Hannibal having you stand behind him while he played the harpsichord. Your arms draped over his shoulders, down to rest against his chest. One of your knees on the stool to help you lean on him.
Hannibal would find this utterly annoying but it's you. His sweet love. Even the cruelest actions from you would seem nectar filled to him.
Hannibal would brush his fingers, roughened over the years, against your soft forearm. The heavy contrast always a delight to him.
“how about a glass of wine?”, he would ask, despite the late hour. You would reluctantly let him slip from your grasp. Watching him fetch himself and you some wine.
As you busy yourself with the keys of the instrument, his gaze would flicker to you. To his sweet dove and how lucky he is to have you isolated from the cruel and rude world to be next to his presence.