'Sinful Are Thy Darkened Games, My Love'

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the words of this story and the ideas within. The characters, which I have so evilly manipulated, belong to J.K. Rowling, and I'm near positive that she would disapprove of the way I've stripped them of their innocence.

Author's Note: I began writing this fairly randomly, and this is the final result. Feedback would be greatly appreciated.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

`Sinful Are Thy Darkened Games, My Love'

She stands, leaning up against the wall, as though she has no worries in the world. She looks innocent enough, but it is an act. There, within her impassioned brown eyes, an enticing feral gleam dances, intertwining with her desire, all resulting in an animalistic intensity. But the soft features of her face are calm, nonchalant almost. The skintight leather clothing she wears barely covers her, but this is the way she plans it.

He watches her. Aware. He stands at the other end of the chamber, contemplating the effect she has on him. The animal she brings out in him, the feral desire, the monster roaring within his chest. He thinks of the way in which his self-control dissipates with each additional moment that he watches her. Yet, he takes no action. He continues to watch.

She is silhouetted in the dim light, a result of the candles that float nonchalantly throughout the chamber. It is the only source of light, and it flickers amidst the stone, illuminating the chamber with an eerie glow.

They take pleasure in it. The dark ambiance excites them.

She knows that he is watching her, just as she wants him to, and all though the dim lighting does not allow for her to see the expression etched into his handsome features, she knows that he wants her, for she can sense it.

He wants her, just as she wants him to. Just as she wants him.

He knows of her plans, and as always, it works out just the way she hopes it will. She wants him to want her, although she knows he already does. Yet, she plays her game, over and over again.

She waits for him to make the first move. Waits until his attempts at control become futile. Until he can withhold no longer. She need not wait long.

He strides over to her, the power in his stance exciting her, his fringe hanging down before his eyes. It cleverly camouflages a legendary scar. He wears black jeans and a leather jacket. His jacket hangs open, off his squared shoulders. He wears nothing underneath the black leather, revealing the extent of the muscles upon his chest and abdomen.

He reaches her, a determined gleam within his emerald green eyes. He grasps her hips roughly, pulls her to him. He grinds his hips against hers, as she takes hold of his shoulders beneath his jacket with a power that excites him. Her nails dig into his flesh, though he cares not of that. He crushes her lips beneath his. She allows him entrance into her mouth momentarily. The thrusts of his tongue within her mouth are intoxicating.

He explores every inch of her body, his fingers pausing at her black leather brassiere, then proceeding to trail upon the leather straps that begin where her bra ends, and connect to the waistband of her leather skirt, which only reaches to just beneath her arse. He slides his hand beneath her skirt to find that she is wearing nothing underneath. He expects as much, it is part of the game she plays.

A jagged pleasured breath escapes her as he, without hesitation, inserts two of his digits into her. She is so ready for him, he knows for he feels the extent of the wetness that surrounds his fingers. It arouses him, impassions him, and he wants more. He feels himself throb painfully within his jeans, and he thrusts his fingers into her repeatedly. He wants to please her. She screams out, moments later, calling his name between heated breathes as she climaxes, her juices spilling over his fingers. He withdraws his fingers, trailing his hand upward.

She does not care that she is being soiled by her own juices. They cover his fingers so enticingly. The fingers he is trailing up her body. It excites her, and he knows it. This is part of his game. She removes a hand from his shoulder, entangling her fingers within his dark locks. She watches him, catches his gaze. He is her prey. She wants to sink her teeth into his throat and drink of him.

He notes how ready she looks to tear him apart, and he wishes she would. He would return the favour. Her blood would taste so sweet. He watches as her fangs withdraw past her lips, feeling the tingle in his own gums, signaling that his were following suit. He expects this, for it is his feral desire for her that brings it on.

He entangles his hand in the curls of her brown hair. He pulls her close to him, kisses her with nearly impatient heated desire. She returns his kiss, bringing her hands to his shoulders. She pushes his jacket backwards and off his shoulders, and he withdraws his hands from her, fully removing his jacket hastily and allowing it to fall to the floor.

He dares not break the kiss, for he wants her so badly that he fears the loss of contact could kill him. He replaces his hand in her hair, reaching up with the other to expertly undo the complicated clasp of her brassiere. He knows she does it on purpose. Purposely picks to wear the bras with clasps far more complicated to undo than average. She wants to frustrate him. For when she does, he ravishes her body with twice the ferocity and passion. It is all a part of her game. A game that drives them both mad with desire.

He pulls the bra away, though it continues to hang from the leather straps at the waist of her skirt. He cares not of this, for he can now feel her. He moves his hand to grasp her breast fiercely. She cries out in pleasure. She loves it when he plays rough, and he knows it. He notes how desirable she is, the extent to which she excites him. He notes the perfection of her body, how satisfying it is to hear her cry out to him amidst her passion. He wants her, wants to have his way with her.

A ferocious animalistic growl escapes from deep within his throat. He continues to devour her lips with his own. He knows that if he breaks the kiss, he will sink his fangs into her throat. Drink of her. He won't restrain himself. She knows this, and it excites her. He knows that she knows it, and this is a part of his game.

She drops her hand to the waistband of his jeans. She unclasps his belt with a fervent haste. He doesn't think he can wait much longer. Their kiss is finally broken. They are panting erratically. She unfastens the button and zip of his jeans, hurriedly pushing them down his hips. She pulls his boxers off momentarily. She grasps his arse, pulling him to her. Their hips grind, the roughness exciting them.

He cups her arse, pulling her up. He positions her legs around his waist. Her leather skirt bunches amidst her hips. He thrusts within her somewhat roughly. Both cry out the other's name. He tangles his hand amidst her chaotic brown locks, inadvertently tugging on them with each thrust. The slight sting excites her. She enjoys the pain, and once he sees it, he takes note of it, to incorporate it into a whole new game.

She rolls her hips harshly, hears a sharp intake of breath as response. The friction they create excites them, the knots in their stomachs tightening. They know they cannot hold back much longer. He growls, sinking his fangs into her neck. He drinks of her, her blood filling him with warmth. It is so sweet, so euphoric. He knows she feels it too; this is part of the game they play.

She follows suit, sinking her fangs into his sweet flesh, his warm blood running down her throat as she laps at it. They climax simultaneously, releasing their fangs from their lover's throats. Their teeth are stained with blood. They call out their lover's name. Each is soaked in the other's sweat, their necks bleeding profusely. It will heal quickly; they do not care of this. He spills within her, as she comes upon him. They note the erotic vision of their lovers before them. Appreciate their handiwork. Their breaths are short and quick, their hearts beating out of control.

He withdraws from her. She brings her legs back to the ground. He leans against her, rests his forehead upon the stone behind her, above her shoulder.

“Sinful are thy darkened games, my love,” he whispers huskily within her ear. She shivers, for his breath is hot upon her skin. The bleeding of their necks has ceased.

The glory of immortality.

“This I know, yet I am unable to resist,” comes her voice, slight laughter buried within it.

“I dare not complain,” he speaks simply, yet sincerely. Their breaths have begun to return to normal.

“You play games of thy own,” she tells him, a clear statement.

“That I do,” he replies, though does not elaborate; he knows that she hopes he would.

A comfortable silence befalls them.

“Thy blood be so sweet,” he whispers, kissing her neck near the already healed bite. His fangs have retracted, hers have as well.

“As be yours,” she replies. He knows she is smiling, although he cannot see her face.

He looks to her. A slight pause in speech and breaths. His eyes hold a meaningful intensity, as do hers. He becomes serious.

“I love you, Hermione,” he tells her. She knows it, does not have to be told.

“I love you, Harry,” she whispers in response. He knows it as well, yet he loves to be told.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

Author's Note: Well, here it is. It is a bit dark and all. I've made them vampires in case you haven't figured, and I tried to hint as much as I could to it being Harry and Hermione throughout the story. I think the `Harry' hints were a bit obvious; `Hermione' hints, on the other hand, were a bit more open to interpretation, but not by too much. Anyhow, any feedback would be greatly appreciated! I'd love to hear from you lot!

-->