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When She's on Top by hellbound
 
When She's on Top
 
She flips them so she’s on top.

He growls softly and lets his eyes flash golden a moment as though he doesn’t like the change, as though he doesn’t like giving up control. Never does him any favors, letting her know he enjoys her aggression. Odd, that; you’d think the chit would appreciate someone who lets her be herself. Some corn-fed nit prolly told her it’s not “normal” for a girl to be aggressive in bed. Doesn’t matter why, just gives her another opportunity to remind him he’s so far beneath her she has to stand on her head to see the top of his. But he doesn’t mind her being in control. He rather likes when she’s on top. For several reasons, he thinks.

When she’s on top, whatever light there is filters through her hair. The strands shine and glow gold. It’s why he thinks of her as Goldilocks; even now when the gorgeous blonde locks have been shorn and striped. Not that he would tell her that. He’s fairly certain bald wouldn’t work for her. Candle light, moon light, street light, window filtered house light, it doesn’t matter; it makes her hair like something Rumpelstiltskin spun. Makes her look like the angel she is. He wishes he knew how to tell her that, that he thinks she’s an angel. Doubtful it would come out right. Nothing else does. He wonders what it would be like in the sun. Beautiful, of course, she’s always beautiful, even when she’s crying her eyes out or waving stakes and friendly – well, nonviolent-towards-humans – vamps. Be blinding most likely, like looking into two suns at once. And so bloody worth it…to have her in the sun.

When she’s on top, she has to be there with him. If she’s on top, then she’s bloody well callin’ the shots. It’s her bleedin’ show. She can’t blame him later for corrupting her or whatever nonsense she’s spouting any given morning, evening, midnight, pre-dawn… that time when she’s reminding them both of what an evil fiend he is and just how richly he deserves the kick in the teeth while she races around looking for her shoes and knickers. He can’t bugger it up if she has all the control. And he needs all the help he can get. ’Cause he can bugger it up just fine and more than often enough outside the bedroom. Or the ally. Or the balcony. Or where-sodding-ever.

When she’s on top…when she’s on top she’s not the only one that can forget. It’s like they’re back in that collapsing building. It’s like being back in those hours before the not-a-thing-just-a-this wasn’t the most perverse and degrading experience of her life. It’s before it was a freak show meant to end daily. It’s before he’s just a convenient sex toy that happens to be more comfy and adaptable than what can be bought. It’s before his head first met dainty slayer foot sans boot. He pretends the words haven’t been said yet. He pretends he still has a chance to show her he can be good for her; that they haven’t reached that point of no return he’s not sure they didn’t pass before she even died. He joins her in that place she goes where she forgets heaven and earth and bloody stupid friends and absentee watchers and needy sisters and demons that love her. And he forgets she goes there.