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grrw--boy · 16 days ago

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Okay, I just got this idea and I couldn't get it out of my head. So, you know how Hannigram's whole thing is about understanding and feeding into one's dark/immoral side (I can't find the words to explain my brain process, but stick with me). What if Hannigram has a third partner that sees that and enjoys it, but to a sick, obsessive, self fulfilling way. Like, don't get me wrong, they find Hannibal and Will attractive and fuckable, but what gets them going and keeps their relationship alive is murder and tableaus (basically the reader wanting to have a murderer show them their significance through blood and gore.) Don't know how this idea comes across to you guys, but that's how this fic was born.

MURDER IS OUR LOVE LANGUAGE

pairing: hannigram x male reader tags: matthew develops an attraction to the reader, hannigram doesn't like this, jealousy, reader doesn't get his hands dirty, that doesn't mean he's innocent though, reader is such a tease, no explicit mention of cheating, but emotionally cheating can be discerned

You always thought love should cost something. Not flowers wilted in a vase or rings crusted with diamonds, but weight—bone‑heavy, irreversible proof that someone scraped the marrow of their soul out just to show you its shape. Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham understood that language better than anyone else. That’s why you’d slipped so easily between them: a harmony stitched from hunger, empathy, and rot.

Tonight the three of you stand ankle‑deep in snow that glows foxfire‑blue beneath a half moon. The tableau is simple—almost quaint by their standards. A hunter strung from an ironwood, his ribcage cracked open like a cathedral door; lungs spread and frozen into two translucent wings. “Psychopomp,” you named it, because Will taught you words have gravity, and Hannibal taught you gravity can be bent.

Will kneels to photograph the crystalline blood‑flakes dusting underneath the hung corpse. His breath fogs around the lens, eyes shining with the fever that once scared him but now feels like prayer. But Hannibal watches you instead, catching the little tremor of fascination that runs through your fingers.

“Do you approve?" he asks, voice velvet over steel.

You drag a gloved fingertip along the cold cartilage, feel it click like piano ivory. “Approved, stamped, and filed under ravishing. You boys really do know how to flirt.”

A crease of satisfaction ghosts across Hannibal's mouth. Will rises, cheeks pinked by cold and arousal alike, and slips behind you, arms looping around your waist. “Then give us our grade.”

“Ten out of ten for artistry.” You lean closer so they hear the grin in your voice. “Eight for theatricality—you’re slipping, Doctor Lecter." Hannibal’s answering hum thrums down your spine. He adores being challenged, more so when that guarantees your place beside them.

Murder isn't just a bond you three share, it's the foundation of your relationship. You found Will and Hannibal handsome, fuckable, even lovable—but that wasn’t why you stayed. You stayed because every tableau, every splatter, every shuddering breath drawn in front of carefully displayed viscera made you feel seen. Loved in a way words would always fail.

Yet lately, you've felt that ache of familiarity creeping up your spine, whispering about routine. Hannibal notices first, of course, though he doesn't voice it. He simply adjusts his compositions, each kill growing more extravagant, more desperate to retain your awe. Will sees it too, reading your disinterest in the micro-tensions of your posture and the subtle way your attention strays.

And then you meet Matthew Brown.

Having gone to congratulate Alana on her position as the new director at BSHCI after Chilton's 'tragic' demise, you walked down the corridor with a bottle of Folle Blanche to celebrate the news, but was stopped by a man.

He appears out of a utility alcove like a conjured spirit—tall, muscular, with hair the color of autumn leaves cropped close to his skull. His badge reads BROWN, M. but his grin is all teeth and appetite. “Doctor Bloom apologizes,” he says, voice pitched just above a purr. “Her meeting is running long. I'm tasked to bring you to her office."

You don't speak, rather studying him the way you study every living thing: searching for the fracture lines where something tender might leak out. He meets your gaze without flinching. There’s a brightness in his eyes you recognize—an ember forever looking for oxygen.

“Oh,” you murmur, stepping into his orbit, “That's unfortunate. Please, lead the way."

The corridor yawns ahead—white‑tile ribcage, fluorescence buzzing like flies in bone. Matthew’s stride is loose and confident, a man perfectly at home among the medicated damned. “You bring brandy to a psychiatric ward often?” he asks without turning, voice velvet over a razor.

“Only for promotions.” You watch the flex of his shoulders under the thin cotton scrubs. “Most people settle for flowers. I prefer spirits—they keep better company.”

A low chuckle. “I imagine you’re excellent company yourself.”

“Depends how you define excellent.” You let the words hover, bait‑sweet. He bites.

“I like stories that end in blood.” He glances back; the grin widens when you don’t recoil. “Does that qualify?”

Oh, darling, you think, the ache of routine already easing under your sternum, that’s the prologue. After a few minutes, you reach the elevator meant for administration, yet Matthew guides you down a maintenance stairwell that reeks of bleach and ancient rust. He taps an access card; a steel door unlatches with a hiss.

“Short‑cut.”

Inside, the room is nothing more than storage: linens, old restraints, crates of expired morphine ampoules. But also, there's a patient transport gurney parked beneath a bare bulb, mattress stripped, its straps unbuckled like a half‑dressed lover.

Matthew steps close enough that you feel the heat of him through winter wool. “I’m a fan,” he murmurs. “of your work.”

You arch a brow. “My work?”

“Cathedral wings in Minnesota. ‘Psychopomp’ in the ironwood grove.” He names them unerringly, each syllable dripping reverence. “You leave fingerprints in the stitching, you know. Empathy that’s inverted. I study it. I want—” He swallows, lashes flicking down. “Lessons.”

It takes effort not to shiver. “How thorough a pupil are you, Mr. Brown?”

“As thorough as you need.” His breath ghosts your cheek. “Show me a cut; I’ll make it sing.”

Some distant part of you registers risk—Alana two floors up, Hannibal and Will somewhere in Baltimore most likely feeling the shift in your attention like changing barometric pressure—but the greater part thrills. You lift the bottle, letting the neck trail down the line of his sternum until it settles against his belt buckle.

“Earn the toast.” you whisper.

Matthew’s eyes flare. He reaches behind, produces a folded surgical towel already blooming rust‑brown. Inside: a scalpel, clean and eager. “Patient tried to gut me with that yesterday,” he says, offering the handle. “Barely nicked skin. Shall we finish the gesture?”

You test the weight—balanced, hungry. “Where?”

His hands frame his own torso, bare stretch of forearm exposed. “There’s an anatomy lab one level below. Cadavers, tools, no cameras.” He leans in. “We could write a first chapter.”

You imagine formalin fumes, greenish light, bone saws waiting like choirboys. Your pulse pounds, but jealousy is currency, and you are a banker.

Sliding the blade back into his pocket, you lean forward, lips a mere inch apart. "Soon," You promise. "But first, show me something worth teaching."

Matthew’s pupils dilate—dusky rings swallowing color—yet he nods, swallowing whatever reckless plea trembles on his tongue. The promise of soon burns hotter than a kiss. He slips the scalpel away, tucks the towel back into the linen cart, and straightens as though dismissed by royalty.

TIME SKIP

You arrive home late—Hannibal still with clients and Will whisked away by the FBI—giving you time to set your plan into motion. Matthew speaks about death the way priests speak about God, reverent and fascinated, but never quite understanding. You find his fervor charming, his lack of restraint oddly invigorating. Matthew is nothing like your carefully refined lovers; he is raw, volatile, but most importantly—new.

Fingers trailing to your lips, you let the faint smear of his cologne linger, before rubbing your thumb across the lapel of your coat until the scent bled deeper into the weave. Matthew’s aftershave was a cheap blend—sandalwood, camphor, a top‑note of something medicinal that clung like disinfectant—but beneath it lay adrenaline, hot copper, the musk of fear edged with hunger. You could still taste it when you pressed two fingers to your tongue.

In the study you drew the blackout curtains, then laid your phone on the desk. A single new message from Brown glowed on the lock screen: Tell me what color you want the insides, and I’ll match the shade exactly.

Reverent, breathless. A priest awaiting scripture.

You didn’t answer. Anticipation was the holiest silence.

Instead you crossed to the cheval mirror and shed your coat, draping it carefully so the scent wouldn’t escape. You peeled off your gloves next, holding them flat in your palm. Their leather was dusted with chalky residue from the stairwell wall—Matthew’s back had pressed there when you’d leaned in, hemmed him with your shadow, promised soon. You lifted the gloves to your face and inhaled.

Raw. Volatile. New.

The words pulsed through you like second heartbeat.

Hannibal and Will arrived an hour later, the door downstairs making noise, yet you remained silent. Your fingers continuing to drift idly over the piano keys, letting your lovers know exactly where you are. Muted notes thumped against the keys as you let one fingertip fall, then another—toneless, more rhythm than music. Each click announced I‑am‑here and, more provocatively, come‑find‑me.

The townhouse echoed with boot steps. Coats rustled. A door latched. Still you played—click, click, click—until Will stormed into the music room like a hunting dog off leash.

“You could answer when we call,” he snapped, damp hair plastered to his forehead. Rain or sweat—you couldn’t tell, but the scent was pure agitation.

“I was occupied.” Click. You never looked up.

Hannibal followed, slower, shutting the parlor doors behind him with the finality of a vault. He removed his gloves finger by finger, gaze crawling over you. “Busy with what?” The faint tremor in his voice belonged to a man suppressing the urge to bare teeth.

“Or whom,” Will corrected, pacing a tight circuit around the piano bench. “You reek of hospital disinfectant and someone else’s cologne.”

You finally lifted your eyes, meeting Will’s with a lazy smile. “Smell is such a subjective sense. You sure it isn’t imagination?”

Will planted both palms on the piano keys, trapping your hands beneath his. His pupils were blow‑black, jealousy flicking like a lighter. “Who touched you?”

You shrugged, the gesture making your wrists grind under his weight. “A friend. We talked anatomy.” You cocked your head, letting your gaze drift down Will’s throat—tracking the jump of his pulse. “He’s enthusiastic.”

“Matthew,” Hannibal supplied before stepping closer. “The scent matches his locker in the sub‑basement.” He inhaled at your hairline, lips almost grazing your crown. “Camphor and old fear. All that just from a hug?”

You laughed, breath warm against his cheek. “A near‑kiss, maybe. I could feel his pulse through my coat. Like a rabbit between a wolf’s jaws.” Your words were soft; their effect was napalm.

Will’s grip closed, bruising. “Did he taste you?”

“Not yet.” You slid one trapped hand free to trace the seam of Will’s lower lip. “But he wanted to.”

A flash of motion—Hannibal’s hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back so your throat arched. “You allowed desire to linger on your skin,” he murmured, jealousy silky and cold. “Why?”

You hissed at the delicious sting. “Because it’s a mirror. I watch you watching me, and I feel alive.”

Will’s fingers left the keyboard to clutch your waist, hauling you off the bench. The piano stool clattered aside. Your spine kissed the baby‑grand’s polished edge; Hannibal’s body pressed from behind, sandwiching you. You sensed the taut reins of their control fraying. “Have you pictured him alongside you?” Will’s voice was an acid snarl. “A new toy so you can discard us?”

You let a breathy laugh slip, tilting your head just enough that Hannibal’s lips skimmed your pulse. “Discard you? Darling, I’m not insane. Even the gods keep their oldest monsters close.”

Will loomed closer, the twin lines between his brows cut deep. “Then why entertain him at all?”

“Because first kills taste different,” you whispered. “Don’t you remember? The bright, copper rush before skill dulls it down to routine? Matthew carries that thrill in every heartbeat. I want—” Your lashes fluttered as Hannibal’s teeth grazed skin. “—to taste it again.”

Hannibal’s hands slid down, thumbs hooking your belt to keep you still while he spoke against your ear. “Do you crave novelty or worship?”

“Both,” you confessed, arching when Will’s thigh crowded between yours. “He’d bleed a rosary if I asked. Maybe I’d let you string the beads.”

Jealousy cracked across Will’s face—equal parts fury and hunger. He grabbed your jaw, forcing your gaze to his. “You belong to us.”

“Then prove it,” you challenged, lips curling. “Stake your claim before the altar-boy rings his bells.”

The provocation snapped the last thread.

Will’s mouth crashed onto yours—open, savage, tasting of storm. Behind you, Hannibal set his teeth to your shoulder, most definitely leaving a mark in case you decide to give into Matthew.

Your breath stuttered, pleasure and mischief tangling in your throat. You could feel the bruise blossoming beneath Hannibal’s teeth—a violet signature no cheap cologne could mask. Will’s hand fisted in your hair, wrenching your head back until the chandelier light flooded your vision.

“Say it,” he growled, lips a razor’s breadth from yours. “Whose?”

You swallowed a laugh that tasted like lightning. “I’m yours.”

Hannibal’s tongue soothed the bite, the low rumble in his chest equal parts pride and warning. “Pluralize, beloved.”

“I’m both of yours.” Your gaze flicked between them—Will’s eyes blown black, Hannibal’s molten gold. “For now.”

Will’s nostrils flared; jealousy flashed like sheet‑lightning. “For always.”

“Convince me,” you whispered, deliberately arching against Hannibal’s front, grinding spine to mahogany and hips into Will’s thigh. “Make me feel it.”

Will answered with teeth, biting the hinge of your jaw—claim staked in living flesh—while Hannibal’s palm slid to your throat, a velvet collar of intent. “You feel this?” Hannibal’s thumb graced your pulse, languid as a garrote. “That’s our music. We dictate the tempo.”

“And if I prefer a faster rhythm?” You let the taunt drip like warm resin. “Matthew’s heartbeat was—”

Will cut you off with a brutal kiss, swallowing the name like poison. “His heart stops tomorrow,” he hissed against your lips. “Yours keeps playing for us.”

“You’ll stain it ultramarine?” you panted, half‑mocking, half‑pleading. “The shade of a drowned lung?”

Hannibal chuckled, dark silk. “We’ll give you a cathedral of blue—lungs fanned like wings, every vein a ribbon for your hair.”

A ripple of desire shuddered through you so hard the piano strings thrummed in sympathy. “Then show me now,” you dared, voice hoarse, “how a maestro rehearses before opening night.”

In a single movement Will gripped your thighs, hoisting you onto the piano. Wood groaned beneath sudden weight. Hannibal pressed in from behind, caging you between bodies and black lacquer. “Hands on the keys,” Will ordered. You obeyed, fingers splaying across ivory. The cold bite of the keys grounded you—one wrong twitch and you’d crash a cacophony through the quiet, an exquisite risk.

Will leaned forward, breath searing your ear. “Play something.”

“What?”

“Anything,” Hannibal murmured, lips ghosting your nape. “We’ll accompany.”

You struck a hesitant chord—D minor, aching and unresolved. Will matched the rhythm, mouth descending to the hollow of your throat, sucking a bruise in perfect meter. Hannibal’s hand slid lower, fingertips tapping your ribs in sync, each note an incremental invasion.

Another chord—A minor. Will’s teeth. Hannibal’s palm cupping you through fabric.

You gasped, a discordant trill that made both men smile—predators harmonizing over prey willingly caught. “Keep playing,” Will commanded, voice a rasp of thunderclouds. “You stop, we stop.”

Challenge accepted.

Your hands shook but you kept the melody staggering forward—something baroque and broken, exactly befitting three monsters starved for novelty.

Hannibal’s free hand found your chin, tilting it until you met his gaze. “When the lungs bloom blue,” he promised, “we’ll lay them here, across these keys, so every note tastes of devotion.”

Will’s answering hum vibrated against your sternum. “And you’ll play us a love song on them.”

Your pulse hammered wild arpeggios under Hannibal’s thumb. “Then I’ll need a full octave,” you whispered, voice frayed with want. “Both lungs together.”

“Greedy,” Hannibal chastised, though delight shone in his eyes.

“Insatiable,” Will corrected, teeth grazing your ear. “Exactly how we like you.”

You struck another chord—E minor—and let the resonance wash through the room. It was met by the low, feral sounds of your lovers devouring jealousy and turning it into worship against your skin. Tomorrow, Matthew’s lungs would sing ultramarine under moonlight. Tonight, the three of you composed the overture—each gasp, each bruise, each trembling key a promise that art would always cost blood, and love would always demand more.

#giggling and kicking my legs #this gave me butterflies my god #i need more fics with this devotion my goddddddd #x male reader #murder husbands #yummy yummy #tingles #twirling my hair

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