the world into one gesture.

“Hola, Mami,” Marcello said, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

When she pulled back, her eyes landed on you, and her smile grew even brighter. “And you must be Y/N.”

You quickly held out the bouquet, nerves making your hands tremble slightly. “Hi, um, these are for you. Thank you so much for having me.”

Her eyes sparkled as she accepted the flowers. “¡Qué hermosa! Thank you, mija. You didn’t have to do this. Come, come in!”

She ushered you inside, and immediately, the house wrapped you in its embrace. The walls were adorned with family photos Marcello as a baby, Marcello with his mom at the beach, Marcello in a little league uniform. The air smelled of something delicious garlic, spices, and a hint of citrus.

“I hope you’re hungry,” she said, leading you into the kitchen, where a feast awaited. The table was covered in dishes: arroz con pollo, black beans, plantains, and a salad with avocado and lime.

Marcello leaned in to whisper, “She’s trying to impress you too, you know. This much food? She’s pulling out all the stops.”

You smiled, feeling your nerves begin to ease. His mom motioned for you to sit, and as the meal unfolded, so did the stories. She shared tales of Marcello’s childhood how he was always cracking jokes, how he used to run around the house with his cousins pretending to be a TV host.

“Even as a niño, he was making everyone laugh,” she said, beaming at her son.

Marcello groaned, though his eyes were filled with affection. “Okay, Mami, no need to embarrass me.”

By the time dessert arrived homemade flan, its caramel glaze glistening you felt completely at ease. His mom reached across the table to touch your hand, her expression earnest.

“Thank you for making my son so happy,” she said. “I can see it in his eyes when he looks at you. You’re family now, mija. Anytime you want to come over, my house is yours.”

Your throat tightened with emotion, and you barely managed to whisper, “Thank you.”

On the way home, Marcello looked over at you, his eyes soft in the dim glow of the dashboard. “Told you she’d love you,” he said, squeezing your hand.

You smiled, resting your head against his shoulder. “I love her too. And I love you, Marcello.”

He kissed the top of your head, his voice filled with a quiet kind of joy. “I love you more, cariño. Always.”

As the night deepened, the comforting glow of the living room lights softened, wrapping the room in an intimate warmth. Plates and glasses from dinner had been cleared away, replaced by laughter and the sound of an old camcorder clicking to life.

“Okay, okay, you have to see this one,” Marcello’s mom said excitedly, sitting cross-legged on the floor next to you while Marcello stretched out on the couch behind you.

The TV flickered, and soon a grainy video of a much younger Marcello filled the screen. He couldn’t have been more than six, his dark curls bouncing as he ran across the backyard. He was shirtless, covered in streaks of mud, holding a garden hose in one hand and laughing wildly.

“Oh no,” Marcello groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Not this one.”

“Yes, this one!” his mom said, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “This was the day he decided to water the plants by himself… except he forgot the hose was on full blast and ended up drenching himself instead.”

You couldn’t help but giggle, your eyes darting between the screen and Marcello’s embarrassed expression. “You were so cute!”

“I was a menace,” Marcello corrected, shaking his head.

The video transitioned to another clip a birthday party. Marcello stood in front of a cake almost as big as he was, his little face lighting up as everyone sang to him. He clapped excitedly at the end of the song, then smashed his hands into the cake with no hesitation.

“Oh, come on,” Marcello groaned again, though you could see the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“Stop pretending you’re embarrassed,” you teased, nudging his leg with your elbow. “You love the attention.”

His mom laughed along with you, patting your knee. “She’s got your number, mijo.”

For hours, the three of you sat together, watching memories unfold on the screen. Marcello’s mom told you stories about each moment how he’d insisted on wearing a cape to school for an entire week, how he’d once tried to sell lemonade in the living room because it was “too hot outside,” and how he’d cried happy tears the first time he performed in a school play.

By the time the last video ended, you felt like you’d been given a front-row seat to the life that had shaped the man you loved.

“Thank you for sharing these with me,” you said softly to his mom as she started tidying up the tapes.

She waved you off with a warm smile. “You’re part of the family now, mija. This is your history too.”

Marcello watched the interaction from the couch, his heart swelling as he saw how effortlessly you and his mom had bonded. He hadn’t known it was possible to love you even more, but tonight, you proved him wrong.

In the weeks that followed, his mom’s words rang true you quickly became part of the family. Marcello often joked that you spent more time at her house than he did, but he secretly loved how close the two of you had become.

One Saturday afternoon, he walked into his mom’s kitchen to find the two of you seated at the table, a rainbow of nail polish bottles spread out before you. His mom was carefully painting your nails while you both chatted and laughed like old friends.

“What’s this?” Marcello asked, leaning against the doorframe with a grin.

“We’re having girl time,” his mom said without missing a beat, waving him off with her free hand.

“Girl time?” Marcello echoed, raising an eyebrow at you.

You smirked at him. “Don’t be jealous. We’re planning a shopping trip next weekend, and you’re not invited.”

His mom nodded in agreement, a playful glint in her eye. “She’s my shopping partner now. We have to keep you boys in line somehow.”

Marcello chuckled, shaking his head. “Great. Now I have to compete with my own mom for your attention.”

You blew him a kiss, your freshly painted nails sparkling in the sunlight. “Sorry, babe. Priorities.”

Despite his teasing, Marcello was endlessly grateful for the bond you’d formed with his mom. Watching you two together laughing, cooking, even gossiping gave him a glimpse into the future. He imagined Sunday dinners filled with warmth and love, holidays spent surrounded by family, and a life where you and his mom remained inseparable.

That night, as you both lay in bed, Marcello wrapped his arms around you and kissed the top of your head.

“I think you love my mom more than me,” he joked, his voice low and affectionate.

You tilted your head to look at him, your eyes sparkling. “I just love that she raised someone as amazing as you.”

Marcello’s heart swelled, and he pulled you closer. “She was right, you know. You’re family now, cariño. And one day, I hope we’ll have a home just like hers a place where we can make memories, raise kids, and maybe even show them some embarrassing videos of me.”

You laughed softly, resting your head against his chest. “I’d like that.”

In that moment, the future felt as bright and vibrant as the home videos you’d watched earlier. It was a future filled with love, laughter, and a family that already felt like yours.

As the night deepened, the comforting glow of the living room lights softened, wrapping the room in an intimate warmth. Plates and glasses from dinner had been cleared away, replaced by laughter and the sound of an old camcorder clicking to life.

“Okay, okay, you have to see this one,” Marcello’s mom said excitedly, sitting cross-legged on the floor next to you while Marcello stretched out on the couch behind you.

The TV flickered, and soon a grainy video of a much younger Marcello filled the screen. He couldn’t have been more than six, his dark curls bouncing as he ran across the backyard. He was shirtless, covered in streaks of mud, holding a garden hose in one hand and laughing wildly.

“Oh no,” Marcello groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Not this one.”

“Yes, this one!” his mom said, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “This was the day he decided to water the plants by himself… except he forgot the hose was on full blast and ended up drenching himself instead.”

You couldn’t help but giggle, your eyes darting between the screen and Marcello’s embarrassed expression. “You were so cute!”

“I was a menace,” Marcello corrected, shaking his head.

The video transitioned to another clip a birthday party. Marcello stood in front of a cake almost as big as he was, his little face lighting up as everyone sang to him. He clapped excitedly at the end of the song, then smashed his hands into the cake with no hesitation.

“Oh, come on,” Marcello groaned again, though you could see the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“Stop pretending you’re embarrassed,” you teased, nudging his leg with your elbow. “You love the attention.”

His mom laughed along with you, patting your knee. “She’s got your number, mijo.”

For hours, the three of you sat together, watching memories unfold on the screen. Marcello’s mom told you stories about each moment how he’d insisted on wearing a cape to school for an entire week, how he’d once tried to sell lemonade in the living room because it was “too hot outside,” and how he’d cried happy tears the first time he performed in a school play.

By the time the last video ended, you felt like you’d been given a front-row seat to the life that had shaped the man you loved.

“Thank you for sharing these with me,” you said softly to his mom as she started tidying up the tapes.

She waved you off with a warm smile. “You’re part of the family now, mija. This is your history too.”

Marcello watched the interaction from the couch, his heart swelling as he saw how effortlessly you and his mom had bonded. He hadn’t known it was possible to love you even more, but tonight, you proved him wrong.

In the weeks that followed, his mom’s words rang true you quickly became part of the family. Marcello often joked that you spent more time at her house than he did, but he secretly loved how close the two of you had become.

One Saturday afternoon, he walked into his mom’s kitchen to find the two of you seated at the table, a rainbow of nail polish bottles spread out before you. His mom was carefully painting your nails while you both chatted and laughed like old friends.

“What’s this?” Marcello asked, leaning against the doorframe with a grin.

“We’re having girl time,” his mom said without missing a beat, waving him off with her free hand.

“Girl time?” Marcello echoed, raising an eyebrow at you.

You smirked at him. “Don’t be jealous. We’re planning a shopping trip next weekend, and you’re not invited.”

His mom nodded in agreement, a playful glint in her eye. “She’s my shopping partner now. We have to keep you boys in line somehow.”

Marcello chuckled, shaking his head. “Great. Now I have to compete with my own mom for your attention.”

You blew him a kiss, your freshly painted nails sparkling in the sunlight. “Sorry, babe. Priorities.”

Despite his teasing, Marcello was endlessly grateful for the bond you’d formed with his mom. Watching you two together laughing, cooking, even gossiping gave him a glimpse into the future. He imagined Sunday dinners filled with warmth and love, holidays spent surrounded by family, and a life where you and his mom remained inseparable.

That night, as you both lay in bed, Marcello wrapped his arms around you and kissed the top of your head.

“I think you love my mom more than me,” he joked, his voice low and affectionate.

You tilted your head to look at him, your eyes sparkling. “I just love that she raised someone as amazing as you.”

Marcello’s heart swelled, and he pulled you closer. “She was right, you know. You’re family now, cariño. And one day, I hope we’ll have a home just like hers a place where we can make memories, raise kids, and maybe even show them some embarrassing videos of me.”

You laughed softly, resting your head against his chest. “I’d like that.”

In that moment, the future felt as bright and vibrant as the home videos you’d watched earlier. It was a future filled with love, laughter, and a family that already felt like yours.

[mapsthewanderer]

Maps headcanons -

The LADS boys

🧳 The Holiday Edition

Details: 2200 words of pure, comforting fluff—soft moments, warm feelings, and the kind of sweet daydreams we all need right now (especially after that main story update). Wrap yourself up in it like a cozy blanket. Take a breath, enjoy the calm, and be kind to yourself. You deserve it.

💜 Rafayel takes you to

🌊 Isla Holbox, Mexico

“I’m taking you somewhere the ocean glows, the sky forgets what time is… and the sand? It’s good at keeping secrets. Just like me.”

Tucked just off the Yucatán Peninsula, Isla Holbox is a barefoot paradise where cars are banned, flamingos strut through lagoons, and the sea glimmers with bioluminescence after sunset. Rafayel doesn’t call it a vacation—he calls it a reset.

You’ll know you’ve arrived when the ferry slows down and the island rises from the horizon like a dream. The air smells of salt, lime, and distant charcoal fires. Rafayel steps off barefoot, squinting against the sun, already wandering ahead with a harmonica in one hand and a small sketchbook in the other. Before the light hits too hard, he turns back, slips a pair of Maybach sunglasses onto your face—sleek, tinted, and probably worth more than the ferry itself. Then he pulls on his own matching pair with a lazy grin. “Now we look like trouble,” he says, already halfway down the dock.

🌴 Where You’ll Stay:

A secluded, modern beachfront villa wrapped in flowering vines, its wide glass doors always left open to the salt-sweet breeze. Sunlight spills across polished stone floors. The entire back wall opens straight onto a private pier, where steps lead directly into the ocean—clear, turquoise and endless. He swims there in the early mornings, trailing light behind him, then returns dripping saltwater onto the floors.

Refusing to cook, he takes you to a weathered shack near the shore, where the ceviche is served in chipped ceramic bowls, still cool from the ice. He takes one bite, leans back with a sigh, and mutters, “Tastes like the ocean never let it go.” Then he steals a piece from your bowl without asking—grinning like he earned it.

🐚 What You’ll Do:

Bioluminescent night swims: Just after dark, he takes you to the beach. You wade into still water, and every movement sets off an electric shimmer of light. Rafayel doesn’t speak—he just watches it like it’s holy.

Wander the street murals: Holbox is known for its street art, layers of color on cracked stucco. Rafayel critiques each one with a shrug, sometimes stealing an idea or two with a grin. “Pretty colors, no soul,” he mutters, then adds with a smirk, “Except that one… maybe I just like the curve—it reminds me of you.”

Hammocks: Long, lazy afternoons in hammocks—he insists you always share. You rest back against his chest, his hand slipping under your dress to rest on your thigh. He sketches with one hand, tracing the memory of you walking down the beach. Then he leans in, lips brushing your ear, and murmurs, “You looked so pretty backlit by the sun… I almost forgave humanity for a second.” His fingers trail lazily along the hem of your dress as the hammock sways gently beneath you. “You know, cutie…” he drawls, voice low and amused, “the sea’s warm enough… and no one’s watching. We could make a different kind of memory.” He grins, teeth flashing, eyes never leaving yours—“Unless… you’re shy now.”

🧡 Caleb takes you to

✈️ Interlaken, Switzerland

“It’s a place between sky and earth… quiet, steady. Even gravity feels gentler there. Thought we could use that.”

Cradled between Lake Thun and Lake Brienz and surrounded by the towering Bernese Alps, Interlaken is a town where the air is so crisp it feels engineered, and the stars seem within reach. It’s quiet, pristine, and high up—just how Caleb likes it. It reminds him of Skyhaven: elevated, distant, removed from chaos. But it also reminds him of simpler days—ones where you were close enough to reach without reaching for a weapon.

🏡 Where You’ll Stay:

A minimalist chalet perched just outside the town, where the windows stretch wall to wall and the fireplace is always lit (he’ll pretend it’s for your comfort—but it’s for his own warmth, too). He cooks for you here, though he insists on trying the local rösti and fondue at least once—grimacing at the smell of the cheese but finishing every bite anyway.

The shelves are lined with journals and dry biographies. He claims they’re for light reading, but you both end up ignoring them in favor of quiet evenings tangled up on the couch, listening to the fire crackle. At some point, he nudges your knee with his and says, “Loser has to cook tomorrow—first one to blink watching the flames.” He stares way too intensely, like he’s in a cockpit again, then grins when you finally laugh and look away. “Knew I’d win,” he says, smug as ever—then immediately pulls you closer like he hadn’t planned on letting you go, even for that.

✨ What You’ll Do:

Scenic flights over the Alps: Caleb books a private tour, but insists on co-piloting it himself. You see a real smile from him—aloft, above the clouds, where gravity is optional and time feels slower.

Hiking: He walks ahead in steady silence, only slowing when you fall behind. At the top, he stops by a pine tree and quietly carves both your initials into the bark. You tease him for it, and he just smirks—nudging the toe of your brand-new La Sportiva hiking boots with his own, like it’s not obvious he bought them for you. “What? You think I’d let you get lost up here without me?” Then, quieter, more serious: “Now the tree knows we were here. That’s binding, you know.”

Stargazing at the Observatory: Late at night, he brings you to a private viewing. He programs the telescope to your birth star. Then, without a word, he kisses you—like he’s been waiting years to catch his breath. His hand slips beneath your sweater, resting over your heartbeat like he needs to feel it to believe you’re real. “Pip-squeak… I kept looking up, hoping we’d be together again under the same sky.” He pulls you into a room and closes the door fast, like he’s sneaking you past the whole galaxy. His ears are a little pink, his smile just shy of cocky—but his hands are anything but hesitant as they find your waist. “This is probably a terrible idea,” he mutters, already leaning in, “but I’ve been dying to kiss you again since, like… ten minutes ago.” Then quieter, breath against your cheek— “And I’m not that patient anymore.”

❤️ Sylus takes you to

🏰 Sintra, Portugal

“Found a city carved out of myth and stone. Felt like ours. Secret. Sharp. Older than truth.”

Sintra is a town carved from fairy tales and nightmares. With its mist-drenched forests, winding stone paths, and gothic estates hidden behind ivy-covered walls, it feels like a place where time folded in on itself—and Sylus loves that. Old power breathes in this place, and so does he. It’s neither too sunny, nor too open. Here, the shadows know his name. He doesn’t visit Sintra—he returns to it, like something waiting for him never quite let go. Only now, he’s not alone. This time, you walk the paths with him—and the city seems to notice.

🍷Where You’ll Stay:

A centuries-old manor built into the forest hills, with high vaulted ceilings, stained glass windows that catch the dusk light like jewels. The air always smells faintly of candle wax, and red wine. The bedchamber fits the rest of the house: grand, shadowed, and meant to be lingered in. Heavy velvet curtains spill to the floor, half-drawn to let in moonlight through arched windows. The wardrobes, of course, are already filled—lined with Tom Ford velvet jackets and silk-lined Alexander McQueen evening coats in his size, and for you, bias-cut gowns by Iris van Herpen and delicate La Perla robes that barely count as clothing. Nothing sensible. Nothing simple. Every piece chosen like a promise he expects you to wear. There’s an underground wine cellar beneath the manor. You find a box there labeled only with your name. You don’t open it—until later, when he walks in, holding two glasses. Inside: a bottle of Colares red, aged and rare.

“Grown in sand. Impossible to tame,” he says, uncorking it. “Thought it matched you.” He pours a glass, eyes lingering on you—not the wine. “Complex, bold, with a taste that lingers. Familiar, no?”

🕯️ What You’ll Do:

Wander the ruins of Quinta da Regaleira: A castle that feels more maze than monument. Sylus walks ahead without a map, always knowing where to go—down spiral wells, through hidden tunnels, into chambers where crows perch. He teaches you how to read the symbols carved into the walls.

Attend a secret masquerade at a nearby palácio: He wears a sleek black half-mask with gold accents, sharp around the eyes. Yours is white lace, delicate, almost translucent—soft where he is all edge. When he pulls you close, the contrast looks intentional. It is. Someone asks you to dance, but before you can answer, Sylus appears at your side, offering his hand without looking at them. You dance once. Only once. He keeps kissing your neck between steps, his voice a low murmur against your skin: “You weren’t going to say yes… were you?” Then, lower, darker—“Good. I’ve got plans for you after this… and they don’t involve anyone watching.” His fingers trail up your arm, catching the strap of your dress. He tugs it just slightly—enough to make you shiver—then smirks without looking down. “Careful,” he murmurs, “this fabric’s begging to misbehave.”

Midnight horse ride through the forest trails: No lamps. Just you, him, and the echo of hooves. His coat flares out behind him like a shadow with its own will. When you try to kiss him mid-ride, he catches your chin with a smirk and mutters, “Bold move, kitten… but if you fall, I’m not catching you until I finish the lap.”

🩵 Zayne takes you to

🧊 Hokkaido, Japan (Winter Season)

“It’s quiet. Where silence speaks, steam curls into snowfall… and nothing’s in a rush to chase time. You’ll rest there.”

In northern Japan, Hokkaido turns into a quiet winter dream. Wide skies, frozen lakes, and natural hot springs tucked into snowy hills. It’s a place where nothing moves too quickly—perfect for a man who needs calm but can’t stand idleness. You arrive to soft flurries and pine-scented air. Zayne steps off the train in silence, adjusts his scarf, and takes your mittened hand like it’s instinct. He brushes a kiss over the fabric, like he doesn’t care if you feel it—only that he knows it’s there.

🎍Where You’ll Stay:

A secluded ryokan outside the city, with private onsen baths surrounded by snow-blanketed stones. Tatami mats, sliding paper doors, and dinner delivered in silence—steaming bowls of nikujaga, rich with simmered beef and potatoes, warming the space more than the heater. There’s only one futon, and though Zayne says nothing about it, he doesn’t hesitate to settle beside you.

Later, the two of you read side by side—your book, and in his hands, a freshly printed medical study he brought along “just to skim.” Eventually, he leans over and rests his head in your lap, the pages still open in one hand. You feel the shift in his breathing before the words stop. He’s asleep. You brush his hair back gently and keep reading, pretending not to notice the faintest smile on his lips.

❄️ What You’ll Do:

Onsen: The steam hides you both from the world. His muscles finally relax here, arms resting behind his head. When you move closer, he reaches for you guiding you gently into his lap. His hands glide beneath the water, warm against your back as he pulls you in, and he kisses you once—unhurried, sure, enough to leave your skin tingling despite the heat. After a long pause, his voice brushes your ear, low and steady: “You make it hard to stay composed.” Then quieter still—like it slipped past his guard—“I could get used to this.” With a quiet sigh, his fingers trace up the back of your neck. “You’re holding tension here,” he mutters like a diagnosis, thumbs already working at the muscles. “Cervical extensors are practically begging for intervention.”

Snowboarding: Zayne, practical as ever, is shockingly agile on the slopes. He helps you adjust your boots with quiet efficiency, double-checking every strap. The Gentemstick board? A gift. Custom-fitted, like it didn’t cost a small fortune. He barely mentioned it—just handed it over with a “You’ll need something better than rentals.” When you inevitably fall, he’s already there—brushing snow from your jacket with that rare, fleeting smile. The kind you feel for hours.

Stroll by the Otaru Canal: Lamps light the snow-covered path, their reflections dancing in the still water beside you. His breath fogs the air as he listens to your stories, his hand warm and steady in yours, thumb brushing softly against your knuckles. Zayne doesn’t say much—but when you pause, he gives your hand a gentle squeeze and murmurs, “Keep going. I like hearing you talk.” He buys you a cup of amazake and steals a sip, then another. “I told myself one sip,” he mutters, taking a third without breaking eye contact. “…That’s your fault.”

🩷 Xavier takes you to

🕊️ Hallstatt, Austria

“It’s this village… time sort of wanders, the mist forgets where it’s going, and even the silence feels warm. I think you’ll like it.”

Hallstatt is a lakeside village nestled in the Austrian Alps, where pastel houses cling to the cliffs and swans drift like whispers across still water. It’s small. It’s quiet. And it doesn’t ask too many questions. Xavier blends in here like a passing fog: strange, beautiful, unnoticed by most—except you.

He walks the dock with you in silence, fingers curled loosely around yours, like it’s the only tether he trusts. Sometimes, he glances out at the water, gaze distant—like he’s waiting for something only he’d recognize.

🚪Where You’ll Stay:

An antique guesthouse overlooking the lake, with creaky wooden floors and a perpetually sleeping cat that Xavier will definitely name something like “Commander Fluff.” The guesthouse is run by an elderly couple; the husband loves fishing, and Xavier quickly becomes his silent apprentice. The place is quiet, save for the ticking clock and occasional piano notes when Xavier thinks you’re asleep.

He tries to make breakfast—burns the bread, shrugs, and disappears into the main house. Thirty minutes later, he’s back with kaiserschmarrn, apricot jam, and fresh rolls, all neatly arranged like he didn’t just trade favors for it. You raise an eyebrow. “I asked nicely,” he says. Then, after a pause: “…And said I’d tune the piano.” He sets the tray down, takes your fork without asking, and adds—almost like he’s quoting someone—“They said it was romantic.”

🌫️ What You’ll Do:

Boat Drift on Hallstätter See: You rent a small rowboat. Xavier rows slowly, then lets the oars rest. You drift in silence until he suddenly says something ridiculous. “If I fall in and get eaten by a swan, promise you’ll tell people I went out heroically.”

Salt Mine Exploration: He insists on taking the oldest, least-trafficked tunnel. The air grows colder the deeper you go, the only light coming from scattered lanterns reflecting off salt-veined crystal. You brush your fingers along the wall—coarse and glistening. He catches your wrist before you can pull away, eyes dark with something unreadable. Without a word, he brings your hand to his lips and licks the salt from your skin—slowly, like he’s considering every grain. Then, lower: “I wonder,” he murmurs, mouth ghosting along your knuckles, “if the rest of you tastes like this.” In the next chamber, surrounded by silence and light fractured into a thousand gleaming shards, he kisses you—deep, consuming. When he finally pulls back, breath warm against your mouth: “You taste like the story this place tried to bury.”

Night Fishing: You do it together, lines cast in silence under the stars. You don’t catch anything, but he doesn’t seem to mind. At some point, you both drift off on the dock. When you wake, there are heater pads tucked under the blanket, warm tea in a thermos beside you, and a cashmere Loro Piana beanie pulled snug over your ears—one you definitely weren’t wearing when you fell asleep. Xavier is half-awake, blinking at the bird now perched on his shoulder. “Nap Assistant No. 4,” he mumbles, “brought nothing to report. Still… decent company”

——————————————————————————

I wanna be a provider

Garner you in silk like a spider

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: Provider did things to me. This is the result, aka travel headcanons I’ve been working on since Even in Arcadia dropped. Feels so good to just drift away on a lil holiday with the boyos heeeh. (I’d love to try writing out Sylus’s full masquerade story someday because aaaa—it fits him too well, in my humble opinion lol). Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻

[whencyclopedia]

Roman Wall Painting

The interiors of Roman buildings of all description were very frequently sumptuously decorated using bold colours and designs. Wall paintings, fresco and the use of stucco to create relief effects were all commonly used by the 1st century BCE in public buildings, private homes, temples, tombs and even military structures across the Roman world. Designs could range from intricate realistic detail to highly impressionistic renderings which frequently covered all of the available wall space including the ceiling. Subjects could include portraits, scenes from mythology, architecture using trompe-l'oeil, flora, fauna and even entire gardens, landscapes and townscapes to create spectacular 360° panoramas which transported the viewer from the confines of a small room to the limitless world of the painter's imagination.

Materials & Techniques

Wall paintings were created using a painstaking build up of various layers of material. The optimum process is described by both Vitruvius and Pliny the Elder. First, a rough coat of mortar is applied to the surface, sometimes three layers thick and composed of lime and sand (or volcanic pozzolana). Next, a further three coats were added, this time using a mixture of lime and fine crushed marble to give a smoother finish and then glass, marble and cloth were used to polish the surface and prepare it for painting. Colours were added when the surface was still wet (fresco) but details might also be added to a dried surface (tempera). If the surface were wood then colours might be first dissolved in wax and added to the wall using a spatula.

Continue reading...

[sketchyelvenasss]

Wildfire

Read on ao3 or undercut v v

1,277 words

An event from Rhys' life with Lyvius and Dorian while he was 14-15.

'-- you’ve chosen a difficult school.” He ran his hand through Rhys’ ginger hair that had changed about the time his magic manifested. “You need to learn to control your anger, Rhys. If you don’t fall to a demon, you will fall to yourself.” --"

It was a typical day for Rhys. Dorian was at the senate and would be there all day, Lyvius was minding the shop and told Rhys to spend some time for himself. 

Time for himself ment hanging in the back alley behind the shop with his friend smoking. Rhys came down the alley holding the box of his special cigarettes closely to his side. The filling was made of a homeopathic moss, embrum, and elfroot. It created this warm buzz feeling in one's head and under the skin. Rhys couldn’t tell if Gilleon hung with him for him, or for the smokes. Either way the teen was always floating in the general vicinity of the store. The young man had lots of free time on his hands since his only duties were his university classes, and he always managed to finish about an hour after midday.

“I’m probably gonna get in trouble for this one day.” He said as he approached his friend.

Gilleon laughed, pulling his long black hair into a ponytail, before grabbing a cigarette from the box. “If they catch ya’ just say it was the “no good Tevinter boy next door.”

“Like they’d believe me.” Rhys created a small fire in his hand and lit their cigarettes.

“Man, I wish I had magic. I was supposed to be the heir for my family, but here I am 19 and absolutely fucking useless. My parents don’t even talk to me anymore.”

“Sorry, Gil.” Rhys mentally slapped himself in the face. He tried not to use magic around him, normally he’d bring a small alchemy apparatus that would produce a small flame to light up with, but he had forgotten today. 

He felt bad for Gilleon. It was the nature of Tevinter to breed children like dogs and toss them aside when it wasn’t the result they wanted. Even though the loss of Nan was hard, Rhys can hardly imagine how good he has it. If not for Lyvius and Dorian he’d just be a faceless slave somewhere. Or a nameless corpse in the ground. He blew a cloud of smoke in thought.

“You wanna come by the store later? We got some new herbs in. I’m sure Lyvius wouldn’t mind if we tested some of their properties.”

Gil smiled. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

Rhys for the last few weeks had been showing Gilleon alchemy. He was a fast learner. Easily learning the effects of most basic ingredients. Rhys often tried to reassure his friend that he was brilliant, with study and practice he could become a master apothecary. Lyvius agreed and had extended an invitation for Gilleon to apprentice with him. Gil was beyond appreciative, but his parents still expected him to attend classes. On top of that, if they knew he was friends with Rhys they wouldn’t be pleased. He didn’t want to cause more trouble if they found out that an elf was teaching him.

A couple cigarettes later it was about time for Rhys to get back to the shop. He and Gilleon walked down the alley turning onto the main street toward Elvehn Remedies. Even out on the street you could smell it. Mint and tea leaves, or limes and sage, roasted nuts and honey, cinnamon, clove, it was ever changing. The scent was never the same for each person. Everyone left remembering a different smell that made them relaxed and a little happier. For Rhys he always smelt strong notes of rosemary and burning embrum. He had asked Lyvius if it was some kind of magic, but even he didn’t know. It must have been with how old the building was.

Reaching it Rhys noticed that the dark blue door was on its hinges. Immediately he knew something was wrong. He clung to the stucco wall as he cautiously approached. He poked his head around the doorframe and saw a group of five men. They were big, burly, and definitely unwanted. Rhys quickly glanced at Gil mouthing run home before looking back.

At that moment the tallest one wearing a violet cowl snapped his fingers. The four jumped over the counter to grab Lyvius, who tried to defend himself. He was able to send one of them flying into one of the bookshelves. It collapsed on top of the assailant burying him in books. But the other three managed to grab him. Lyvius’ hands sparked, but before he could cast a spell they clapped cuffs on him. They snuffed his magic. 

Rhys grit his teeth, anger burning in his veins. His vision clouded with a red haze. There was no thought, just a spur to act as he dashed into the room. In a blue flash two of the three slavers fell to the ground bleeding profusely from their throats. The third was too shocked to react when Rhys turned on him and pierced his belly with the lyrium blade. The man screamed in agony as the magic melted his flesh, the metal so hot it boiled his blood.  All the slavers needed to go away. For Forever.

“Rhys! That’s enough, he’s dead.” 

Rhys blinked and the haze cleared. Lyvius’ expression was a mix of worry and fear. He could clearly see what he had done and he felt sick to his stomach. As Rhys was doubled over the man with the cowl took the opportunity to grab the boy. The young elf yelped and Lyvius’ eyes went wide. The slaver held his arm with one hand and had a knife to his throat with the other. 

“You’re going to pay for that boy!”

“Please, not my son! I’ll do whatever you want.” Lyvius pleaded.

Rhys hated this. Hated the sad face Lyvius was making, that he was groveling. Hated this man restraining him. So much so he felt the heat in his gut. His skin suddenly caught fire, it didn’t harm him, but it burned his aggressor. The fire spread over his clothes, ate at his flesh and hair. The man begged him to stop, but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. The fire-- the hate--wouldn’t subside. Rhys felt tears form in his eyes and evaporate off his skin as he watched the man’s form get consumed.

Then he blacked out.

When he came to the smell of rosemary and embrum filled his nostrils, reminding him where he was. He opened his eyes to Lyvius holding his head in his lap, his father’s eyes filled with tears. Gil was beside him, his concerned expression relaxing when Rhys woke.

“Thank Mythal.” He breathed like he’d been holding his breath this whole time. Rhys went to sit up, but Lyvius stopped him. “Don’t… continue resting for now.”

“That wasn’t a dream was it?” 

Lyvius hesitated. 

“No… you’ve chosen a difficult school.” He ran his hand through Rhys’ ginger hair that had changed about the time his magic manifested. “You need to learn to control your anger, Rhys. If you don’t fall to a demon, you will fall to yourself.”

Rhys slowly sat up. The bodies were gone, but the shop was still a mess. Tables overturned, the collapsed bookshelf near the front of the store. Some burnt books and plants caught in Rhys’ fire. The blood on the carpet that they would now have to throw out. 

He looked at his red stained hands and felt tears swell, upset at himself. That was his problem. He took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry.”

Lyvius hugged him. “It’s just something we need to work on. I love you and I am lucky to have you.”

They waited a bit till Rhys regained some of his strength before they started cleaning up the mess.

[penig]

unexpected-tigers asked:

I have googled to no avail, please explain the beery setups thing?

The proper phrase is "beer and set ups," which wouldn't have helped - I just tried and got nothing. Maybe they don't do this anymore. But here's how it was:

In a dry county, liquor can only be sold in "private clubs," which is usually circumvented these days by calling a cover charge "buying a one-night membership." But not every bar is a place you'd pay a cover charge to get into, and some counties are semi-dry, in that you can buy beer, but nothing harder. So there'd be places called "ice houses," combination pool rooms/convenience stores, which advertised "beer and set-ups," so you'd know you had the right kind of ice house. They'd sell you a beer and a "set-up," which was a tumbler of ice and maybe a lime wedge, or if you asked you could get the non-alcoholic mixers for things like rum and Coke, and you poured your own liquor into it out of the bottle you'd brought with you. How you obtained the bottle was your business - clearly not from these nice ice-house people with no liquor license.

You obtained the bottles, mostly, from the liquor stores at any border shared by a dry or semi-dry county and a wet county, which border was also a hotbed of DWI arrests and alcohol-related traffic accidents. Or maybe you distilled it yourself for private consumption. Prohibition really doesn't work, but it makes some people feel virtuous to vote for it, I guess. San Antonio's been wet for most of the time since I moved here, but there's still a few old ice houses around with the faded words "Beer and Set-ups" stenciled onto the stucco, and there used to be more when I got here in the late 70s.

Now that I think of it, those ice houses were the alcoholic brethren of head shops, where you can buy all the accoutrements of marijuana use, but not the marijuana. Presumably with the increased legality of marijuana these will also gradually fade away.

[orlandostuccorepairpros]

What Makes a Quality Stucco Installation

Stucco is a timeless siding choice known for its durability, versatility, and elegant appearance. From Spanish-style villas to modern homes, stucco continues to be a preferred exterior finish across the U.S.—particularly in states like California, Arizona, Texas, and Florida. But while stucco can last 50 years or more, its longevity and performance depend entirely on one crucial factor: the quality of the stucco installation.

A high-quality stucco installation isn’t just about applying material to a wall—it’s a multi-layered process that requires craftsmanship, knowledge, and precision. Done right, it protects your home from moisture, cracking, and heat damage. Done wrong, it can lead to costly repairs and structural issues.

In this article, we’ll explore what truly makes a stucco installation top-notch—and how to make sure you’re hiring the right professionals for the job.

1. Proper Surface Preparation

Every quality stucco installation starts with thorough surface preparation. Whether applying stucco to a new build or an existing structure, the substrate must be clean, dry, and properly secured.

For traditional three-coat systems, a weather-resistant barrier (WRB) is applied over the wall sheathing, followed by metal lath or mesh to help the stucco adhere. Without proper prep, the stucco won't bond effectively, which can lead to early cracking or water intrusion.

According to industry standards set by ASTM C926 and C1063, the base surface must be free from oils, dust, and other contaminants. Skipping this step can reduce adhesion and ultimately shorten the lifespan of the finish.

2. Layered Application Process

A traditional stucco system uses three coats: the scratch coat, brown coat, and finish coat. Each coat serves a specific purpose and must be applied and cured correctly:

Scratch Coat: This base coat is scored to provide grip for the next layer.

Brown Coat: Provides structural strength and evens out the surface.

Finish Coat: The outermost layer that defines texture and color.

Each coat needs proper curing time—typically 7 to 10 days between layers—to prevent issues like delamination or cracking. Rushing the process is one of the biggest causes of stucco failure.

Modern one-coat systems, which combine the scratch and brown coats, offer a faster alternative but still require skilled application and proper conditions to succeed.

3. Moisture Management and Drainage

One of the most important elements of a high-quality stucco installation is effective moisture control. Stucco is not waterproof—it’s water-resistant—so systems must be designed to manage water properly.

This means including:

Two layers of WRB or building paper

Weep screeds at the base of walls for drainage

Proper flashing around windows, doors, and joints

Inadequate moisture control can lead to mold growth, rot, and internal wall damage. According to a study by the Journal of Light Construction, improper moisture handling is the leading cause of stucco-related structural issues in the southeastern U.S.

4. Skilled Application Techniques

A high-quality stucco installation requires more than just following steps—it needs experienced hands. Stucco must be applied at the correct thickness (⅜" to 7/8" for traditional systems), with consistent texture and attention to detail at seams, corners, and edges.

Sloppy application can result in uneven finishes, visible lath lines, or worse—cracks that invite moisture. The texture should also be uniform across the entire surface, whether it's a smooth, dash, or lace finish.

Hiring a licensed and insured stucco contractor with strong reviews and a portfolio of past work is essential for ensuring skilled workmanship.

5. Quality Materials

Not all stucco mixes are created equal. Using high-grade sand, lime, and cement ensures better adhesion and a longer-lasting finish. Some newer stucco formulas include acrylics or polymers that increase flexibility and reduce cracking.

Pigmented finishes are also available, allowing you to color the stucco itself instead of relying solely on paint. This can reduce maintenance over time, as it won’t peel or fade as quickly under sun exposure.

In 2025, many installers also opt for synthetic stucco systems (EIFS) in specific applications, which offer better insulation and lightweight design—but must be installed correctly to avoid moisture issues.

6. Weather Awareness

Stucco installation is sensitive to weather. It shouldn’t be applied in freezing temperatures or during heavy rain, as this affects curing. High winds and direct sunlight can also cause the surface to dry too quickly, leading to shrinkage cracks.

A professional stucco installer will monitor weather conditions closely and schedule work accordingly. Some also use curing compounds or temporary coverings to protect surfaces during the early stages of drying.

7. Final Inspection and Maintenance Recommendations

A quality stucco contractor doesn't walk away the moment the finish coat dries. They should perform a final inspection, checking for flaws, inconsistencies, and surface cracks.

They’ll also provide care recommendations, such as:

When to seal or repaint (if needed)

How to clean stucco safely

When to inspect for cracks or water damage

Routine inspections every 3–5 years and sealing every 5–7 years can greatly extend the life of your stucco siding.

Final Thoughts

A quality stucco installation is more than just applying layers of cement—it's a detailed, multi-step process that requires precision, expertise, and the right materials. From substrate preparation to the final finish coat, each stage must be handled with care to ensure your home is protected and looks beautiful for decades.

By choosing a qualified, experienced contractor and staying informed about the process, homeowners can enjoy all the benefits stucco offers—durability, curb appeal, and energy efficiency—without the risk of costly repairs down the road.