Disclaimer: Meyer's world. I get no money.
Warning: Notice the summary. Please, if you cannot take dark sexual situations, do not read.
"I and the public know
What all school children learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return."
Rochester, New York, 1933
It was bright blue outside, and the cold was sharp as glass. The wind sliced through the trees and rendered even the locusts quiet.
Even though she glittered like the Hope Diamond in the light, Rosalie needed an outside walk; she hadn't felt sunlight since before she died. It was a good walk, trudging through the peat lands, sketching owls in her diary.
Then suddenly, so quick it was surreal, Rosalie stumbled upon the cold blue body of Molly Cooper, curled under a tree on top of Joachim's Hill. One moment Rose was leaping up the hill, seeing how high she could Tigger-jump (six and half feet, well over Royce King's head). The next moment, she was staring at little dead Molly, her underwear mangled around her ankles, her mouth stuffed with hickory nuts.
Little Molly Cooper, who memorized the whole book of Genesis before her first Communion. The girl was last seen two days ago, collecting flowers for her grandmother's birthday.
The whole town of Rochester was frantically searching for her.
Rose stood there for several minutes, calculating how many nuts were in her mouth. It was like a church bazaar game, where they showed you a jar full of corn kernels and wanted you to estimate how many were inside.
Then she kissed Molly's waxen forehead and closed her eyes. She gathered up Molly's magenta orchids, which were scattered up and down the slope. She brought the flowers home and presented them to Edward.
Edward yelled at her for escaping from the house -again- saying that one of these days she was going to kill somebody on one of her little nature walks. Rose wasn't allowed out of the house. After all, she was a newborn, and she was still coping with her traumatic death, rendering her half batty with hysteria.
"For Pete's sake," he shouted, "why can't you just listen to people who knew better?"
Two hours passed.
Then the town search party arrived at the Cullen house.
They swarmed the sprawling property, with rifles over their shoulders and hound dogs at their heels. Whenever their masters came too close to the house, the hound dogs started howling, the smell of vampires in their noses, and the men would misinterpret the ruckus, hollering at each other, "I think the dogs found her scent!"
Edward had never smelled humans so lit up with adrenaline. With a heady combination of fear for Molly's life and lust for her abductor's head, the humans' blood boiled lava-hot, and sweat spilled through their pores, fumigating the air with pheromones and urea- sugar and spice for a vampire.
Carlisle was at work and Esme was simply out, leaving the children to fight blood lust on their own.
Rosalie sprinted for the window, her eyes black and beady, and knocked out the glass pane before Edward could restrain her. They wrestled on the floor and threw each other into a bookcase. She brawled like a wild cat- until she ended up in his arms, pressed against his chest. Once she realized she was in a man's lap, she quieted, still as a deer caught in ambush. Edward slumped against the wall of Carlisle's decimated library, his arms tightly wrapped around her abdomen.
He rocked her, murmuring soothing things in her ear.
His strength was no match for hers, and this ... arrangement... was his only chance to keep her calm.
"Come now, Rosie." He tightened his hold around her waist. "Tell me about Vera. Tell me how she guzzled Coca-Colas until she twitched."
Edward stirred underneath her restlessly. Rosalie had no rear to speak of, and the bones of her behind pressed uncomfortably into his thigh.
"Yes, Vera." He tried to listen to her mind, but the bloodlust over ran it. Muffled by gore-hysteria, her thoughts sounded disjointed, and crackled like bacon grease.
"She... squealed like a stuck... pig when she gave birth." She licked her lips as she said 'stuck'.
"When have you seen a 'stuck' pig?"
"At my uncle's farm. I went there. The pig's name... was Herbert Hoover."
Edward grinned at that. "I can't picture you on a farm."
"I hated it. They made me pray a lot. Read the Bible. The story of... Delilah. I always had to read that story about Delilah and Samson..."
"They wanted you to be a good woman."
He stroked her hair soothingly. Rosalie loved her hair to the point of fetishism. During the first days after her resurrection, she stayed in her room, compulsively combing it and dabbing it with mayonnaise to make it shine. The Cullens always bought food at the local store to keep up appearances, but for the most part the ingredients wound up in the compost heap. Then when Rose moved in, Esme was suddenly whipping up eggs and oil and vinegar, making mayonnaise for her hair.
Edward twisted a blonde curl around his finger. The act was detached, as dispassionate as he handled the wandering ivy Esme wanted pulled from the fence.
"Tell me the story of Delilah and Samson," he said.
"Samson was a ... soldier of God-"
She cut off, scrambling off his lap, her nostrils flared.
Edward sensed it too- Mr. Dickey, the town druggist, was edging along the house, his head knocking against the window boxes. Edward tried to reestablish his grip around Rose. His hands scrambled for a hold on her dress. They ripped through the cotton and slipped underneath her naked breasts. Her breasts were soft, neat. Edward was reminded of when he was seven and his twelve year old cousin Rebecca approached him. The buttons of her dress were undone and her budding chest was bared. "Touch them," she said. "Like I see my daddy do." He touched them and then he cried the whole night long.
Vampires' breasts were different, he noted. Without thinking, with a man's instinct, his fingers tightened around the flesh -clinically interested, just wanting to see. The globes felt silken but stiff, like modeling clay, and Edward wondered if he could shape a sculpture out of them. Make a bust out of a bust, Edward mused.
"Do you like my breasts?" Rosalie whispered.
She was very still on his lap, perched and prim over his groin.
Edward snatched his hands out of the tear in the dress and rested them over her clothed stomach.
"No," he said. "Tell me about Delilah."
"I'll tell you the story..." She turned her head to the side, pushing a bundle of blond hair under his nose. It smelled like orchids and peat and mayonnaise. Very organic, sweet like decay. Edward could see her profile, the small nose upturned like a genie's slipper. The light caught and blazed in the fine hairs above her lip. "But you need to tell me a story, in return."
"What story do you want to hear?"
"I want to know how Carlisle and Esme met."
She brought the orchid to her nose, taking a loud sniff. Edward saw pollen grains flee the stamen and stream up her nose.
"Carlisle found her at the bottom of a cliff. She jumped off after losing her son. You know that."
"Hmmm... Carlisle likes his women broken." Now Rosalie turned another inch, so that she was peeking over her shoulder and looking at Edward out of the corner of her magenta eye. "But you don't."
Edward knew she was referring to herself. "I don't like my matches arranged for me."
He slid his hands off her waist, gliding his fingers away until only the tips connected, and Rose grabbed his hands, pressing them back into her body. "Nah-ah-ah. You need to restrain me. I can hear Ryan Lambley making his way out of the woods. He's thirsty- he'll probably take a drink out of our well. He's so sweaty; smells like a salt lick-"
Edward scanned her mind. It was still fizzed over with bloodlust, snippets of thoughts coming through the static. "...he only killed murderers... I don't think... never killed a rapist..."
Images of Edward, red-eyed and snarling, flashed through her head. She was thinking of Edward, fresh from his rebellion. When she first came to live with them, he still had fuchsia eyes; he had only just returned to Carlisle.
"I killed a rapist." Edward felt the urge to defend himself against the accusing tone of her thoughts.
After all, Rose was unstable. She might fly off the handle at the slightest provocation. Rose had parts that would never heal properly- something about venom only healing cosmetic and life-threatening injuries, of which a feminine wound was neither. After all, a vampire needed to look beautiful and needed to function, but what use was a womb to a monster?
"I... I killed him. I killed him on Independence Day," he added, unsure if he would be believed and feeling like he needed corroborating facts.
"A patriotic mercenary." She shifted then. She... she dragged her bottom over his groin, slowly, millimeter by aching millimeter, until the heat between her legs was roosting over his swelling penis.
"Your eyes are no longer black. Get off of me. You don't need to be restrained," he snapped, choking her waist until he felt his fingertips slip under her ribs. He yanked at her body, trying to pull her away, but she wouldn't be moved.
If anything, she wiggled her bottom, nestling in.
Dimly Edward felt the cold creep of fear up his neck. The one thing he was scared of was losing control, and he realized that he was not in control of Rosalie.
"Is that what you'll tell Carlisle when I'm feeding off a human carcass? That my eyes weren't black, so you thought all was well?" Laughing deeply, she threw her head back, hitting his forehead with the back of her skull. The impact would have caused a concussion had he been human.
Her head rested there, against his. Edward didn't breathe, or else he'd inhale her blond waves, and he didn't want any part of her in him.
She slid herself along his penis again, backwards and forwards, until she was working at a steady grind.
"Tell me why you didn't want me," she breathed. "I was a broken, beautiful woman... You could have saved me, like Carlisle saved Esme. Like you saved those people whose murderers you killed..."
"You-you will thank me someday," he stammered.
She chuckled again, a laugh that resonated chest deep, behind her dead, limp lungs. An instant later and she was turning around, lifting on leg and swinging it over, and then she was facing him, straddling his lap, her hands resting against his shoulders. It happened so fast that he didn't even unclench his hands from the cloth of her dress. The garment was twisted around when she'd moved, and now the collar was pulled down, showing a white slope of chest that stretched to the edge of her left areola.
She leaned in until her lips brushed his ear. "I will never thank you for denying me."
Her weight was bearing down on him, her thighs heavy and rigid over his. He squirmed and bucked underneath her, trying to free himself. Her cunt scraped persistently against him, and Edward didn't know vampires had parts so warm. The more he fought, the more aroused he became. He hated Rosalie, hated her cunt, but his penis just kept hardening. The thicker it got, the more he wanted to clobber her. Because of this instinct, this want to strike her, he thrust up at her once, putting all his mean will into it.
Then his shame reasserted itself, and he froze, terrified into rigidity and too shocked to think straight.
She was too strong. Her newborn brawn was too much for him.
"Let's see your strength now, Mister..." her thoughts ran."Let's see how powerful you are, let's see who gets fucked..."
"Carlisle says I'm having an atypical response to my traumatic experience," she said. Her tongue peeked between her teeth every couple of words, like it was trying to slip free from her cold, damp mouth; like it longed to come out and caress Edward's cheek. "Carlisle says if I were a girl, a weak, trembling, human girl, I would be scared." She squeezed her legs together, clasping the mound of his turgid cock between her thighs. "I would cower from touch and scream myself to sleep."
She seesawed rigorously up and down on him. Her body bobbing, she threw her head back so he was looking at the creamy column of her neck and the upended triangle of her chin. Edward let out a low, sad groan.
Her mouth flashed into a fiendish grin at the sound.
"Instead, I am a vampire... and I have a vampire's instincts." She stopped her movements. Her throat quivered, the tendons pronounced and striated. "Of a predator... not prey..."
Quick as a strike, her thin hand slipped behind the waistband of his pants. He grabbed for it, trying to stop her, but her hand punched through his gripping fingers, stabbing down the trail of hair running from his belly button, and landed in the nest of pubic curls. Her fingers curled around the hair's roots, clenching them roughly. Her head snapped back to him. Her eyes met his directly. They were soft, brimming with venom like tears.
"Please," he whimpered, ashamed of how small he sounded.
The winds turned direction outside. Suddenly, the scents of ten men rolled through the drafty windows. The search part was returning from the woods and nearing the house. The hounds were howling their fear.
Her irises flared black. He felt the muscles tense in her body, every fiber poising to spring. She wanted to kill; she was going to leap out the window
Edward did the only he could think of, numbly sitting there, horrified with a stiff cock.
He pressed his lips against hers, hoping the act would stun her. It was more of a mouth-to-mouth punch than a kiss. His mouth closed, firmly locked, but insistently pushing against her.
She stilled underneath his assault. Her body tensed and locked. They remained there, pursed mouth pressed against pursed, trembling mouth.
The ten humans and their odor receded to a safe distance. Flinching away from the kiss, she withdrew her hands from him.
"I..." She moved back off his lap until she was sitting on his knees. "Well..."
"...where did my courage go?" she thought.
Her whole posture deflated, spine curled meekly in on itself. He wanted to yell, scream, chastise, take a bath, but he felt the sudden urge to comfort her. She looked defeated, like an ostracized girly.
Besides, she was in control of herself now. She wasn't... doing what she was before, so he could be magnanimous with her.
"Tell me the story of Samson and Delilah," Edward whispered. He rested his thumb under her chin, pushing her head up so she saw his face. He wanted her to see how earnest he was. He wanted to help her and distract her from her disturbed thoughts.
"..I had him, I had him..." her brain gabbed.
"Come, Rosie... just tell me the story. Delilah was a Philistine... and Samson was-"
"Samson was a warrior for Israel," she mumbled. Her hair hung loose over her face, sticking to her moist lip. "The Israelites and Philistines warred over rights to holy Canaan. Samson was a legendary soldier. He had the strength of ten men. And God told him that if he ever cut his hair, he'd lose his power..."
She mumbled on, telling the story of Samson, who fell asleep in the lap of a Philistine woman and woke up with a bare head, drained of his strength, sipped of his powers.
The story of Samson and Delilah
Samson's mother and father were married for many years, but they never had children. They prayed a long time for a child, until one day an angel of the Lord appeared to them and told them would have a son. "This son is to be totally dedicated to God. He will do great deeds for your country in service of God. He is to be reared under a Nazarite vow. "
To be reared under a Nazarite vow meant that he was never to cut his hair.
Samson grew to manhood with the strength of several men. He won great battles single-handedly against the people known as the Philistines. The Philistines hated Samson because of the damage he caused to their cities and fields.
Then Samson fell in love with a beautiful Philistine woman named Delilah. Night after night he visited her residence to spend hours with her.
Delilah had been promised a great sum of money from the Philistines if she could discover the secret of his incredible strength. Every day Delilah teased and begged Samson to tell her the secret of his tremendous strength. Samson finally caved and told her, "If you cut off all of my hair I shall be as weak as any other man."
When Samson slept with his head in Delilah's lap she beckoned the men to shave off his hair. Then she shook him and shouted, "Samson! Wake up! The Philistines are upon you!"
Samson shook himself to fight the Philistines, but his hair was gone. His strength was gone. The Philistine soldiers jumped upon Samson and beat him badly. Samson was overcome. Delilah, in the name of love, had betrayed him completely.
The Philistines took him prisoner, burned out his eyes with a hot poker and chained him to the huge stone wheel pulled along a trough to grind grain into flour, around and around, all day long, every day. Samson was destined to spend the rest of his days doing the job that an ox would do, grinding at the mill.
Quoted from: www(dot)friendshipbaptistchurch(dot)com
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