A/N: Written for XxXRegretXxX 's 61 Themes Competition.
I got "man against nature" (creative title huh?)and Rodolphus Lestrange along with my prompts :3
Rodolphus gripped Bella's hips as he pounded into her. It was hot to the touch, burning his fingers. Her skin was beaded with sweat and it looked alive in the firelight. She looked like she was melting.
He felt ruthless, and mean, but he had no care. His calloused hands, blistered by the villainess, would suffice as punishment. Now only instinct mattered. It was him and his mate.
There was no greater contrast. He could sense her depth, her lack of virtue. She wasn't solid, or pure or new. And neither was he; but that didn't matter. It wasn't material.
Like chasing the sunlight by the moon. It created a deep chasm. A reality like none other, if anyone cared. Her slicked legs, he traced their length. Tongues of fire licked and shadowed. Their silhouettes on the walls. Entwined puppets. Cut off from their strings.
They moved together.
Danced.
Each move was mirrored by another. Each pawn played by the same hand. Impressions made in the intention of not. Trying not to. Not light enough.
She gave the call, wild brought to life. He could sense her enthusiasm, feel it in his bones. Her lips, sound echoing into the night. A call that all knew.
Still her face shimmered, swam in and out of view. She was real, was she not, his mate. He could feel the arch of her back, stretch of her spine.
Neither stepped on the others feet, each with enough room. Rodo was hooked, latched on, too tight to let go. Like sticks and stones, plummeting, raining down like a parade or ensemble. Killing the vibe of he hunter.
A quick kill, nice and easy, slow and steady. Don't you know how to win the race? Rodolphus wouldn't let up, it was against his nature. He had to keep going, for all things good.
She wouldn't push away, she knew. She braced her palms, narrowed her eyes, and focused. Like an ocean, calm and still. Like a victim. Against their will.
Not the best choice, but a better one. A supernova of options. Nothing is your own.
Middle ground. Like a disguise. Made up. Not showing you, not showing yourself. He couldn't bear it, he could. It was wrong. She was right. This was right. It wasn't unnatural. Not like that. Like so much.
Roses falling all around her, her curly hair in continued cascades. She on her all fours like the very mutts they were; you can't clean it that deep. Disgusting, yet lovely, like not making up your mind. It was no decision. No man's land.
Playing it wrong.
Against your instinct.
Against nature.
Rodolphus against nature.
Man against nature.