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Lumen Obscura	By : PinkSiamese Category: -Misc TV Shows > Crossovers Views: 1077 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Hannibal or Dexter in any of their incarnations (TV shows, movies, books). I am making no money off this story.

Chapter List
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The rain comes in torrents, hissing, it rushes down the glass and does its weird dance with the colors of the streetlight. Thunder pushes through the glass. Lightning is close.
Here is the bed. Everything in this part of the room is sharp. The platform black, the covering white. Gleaming lamps perch on the wall, insectile. A line of pillows, a series of square shapes, all in a row. The smooth blanket stretches tight over the mattress shape, surrenders itself to the clashing of the light. Lumen walks alongside with her fingers extended.
Hannibal moves behind her. She looks at the rain. He brings the heat of his body close. She shivers. He moves aside the fall of her hair, lowers the zipper on the back of her dress.
A flash of lightning comes, blinding bright.
She turns, tugging the fabric out from his fingers. Her eyes close as she slides fingers up beneath his collar. She loosens the knot in his tie.
“I want you to look at me,” he murmurs, sliding down the thin straps of her dress.
She pulls his tie free. “Why?”
Thunder crashes down. It comes loud enough to hum in the bones.
“I want it to be my face that you see when I do this.” He finishes unzipping her dress. “And this.” He pulls the straps down past her hands.
The tide of Lumen’s blood lifts into her skin, turns it into something else. She keeps her eyes closed. “Is it really so important?”
“What was his name?”
The question hijacks her breath, steers it off to parts unknown. “Does it matter?”
Hannibal cups her breast and kisses the pulse in her neck. The heat of her blood throbs against his mouth, his palm. “Yes.”
She slides her hands over the fabric of his jacket, traces its seams with her fingertips. The threads are tight, the places where it joins together are flat, silken almost, soft the way an animal’s undercoat is soft. The texture of the fabric makes her think of petals, moss. It whispers beneath her trembling touch. The stitchery is feverish; it feels the way a scar feels.
“Dexter,” she breathes.
“I cannot be Dexter for you.” He speaks close to her lips. “I will not.”
She unbuttons his jacket. She unbuckles his belt. “That’s not what I want.”
He steadies her face, presses his mouth to hers. The kiss is tight, hard; it gasps and grows slick, humid, tongues wrestling the ghosts of words. She makes fists of his jacket.
A gust of wind rattles the rain against the window. Lightning stitches through the dark.
Hannibal runs his fingers across the scars on her back. Strokes them. She shudders, her spine contorting. “It was unbearable,” he whispers into her hair, “what these men did to you.”
Lumen burrows her face into his jacket. She nods, rubs her cheek up one lapel and down the other. “Yes,” she whispers.
“What do you want of me?” The words are very quiet, softened by layers of breath and smothered by the heavy beat of his heart.
“You can’t be Dexter,” she murmurs as he traces the curve of her cheek. His fingertip follows the secret arroyos, the muscle memories of her tears. She sighs. “You couldn’t if you wanted to.” He kisses the line of her jaw. Her breath quickens. Her eyes flutter closed. “Already you’re nothing like him.”
He moves his hands over her ass, holds her hips tight against his. “Good.”
She pushes her dress to the floor. He takes down her panties.
Lumen sits down on the edge of the bed, rain behind her sluicing down the glass and spreading heavy pewter light across the room; he stands over her, looks down into her face as he slides the jacket off, one sleeve at a time. She looks up and longs to breathe, to inhale his revelation of Scandinavian skin, sharp bones, the sinew moving beneath flats of dark hair, but there’s no oxygen; it’s trapped between the thunder of her blood and its voracious heat.
He lets his shirt drop onto the floor.
She pulls his belt free.
He strokes her hair. The fabric of his pants is clean and light, it’s the same fine quality as the rest of his clothes; the weave is so fine, so smooth, that it’s like a second skin. Up close, the plaid is like streets laid out in a grid. It’s warm, almost tender. She breathes in, caresses its softness. The heat of him exudes through the fabric. It warms her face. Beneath his fly, that hard bend of cock, pressing. The heat of blood.
Lumen presses her face to his fly and breathes in, fills her mind with his dark forest scent. He skims his hands over hers, his touch light, it moves down her forearms. She unzips his pants, leans her forehead against the rise and fall of his belly. The quick sound of his breath glides over the noise of the rain.
Hannibal cups her face. His cock is heavy in her hand, firm. It pulses in her grip. His thumbs stroke her temples.
The skin is hot, sumptuous in her mouth. Her tongue sweeps the ridge and it is sleeker than what she is used to, the foreskin soft, tender. It runs over the veins, feels their swift currents. In the skin lives a memory of the ocean, a bitter ghost of soap. She looks up. He’s looking down at her, hair fallen onto his brow, mouth open and breathing hard. Slick salt floods her tongue. His hairline glitters with sweat. The length of him pulses, tight and hard, against the roof of her mouth. He grabs her hair, utters a foreign word. Her eyes are closed and in the darkness his accent is thick, grating, smeared with the dirt of his homeland. She feels the clench in his throat, his raw breath, and it scatters hot gooseflesh across her body. She squeezes her thighs tight around the sudden throb of her cunt.
“Yes.”
Lumen looks into his eyes and they are softened, unmoored, adrift in silver shadow. His mouth is flushed. He holds her hair in a fist.
“Yes,” he pants. “Good. That’s good.”
She pulls back, holds the head of his cock close to her lips. She lowers her eyelids. Her hand slides up and down. “Shall I stop?”
“No.”
She covers the head with her mouth and strokes, sucking and pumping. His breath hollows, drops into his chest. It pushes out of him in long soft growls.
Subtle color wells up, flares across her cheeks. The corners of her mouth tremble. “I want you.”
He looks into her eyes. Outside, the rain slackens. Towering clouds glow with distant lightning. The lights of the city are garish; the rain has tarnished them into cheap jewels.
He unlaces his shoes. She sits, crosslegged, and watches him take off his pants. He reaches for a small lacquered bowl on the nightstand, takes out a condom. He unrolls it. The trapped veins swell tight into its translucent skin. He climbs onto the bed, turns onto his back.
In his stillness, the angles of his body hint at motion. The rise and fall of breath moves all through him. She straddles his hips and gravity falls away from her knees, leaving her with a sensation of breath, of hair tickling her face, of cool air settling over her skin.
“Open your eyes.”
She does, startled. They had been closed, she had had no idea. She had slipped off to imagine the light touch of his gaze, the way it slid deep into her blood. The sensation of his skin is foreign, smooth, he’s warmer than he should be with the cold color of his skin, the paleness of his hands. His heat spreads out over her, draws back, it comes over her in long gentle waves. She imagines the murmuring of her blood in return.
Her eyes are closed again. Her breath falls onto his breath. He touches her breasts in this soft pulsing dark, in the quiet, rain tapping the glass. He pinches her nipples. He does it slow, with mounting pressure. She moans. The pain comes, raw, it trembles inside of her until it flashes out to her edges and she is pulled tight, the rhythm of her breath reined in.
“God,” she gasps.
He is patient, measured. He holds her breasts, circles the nipples with his tongue. The thorough attention of his mouth weakens her. She imagines the murmuring of her blood in return, her breath disrupted by the firm hard stride of her blood, warmed by it. He catches her nipple in his teeth. The sharp pleasure of it flickers through her, twists her body until she’s trapped in his breath, borne aloft by its steady climb.
His cock pushes in, she gasps. The spreading of it, the sweet pressure, so tight, it burns a little, it has been so long.
She is seized by a tension, timorous, hot and breathing, all over her body. It is a sudden desire that is so much like hunger, or thirst, that it becomes its own thing. It is borne out of her, and yet it takes over. It clamors in her blood. Her body clenches around him, caresses the invader.
Outside, a smattering of thunder. A gust of wind. In the room, in her body is her heart, huge and wild and booming.
Hannibal closes his eyes.
She pants and looks down at his face, shadowed by her hair. She drinks in its strange transformation, the lines in it softened, the jutting angles of his jaw, the abandoned brows, the trembling eyelashes. His mouth, the tips of his teeth, a carnivorous flower just starting to bloom.
She props herself on her palms, grinds her hips. He grips her thighs.
“Open your eyes,” she whispers.
He holds her hips. Bites his bottom lip. Pushes up into her.
She sweeps her hair off his face. “Open.”
His eyelids lift halfway. Beneath them, caught in the shifting light, the darkness of his eyes lies in wait. “Do I feel good to you?”
“Yes! God, yes!”
He slips the pad of his thumb over the slick ridge of her clit. Her breath comes harder, it tumbles out, her mouth falls opens around its great rush.
“Yes, that’s it,” he whispers.
Like a fit it takes her, rides her limbs, joints unbolting until her fingers clench his wrists, her nails breaking into him, her breath torn apart. Sparks of intense pleasure fly off her womb, collide with her skin. Little by little, she comes back. The room flows back into her, its brimstone scent of sweat, the wild pulsing in her ears, the cold air, the harshness of the light.
He groans.
She breathes over him, watches his orgasm spread over his face, storming his features one by one: his eyes caught in tight webs, his loosened jaw, a shade of blood cresting over him like a wave of sunset light.
Still, the sound of rain. It dances across the silence.
Lumen climbs off him.
He catches his breath. “Is it what you expected?”
She stretches onto her side. “No.”
“What did you expect?”
“That the sex would be worse.”
Hannibal leaves the bed. He walks into the living room to turn off the lights. Lumen watches him go. She touches the rumpled space where he had been, caresses the warmth. She rolls onto her back.
“I could come down out of my mind.” The rain makes patterns on the ceiling. “I haven’t been able to stay in my body, not during sex, in a very long time.”
“Would you like something to drink? Some food?”
“No.” She giggles. “I’m fine. Really.”
“Very well. Suit yourself.” He returns to the bed, switches off the bedside lamp. He lies down beside her. “What will you do?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs, looks at the white walls. “Go home. I guess.”
He turns onto his side. “Is that what you want?”
“I don’t know.” She curls an arm beneath her cheek. She smiles. “What do you want?”
“I have enjoyed you.” He looks in her eyes. “Very much.”
A corner of her mouth lifts. “More than you thought you would?”
He grins. “Perhaps.”
“So, do you just like blondes?”
“No. Not especially.” He studies her face. “There is something about you that is interesting to me. Some way of moving through the world. There is vulnerability in you, but there are moments where it becomes camouflage.” That is what caught my attention.” He tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “The change.”
“I’m not sure what to say to that.”
He shrugs. “There’s no need to say anything.”
She sighs. “I don’t want to go home.”
“That is not my decision to make.”
“There’s…there’s a warm body at home. Not there now, not literally, but there is.” She rolls her eyes. “He was my college boyfriend, we were going to get married and then I just couldn’t do it. So, I ran away. Literally, like that whole stupid runaway bride thing, and that’s when…”
“Yes?”
“That’s when…when those guys…”
“Shall I hug you? Would that feel safe?”
“I don’t know.”
Hannibal moves enough to unmake the bed. He pulls the blanket, the softest sheet, up to her breasts. “Is that better?”
Lumen pulls the covers tight around her. “Yes.”
“Go on.” He pauses. “Only if you want to.”
“I…I don’t even know how it happened, one of them must’ve drugged me or something, I don’t know, but I was at this bar and then the next---minute, morning, I don’t know---I was in an abandoned building. They had done it before. I didn’t know it, but I think I did. I didn’t want to know it. All the signs were there.” She closes her eyes, whispers. “Stains on the floor. Chains. But, when you’re being tortured, when you’re being held captive, time changes. You lose your grip. I don’t know how many days they had me there. They beat me, they cut me. Sometimes they gave me water. There was a lot of rape. I don’t know how many times.”
“But you got away.”
“Yes!”
“Then Dexter came into your life.”
“He saved me. I don’t mean that in some hokey metaphorical way, either. Literally. One of the guys was holding me in his attic, he had it all retrofitted with heavy duty locks and reinforced doors.” She moves hair out of her face. “You see, he and his friends had been doing this for a long time.” She moves onto her belly, looks down. “And this guy, it was his job to kill us, when they were done with us. Dexter had been tracking him for a long time.” She licks her lips. “He knew he was killing people. So he came to the man’s house, and he killed him.” She stares off into the hallway. “I saw him do it. I was at the door, peeking through the mesh-reinforced glass, and I saw him. He saw me. I was going to die, but he saw me. He saved me.”
“Telling this story has made you beautiful.” She turns her face away but he cups it, turns it back to him. “It reddens your mouth,” he murmurs, “and it dilates your eyes. They’re sparkling.”
“I felt good that he died the way he did,” she whispers, touching his knuckles. “He deserved it.”
“Did he drown in you, this man called Dexter?”
“Y-Yes, I think so. He might have.” She blushes and shakes her head. “I don’t know.”
“Did you want him to?”
“Aren’t I supposed to?”
He chuckles. “Some would accuse womankind of destroying that which she loves.”
“Would you?”
“Only if the memory of him is pulling you under. Is it pulling you under, Lumen?”
She starts to cry.
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Lumen Obscura