Work Text:
Colors are imbued with symbolic meaning.
Dex learned that the specifics varied culturally. Anthropologist Victor Turner considered white to be the color of goodness and purity; black the opposite, and red a spectrum of goods and bads. How much of his ethnographic analysis was the result of his own biases? White may also be the color of death and mourning, black of fertility and the rich earth. And beyond that triad? Is blue calming, cold, or does it even exist? Is color in the eye of the beholder?
Dex’s brow furrowed as he reviewed the shelf of academic texts. The study of human cultures vaguely evoked memories of Quantico’s behavioral classes. For example, what made humans tick, what agents should and shouldn’t do when interrogating a subject. What was ethical. What was good. And what certainly was not.
At the same time, this collection differed. The ethnographies challenged the lessons he’d long since disregarded. Cultural relativism - could a deed be truly considered good? Yes, there were some values that seemed universal. But some traditions espoused forgiveness, others an eye for an eye.
A different shelf on the bookcase displayed textbooks about human history: the deep past and the more recent. The archaeological texts were more enticing, plastered with the skulls of warriors or intricately decorated metal objects. Dex continued to assemble his list of books to be read. There was a particularly tempting book on the archaeology of violence and warfare, the cover showing the progression of soldiers throughout history. Dex reached for it, gently placing the Turner book back in its place. He sat back in the chair, beginning to scan the table of contents before he heard the door beginning to be unlocked.
Dex turned around, placing this newest book on the desk before standing. You’d told him he had free range of your 'library' and - well, he hadn’t ever shied away from exploring you. The act of reading the texts had begun as a sort of love letter. He wanted to prove to you his commitment to discovering what you’d curated and nurtured your self, not only from his careful... observation.
“Hello sweetheart,” he called when he heard you step inside. It was the same pattern, the door would unlock, the backpack dropped, and shoes tugged off. He made his way towards you.
“Hey babe” you’d tried to pitch your voice to have an element of cheeriness. Dex appeared in the kitchen, coming from the direction of the study. He held open his arms and was immediately rewarded with an embrace. You sank into him, enjoying how his arms and chest felt.
“That bad today?” He kissed the top of your head. He’d caught your sagging shoulders when you first came in. This domesticity was the one source of sanity in his life.
“Yeah. The long term volunteers started fighting with the new interns, one of the sponsors of the gala thinks they have unlimited access to storage now and I acquired the most cursed set of fucking bagpipes,” you mumbled into his chest, beginning to feel better. He thought he smelled the faintest hint of gunpowder on your hair, and he made a mental note to ask how that acquisition process had gone. Your other job duties titillated and worried him.
“And my period started because it is the stupid placebo pill week, and I feel like trash.” You peeled your head back from him just slightly, appraising his face for any potential scratch.
Dex adored that look of concern. He could be himself and still also chosen by another. ‘Bad’ with the ‘good,’ violence with peace. He could have a duality of pleasure.
“I’m fine,” he rubbed your lower back. “You can check. Nothing new.” He moved his hands to yours, sliding them under his shirt and up his chest. It made you smile and therefore, he’d gotten what he wanted.
“Good,” you leaned upwards for a quick kiss, enjoying the smug grin on his face. He looked like sin. “What were you reading?”
“Turner, the color triad?” He looked up at the ceiling for a moment.
“Oh lord, I remember having to read the Forest of Symbols in undergrad,” you squeezed his sides for a quick second before disentangling from his embrace. “My professor had a brilliant feminist critique of the book, but I’ll save that for later. What did you think? Why did you pick that one?”
“I find the color system and liminality interesting. I wanted something unfamiliar,” Dex said thoughtfully, “and there’s spaghetti and salad in the fridge.”
“You’re the best,” you told him. And you really meant it. “Turner’s not.” And you really meant that too.
Dex’s slow entwinement with your own life had accelerated since you woke up in his arms the morning after he took care of your ex boss. The convenient excuses that often marked your early interactions had stopped. Dex waited for you at the bottom of the stairs instead of happening upon you. You knocked on his door because you wanted to see him, not that you happened to need help with something.
Gradually the time in between going back to separate places decreased, completely ceasing when you’d mentioned a promotion of sorts. The increase in position and income enabled a move from this building into one where tenants could have multiple rooms. The kind that lent itself to two people living in it.
He didn’t need to be asked twice.
With increased access to you, Dex was drawn to the objects in your life. His own apartment had been stark, a pattern which extended even towards his previous life in the FBI. In contrast, you had maps and trinkets from traveling. The new one you shared was dominated by tones of forest green, accents of browns and colors you called mauve, and some maroon; it was a welcome change from his black, white, and blue world.
While he didn’t have your psychometric aptitude, he didn’t need one with the books. They took patience but were anchoring him in more ways than one, answering questions he didn’t know he had.
“You’ll want to read Mary Douglas at some point after you finished Turner,” you’d told Dex while washing your dinner plate and bringing him out of his reflection. “Her major source contribution is about purity and contamination.” Maybe that was throwing gasoline on a fire, but you didn’t mind.
“I found your archaeology of violence book,” he said, looking down at his hands. His proclivities informing the reading choices were not lost on you.
“You’re going to need to be more specific, love,” you’d turned around from the sink to face him, “there’s Talheim death pits, head hunting cults in Gaulic France, the entirety of the Roman Empire.” You winked at him, drawing him back to the present.
“The past was never a golden age, was it,” he inclined his head to the side, thinking of how consumed he’d been with black and white.
“Nope. My advisor taught that in her classes the first day,” you said cheerfully.
He chuckled to himself, “we are who we are.”
You gave him one more smile, before grimacing at a slight cramp.
“Everything ok?” He was alert, but you put your hand up in a gentle gesture.
“Just sore,” you placed your hand on your abdomen. “Going to shower.”
“Mind if I join you? The death pit is tempting though,” he pretended to weigh each option equally. He could understand if you wanted to be alone.
“I don’t mind at all,” you replied, giving a little stretch before walking with him towards the bathroom and bedroom. You were quickly unbuttoning the now slightly wrinkled green dress, watching as Dex rather quickly disposed of his black turtle neck and jeans. He was hard not to look at when he was without apparel. Muscular back and strong legs - you lived together but his frame never ceased to please you. He was turning on the water now, testing the temperature with his hand.
Initially you’d been slightly self conscious the first time you’d mentioned bleeding but the look he’d given you had been entirely nonplussed.
You’d tried to argue that sometimes men were strange about it, even if their job or hobby - calling? - was to be an assassin. But he’d only shaken his head, laughing that he could ever be bothered by something as abundant as blood.
You joined him, letting the water flow over you and closing your eyes to enjoy the quietness of the moment.
“Here,” gentle voice, gentle hands. Dex moved to massage the shampoo into your hair. He was always careful, never letting the suds in your eyes. While you applied conditioner, he worked soap in his hands, kneading your poor tense shoulders, finding every trigger point and easing them out of you. He ran his hand over your spine as you cleaned your lower body. It had you letting out little sounds that quickly went straight to his lower stomach. You felt something long and hard smack into your backside. It made you giggle.
“Really?” You leaned back to look at him, lips glistening from the spray of the water. Pupils dilated, pleased smile - it was all the invitation he needed and he leaned over to kiss you, hands traveling to your hips.
“It wasn’t my motive. But it’s only natural, sweetheart,” his voice was throaty and you turned around, again facing him. He looked down at your body, paling your breasts and taut nipples before spying a little red between your thighs. You caught his gaze and opened your mouth but before you could say anything, he shot a hand out and cupped your face, applying gentle but firm pressure.
“Don’t you dare apologize,” he ordered with a growl before kissing you deeply.
Turner’s book considered red a spectrum, of pollution, of transition, of life, of death. Everyone sheds blood. Dex saw it nearly every day. It tormented him and tainted him, it was nothing to him, and ultimately he reveled in it.
But your blood, happening without harm (he couldn’t say without pain), lit him on fire. It felt divinely liminal, blood shed without the action of another. Without his violence. You were beautiful, alive and his.
He kissed you harder before breaking away, panting and eyes darkening.
It thrilled you.
“Go lay down on the bed,” his voice was throaty. Wordless you nodded, stepping out of the shower while he began scrubbing himself. The anticipation of burying himself in you was almost too much.
In the bedroom, you’d attempted to dry off as much as possible, trying not shiver at both the thought of his touch and the hair hitting your skin. You were able to glimpse what he’d been thinking, the emotions radiated from like steam from the shower.
Your poor man, if only he’d been raised in a group like yours, where the cycles and agents of life and death were celebrated. You’d been taught not to hide from the emotions evoked through sensing the histories of all objects but weather them. Dex clung to your calm like a ship making port in a storm.
You were laying the towel down when he emerged from the other room, eyes hungry and roaming your body. You laid back, remembering the first time the two of you had been together.
Dex stood at the end of the bed, breathing heavily. His skin was still a slight pink from the heat of shower, stretched tightly over tensed muscles. Your gaze flitted down towards his cock, the thick and flushed. It made you swallow reflexively, but to your surprise, wordlessly he sank to his knees at the end of the bed. It was obvious what he wanted to do, and causing your stomach to twitch with anticipation.
“Are you sure?” Your voice was so quiet, trailing off seeing the look on his face. His hands gripped your legs, and he tugged you towards him so you could feel his hot breath ghosting over your bare cunt.
Dex laid a kiss to your right thigh, stroking your entrance with his fingers and gathering the red slick between them.
There was nothing dirty or impure about this, he needed to make you see. To show you how this was his own ritual of acceptance.
You were sensitive of course, but not sore. And he was gentle, always keeping his promise that he would never hurt you. Fire in his eyes, but the movements were careful, controlled and speaking to a discipline he’d cultivated in his early adulthood. Dex continued to lightly tease you, until dipping a finger inside and making your toes curl.
“Dex,” you murmured, skin growing hot as he quickened his pace. The sounds in the room were obscene. He laid his other hand on the top of your clit, tracing light circles and watching your eyes close with enjoyment. Your body was tensing, as it aways did under his skillful touch. His hands were warm inside, moving with mechanical determination until you couldn't take it anymore.
“Stay with me sweetheart,” his voice was gravel with want as he watched you cum. He kept his motions until that delicious languidly post orgasm settled over your body and you were relaxed.
Dex looked down at his work, marveling at the crimson, and decided he had shown enough restraint. He leaned over your frame, cupping your face with the less blood stained hand and kissed you. For a moment you thought he’d crawl on top of you and shifted slightly to accommodate his weight but Dex only smiled, retreating back to his place between your legs. He trained the bloodier finger along your left thigh, enjoying the bloom against one of his favorite resting places. With one final glance at your face, he ducked his own head down to kiss your lower lips gently.
The first time in his life he’d tasted blood without having his face bashed in. No pain, only bliss. A pure goodness. He deepened his kiss, licking against you with fervor.
You watched Dex’s face with heavily lidded eyes, ready to back up if he had shown any sense of disappointment or discomfort but instead the sight took your breath away. Still sensitive from your first orgasm, you squirmed against him, both chasing and running from the sensation.
But you should have known better. He grabbed your hip with his left hand, keeping you in place. Dex groaned, half in satisfaction, half in warning.
As he’d told you once before, he would always chase.
His other hand went straight to his cock, trying to relieve some of the tightness that had grown almost unbearable. He was so hard, aching for stimulation but unwilling to stop his oral ritual. You were now grinding against him, fully committed to chasing your own pleasure. One of your hands had made its way into his hair, gripping tightly. He moaned against you at the sensation.
Dex licked around your clit in a circle, moving his hand from your thigh and slipping fingers inside of you, pressing against the spot you’d been craving. He was rewarded by feeling your thighs tighten around his head. God you appreciated that stubble and his skill. He alternating tracing his name on your clit with his suckling, never easing his internal stroking. The sensation was making your legs shake, even as you squeezed against him.
His eyes met yours, watching your impending orgasm.
“Dex,” you knew how he loved his name called. Once you’d asked him if he’d prefer Benjamin or Lester, but the name he used to introduce himself to you was what he wanted to hear from your pretty lips. He began to hum against you, pleased at your reaction. The increased sensation was enough to send you cascading over the edge and your body convulsed, entirely given over to a wave of Dex’s making. Dex only lightened his administrations as you stilled. He’d had to stop stroking himself or he’d have mess in his hand.
You cupped the side of his face he lifted his head from you. He looked feral. Blood coated his lips, trickled down towards the lower part of his face. But he was smiling, eyes crinkled with revelry.
“You look good Dex,” you told him honestly, tracing his lips with your thumb.
“Not as good a you,” he kissed your stomach, up towards breasts and finally resting beside your neck. His kisses had left a trail of blood up your body, painting you with his design.
You shifted slightly, raising your hips to meet his. Your hand found his cock, making him chuckle but the sound died in his throat, replaced by a low guttural groan the moment the head brushed your entrance.
“Need you Dex,” you whispered, eyes shutting as he entered you with a smooth thrust. God he felt so good, thick and throbbing, reaching spots you craved. It made you wrap your legs around his waist instinctively. He moved slowly, shallow thrusts at first, taking the time to appreciate the new sensation. And what a sensation it was.
Dex let out a whimper; you felt so good. Warm and so slick, he felt like your walls were gripping him with extra fervor. You met his thrusts, delighting in the feeling of him inside of you. One of his hands found yours and he gripped it tightly, increasing the pressure as his pleasure mounted. You mirrored his actions. His hips were positioned for the heavy base of his cock to rub against your clit. When he pressed against you, you rocked against him harder, both you locked in a sweet ecstatic dance.
“I would die for you sweetheart,” he said suddenly in your ear. “Or I would kill for you.”
“I love you too Dex,” you murmured, smiling when he squeezed your hand in response to those words. With your free hand, you trace the muscles of his back, a cord tightening in your abdomen.
“I can feel you clenching love, that’s it,” Dex encouraged, a glimmer of his flirtatious spark entering his tone, “want you to fall apart on my cock, be a good girl for me.”
You responded by digging your nails into his back. Dex’s words went straight to your pussy, making walls flutter and heart pound.
“That’s my girl,” he rasped his encouragement, snapping his hips to yours in deep thrusts. Your movements were stilling as your body tightened around him.
He couldn’t hold on for much longer after feeling you fall apart on his cock. He was still thinking of what he done to you. He could taste you on his tongue and feel how your thighs squeezed around his head as he showed his deep appreciation for the color red.
Dex rested his head against yours, cumming with a satisfied exhalation of his own. His movements became jerky, fucking you deeply as spilled himself between your thighs. You let out a little moan of satisfaction, enjoying the feel of him on top of you. You stroked his back with one hand, smoothing the hair out of his face with the other.
“You alright there?” you whispered.
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” he responded simply, giving you a tender kiss. You let out a little laugh, almost half a sigh, pressing against him reassuringly. Something had happened to him tonight, something good. He stayed on top of you a few moments until moving off with a bit of a frustrated sigh, always loath to part from you. Within a moment, he pulled you into his arms. Dex kissed the top of your head, cradling you tightly. You’d given him an affirmative hum.
“Yeah I’m alright,” he finally replied, before loosening his grasp and adding, “but I suppose you want another shower.”
“It’s probably a good idea,” you told him, grinning a bit at his exaggerated grumble. He smiled down at you, reaching to cup your face once more.
“I think red really is your color,” he gave you a wink and you rolled your eyes before pressing a light kiss to his lips. He was beginning to think it was his too.