I don't own these characters. They are the sole property of Stephenie Meyer. I only borrow them. No humans are permanently harmed through my actions, though I do confess to harassing, annoying, torturing, and exasperating them – just because it's fun. I make no money from my little stories, sad day. I only play in the sandbox, I didn't build it.

Author's Note: This was written for the Countdown to 2012.

The Widow


Rosalie Hale adjusted the black hat perched on top of her perfectly coiffed blond head. She turned first one way and then another, admiring the effect of the black color against her bright hair and pale, pale skin. She smiled, looking at herself in the mirror. No, that was not quite right, she decided. Too many teeth showing for one, she acknowledged. Closing her lips slightly, she once again studied her image. No, that would not do either. Her mouth looked tight and overly prim. That was not quite the image she wanted to portray. She relaxed her lips slightly, bowing them up just a touch at the corners and allowing the barest hint of white teeth to shine through.

Her eyes brightened though the smile never changed one millimeter. Yes, that was it. That was perfect. She kept the smile firmly in place and turned, observing the smile from either side. Yes, it still looked perfectly suitable from any view.

Then she looked down and adjusted the neckline of her dress, looping the second strand of pearls just a bit lower, bringing the upper strand up just a tad. She wanted to lead the eyes down to her cleavage but did not want to look like a whore in the process. Her breasts were adequately on display, and though she did not need the push up bra to do the job, it certainly gave them a nice extra boost. Of course, the effect of that black fabric against the creamy expanse of her bosom was beautifully done as well.

Staring into the mirror still, she blinked rapidly, waiting for the tears to fill her eyes. Yes. Perfect. Too many tears and she risked them running down her face and ruining her make up, or worse, making her nose run. Too few and people would begin to gossip. Ever since she was a young teenager, she had had the ability to cry beautifully on cue. It was not a skill she had anticipated being so profitable, yet life was full of surprises. There...her eyes were glistening just enough to evoke sympathy.

Taking a few steps back, Rosalie took in the full effect of her costume. Beautifully tailored black dress that called attention to her perfection without looking cheap or out of place? Most definitely yes. Lovely little hat perched sedately on top of her perfect blond head? Yes, it was just as it should be. And Rosalie herself? Well, she was as lovely as ever, she admitted without any false modesty. The last few years had been difficult, but she had taken care of herself and it showed.

Realizing that she was as ready as she would ever be, she walked to the door and turned the doorknob, taking one quick glance at the mirror to make sure her expression was suitably somber and grief stricken.

"Rose," someone murmured. "We were so sorry to hear of Herbert's death."

"My dear," an elderly man was saying. "How are you holding up?"

And so it went, with countless people offering their condolences. She accepted them all graciously, allowing tears to gather at the corner of her eyes several times and then wiping them away for show. Her performance was flawless and she knew it. Even Cordelia, that old bat, had had to cease her malicious insults for just a little while.

Rosalie was well aware of what Cordelia, Herbert's younger sister, thought of her and didn't care a jot. In fact, it secretly amused her since so much of it was true. But even Cordelia, suspicious and spiteful as she was, had yet to guess at all of it. Rose smiled then, and perhaps a hint of malice showed through because the person she was speaking to shrank away a little bit. Rose covered up the slip with a sigh and pretended to wipe at a tear while poking herself in the eye with her fingernail. Yes, that produced the necessary tears and quickly. The person moved in close again and gave her a hug, telling her how much they admired her strength.

One poor geezer almost gave himself a heart attack trying to ogle her boobs and express his sympathy at the same time. Rosalie tormented him a little bit by briefly squeezing her arms together and making her cleavage really pop. When the old man nearly swallowed his tongue, she took some pity on him. After all, if he dropped dead then he would take away the attention from where it belonged. On her – the grieving widow.

So it went for the next hour. She moved among the small clusters of people, letting them say what they wanted to say but not really listening to it. It took her that whole time to work her way to the formal parlor, where dear old Herbert was waiting for her. Her dearly departed husband had always said he wanted a good old fashioned Irish wake. Of course, he had never imagined it would happen quite so soon. But then again, life was full of surprises.

As she entered the parlor, her eyes flickered toward the vast expanse of windows that overlooked the gardens. Herbert's coffin gleamed wickedly in the sunlight. It was a beautiful piece of work, but Herbert had deserved nothing less than the best. There was the mortician standing guard by the body, looking suitably professional and subdued in his black suit and pale grey tie. Her eyes met his for one moment and then she looked away. From the corner of her eye, she caught him make a small motion with his hand. He flipped the edge of his suit jacket out of the way for just a moment.

Just long enough to reveal the massive erection pressing against his slacks.

Rosalie almost moaned and instead contented herself with licking her lips. She made sure he saw the motion quite clearly and saw him jerk slightly where he stood. Turnaboutsfairplay,myboy. As she walked away, she gave her hips a little added motion, just for his viewing pleasure. It was difficult not to laugh, but necessary. No one liked to see a merry widow, after all.


After the last guest left, after the last hand had been pressed and the last tear had been daintily wiped away, Rosalie dismissed the servants, telling that she needed just a little while alone with "her Herbie." One maid had the audacity to roll her eyes at that pronouncement. That bitch would find herself out of a job tomorrow, Rosalie decided, and without severance or a letter of recommendation.

The doors closed behind them and Rosalie carefully locked them. Then she moved to the French doors that led to the gardens that Herbie had loved so well. She had initially planned to bulldoze the thing, but maybe she'd allow it to remain. It was quite lovely, after all. Before she had even finished turning the handle, he was there.

He had long since removed his jacket and tie, leaving his shirt unbuttoned a bit to reveal a triangle of smooth, tanned skin and a smattering of chest hair. Just a little bit, Rose mused, just enough to make him look like a man and not a Ken doll. Immediately, he grabbed her into his arms. "Took you fucking long enough," he muttered just before his mouth closed over hers.

She moaned at the taste of him, the feel of his lips taking command over hers. His tongue speared into her mouth, hot and insistent. She trembled against him and his arms tightened, pressing her against his cock as he rubbed it against her. Finally, when he felt she had been suitably chastised for making him wait, he pulled away. He stepped back and studied her. "You look amazing in black, babe," he observed.

"I look amazing in everything," she replied. She glanced toward her husband's coffin. "Thanks for closing that thing, by the way. I don't think I could stand looking at his shriveled old face for another moment."

He walked over and lifted the lid, ignoring Rosalie's sigh of impatience as he did so. He poked at Herbie's wasted cheek with disdain. "Hey, I think I did some pretty good work." He glanced at her with a wicked grin. "Especially with what I had to work with."

"True," she conceded. "But honestly, Emmett, closing the fucking coffin. It's giving me the creeps."

He snorted with laughter but did as she asked. Then he pulled her into his arms again. "Do dead bodies weird you out, Rose?" He seemed amused at the idea.

"Of course," she replied with irritation. "They bother most people."

He ran his nose up the side of her throat and then nipped at her earlobe. "They're just bodies, what's left over after the heart stops beating and the brain stops firing."

She closed her eyes and let him do as he wished. He would anyway, she mused. He had such a delightfully commanding way about him. His large hands tugged at her zipper and the next thing she knew, her dress was sliding down her body in a whisper of silk to fall into an ebony pool at her feet. She stood proudly in her black bra and stockings and heels, allowing his inspection with a little shiver of anticipation.

Emmett ran one finger between her thighs. "No panties," he murmured. "Is that for me?"

Wanting to push him a little, needing the release, Rosalie whispered. "No it was for Herbie...you know, for old times' sake."

Emmett growled and yanked her head back by her hair. "Watch it, love," he warned. "You know how much I hate to be reminded that he got to touch what is mine."

Panting, she gazed up at him. "Why? Jealous?" Then she smirked. "He could only get it up a few times a month, but the dear old boy certainly did like trying." She licked her lips and gazed up at him from beneath her lashes.

"I'm warning you," Emmett muttered. And he gave her hair a good, hard tug. It brought tears to her eyes and made her breasts tingle.

"Of course, sometimes, I'd just try to suck him off. God, he loved getting head even if he couldn't really get it up for me. I'd kneel at his feet and he'd feel like he ruled the world with his cock in my mouth and-"

"I warned you," Emmett snapped and then she was whirled around and being pressed face forward over the casket. The smooth, polished steel of it was cold against her face. One hand was pressed against her upper back, keeping her firmly in place. He was undoing his pants with the other and she trembled, partly in fear and partly in eagerness. "Now, I'm going to fuck with you old Herbie right in the room, Rose," he grunted and as he said her name, his huge cock pushed into her. She was wet and ready for him, but he took no mercy on her, battering into her without giving her time to adjust. She closed her eyes and relished the pain.

He pulled her head up by her hair, making her back arch and pushing her ass against him. Then he pulled back and shoved inside of her again. The casket was jostled just a bit, moving slightly on the bier that Emmett had put it on.

"Tell him, Rose," Emmett commanded, still thrusting inside of her.

"Tell...him...what?" Rose asked

"Tell Herbert that you're mine," Emmett said and yanked on her hair for emphasis. "Tell him that you've always been mine." His free hand came down on her ass with a ringing crack of sound and she moaned. "Tell him how I'm the only one who can turn your pretty ass pink." Another heavy hit against her ass and Rose wriggled against him. "My cock is the only cock that will ever be buried in your pussy." He thrust hard into her. "My cock is the only one that'll ever be in your ass." Instead of a slap this time, Emmett pushed his thumb into her rear entrance. Rose went wild, bucking against his touch and quieting only when Emmett withdrew the thumb and whacked her ass yet again. "Hold still," he ordered. Her skin felt like it was on fire. "My cock..." he panted. "Only my cock in your mouth, Rosie." Then both hands went to her hips and he pulled her back against his thrust and she felt him pulse and shoot inside of her. She wanted to scream as she felt her orgasm lingered just out of reach and then began to fade away completely.

"You fucker," she said between clenched teeth. "I didn't get to come."

He pulled out of her and gave her one more smack. "I know," he said casually. "But you've been a bad girl so you don't get to come. Yet," he added with a wicked note to his voice.

She turned around to face him, pouting and rubbing her abused ass. "Bastard," she accused.

"Nah," he whispered, his lips brushing tenderly against hers. "I'm just what you need and we both know it."


Rose curled up next to Emmett, enjoying the feel of his big, warm body next to hers despite the risk. The servants weren't allowed in her quarters until she summoned them and they hadn't been since she married Herbie. She had started that habit early, knowing this day would come. He was finally asleep, snoring lightly. He had fucked her three more times and had not let her finally climax until the last time. She had been cursing him roundly even as she virtually exploded around his invading cock. He had laughed at her as he rolled off of her.

She ran her fingers through his dark curly hair. His father had had the same hair and she had often run her fingers through it, imagining it was Emmett beside her in bed. She flopped onto her back and remembered the day they'd met. She had been eighteen; Emmett had been a twenty-three year old man quite anxious to get his hands on his inheritance. And she was a woman in love, anxious to do anything to please her man.

Six months later she was married to his father; seven months after that Emmett was rich and she was widowed. No one had even bothered to look at the pretty young wife because everyone knew that George McCarty had left almost everything to his only child. Rose giggled, remembering the look on George's face when he woke up and saw the bees she'd let into the room. Silly George, he knew he was allergic to bees and yet poor Rosalie couldn't find that epi-pen no matter how hard she'd looked for it.

Life was full of surprises – both pleasant ones and nasty ones.

Now darling Herbie was gone too. It was really too bad that his heart had given out on him. The doctors had warned him, but he had been too determined to make love to his young wife. Viagra really wasn't for the weak of heart, she mused. Rose snuggled into the satin sheets and smiled slowly. Beside her, Emmett stirred and rolled to gaze at her. "What're you thinking about?" he asked in a sleep-husky voice.

"Your father," she replied honestly.

He made a face. "Why would you want to think of that old bastard?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. Sometimes he just comes to mind."

"Well don't let him," Emmett advised softly. "I don't like it."

"You can control my body, Emmett, but not my thoughts," Rose protested.

He shook his head. "That's where you're wrong, Rose. So,so wrong." He moved, pinned her beneath him. "The next time you think of him, you're going to tell me. And then I'm going to punish you and I'm going to punish you hard. It's called aversion therapy and it's quite effective from what I hear."

"Why should I tell you when I know I'm going to get punished?" Rose asked incredulously.

He grinned down at her. "Because you like it when I punish you, Rose. You like being just a little bit afraid of me. But most of all, you don't want to disappoint me, so you'll shut up about my father. Right?"

She bit her lip, hating that he knew her so clearly.

His teeth pulled at her lips, just shy of causing real pain. "Open up for me, Rose," he commanded as he pushed his knee in between her legs. He thrust home and she grunted at the delicious, painful stretching. "You're going to come all over me when I tell you to," Emmett commanded.

She nodded, knowing he was right. He was always right. He was rough. He was selfish. He pounded into her, and the pain was part of the pleasure.

When he gave the order, she exploded beneath him, around him, all over him. He held onto her shoulder with his teeth as he sometimes liked to do. He locked down and made his mark on her flesh as he had her heart. She was his, whether she wanted to be or not.

He slept again, sprawled over her, not concerned if his weight bothered her. It didn't. She rather liked the warm, reassuring bulk of him. Tenderly, she brushed his hair back from his sweaty forehead. She smiled, humming softly to herself.

Life, she thought again, was just full of surprises. Why, she'd even read that the bathroom was the most dangerous room in the house. So many opportunities to fall and crack a skull... Poor Emmett, and his skull was so thick too. Ah well, it always made a girl feel nice to know she had options. She hummed and smiled as she held him, well content with her world.