#impluvium

[davidstanleytravel]

The impluvium intended to capture rainwater from the roof is well preserved in the atrium of the House of Menander in ancient Pompeii, Italy.

[despondent-beauty]

Just learned a really cool word

Impluvium [im-PLEW-vee-um] (noun)

A basin for collecting rainwater.

The reason why I think this word is so cool is because you can see the root for rain in there! We see it in words like 'pluviophile' and 'pleuvoir.' I don't know, I just think that's pretty cool.

Brb, gonna go boil some water from my impluvium!

Anyway, it's a Roman thing. I think, traditionally, it was a stone basin that rested in the atrium of the domus and collected rainwater from a hole in the roof. This water was used for cleaning and bathing. It may have been used for cooking too, but I'm not sure.

Impluvium... implosion... impale... such an interesting way of using the im- prefix to signify the intake/sucking up of rain.

Do you think modern rain barrels would be considered impluvia?

Playing Project Zomboid: Omg, I need to set up some impluvia before the water shuts off, fuck!

[kablob17]

by isawnyu on Flickr.Volubilis, a Unesco World Heritage Site in Morocco, features the best preserved Roman ruins in this part of northern Africa.

[a-modernmajorgeneral]

The house has an irregular layout consisting of two originally independent units being united. The atrium area almost entirely preserves the original decoration dating back to the last period of the city; the upper part, consisting of painted blocks of rows, is well preserved. A marble table resting on legs in the shape of winged lions is found at the edge of the impluvium.

The rear part consists of richly decorated rooms formed around the portico and the central garden, dedicated to gatherings or receiving guests. The life-size images of Bacchus and Venus are painted on the walls of the exedra, and the central area of the floor of the triclinium is embellished with inlaid coloured marble.

There is an aedicula on the back wall of the garden, where there is the lararium for family worship.

Date of excavation: 1896-1897.

View of the lararium from the portico in the "House of the Prince of Naples", Pompeii.

Photo: Luigi Spina

[ukdamo]

Today's photo with the most hits, the impluvium of the Hadrianic baths, Aphrodisias, Turkiye.

[valhallawrites]

by isawnyu on Flickr.Volubilis, a Unesco World Heritage Site in Morocco, features the best preserved Roman ruins in this part of northern Africa.

[historywaitsfornoone]

Were Roman houses really dank, stuffy, and hot all the time, or were they air conditioned? Did they have an attached garage? How big were their front yards—and back yards too? In this video you'll learn about the Roman domus, or house, and who lived in them, how they were laid out, and the various rooms in these houses, their Roman names and functions.

[a-modernmajorgeneral]

The house was formed from two earlier houses being joined together. The house had two floors but the upper one almost completely collapsed following the eruption.[5]

The atrium was of Tuscan order, with a central impluvium: it was probably restored shortly before the earthquake of 62 which caused damage to the structure. The atrium area preserves the frescoes from the last phase of decoration.

The rear part of the domus consists of richly decorated rooms around the portico and the central garden.

The house fronted the Viccola dei Vetti and the spaces on either sides of the main entrances appear to have been shops. The holes on the outside of the north facade indicate the fixings for a canopy.

The house was inhabited at the time of the eruption as demonstrated by the discovery of a skeleton, remains of food and domestic possessions in most rooms.

Atrium of House of the Prince of Naples

* Pompeii

* 1st century BCE - 1st century CE

Attribution: Mary Harrsch, CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0, via Wikimedia Commons

[hemsworthss]

by isawnyu on Flickr.Volubilis, a Unesco World Heritage Site in Morocco, features the best preserved Roman ruins in this part of northern Africa.

[cheeseburgerdanvers]

by isawnyu on Flickr.Volubilis, a Unesco World Heritage Site in Morocco, features the best preserved Roman ruins in this part of northern Africa.

[pussyandpetrichor]

You know what my Once Human house needs? A compluvium/impluvium

Ive nearly got one leading into my rainwater accumulation facility, but I could do better/bigger.

Also, I think the problem I'm having getting the ceiling to close up around my sniper perch/tower is that I'm using external walls and it doesn't want to attach ceiling to the outside of it

[wheresarizona]

Columba 

summary: It isn’t until you’re in his home that you learn it’s General Marcus Acacius who’s summoned you for your services—you’re not sure why he did, when the other courtesans standing beside you, hoping to be chosen by him, have bodies that look nothing like yours.

pairing: Marcus Acacius/Plus Size f!reader (Courtesan)

rating: E (18+!! This is smut. No y/n, explicit smut, plus size reader, courtesan reader, age gap (reader is of legal age in today’s standards), takes place pre-Gladiator 2, dommy Marcus Acacius (loves giving orders), he’s a tiny bit possessive, unprotected p in v (wrap it up!), creampie, rough sex, backshots, woman on top, oral sex (m receiving), vaginal fingering, breast worship, hair pulling (m receiving), slight breeding kink, (1) pussy slap, dirty talk, spanking, spit mention, some biting, with hair like that he wants it pulled, some sweetness at the end) 

word count: 4.8k+

a/n: I took one look at Marcus’ hair and immediately thought, that guy likes his hair pulled. I also decided that since he spends weeks to months with a bunch of men at a time, when he comes home, he really appreciates a curvy woman. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d be able to write anything for him until I saw the movie, but the trailer got me. This is unbeta’d, all mistakes are my own. I hope you enjoy!

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs feed me. I’d love to know what you thought!

Masterlist

It was the marble bust atop a pedestal that revealed whose home you were in. The opulence of the domus’ atrium, with its four tall marble columns surrounding the impluvium's shallow, sunken pool in the middle of the room and the compluvium’s opening in the ceiling above it, allowing the moon’s light to filter in, told you whoever lived here had notoriety—then you saw the face carved out of stone, recognizing the curls and strong nose you'd only ever seen as he was paraded past you down the street in honor of his latest victory, and you knew.

General Marcus Acacius is a man feared by many for his ferocity and skills in battle. It's been said Mars, the God of War, blessed his birth, while others believe his bloodline is descended from the God himself. What you know to be true is he's a gifted General that the Emperors and Gods have smiled upon, and in his presence, an intimidating figure you didn't dare look at unless you were addressed.

There are four women standing to your right, all of you younger than him, naked, and courtesans of the highest standard—well-educated and well-versed in politics along with the pleasures of the body—and highly sought out by society's elite. 

Marcus is at the opposite end, silently making his way down the line with what you can only assume is a scrutinizing eye, and you fear there's been a mistake that you're here—the other courtesans are all built similarly with small breasts, flattened stomachs and thinner waists than yours, whereas you’re curvier, and have more meat on your bones, with your bigger chest, soft noticeable belly, and grabbable hips. Clearly, he requested a particular type of woman, and it doesn't appear you're it. Staring down at the tiled floor seems better than seeing the disappointment on his face when he gets to you. 

His sandaled feet come into view as he stands before you, and you can feel his eyes roaming over your bare body—golden snake bracelets coil around each of your upper arms, and at the unexpected gentle touch of his fingertips to one, you flinch. 

"Do I frighten you?" His voice is a low, deep rasp that shivers down your spine. 

"No, Sir," you answer.

His thumb strokes over the snake's head and along its body. "Why do you flinch?" 

Raising your head, you see he’s wearing a white tunic with a gold pattern lining around his neck, down his arms, and along the hem, a belt securing it at his waist; golden cuffs covered his wrists. You’re met with dark eyes, a furrow crinkling between his eyebrows—his brown hair with a kiss of gray, curls like waves on his head, his facial hair dotted with a few silvery strands. It takes you a second to answer his question because the glimpses of him you caught during victory parades and the marble bust didn't prepare you for his beauty. 

Mars and Venus have bestowed their blessings upon him. 

“My apologies, Sir,” you finally reply. “It was simply surprise at being graced by your touch.” His expression is difficult to read, so you continue speaking, “I’ve heard of your prowess in battle that inspires songs and how your enemies tremble before you, but I do not believe I have reason to fear you—unless that is something you wish. Do you wish for me to be frightened of you?” 

Some men liked it if you acted afraid of them to feel powerful. Some men, usually the big, tough ones, liked to bury their faces in your bosom while you held them. The slight show of relief on Marcus’ face when you said you had no reason to fear him made you suspect he’d be in the latter category. 

“No.” His eyes are locked onto yours. “I do not need another to fear me. I wish for you to want my touch.” 

“I wish for more than your touch,” you reply. “I wish to feel your lips on mine and your weight on top of me, I wish to feel your cock inside me and to hear the sounds you make when you peak, and I do wish for your touch; I wish to feel your hands claim my body as yours.” 

His gaze turns to one of desire, and it makes you smile. 

"You," he says. "Stay. The rest of you,” he announces, keeping his eyes on yours, “leave us.”

The invitation the messenger brought to your home the day prior did not state who requested your services; it simply said the person was a public figure, and the woman picked would be paid handsomely.

The servants, who stood as still as statues against a wall, scurried to assist each of the other women with redressing.

"Come," he orders, offering you a hand you accept. He leads you to a room you realize is his personal quarters when you spot his armor in a corner, Medusa's golden head on the cuirass shining in the candlelight—she wards off evil and offers protection. There's a bed against the wall opposite the door, and he lets go of your hand, slipping off his sandals by the doorway before walking over to a thin table laden with a jug, cups, and a bowl of berries and grapes. 

"Care for some wine?" he asks without looking at you while pouring himself a cup. 

His body is tense, and you’re assuming you’re here to help him relax—he arrived home only days ago from war, and you got a chance to see him rolling down the street on a chariot as he waved to the cheering masses. It would make sense that he could use somebody with your expertise to get him to unwind. 

“No, thank you, Sir,” you answer, and he faces you again, taking a drink. “It’s a great honor that you chose me, and I do not wish to forget a single moment.” 

His cup lowers, and you're surprised to find he’s wearing a little smile. He twists to set his wine down next to the jug, and removes the cuffs from his wrists, setting them onto the table then his eyes are on yours. 

"Marcus," he says, and it only takes a few strides to have him in front of you again. 

"I'm sorry?" you ask.

His attention moves to your body, and he’s not looking upon you like an object or something he’s just purchased as most men do; his gaze is appreciative, the same kind of look you could imagine was on his face when he stared at art that pleased him. Your figure isn’t the ideal for most Roman women—your hips are too wide, your breasts are too large, your ass is too big, your thighs are too thick, and your stomach is too noticeable—yet, there are many men who sought you out and paid well for your time, and it seems the General is one of them. 

"My name." He walks around you, his fingers sliding along your upper back from shoulder to shoulder. “Call me Marcus. I want you to be familiar with how my name tastes on your tongue.” 

The touch and his words cause your nipples to harden and goosebumps to rise on your skin.

"Marcus,” you say. 

He’s in front of you again, his darkened eyes on yours. His big hands grip your waist, pulling you into him, and he shoves his face into the crook of your neck, feeling him inhale deeply. “Gods, you’re the best thing I’ve smelled in months.” The words are said against your flesh. “Like a meadow of flowers in Spring, and I fail to remember the last time I felt such softness.” He squeezes the fleshy handles at your hips and goes lower to grab handfuls of your ass, then runs his hands up your back. “Upon hearing your description,” he says, “I knew you’d be perfect, but what I imagined has no comparison to seeing your beauty with my own eyes.” His admission catches you off guard as it sounds as though he always intended to pick you from the line of women. It’s curious that he even invited the others if his mind had been set beforehand. He straightens, meeting your gaze. “Take off my clothes.” 

There's no need to reply; you just do as he ordered, getting his belt undone, the leather falling to the floor, then pulling his tunic over his head, it meeting the same fate as his belt. 

He’s completely nude, standing at his full height before you. 

You expected the scars etched all over his body, the evidence that he'd lay down his life for Rome without hesitation. There's a long, jagged one across his right pec, silvered with age, that has you forgetting yourself and softly pressing your fingertips to it.

He snatches your smaller hand, pulling it away from his marred skin. 

"My apologies," you quickly say, bowing your head in submission. "I shouldn't have touched you without permission." 

"You may touch me." Once again, he surprises you by putting the flat of your palm against the scar, his other hand grabbing your chin to lift your face. 

From his reaction to your fingers on him, you think he hasn’t been with a woman in quite some time, and you hope you can make up for all the nights he spent alone. 

It seems he's done with the pleasantries when his lips crush into yours. It's all of the encouragement you need, kissing him back while rubbing your palms up his broad chest, feeling his warmth. You snake a hand down his stomach through the trail of hair low on his belly to take his half-hard cock into your hand—he groans and twitches in your hold.

He truly has the Gods' favor—a talented General, handsome and well-endowed. 

With his hands on your waist, he walks you backward to the bed, laying you on the mattress. He's on top of you, deepening the kiss with his tongue pressing into your mouth, his hand palming your tit, making you wet with arousal and your body heat. 

It's fascinating how he's defying all of your expectations. The men who seek you out after spending months fighting are often rough and brutish, using you however they want to release their tension. There's never kissing or offers of drink; it's orders to suck their cocks, or to get on the bed in their desired position—and here's Marcus kissing down your body, along the skin of your neck to your chest. Most of his weight is on his knees between your legs while bending forward over you, and the only word you can think of to describe it is he's worshipping your breasts. He has them in his hands, moving from one to the other, licking, sucking, and nibbling on your nipples and soft skin, the sensations making your pussy weep with need. 

“Gods, Marcus,” you moan. He has you squirming with how good it feels, your fingers pushing into his curls. He takes a pebbled bud between his teeth and gently tugs. “Oh,” you gasp, your hands tightening in the tousled waves on his head.

He releases your nipple. “Harder,” he rasps, then flicks his tongue against your stiff peak, and you do as requested, pulling his hair harder. A loud groan rumbles from his chest as he continues laving at your tits, skimming his hand down your stomach, your skin tingling under his fingertips, until he’s sliding two fingers through your wet slit. You tighten your hold on his head, your toes curling when he starts rubbing your clit, and the realization hits that he intends for you to have just as much enjoyment as him. 

"Marcus," you whine.

He’s one of those men who has you praying that he’ll wish for your company again, and you wouldn’t even make him pay if you got another chance to warm his bed. 

The push of his thick digit into your pussy makes your breath hitch at the slight stretch, his thumb pressing to your sensitive bundle of nerves, moving side to side—you know he’s going to make you come, and you silently thank the Gods.

His finger is pushing in and out of you, his thumb continuing its movements, and he lifts his face to look you in the eyes, his own are so black there’s hardly a sliver of brown remaining. "Come for me," he commands, slipping a second digit inside you—you’re so wet you can hear the slick slide of his fingers pumping into you. The muscles in your belly are tightening, and the fire in your core is building. "Come for me, sweet girl." His head dips to lightly bite your nipple before soothing it with his tongue. "Once you come, I'll do as you wish and sheath my cock into this perfect cunt." 

The hot heat of his mouth envelops your pebbled bud, and he sucks—it's your undoing; your eyes close as you fall over the edge, coming with a moan of his name. His digits and mouth continue to extend your ecstasy while your chest heaves with labored breaths and your heart pounds. 

He lets go of your nipple with a wet pop, his hand sliding from your pussy, up your stomach, leaving a trail of your release on your skin. His voice deepens, “You’ve done well for me, and I keep my word—turn over.” 

He helps you to roll onto your front, and you get up onto your hands and knees—a familiar position. He takes a moment to admire you in front of him, his palms feeling the thickness of your thighs and hips. His fingers dig into your plump asscheeks as he spreads them and dips his head, hearing and feeling him spit between them, the hot saliva dripping from your asshole down to your opening. He shuffles up behind you, sliding his cock through the wetness of your come and his spit to lubricate himself, then notches it at your entrance—you both moan as he slowly starts feeding himself into you. 

Gods, he’s big. 

There’s a slight burn with how he’s stretching you, your inner walls having to accommodate his ample girth, and once he’s pressed all the way to the root inside you, a breath leaves you that you hadn't realized you'd been holding in. 

He has a tight grip on your waist and pulls out almost all the way, immediately pushing back into you hard enough there's a clap when his hips hit your ass. This was expected, Marcus setting up a rhythm that punches the air from your lungs each time he thrusts forward—he’s working out what he doesn’t wish to feel, and with how slippery it is between your legs, he's moving easily, and the brutal pace feels amazing. 

Many times, you’ve had to fake your enjoyment to make those employing you think they’re talented lovers—the majority are selfish in bed and care little about your comfort but want their egos stroked. Marcus, on the other hand, earned your favor when he took the time to ready you with his fingers and allowed you to climax. 

He's pounding into you, the collide of his body against yours making your asscheeks shake, and with how his cock is pressing into something truly divine, he’s also earned your screams of his name and whatever incoherent words are babbling from your mouth—he has you dizzy with pleasure, heat coiling in your belly, and there’s no doubting the Goddess of Beauty and Sex has given him her blessing. 

Sounds are spilling unbidden from your lips, Marcus loudly grunting with each stroke, the wet slap of skin hitting skin echoing in the room, and you look over your shoulder—the candlelight around the room shows the glisten of sweat on his golden skin. His head is thrown back, his eyes closed, and his jaw slack. Hair is sticking to his forehead, and a beautiful rosy flush has begun on his chest, rising up his neck to paint his cheeks. You can't think of another you've laid with who looked so breathtaking while taking their pleasure, and you could only imagine how glorious he’d look on the battlefield. You don't know what comes over you, reaching your hand back to touch his hip, and suddenly, he’s looking at you, his eyes glazed with lust. 

It’s as though he’s been in a trance, losing himself in your body, and now he’s come back to be in the moment with you. He falls forward, his hands sinking into the mattress on either side of you, blanketing your back and slowing his pace. His chin is on your shoulder, and he bites the shell of your ear; all of his weight goes onto one arm to free up the other that roughly grabs your breast and plucks at your nipple.

“You take me so well,” he says into your ear, his cock continuing to slide in and out of you. “Your sweet little cunt will milk me dry, and then I’ll have you again and again after that to keep you full of my seed.” 

His words steal a moan from your lips. 

“Does that please you, my sweet girl?” he asks. “You wish for more of me? Has another ever fucked you so good?” He gets his hand between your legs to circle the pearl of your pleasure, and your jaw drops, eyes closing—he’s going to make you come again. “Answer me,” he growls, lightly slapping your clit, and you clench around him. 

It’s challenging to think, but you say, “No,” and push your ass back against him as he thrusts forward, fucking yourself on him to get closer and closer to your end. “I’ve never had such fortune.” 

“You do now—by morning, I’ll have you ruined for any other man, and your cunt won’t soon forget the shape of my cock.” 

He means every word that slips from his tongue, and it sets the fire in your belly ablaze. You’re holding yourself up on shaky limbs, the muscles in your stomach knotting up—you’re close.

“Marcus,” you moan. 

His warm breath tickles your ear as he speaks into it: “I love how my name sounds from your lips. I know you’re close. Give in so I can feel you ascend to the heavens.” 

His words, the fullness of his thick shaft moving in and out of you, and his fingers swirling around your sensitive bundle at the apex of your thighs has you shattering—stars burst behind your eyelids as white-hot pleasure erupts in your center, your pussy clamping down on him hard enough he slows to a stop, and groans in your ear.

You exhale panted breaths, your heart beating rapidly, and the blissful euphoria ripples through your body, slowly ebbing away. 

Somehow, you find your voice, "Allow me to ride you." 

He kisses your shoulder, his beard scratching against your bare skin. "You want to mount me?" he asks. 

"Yes."

"Then you shall." 

He pulls out of you, an achy groan leaving him as he lies beside you on his back, and you get up onto your knees. He draws your attention with how he’s splayed out on the mattress, his long legs slightly spread and arms crossed over his head. His cock is still hard, it shiny with your juices, and resting against his lower belly, cushioned by the tantalizing path of hair that led directly to it—and he’s looking up at you, his eyes dark with want that keep lowering to your bosom, and back up to your eye line, the pink of his tongue wetting his bottom lip, that you suddenly wish to bite. 

There’s the common knowledge about Marcus all of Rome is aware of—the family he comes from and the military achievements that have led to him being the victorious General the Gods have blessed the city with, and now you’re versed in his more private attributes—he likes his women to be sturdy with sizeable breasts, he enjoys the pleasurable pain of his hair pulled, he’s a generous lover, he prefers to be in control unless you can tempt him enough to hand over the reins. It’s quite tempting for him to lie back and watch your tits bounce as you ride him. 

Shuffling in place to face him, taking his hard length in hand—he didn’t ask, and you didn’t offer, yet you want to take care of him like he took care of you, so you scoot back enough that you can bend down at the waist, wrapping your lips around the tip of his cock.

The sound of Marcus’ loud moan and the way his back arches as if it were the string of a bow shoots straight to your cunt—you can taste the mix of your essence and his arousal that’s steadily dribbling from the sensitive head that you lick and suckle; your hand easily stroking up and down the sheath of skin on his shaft. The muscles in his thighs and stomach have tensed like it’s taking everything in him to hold back and not fill your mouth with his come.

“Enough,” he grits the order through his teeth, and his palm lands on the side of your ass with a hard slap that echoes against the walls, the sharp sting getting a moan out of you—your head lifts off of him to see he’s scowling. “I’m not spilling down your throat,” he continues and smacks your ass again. “Ride me, or I’ll have you under me.” 

“Apologies, Marcus,” you reply demurely and sit up on your knees once more. Quickly, you move, throwing a leg over his waist to have your thick thighs hugging his hips. You rise, grabbing his cock, you press to your entrance, and you watch his face as you slowly start to impale yourself on him, relishing in how his mouth falls open and the tight grip he has on the meat of your thighs, his fingers digging into them hard enough it bordered on painful. 

The fullness is incredible when you sit flush against him, and you love how he fills you. Your palms find purchase on his broad chest, and you rise until only the tip of him remains inside of you, and you drop back down—the rhythm you set has you moving in his lap, up and down in quick succession, Marcus groaning, his eyes locked on the jiggle of your breasts. 

Sweat forms on your skin, feeling it on your forehead and a single drop sliding down your spine, your eyes closed as you focus, your moans stuttering each time you sink onto him. 

His hands are resting on your backside, rising and falling with you, his voice rough with pleasure, “That’s it, ride me, bounce on my cock.”

This isn’t about you, and though it feels good riding him, your goal is helping him achieve his own high, and you’re determined to do so—your hands leave him to press your tits together, and you gasp in surprise when he sits up and shoves his face into them. Your pace doesn’t waver, and you look at him to see he’s keeping himself up with an arm braced on the bed behind him, the other hand grabbing a handful of your ass, and you know he’s not going to last much longer. 

Your fingers slide into the unruly curls at the back of his head, and you yank them hard to make him look at you, Marcus hissing while his cock twitches inside you. In this position, you’re taller, and he gazes up to meet your eyes. 

“I want you to come,” you pant, continuing to fuck yourself on him. “I want to feel you flood my cunt with your seed.” The noise he makes sounds like a whine. “Then I want you to do it again, and again after that—I want you to fill me to the point I’m brimming with you, and you’re in me for days.” 

He squeezes his eyes shut as he groans out a long, drawn-out Fuck

With his beautiful neck on display, you duck your head and lick up the taut skin of his throat, wishing you could suck a mark into it to remind him of you for a while after you part ways. His free hand roughly grabs your chin to pull you close enough for him to slot his lips against yours, and you have to slow to a grind as he messily kisses you, shoving his tongue into your mouth. 

He breaks away to fall back onto the mattress, his fingers getting a tight grip on your ass, the muscles in his arms flexing as he lifts you enough to start thrusting up into your soaked pussy rapidly—he’s grunting while baring his teeth to chase his high, and all you can do is press your palms to his chest for balance while keeping yourself raised enough for him to pound into you. 

The slick push and pull of him, moving in and out of you, has you chanting his name, and it sounds wet between your legs, hearing the clap of skin on skin of him plowing into you. Perspiration makes his tan flesh glint under the candle's light, his hair is a mess atop his head, and his expression is wild; it’s no surprise when his strokes get uneven and his eyes close. Marcus tugs your ass down to bury himself as far as possible in you as he gives in, coming with a guttural groan—you feel his cock jerk and the wet pulse as he paints your insides with spurts and spurts of his spend, wringing himself out until his body goes completely lax.

He pulls you forward to lie on top of him, wrapping his arms around your middle, and turns you both onto your sides. There’s a hiss that slips from his lips when he removes his softening length from your cunt, and you smile at Marcus sliding down the bed far enough for his face to nuzzle in your bosom while hugging you tight. Your fingers stroke through his sweat-damp curls, his hums of appreciation sounding like the purr of a cat. 

Minutes pass in silence as your breaths even out and your hearts slow. After some time, he says something you can’t make out.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you,” you reply. 

His head lifts, and he kisses under your chin. “Stay,” he says again. 

“I have no intention of leaving. I’m here until you send me away.” 

“And if I don’t wish to send you away?” 

His lips trail along your jaw. 

Your eyebrows pull together. “As I said, I’m here until you request my leave.” 

“And if I never request your leave?” 

He’s kissing your neck now, the question making your eyes round. “You intend for me to be your mistress?” 

It’s not uncommon for a courtesan to become one’s mistress. Some of you are from families of wealth and do this line of work for the powerful connections, while others are freedwomen who’ve worked their way up to earn their notoriety—either case, courtesans are respected and thought to make great mistresses. 

“That is all I can offer since I have no plans to marry,” he answers. “You can stay here with or without me when I’m ordered away, and whatever is left of my salary and spoils of war after the household debts are paid, you may keep.”

He makes you frown. 

“Why me?”

Marcus gets his arm out from under you and scoots up the mattress to look you in the eyes. 

“You’re everything I desire in a woman with your beauty and intellect, and you can sate my needs in bed—you’re perfect, and I want you all to myself. I do not wish to share you with anyone else.”

It’s in this moment you realize you’re the one in control here—you don’t need him, you’re self-sufficient, and there are many who’d eagerly take his place, but your looks are rare in your profession, and he needs his deal to be enticing enough for you to take it. 

“What if I decline your offer?” 

“Then I pray you’ll allow me to keep your company until I receive my next orders.” 

He seems to be a good, honorable man who wants to please you, and he had you tempted to accept on the merit of his skills in bed alone—there’s just something that won’t leave your mind. 

“Before I make my decision, answer this question: if you believe me to be so perfect, why were the others here?” 

He presses his large palm to your cheek. “It was in your power to deny me your company, and though the other women weren’t of my tastes, they were better than nothing.” 

You see no flaws in his answer. 

“I accept your offer on one condition.”

“And that is?”

You no longer find him intimidating, and you’re now comfortable brushing errant hairs off his forehead and sliding your fingers through the curls above his ears. 

Your eyes lock onto his. “You return home to me,” you tell him. “You fight with the might of Mars, and you always return home to me.” 

That earns you a small smile, and he takes your hand into his, kissing the center of your palm. 

“I will, my Dove.” 

Masterlist

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[quarterlifekitty]

I'm begging with all the devotion I can muster PLEASSEEEEEE write part two for the goddess reader its such a unique creative concept that was written so well for being so short the people NEED it thank you for your service 🙏🏽

here's a little something something. Also, not really a content warning, but I feel the need to mention: I write intimacy/romance like a freak

cw: non-graphic sexual intimacy, mentioned death of a child

You can only appear to your devoted one through significant offerings. Trapped in the realm of the gods, you are powerless for as long as you lay forgotten by mankind. You tell König that his love is what gives you power.

His usual gifts to you are fruits and jewelry. At the end of his battles, he collects the gear of the fallen– armor, weapons, shields– and has it all melted down. He commissions the best craftsmen to create delicate chains, cameos in your image, beautiful bangles engraved with processions of animals. Rabbits are his favorite to adorn your altar with– representing luck, quickness, numbers… fertility.

His favorite piece for you is a hair pin. He had it made from the guard of a sword he pulled from some foreign noble– embedded with small jewels and molded leaves. He loves to see it glitter in the light as you turn to see him with that inspiring smile when he comes to visit.

Your temple features an impluvium– a tiled pool for catching rainwater. It’s purified from your influence, he’s drank from it many times. And one day, he sees your stolla neatly draped on your pedestal. Gold and silver are the only things decorating your ample form as you relax in the cool water, beckoning him forth like a nymph. He’s never shed his things more quickly.

He’s had women before. Paid women. Women whose time had a price– who wanted him to take what he wanted and leave quickly. He’s an efficient man, and it was never a problem for him, he understood that there was no room for true intimacy in a brothel.

You treat König to something so different it’s almost antithetical. It’s tantric, cool and warm at the same time, as many square inches of your skin pressed to his as possible. You are entwined. He could swear his flesh feels wedded to yours. To part from you would be death– to be alone in his own body.

The last time a person’s touch made him feel beautiful, he was a boy holding the hand of a girl, the young daughter of the man who owned the farm his family worked on. They were children when she died. He has felt robbed, alone, and abandoned ever since. You crack him open by the sternum and climb in between his ribs the same way that she once did. He would die for you and fight his way back from the underworld to die for you again.

[misguidedasgardian]

AMOR VINCIT ONMIA V.

V. Crumbs

MASTERLIST

Summary: As the weather gets warmer, you get colder. 

Warnings: Use of she/her pronouns, reader has hair, Ancient Rome AU accuracies and inaccuracies, arranged marriages, age difference (Marcus is late forties reader is 20), cursing, we are shorter than Marcucs, reader is touch starved, depression, angst, reader is lonely, Marcus seems indifferent, a GOT threat/reference, MIGHT MISS SOME WARNINGS

Notes: Can you find the GOT curse? jejeje don’t be mad at him, it will get better I promise.

The only thing that could console you, was the warming sun.

Each day that passes, the days become longer, the sun warmer, the plants greener.

But your fleeting happiness disappeared as the sun in the horizon every afternoon, when the grey light hit the villa’s walls, your heart seemed to darken, each day more, each day, you had to keep yourself from crying all day, you tried to keep yourself busy, but that had its challenges, there was just so many scrolls in Marcus’ library, as you had read them all already, the small, dead garden was not yet to be planted, as you were still a month away from planting, and suddenly when you could, and the end of march, you did, you buried your knees on the ground and you planted what you could, but still, was going to take some time to grow. 

You felt so lonely, your company being only Diana and Thulia, that they barely spoke to you anyway

You were grateful for the visits to Publio’s villa, but there had been few, so it was time to stop planning and start executing. Being a consul it involved more than leading armies, and that meant that Marcus was more absent than ever from your shared home.

That’s all that connected you to him… a shared home.

Other than that, you barely talked to him, you didn’t even see him.

And being so lonely was slowly killing you.

Before, when you lived with your mother you had friends, her friend’s daughters, you had tutors, you had a household of people you held dear to your heart, now? you had no one, you were a married woman, you could not engage into tutors anymore, so long greek lessons, history and philosophy. 

So long friends and people in your home that you had known your entire life. 

A constant anguish has settled in your chest.

You feel a need, a want, your skin prickled constantly, in need, in need of warmth, human warmth, contact. As you walk around the villa like a spirit, you find yourself hugging yourself, clutching your own tunic… you feel pathetic, you feel so lonely. Your nose tickles, you want to cry again.

A married woman can’t go about alone, you can’t just go anywhere you wish anymore, there are no games yet, there are no chariot races, and even if they were, you can’t go alone, and Marcus isn’t here to even ask him to accompany you. 

You find yourself sometimes sitting on the floor next to the impluvium playing with the water, making ripples with the tip of your fingers, sometimes you even enjoyed it when it rains, as you liked the sound, and it made you believe the house was more… lively.

Before you got married you always dreamed of a home, a house filled with laughter, steps, games being played… giggles… sometimes even cries… but… noises, the noises of your family, the smells of the foods you were going to have prepared for all of them, stains of mud in the walls and general messes

Life.

But this villa was a representation of how you felt… empty… alone… ghostly even. 

After the sun hid, you swore you started seeing Lemures, lurking in the corners of your eyes and in the edges of the walls. 

And when you did go out, rather to see your mother in your old home, to help her plan her own wedding, or when you went to visit Luna in the imperial stables, or when you insisted on going with Diana to the market to buy things… you dreaded the time you had to return home.

Marcus had said it was yours, and you could do as you please, but that didn’t sit well with you, and he wasn’t there much to ask him. When he returned home at night, you didn’t want to bother him with issues of the household… that was your job… and it was like an endless circle of doubts and unanswered questions, and inactivity.

After a couple of months you found yourself excited when he returned home, even though he barely talked to you, even though he locked himself in his study when he did, at least he was in the villa with you. 

His presence, even though, again, wasn’t much noisy, at least it was soothing, like he would protect you, it felt comforting at least, so when you did eat with him, you tried your best to smile, to please him, to ask him about his day, to seem content. You felt your dignity sleeping away as you tried your hardest to make him happy. 

It was the only connection you had to Rome, even though you were in the center of it.

Even though he was polite, and engaged with you in conversation, it wasn’t very deep, it wasn’t very meaningful, it felt like he kept you at arm’s length.

And he seemed truly distracted, he seemed like he carried a great weight, and you didn’t know what.  

That at least, until you told him your mother’s engagement was coming, and later wedding a week after, as soon as June came about.

June was the month of Juno, the most propitious for weddings, and it was going to be a great celebration, worthy of the daughter of a former emperor, and the richest man in Rome, who didn’t spare no expense in proving to everyone what he could do.

Your mother was planning to wed in the spring, in June, and it was rapidly approaching, you being in the midst of May already.

You were speaking about the latest movements to Marcus one night, about the coming event, about the games that were being planned in its honour… 

“I have to leave for Hispania”, he dropped at you, out of nowhere, you looked at him wide eyed. The wedding planning with your mother was what kept you going so far, but he seemed like he couldn’t hear another word of it. He looked guilty after he said those words, interrupting your rambling about flooding the Colosseum. You stopped every movement, and looked at him lying beside you on the sofa in the triclinium

“Do you know how long?”. you asked, feeling sadness grabbing onto you

“I don’t”, he said, “it will be lengthy”, he warned. He might not be very affectionate with you, but he was now your constant present by your side, and he was going to leave you, alone. 

“When do you part?”, you asked softly, trying to keep your voice steady, you failed

“Two weeks from now”, he mumbled

“Before my mother’s wedding?”, you asked, he did not answer

You had come to realise that he did not want anything with you, but you had hope that with time he would… easy onto you, that you could ease into him.

“The augurs are propitious for the next fortnight”, he explained, and you couldn’t care less 

“Can I come with you?”, you asked without thought, he stopped eating to look at you

“No, that’s without question”, he claimed, you expected it

“Why?”, you asked him

“Why?”, he echoed, but when he saw your face, his own softened, “it’s dangerous”, the change was extreme, now he spoke to you as he would a child

“Were are going to be behind twenty thousand men, and Hispania is a Roman controlled territory”, you said, “and besides it is not odd for Generals to take their wives on campaigns, many have done so before”

“I don’t care, I will not risk you, I rather have you here, safely tucked in the entrails of Rome itself, rather than with me on those wild territories, eliminating rebellions”, you just looked away, trying your hardest not to cry, at least not in front of him.

You know who else generals took in their campaigns when they didn’t take their wives? their mistresses

The thought never occurred to you before, but now it made sense, maybe he did have someone else, maybe he married you for power and influence, it made sense, why he won’t touch you, bed you.

You looked back at him and you found him looking back at you, like he was trying to read your thoughts.

“I think it will be less than a year”, he said gently, and that was supposed to comfort you, but you whimpered without being able to prevent it. 

Your husband wanted to go to Hispania, to leave you alone, a whole year, alone. Your mother was about to get married, start a new life, without you, and you were trapped here, in Marcus’ home, without him.

What did you do to make him want to leave you like that?

“Don’t be upset”, he pleaded, “I’ll be back before you know it”, you barely nodded, averting his eyes. 

“Are you taking someone else?”, you didn’t even know where you got the… nerve… to ask that. He didn’t say a thing, but you felt his gaze on you, so when you finally looked at him, you have never seen him look so defeated.

“No”, he said, as he couldn’t believe you were asking him that. “I would never… disrespect you like that”, he said, and he seemed sincere. 

You were not going to beg, not for him to take you, and not for him to stay, with all the strength you had, you swallowed your tears, and nodded.

He wasn’t even with you anyways, he barely spoke to you, so you didn’t understand why you cared so much if he was here at all or not.

But this was another pillar -a big one-, in the big temple of humiliation you felt constantly, gnawing at your entrails. 

“Of course Marcus”, you mumbled, you again felt his gaze on you, but you had more fun playing with a grape on the table. 

“If I… arrive in Hispania, after we are settled in Terraco, I can… send for you, only if I deemed it safe, but I can’t make any promises”, he said slowly, as he was tracing the proposition as he spoke it rather than thinking truly about it before he offered it. It was like he was trying to console a child with a fleeting promise that was not going to hold any meaning when it really came to it. 

You remembered bitterly that he had also promised to care for you, so his promises held little meaning anyways.

He called for you, whispered your name like a little prayer for Minerva, when you raised your eyes to meet his, he was looking back at you with a pain that made your spine tingle. And those shiny eyes.

“I’m very sorry Marcus, for my attitude”, you said, your tone suddenly plane, devoid of any emotions, “it's just the thought of being without you saddens me”, you explained, “but, the last thing I want to be for you is… difficult”

“You are not…”

“I promised to be a dutiful wife”, you interrupted him, “and if leaving me here in your villa, in Rome, is what you want of me, then that’s what I will do”

“I will return to you”, he promised, he reached for you and grabbed your hand softly, “as soon as I can, as soon as I can complete my duty”, he said with a soft smile. You nodded at him.

“The hour is late, husband”, you whispered, “good night”, you whispered, you released your hand from his hold and left him in the triclinium. Tulia met you in your rooms and assisted you in undressing for the night, with a soft smile.

“How long have you worked for the General?”, you asked her in a soft whisper

“Ten years domina”, she said 

“And in that time… have you seen him indulging in the company of women?”, you asked her. She seemed to read the real question in your eyes. 

“Not here in his villa domina, he has never brought women”, she said with a soft smile. “Sometimes when he is in Rome he goes out late, and if there's any merit in the words of his friends, he indulges in the pleasures of certain… establishments of the Suburra”, she whispered. You nodded

That wasn’t odd. 

A man visiting a Lupanar 

“But he hasn't Domina, not since he married you”, she offered. You smiled, as she was always so sweet with you. 

As soon as she left your room, you collapsed onto the floor, with a cry in your lips and tears flooding down your cheeks. 

You didn’t want to be alone, you didn’t want this loneliness 

Your mind was clouded with thoughts of self doubts.

What did you do to deserve this? 

Were you hateful? Were you unkind? Were you mean to him in any way?

And no matter how far you looked, you couldn’t pinpoint a moment in which you had displeased him so badly he would not want to engage with you as he was. 

So you started to resent him.

For being so cold, for marrying you without being a true husband to you, for abandoning you, for leaving you. 

Two weeks flew by, your house, ironically, seemed more alive than ever, his men, of his armies, came by to discuss plans, to inform him of how the triremes were being loaded, people came and went all day, you heard Marcus’ voice in the entire villa, barking orders, planning, commanding. 

You tried to stay out of his way.

You were detaching from him before he left so it wouldn’t hurt as much when he finally did. 

And then the day came. 

You had insisted on accompanying him to Ostia, where his Triremes stood proudly over the water. You as the wives of his trusted men and soldiers stood there too, to see them leave for Hispania. 

The port was beautiful.

A city in its own right, with an amphitheatre, temples and houses. A symbol of Rome’s prowess and might.

From it, you swore you could conquer the world. 

But you couldn’t enjoy it as you wanted. You felt so nervous you believed you could throw up.

The procession ended in the very harbour, you stood next to Marcus, on the wooden dock, ready to climb onto the magnificent ship that was going to take him across the sea, away from you, away from his city. 

You cleaned your tears before they ran, you didn’t want him to see you cry. 

You didn’t know he heard you that night when he told you he was leaving, he heard your cries, your sobs…

You looked at him by your side and you wanted to grab on to him and not let go. You didn’t want to go back to an empty house, and yet, it was empty with him in it anyways.

So in this tense moment, your mind wandered, trying to shield you from destruction. 

As you stood by his side, you looked at him, at his profile, and as he greeted his Praetors and other officers of his armies. 

Then another thought came rushing to you. 

Perhaps he preferred the company of men.

It wasn’t odd, or frowned upon, but it was a real possibility.

Maybe he didn’t touch you because he liked men, he was going on a long campaign, with thousands of them, very few women involved.

Oh gods, that might be it. 

“What’s wrong?”, he asked, as he caught you staring with a horrified look on your face. 

Sometimes when Marcus looked at you, he could believe you were real.

You were like an apparition, a goddess walking amongst men.

Within reach, yet, untochable

A fleeting divine company, that it was doomed to end.

He often found himself wondering… 

“Some birds you can’t put in cages, they’ll stop singing”

The phrase that had been torturing him for the last four months finally came to reason that night, where he had told you he was going to leave for Hispania.

As he watched you come undone in front of him, as he thought of every strained smile, every caress on his forearms, every meal set, he had come to realize…

He had put you in that cage.

But he couldn’t see it clearly. 

He was tormented.

It is true that he loved Lucilla, he had loved her for years, he had come to realize this a little after Maximus died in that Arena. He realised that even if he felt guilty because he was his friend, now he had a clear path towards her. 

But it never happened. 

Although it was a good idea to marry her, he was close to her, she trusted him, he could protect her, everything was perfect.

It didn’t came to be

She didn’t love him back

And Marcus understood that, so he did everything he could, as a husband would do without being one. He kept Lucilla and you safe, he made sure to always stand beside her. And his shadow helped cover her. 

But his love never dwindled 

He knew Lucilla was taking advantage of him, out of his love, he knew she sometimes used him. She knew he knew and yet… he didn’t care. He was content to be helpful to her, if not her lover, he was happy to be just her friend. 

He made sure that he was allowed to be near her because he made the emperor trust him, he became a great general, and he played both sides. It worked, he was content, she was safe, everyone won. 

And then Lucilla asks him to make the ultimate sacrifice. The last stone on his grave of his love for her. She asked him to marry you, her daughter. It was something so paradoxical, it was something Lucilla would ask of nobody but him, because he was the man she trusted the most, and yet, it meant they could never truly be together. The ultimate act of love on both sides.

He did it.

Not only because of his devotion for her, but because he understood what they were playing at, he understood the long game, the future they held. The measures they had to take to really be safe. 

He thought it was the hardest thing he ever had to do, to let go of his love for Lucilla, because he was not going to marry you with her in his mind, he would never do that to you. And yet… there was more still to come

He himself had to relinquish his love to someone else.

Fate, or perhaps Lucilla herself… were cruel

Truly cruel.

It was true he was doing everything in his power to relinquish the love he still held for her, the romantic part at least, he felt so guilty while being married to you. But you can’t tame your heart, as much as you tried.

He had done what she ask of him

But he could not see it getting done.

She didn’t need him anymore, so he rushed his voyage to Hispania, for his own sake.

The line between love and devotion was thin, Marcus crossed it without realizing it. 

As he held audiences with Consus Licinio Craso and Lucilla, in talks of their nuptials, he felt nothing, he thought it was because his heart ached so much it had numbed itself. He thought that if he saw the actual wedding happening he wasn’t going to be able to survive it. 

He was going to focus on war, like many times before. To ignore the fact that he was never going to be Lucilla’s husband. 

He was mourning something that was already dead.

So when he looked at his side and found you, standing there, looking up at him with those wide eyes. He thought he felt his heart beating in his chest again. Like you somehow grabbed it with your bare hands and squeezed it, reviving it. 

He saw the sadness in your eyes and he felt a pang of guilt. He wasn't blind, he knew you were not happy, but he was confident you were going to find your purpose while being married to him, that you were going to make a life for yourself. He could not dedicate himself to you fully, yet.

But given time, he knew he could. 

What he felt when you went to Scipio’s house was something he didn't want to feel again

But it was also something he knew was wrong. Although you were married you were not his to be jealous for.

But he hoped that some time away was going to give him clarity. He had to leave, it was his duty as Consul, but he chose to leave before Lucilla’s wedding, though. And his heart broke that fatidic night, where you begged him to take you with him. If he could he would, he did not take pleasure in leaving you here alone, but his job as your protector entailed not to take you into the other side of the seas into strange territory surrounded by revolts and soldiers. 

When he came back, he promised himself he was going to do so as a man renewed, he needed to mourn, to think, to become something else, he had been tasked with your protection, and he intended to do it as long as he drew breath.

He wasn’t blind either, you were beautiful, kind, generous, incredibly smart, you deserved him at his best, at his fullest. 

And he was going to do his best by you, it was a promise he had made to himself. 

And then finally, the moment came, when he had to say his goodbyes, he had to board the Trirreme, he had to leave you. 

He turned to you, ready for a solemn goodbye, a promise of returning.

He took you softly by your upper arms, and looked down at you with the affection he felt for you, which was great.

But you were having none of it. 

“I wish you good fortune in the wars to come, dear husband”, you whispered sadly, not looking him into his eyes. He only stood and looked at you, his smile dropping, “I also hope that…”, you didn’t know how to phrase what you were going to say next, “you don’t find yourself as lonely as I”.

You only had to look at his face to know, that came out really wrong. You just basically told your husband to seek company, and at the same time that you were going to be lonely because of his decision

“My heart will ache with loneliness every second that we are apart”, he said gently, looking down at you from his height, “but I promise that soon we will be together again, to never be parted”

“Take care husband”, you whispered, he leaned in, taking a long breath, and he trapped your lips with his. 

He breathed you in, you resisted the impulse to grab onto him.

The second ever kiss he ever gave you, that you ever had in your life. 

When you parted it seemed like he didn’t want to do it, but you were probably seeing things, right?

“I’ll come back for you”, he promised, and you didn't like the way your skin felt cold as soon as his touch left your skin. 

He was the last one to board the ship, and you stood completely still as you watched it set  sail, and float away towards the horizon. 

It was ironic, because as the Trirreme got further away from you, the love you felt for him dwindled more and more, and yet, for every meter away from you, his affection for you grew and grew. 

PCN: So... they you find it?

"I wish you good fortune in the wars to come"

It wasn't a "curse", rwally, but once I read that phrase was incredibly unlucky, that every time someone said it to another in GOT, that one died horribly in said war, or it went terribly wrong, it made sense... jejeje

DON'T HATE HIM, he is coming back soon jijiji

taglist ❤️ @orcasoul @peelieblue @raynetargaryan2 @thereallchristine @sesdeuxyeux @melsunshine @thelastemzy @vjuvbbjugv @cloudroomblog @capycapy-bara @lokiwife2021 @whirlwindrider29 @peepawispunk

Yes I know its a strange time to post but, I'm in bed with a cold and I was inspired jejejeje

[mythologer]

Pompeian interior :

A drain pool (impluvium) was situated at the centre of the atrium, to collect rainwater draining inwards from a roof opening (compluvium) that also let in light. From the impluvium, the water was channelled into an underground cistern and could then be drawn for household purposes.

[keepingitneutral]

Impluvium, Valle de Calamuchita, Córdoba, Argentina,

An old water tank located on what was once a productive property created in the 1930s in the Calamuchita Valley and now in disuse was transformed into a production spaces that accommodate different types of crops: vegetables, hydroponics, cacti, orchids, tropical plants, etc.; while also providing workspaces for germination, storage, and basic services.

Courtesy: CHOZA espacio de arquitectura