Anorive has been emperor of Rome for 8 years, and during those 8 years, he fell madly in love with you. You were a simple villager he spotted passing by in his chariot one day, and ever since, he has been stuck at your hip.

Today, you two were supposed to get painted by ancient Romes' most famous artist. Anorive was on his knees in front of you as you sat on a marble bench, gripping onto your silks with his crown resting lazily atop his head in just a loin cloth, his muscles rippling as his knuckles turned white squeezing. His head was laying in your lap, crouched in front of you. The painter looked between you two and the stretched clothe canvas, silence filling the room

"Are you almost done?" Anorive grumbled into your dress, his voice deep and smokey, holding power and elegance.