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Maya’s used to associating Krieg with shades of red. She’s always liked him that way: seeing him splattered with gore, bathed and swathed in the red of a Dust sunset, red in the firelight when she kisses him and tugs on his collar. The pink of his scars and the deep, visceral crimson of his tongue as he licks over her hipbone with that obedient look in his eyes. He has always been red.
She never knew he’d look so good in blues.
He’s utterly dyed in blue, awash in a hyper-electric ocean. She pulls him under with her power, binding him at his wrists and cock until he’s gasping and she can kiss the little breath he takes away from his mouth. He looks up at her like he’s looking at the sun and he can see the blue sphere of it, burning him from the inside out, and it’s with pure love that he allows her to reduce him to ashes, running her fingers through his hair as she presses her knees around his ears. He’s only tongue and lips after that, his nose pressing into more blue, little curls that look so beautiful beaded with wetness, hers and his.
She finishes long before the thought of allowing him the same has passed through her mind and he can almost pretend he’s been pushed over the edge, too, when she cries out and glows brighter, when she tightens her grip around him and pushes against his mouth hard enough to cut his lip against his teeth. His own blood and the salt of her are rewards to him, enough of a prize to hold him in stasis for a moment longer.
She runs her fingers up his thighs when she’s come down, down beneath him and into him as smooth as the nape of her neck or the curve of her lips. He loves it when she turns him into an instrument, pushes at his insides to turn him this way and that, makes him keen and cry. There’s no end in sight when she has him like this, when they reach this point, and he couldn’t stand it if it was predictable. He turns into sound and the pure ache and obedience, he’s nothing if not obedient, he’s her dog, he’s her companion, he’d kill for her and he dies every day for her and she breathes life into him again, the blue rains on red desert dust.
When she allows him to finish, he thinks he’s died. When the blue vanishes, he explodes into something inhuman and it’s only with her hand smoothing over his hair, her voice in his ear that he can regain a part of himself, the part that allows him to open his eyes and smile, just for her. Always for her.
“Pretty lady,” he breathes.
“Good boy,” she murmurs, kissing his aching, bruised throat.
Her lipstick leaves a blue print and she smears it with her thumb. He smiles like she’s given him the world.
Blue is his favorite color.