My little bit for Ninapolitan's Birthday Anthology.

Beat'd by Kat.

Go read all the others.... there's some amazing stuff there....http://www. fanfiction. net/s/5437177/1/

All Twilight character names belong to Stephanie Meyer. The title comes from Sonnet 100 by Lord Brooke Fulke Greville. All plot, details, and words belong to me. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without express written authorization.©2009 LittleClareStar. All rights reserved worldwide.


The sky is completely black. Not dark blue, not dark gray. Pitch black.

A cacophony of nature's music fills the cold night air as the angry sea pounds against the nearby rocky shore and the coursing the rain violently batters against everything in its downward path. A lone sheep bleats in the distance, somewhere up on the higher ground, it's cry echoing into the darkness.

The land should be completely dark, too. All the electric lights are turned off. There aren't any stars and blankets of clouds obscure the moon.

However, pumpkin lanterns sit perkily in each window and soggily on every doorstep, each with a small light in it, giving the tiny coastal road a freaky, orangey, flickering glow. The reflections in the puddles quiver and dissipate as the pellet-like rain drops assault the pools of water littered all over the uneven road, creating never ending ripples.

Underneath a redwood tree, two figures huddle together. One is standing, one kneeling. One, a pleather covered woman, her catsuit chaffing on the bits of her skin she failed to cover with talcum powder, her furry tail limp and clumping, her pointy ears sticking out of her walnut red-brown curls, at a particularly jaunty angle. Her thick, feline make-up has run. The tip of her nose painted black with eyeliner with streaks running through it where the rain runs along it, creating a path of exposed skin. Her whiskers have been rubbed away over the course of the evening, and her false eyelashes are hanging off, making her unable to move her eyes properly.

She doesn't care though, doesn't give a fuck.

Kneeling in front of her, one hand on her black, patent hip, the other squeezing at her shiny ass, is Harry Potter. His bronze hair, normally a crowd pleasing haystack of what is teasingly known as sex hair, is plastered to his head, sticking to the lenses of his plain-glass spectacles, concealing the smudged and faded eye-liner created scar. His velour wizard's robe is no longer majestic, the plush material spotted with rain, patches of the short black pile matted. His old school tie is loose around his neck and the knees of his brother's grey trousers are covered in mud and grass stains.

His mouth is pressed up against her pussy. He mutters something about it being his pussy, and she grabs at his flat hair, pulling it hard, scraping her long black glittery talons across his scalp. He is breathing heat into the area of her covered clit, pressing his tongue against the pleather covered lips, knowing that she has nothing on underneath her costume. Nipping gently, he receives nothing from his actions, no taste of her sublime wetness, no feel of her velvet skin. He knows, however, by the way she is writhing against the tree that she is turned on, that her wriggles mean he is drawing her towards an explosion, that the pressure and sensations he is creating, along with the fact that anyone could pass them at any moment, returning to town, journeying away from the party, are driving her insane. His fingers and hands and lips and tongue and teeth are pushing her towards the edge. He loves that power.

He thinks that he can smell her arousal, as her hips start to thrust towards his mouth and away again, but wonders momentarily if it's his imagination. He watches the contortions of her face as she starts to lose control, the hand on her hip moving across to her clit, his thumb furiously rubbing at it, the rest of his hand cupping her pussy, her bucking and writhing being controlled a little by the hand that is holding onto her tight ass.

His teeth graze the top of one thigh and across to the other, moving his hand out of the way. She whimpers at the loss of pressure, the lack of touch, and then he bites at her pleather lips, clicking his chiseled jaw as his tongue and bottom teeth worry at her, causing her body to shake, her breathing to hasten further and to become ragged as she starts to pant.

She calls out his name, once, twice, three times, getting louder each time. The fourth time she howls it, drowning out all other sounds around them, clutching frantically at his head, holding his face to her soaking pussy as he bites and sucks through her clothes, her legs starting to give out, passion overtaking her soul.

As she slides down to his level, the costume and the bark rubbing against each other, he meets her with his trademark smile, one side of his mouth in a full grin, the other more like a half of a grin. His eyes are wild, and his breathing is no slower than hers. She reaches for the tent in his trousers, rubbing the head, making his breath hitch.

"Later, love."

He stands and lifts her into his arms, being careful not to batter his painfully engorged hard-on with her bony hips.

"Home now, for round two," he whispers into her ear as he holds her to him, trying to keep her dry, praying silently that he doesn't trip in one of the muddy wet holes in the road. "I'm going to fuck you so hard that you can't remember your own name, so fast that you'll be convinced that I'm going to break you. You will scream for me to stop, you'll beg for respite, but you won't mean it."

She shivers into his arms, burying her head into his collar, rubbing her cheek against the soft material, purring.

He continues, his voice steady, thick with desire. "Then, Isabella, I'm going to make love to you so tenderly that just the thought of my touch will make you cum. You are mine. Mine. And I will keep claiming you until you believe that."

She snuggles further in.

"Yours, Edward, yours."