Adult-FanFiction.org : Television / Streaming

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
- 12
- 13
- 14
“I’m sorry I have to feed you this crap.” Will lies on his side on the floor, cheek on bicep. He reaches out, strokes with a fingertip the fur between each kitten’s ears. “When I get you home I’ll make you something good. Okay?”
They sit at the rim of a paper bowl, tiny bodies hunched close. Cheek to cheek, they wolf down chunks of canned meat.
It’s late. The weariness of the hour creeps into him; passing minutes try to sing him to sleep, but his mind will have none of it.
He turns onto his back. At floor level, beneath the hum of the vents, the sounds of kittens eating sounds like a pride of lions ripping apart the corpse of an antelope. He puts his arm over his eyes. He’s tired, his muscles twitch, he wears his skin like a garment gone weak at the seams—he clenches, each second is like the slow tickle of loose hairs, stray feathers, frayed tags. He longs for stillness.
He clenches his jaw, breathes through his nose. In his mind, he begs for calm. The need for it fills his mouth, trembles at the brim of his lips.
This guy, I think…I think there’s something smooth about him. Unhurried. Like he’s got no worries, and the only thing I can think of that would generate that sort of confidence in the nature of time is money. I would’ve made him out to be mid-thirties, maybe up to mid-forties—no more than that because this guy is strong, his body is still with him, he doesn’t have arthritis or heart problems—and he needs brute strength to do what he does. But I think maybe this guy short-circuited the usual path to self-control—a passage of years—with piles and piles of money. When you’re rich, and we’re talking filthy lucre, it doesn’t matter. None of it matters. You can always buy more time. You can always buy a bigger boat.
He swallows. Sparks go off in the big muscles of his thighs, fizzle down the insides of his legs. His toes twitch.
But it does matter, a little. It matters here, in this scheme of things. Because money cannot buy self-control, nor can it buy skill, nor patience. If he’s young, he’s going to make mistakes.
The kittens wander away from their bowl. They go short distances away, contort themselves to bathe.
“I hate this job,” he murmurs.
Because that’s what we need—at the end of the day—is for a killer to make a mistake. For him to leave his fucking breadcrumbs, to make a trail back to whatever fucked-up neural crossroads in his brain steered his life down a charnel road. I can catch him, I can catch them; I can take it, whatever it is, and hold it up to a mind-map and make it make sense. But, at the end of the day, the true worth of my salary is paid in corpses.
The wood creaks outside the door.
“I know it’s you,” he murmurs. “The floors in this building are too new to creak. They could bear even your completely improbable weight. So, before someone like Dr. Lecter comes along and suggests that I ask: what is it that you want?”
Shadows slide under the door, slant crossways over Will’s face. He hears a soft snort. He imagines the animal lowering its huge head, nostrils laboring to catch his scent.
“What do you want?”
The answer floods his brain, slices thin images and spreads them out in a fan: a stillness of water, wings settling against a crow’s back, blood on the snow. Crackling fire. The shapes of trees, made mysterious by fog.
One of the images is more vivid than the others. It climbs up out the dark and he falls into it, the scent of it dancing into him, dragging its little flashes of revelation like skirts: pale hands, skin thickened with blood and buried in viscera; they press close together, plunge in one over the other. Ropes of bowel pile up out of a wound, translucent, slippery, still pink and blue and lurid with life. These hands, older than his. The bones are thickened, tendons ropy, the skin woven with veins like vines. Hauling them out, the entrails. These reddened hands tingle over the shapes of Will’s fingers, press close to his callused palms. They embrace his long white wrists.
“I…I-I don’t,” Will sighs, brows furrowing. He tosses his head. “Never mind.”
The wood creaks.
Will rubs his face against the back of his wrist. “You can go away now.”
He listens until the breathing is gone, until the shadows move on.
He concentrates on the sea. He summons a vision out of the backs of his red lids and sees it, the sun like needles where its bright, here is the color of the sea as it is in the shallows: the light blue-green of the Keys, with its dark patches of coral and the thin wings of white foam driven into the surface by the wind. He starts to add a boat, to draw a curtain of night across the sky.
The vision fights back.
He sees the beach, pale water, seaweed, he smells it cooking beneath the sun. Even the water is flat; all of the land falls into a swoon beneath the heavy heat of summer.
At first the picture is too bright, warm. He sees her, at first her movement, the design of her body printed against the land, the notes of her rhythm scrawled in shadow across the sand. The sun comes, it illuminates her winter skin and casts a flush beneath the scattering of dark freckles on her chest. It turns them into a map of the night sky.
“Goddammit.” He opens his eyes. He shakes his head. “I can’t fucking think.”
The white ceiling hurts his head, tightens the corners of his eyes until the slightest movement strums a dull note of pain.
He squeezes them shut.
I can imagine this: bar light passing through the smoky amber of decent whiskey, it’s not excellent but it’s not bog water either. It sits swirling in a squat glass, light fractured by a handful of jagged cubes. They’re the kind prized free underneath the bar by a deft hand with an ice pick.
I can imagine the first taste, its slow burn on the back of my tongue. The bloom of alcohol fumes rise up, slice through all of my moorings. It’s a blade that caresses, it’s so sharp that in the beginning there’s no pain, only a kiss, a tingle, a throb before two things part forever. Before the blood comes.
Heat rushes into his skin. His flanks tighten; a fine tremble spreads down, coils into his belly. It burrows beneath his hipbones. It curls around his inner thighs.
But, right now, I cannot imagine you…y-you salt-crusted, twisted, filthy rich murderous fuck.
He hears the quick soft scamper of paws, the hitch of nails in the carpet. Whiskers flutter across his cheek. They scrape around the damp velvet point of a nose.
“Hello, kitty,” he murmurs. He smiles. “What are you doing?”
It jumps onto his chest.
“Okay,” he chuckles. “Okay.”
Why would she think I was following her?
Will opens his eyes.
In his mind’s eye, he sees her long blonde hair yanked back toward the land. She stands, eyes turned up, her gaze pressed hard to his face. Those long dark eyes, horizons full of night. The bold bones of her face. Her small pink mouth, parted and trembling at him.
She wants to be a broken bird but she can’t. Another thing coils inside her skin, takes the place of wings. Trembling in its fear, it learns me through the touch of its eyes. It lies in wait. Knows my topography by heart. Though it has been subdued by light, made lazy by the heat, is still dangerous.
Her remembers her phone, white-knuckled. Her longs arms tense. As though she might haul back, swing, and shatter the screen against the side of his face.
He presses the heels of his hands to his temples.
“What have you done, what thing in your life, to earn the fear of my interest?”
He feels her breath in his ear. He closes his eyes, imagines her standing on tiptoe to do it. He is aware of the nearness of her body, her sinister skin like the approach of night.
His body twists from side to side, slow. He tries to throw the images off but they cling to him.
Civil twilight, dark stars, a violet hour burned into her by the fierce love of the Florida sun. Her voice is low, husky, curling like smoke against the side of his face: Why don’t you back me into a corner and find out?
Her mouth quivers, caught between the rapid pulse of his breath and the sloppy elision of hers. A trapped thing. Out of somewhere comes her face beneath his hands. It presses into his palms, the skin radiating heat trapped beneath it, like a fever. He brings his mouth close to hers, he does not kiss her when she parts her lips, when uses the sway of her weight to try and make him fall. Even when she whimpers for it, claws at him, he doesn’t. He shoves fingers into the rough silk of her hair, makes fists. He inhales her, speaks into her open mouth. He slings heavy breath against her teeth. Why would I want to do that?
On the other side of flesh, his hand crawls down the front of his zipper. He keeps his eyes shut against the light, the room, the buzzing of the bulbs, the pine smell of the bathroom with its shivering air. The kitten jumps off him. He brushes her away, grips his thickening cock through his pants.
I can imagine this: Alana, her little-girl eyes, the luminescent ones she puts on just for me. She, adrift in country darkness, the softness in her mouth just so, the angle of her look just so, the muted colors touching down on her white skin. Fluttering. How still she went that night, caught in my approach like an animal—something small and soft and dumb—her body trembling, swollen with the burst of adrenaline its flesh didn’t know how to use.
His hand trembles, fingers curling.
She accepted my kiss—breathed her fleeting surrender—out of fear.
In his mind, Lumen looks up. She’s soaked in moonlight instead of sunlight. She wears grown-woman eyes, their darkness made darker, belladonna eyes dilated with the kind of desire that’s like thirst, hunger, it’s the kind of thing a body will struggle against until it cannot, until it is undermined by itself and the weakness comes.
Hunger, thirst, he thinks, when they are lifted out of the everyday, when they are driven past the extreme, they will make cannibals of us all.
It happens in a moving dark, a departure of the sun built from layers of slowly thickening shadow. He looks down. Hears water murmuring somewhere, inhaling and exhaling with the tide. Starlight picks out the long shapes of her thighs and her hands are on his body, fingertips like coals inside his clothes; she unzips, takes him out. The red on her lips makes them easier to see. She inhales his cock like oxygen and he fills her mouth, her throat, until a low rich moan brews in her lungs. It wells up, spills from her nose and it’s so hot, scalding; her mouth floods his mind.
Hurried, frantic, his fingers stumble over themselves to yank down his zipper. He breathes hard and arches his back, one hand working itself down into his pants.
In his mind, the loosened fall of her hair covers his face. It traps his breath, makes it struggle against the silken strands caught in his mouth, in his nose.
He digs three fingers deeper into her pussy, he pants, speaks in a low murmur: Is it better to out-monster the monster? He feels her gasp, slick walls tightening around his knuckles. Her hips move from side to side. He cradles the back of her head with his other hand, presses his lips to her temple: Or to be quietly devoured?
She bumps into him and giggles and there’s a burst of heat on his chest, her mouth crashing open against the skin. Nietzsche said that.
A flood of wet rides his fingers, slips between them and he smells her, raw and tidal, her wild breath like flowers and brimstone, her hair still clinging to a babyfresh trace of shampoo. The hot meat of her body pulses with the rhythm of her erratic, half-drowned laughter.
He takes hold of her hair, pulls her head back, whispers: Yes. He leans his forehead into hers, his breath running away from him; he looks into her eyes and moves his thumb against her clit. The rush of sensation trembles at the corners of her mouth, breaks across her face. Yes, he pants, mouth approaching hers. He speaks, the words caught in his teeth, into the force of her breath. He did.
Will yanks his shirt up past his ribs. The heat builds in his skin, flushes his face, pulses tight and hard at the core of his cock. He takes it in his hand. He strokes. His mouth opens. His eyes roll up.
But…but why would she think I was following her?
He pauses, breathing hard; he opens his eyes and finds the ceiling floating above him, lazy and drifting at the edges. His cheeks burn. His palm sweats against his cock.
It’s okay, Will. Lecter’s voice, prowling around the inside of his head. This doesn’t mean anything. It is merely a fantasy conjured in the heat of a moment to assist a particular biological function.
He wipes sweat of his hairline with the back of a trembling wrist. “With all due respect, Doctor,” he mutters, “you can fuck off now.”
Will takes deep breaths. He turns onto his side, bends his limbs, pushes himself to his feet in increments. He walks to the bed, one hand held out between his eyes and the bright spill of the bedside lamp. He switches off the lamp. The room exchanges its clinical whiteness for a pale blue-gray that is like water climbing the walls.
He strips off his clothes; they are too heavy on him, they hang too close to the skin. He peels the covers back. Climbs onto the bed. Turns onto his back. Breathes. Kitten claws scratch their way up the side of the mattress.
“Hi,” he sighs, turning his face into warm kitten fur. He runs a lazy thumb up and down the underside of his cock. The kitten starts to purr. He smiles a little. “I don’t know if you want to be up here right now.”
The kitten wriggles her way up over his head, snuggles down between the pillow and the headboard.
“Strange.” His eyes start to twitch. “Weird little beast.”
He falls asleep. He stutters into a dream, it comes like flashing shadows over him, glides on wings. He feels it in his blood. There is a lot of blood. It’s hot, thick; it stinks of brimstone and clings like salt to his lips.
I want to be awake. He pushes at the black, makes an effort, but sleep is too heavy. The back of his head, his jaw, one side of his face feel numb. He touches them and senses the pillow beneath, the sheets, a trace of detergent with a smell like industrial-grade flowers.
Why would I follow you? Why would I? Why would I follow you? Why would I?
“Who are you?”
The sound of his voice, rusty, clogged with spit, digs into the black and makes it fall away. He opens his eyes and he’s in the room, but the layout is different, the light is different: here, on the walls, a spill of long reddish light, orange, it makes him pink, it weakens the shadows cast by the furniture until they are long, purple, spun-out, thin. On one wall there is a stone fireplace like the fireplace he has at home. Antlers grow out of the ceiling, dead lightbulbs affixed to their tips. The floors are smooth tile. It’s hard to move. Coils of sleep hold him down, keep him still, an anchor. Outside the window, he hears the low murmuring rush of the ocean. The wind comes. It gushes, smells like fish. It flips aside the heavy hotel curtains.
A long white arm shoots through the window, folds at the wrist. It grasps at one of the moving curtains.
Will lifts his head.
Lumen crawls in. She’s wearing a long thin torn-up dress, it’s white cotton; sunset light slices through it, carves her shape out of the dark. He watches her. His eyes follow her becoming, the way she unfolds into, becomes part of, the space. With a languid stretching movement she throws off the dress.
He looks at her nipples. His mouth waters. “Who are you?”
She tilts her head. “You already know.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I don’t. I…I-I really don’t.” He swallows. “I know I don’t,” he whispers.
“Shhhhhhh shhh shh shhh,” she breathes, finger over her lips; she draws close, glides through the stew of light. Her shadow touches him, slides across his skin, blocks out the searing pink that pours out of the window. Her knee touches down on the edge of the bed. Her hair, stained orange, drags across the bedspread. “Yes, you do.”
He drinks in the curves of her body. He licks his lips. “I am so hard right now.”
“I know.”
“No, really. It actually hurts.”
“I know.”
She straddles him, crawls up toward his face. The tips of her hair do their feather-dance up his hip, belly, across his chest; it plucks his nerves, dissolves him into wracking shivers, avalanches of hot icy pinpricks knocking the joints of his bones together. His breath goes ragged. He stares at her, into her dark eyes. He grabs onto the bedspread, makes fists.
“I feel that everywhere,” he gasps, arching his throat. His mouth falls open. He rides out the mindless twist of his spine. “I feel everything everywhere.”
She arches her back, slides down onto her forearms. She brings the heat of her mouth right to the rim of his. “I know,” she murmurs.
He creases his brow. He whimpers. “Who are you?”
“Once upon a time,” she murmurs, trailing hot puffs of breath along the line of his cheekbone, “not so long ago, I did a very bad…bad…”
She licks the sweat off his temple. The wet velvet sensation shoves a white hot blade of lust into his groin.
“…bad thing.”
He grips her thighs, grits his teeth. “W-Why?”
“Shhhhhhh,” she sighs, running the tip of her nose down the bridge of his. “Shhh shh shhh.”
He grabs her face, drags her mouth into a kiss. He yanks on her hair. The flats of his teeth grind into her lips: “Git on my dick.”
She touches his cock with light fingers. His breath quickens. She angles her hips, slides down. He gasps, holds his breath for a quivering split-second, arches his throat. He grabs her ass, pulls her against him. He groans.
“So…do you think I’ve killed?”
“Y-Yes…yes!”
“Why would I do it?” She shifts, up and down, it’s a tiny movement, almost like a flutter. “What was my reason?”
“G-Gawd…I don’t know…I dunno…uh…I-I…” He arches his back, writhes; a long low moan scrapes up the back of his throat.
“Why…would…I…do…it?”
He opens his eyes. The light is hot, feverish, it gleams red on her skin and makes sparks in her eyes. The look in them is sharp. Water-light ripples across the ceiling. He struggles to move her body on him, to thrust. She wrestles his hands off her, grabs his wrists, holds them down.
“Scars,” he breathes, “you have scars on you, I’ve seen them, whoever put them there,” he gasps, takes a breath, “whoever put them there had to die. Had to. Didn’t they. They earned it. A lot of w-women poison, they like that, they don’t want to use their hands but they want to watch, but…but…” He pushes his feet into the bed, thrusts up into her. “N-Not…not you. Blood. You spilled it, wanted it, needed it fuck…gawd…fuck!”
“Your Looseyanna’s showing.” Her mouth blooms into a grin. “I like it.”
Will bolts up out of sleep, abrupt, intense pleasure quivering in the pit of his belly. He startles awake, shrouded in sweat, the air is heavy and still and he fumbles around through the sheet and grabs his cock, strokes it with rapid hard strokes. He catches the receding wave of orgasm in his teeth, grunts, cries out with the force of it.
He collapses back into ruined consciousness, woozy, his roughened breath the only sound, his hand disconnected from the rest of his body. Hand, crawling away from him. Hand, dragging the arm behind it.
He gropes for a box of tissues. Kicks the wet sheet off him. Wipes the sticky globs out of his navel hair.
Will throws the tissues onto the floor. He’s hollowed out; there’s room for his exhaustion.
He maps out the topography of Lumen’s scars. He comes up with a belt, a whip, a long piece of wire. Something that cuts but when held by the hand.
Those scars, he thinks, sinking back into the black. He hears the snores begin. The words follow him down, flutter to his feet. They are no accident.
- 12
- 13
- 14
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Lumen Obscura