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[vasiktomis]

TripAdvisor's Top 10 Things To Do In Volterra, Tuscany (18+)

Part 1 | Next Part

Pairing: Aro/F!Reader(No use of y/n). Rating: Explicit (Minors do NOT interact). Word Count: ~3000. Warnings: Pretty tame beginnings tbh but future warnings for Stalking, Toxic relationships and power imbalances, Blood and gore, Devious little fruity men, and Reader-insert being a terrible enough person that it sort of balances it all out?? Idk. Yes there will be weird vampire sex. Read it on Ao3 Here!

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It’s in early Summer that you meet him for the first time. 

One sentence typed and re-written with two pages to fill and three proseccos nursed over some amount of hours. A hot afternoon is well on its way to becoming a balmy night, and daytime family shoppers along the tight, sloping roads in Volterra have condensed into young adults seeking whatever might come close to resembling nightlife amidst alfresco dining areas and tall views of rolling hills and old brick- oh, that’s not a bad line.

Rapping the enter key, you make room for the statement. 

Whatever might come close to resembling nightlife amidst alfresco dining areas and tall views of-

A pang of revulsion hits.

Fuck it. It’s shit. 

You slam on the backspace, offsetting just a little of the temptation to hurl your laptop over the retaining wall and onto the road below. 

“Top-up?”

Panic jolts down your spine at the black suit of a hospitality worker in your periphery. You haven’t bought anything since the sun was up. Not since the first prosecco, and the complimentary bread basket, and the second prosecco, and the complimentary bread basket, and the third prosecco, and the humiliating explanation that a family-run business simply cannot keep giving you any more of Nonna’s war-time era bread baskets.

It’s not your fault that no one’s come along to pick up the tab of a pretty tourist tonight. Alcohol’s usually pretty cheap when some cashed-up slob in linen intends to use it to leverage against you later in the night. It’s getting ridiculous out here. It’s been hours, and not only have you gotten a solid zero words into your article — you’ve been squatting here with the nicest view in Volterra for long enough that you fear the staff and your fellow patrons have begun to make assumptions about you. 

You have no money left.

They can’t know you have no money left.

You offer up a smile. “Just water, please.”

You’re met with a pained reflection of the look. Maybe yours is just as sad. They leave with a hurried nod, too busy serving every other table to have time to bother with your bullshit. Maybe you should just order something. Drop a precious thirty on a four-ingredient carbonara that’ll either have you hungry again in an hour or shitting your guts out for the next twenty-four. Wasteful spending, either way. There’s only a few hundred euros left, and you can’t afford to keep doing this.

Rolling hills. Just write something about rolling fucking hills and go back to the airbnb. 

Your fingers poise over the keyboard. 

“Mi scusi—“

“Just water’s fine.” You nearly snap. 

“Oh, you speak English.”

Another black suit in your periphery. Another wave of shame. You look up again, and the well-pressed suit standing before you smiles a mildly manic, overly familiar smile. “Good evening. I’m dreadfully sorry to ask, but would you mind moving on?”

He’s exceptionally pale, you observe. Perfect teeth. Wonderful hair that reminds you of some kind of animal.  

Your brow furrows. “I’m sorry?”

“Yes. That’s fine. No harm done.” The man’s already turned away from you, clicking at the boy who had yet to fetch your water. “Un'altra sedia. Per favore-“

“I’m not done sitting here.” You say.

That smile on his face strains. Just a little. 

“Well, you see,” He offers, “I like to sit here — as well as my company, and you’ve been here for—“ the smile tightens further, and you rejoice in your judgement. He feels entitled to this spot. This is his seat you’re in. 

He’s just as much of a dick about this as you are. 

“Four hours — and this is an exceptional spot to view the end of the sunset at this time of year.”

What a fucking prick. What sweet vindication. 

“Yeah.” You agree, not budging. “It seems like it.”

“Is she gone, yet?” 

Another suit approaches. This time blonde. Younger. Early-twenties perhaps, as opposed to your original assailant’s early-forties. There’s a scowl fixed to his face, exacerbated by a scoff when his gaze finds you still seated. 

 You don’t even give him the time of day, turning back to the brunette. “I’m working. You’re distracting me. I might’ve been gone already if you weren’t bothering me.”

“Oh please.” He lets out a breath of laughter. “You haven’t made a keystroke in over twenty minutes.”

“It’s called incubating.”

“A charming term for a nothing activity. Please move.”

“No.”

“You’re drawing attention.” Now it’s a hiss. 

“Good. Let me finish my article.”

Maybe if you act distressed enough, you’ll get a free pity meal.

“God.” The blonde snarls, snapping his attention behind him, to where a small pod of similarly dressed, similarly toneless people have arrived. “Forget it, Aro. We’re missing it.”

The brunette’s head whips around, as does yours, to catch the last sliver of sun disappearing behind the hills, only the reddest of remnants remaining of its aura on the horizon. Your argument carried you through the entirety of a sunset, and the man — Aro — purses his lips into that same tight smile. Over his shoulder, the blonde retreats, muttering under his breath and merging with the herd.

Seemingly victorious, your fingers hover over the keyboard again, and Aro leans down, not quite in your space. Just close enough for you to find yourself captivated by those filed-straight teeth again.

“A word to the wise —“ He says, tone hushed, pressing a hand to the table. Fingers inches from yours. “That was the Summer solstice drawing to a close, and you made us miss it-“

“I think you took care of that one yourself, actually."

He leans closer. “You’ve drawn enough eyes to protect yourself until the locals forget this, but some of us — my friend Caius, especially — are very fond of our evening routine; and some of us can hold a grudge. You’d do well to move on before the week’s end.”

You’d be happy to punch him if you weren’t thinking so hard about that free meal, so instead, you opt to flash a smile of your own. “You’d do well to eat my ass.”

There’s a pause. A tick of his brow. A tiny twitch at a corner of his mouth. Filmy eyes bore into yours, flickering minutely to your throat.

“Buonanotte. Do try to become at least conversational in Italian.” Aro’s gaze flits to the bare centimetres between your hands. He makes a point to withdraw it across the table, slowly. Like it would simply be beneath him to touch you. “What’s the saying? When in Rome?”

Then, he’s turning. Taking his leave. Shrouded in black cloth the moment he passes into his crowd of gothic friends.

Your gaze lingers on the retreating group. A subtle glance is afforded in your direction from one of the men in his company. Tall. Far too solemn for such an exciting night. 

A young man at a neighbouring table leans over to you, and you’ve spent so long looking at milky white faces at you’re nearly blinded by the hue of his sunburned face. “Ravers.” He comments. American. “Don’t mind ‘em. Probably gonna go take horse tranqs in some warehouse.”

Horse. That’s what you were trying to think of. His hair reminded you of a horse. 

“I am sorry for the commotion.” The hospitality worker returns. A glass of tap water is set down before you. “Could I offer you dinner on the house?”

…

Victory. 

You crack a grin up at your server. “Hey, what’s buonanotte mean?”

__________________________________

For such a compact place, you do not run into Aro again. Nor any of the grimly dressed people that had been in his company. 

Over the weeks spanning your stay, tourists come and go, but many of the faces in Volterra remain the same. Permanent residents remain static and likely have been so for generations. Mornings, recently, have held you in increasingly high regard; your refusal to leave their cramped community with each new brief wave of visitors bringing familiarity usually only reserved for years-old neighbours. Now you're no less annoying than a particularly entitled local.

None of whom, curiously, show any traits of albinism. Funny, considering you’d had a run in with at least half a dozen in a single night. 

“Are you now living here?” A busboy asks in the evening, passing your table (god, you love claiming that) on his way to clean another. You like this one. He’s gotten into a habit of sneaking an extra biscotti onto your saucer when you order. “How is your article?”

“It’s…” The look on your face tells enough to warrant a laugh.

“I have a cousin in Florence. Single.” He explains. “He would take one look at you and fall in love. You can marry him. Take his money. His car? Three wheels. Loser. You can do what ever you want if you marry him.”

“I’ll think about it.” You assure him, turning back to your laptop.

Huh.

Odd.

There’s a smear of black in your periphery again. 

That hasn’t happened since-

Your gaze snaps upward, meeting the eye of the rude bastard who’d made a martyr of you in front of the restaurant. Same phoney smile still plastered on his face. Something surges in your chest — fight instinct activating, readying you rip out a hunk of his hair should the situation call for it. 

You open your mouth. Preparing a scathing slew of words.

“Oh, hi.”

Aro — you recall — doesn’t reply. Not until he plucks a chair from a nearby table and sets it down across from you. At your table. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t apologise. He just sits and watches you with his pleasant expression and his milky eyes and his horse hair. His wake wafts old paper and lint; like community library, or a darkroom, or a basement. 

Your skin runs cold. Oh fuck, is he actually making good on that threat from the other night?

“Buona—“ A gesture is extended to you. 

“—sera?”

“Very good.” He affirms with a too-animated grin. Like you’re a toddler. Bit patronising. “Going native, are you?”

“How do you mean?”

“Caffè in the evening, just like the locals do it. And you’ve been here every night for the better part of three weeks. One might say you were squatting.”

He’s been watching you. 

He’s wearing an identical suit to the one he wore last you’d encountered him. 

He’s a weirdo. You should find another stranger to cling to. Pretend to go home with them to discourage him from following more of your routine—

“Funny. I haven’t seen you.” You reply, bluntly. 

A micro expression must give your thoughts away, because his eyebrows shoot up in mock-surprise. “Oh? Oh. My friends have mentioned seeing you. I hope you don’t mind — we tend to keep an eye out for people who cross our paths. Small circles and what have you.” 

“That’s fair. You did threaten me last time we met.”

“Water under the bridge.” Aro dismisses. “Gossip gets around. People notice you staying.”

Your caution doesn’t dissipate. “Insular but curious?”

His smile widens. “Exactly! I’m Aro."

“I know. I heard one of your friends say it.” You reply, before giving your own name.

“I know.” Aro mirrors, and then fails to follow-up. Then, he moves to stand from his seat, pausing to consider something. “Care to walk with me?” 

“Give me a minute. I’m working.” 

An outright lie. You commit to typing gibberish for several minutes before closing the device and packing it away. All the while, he watches you like he’s watching a fish in a bowl.

“Upfront?” You say, standing, and he follows suit. “I carry a box cutter.”

“Wonderful.”

“Also, I choose where we go.”

He tips steepled fingers in a mockery of a bow. “Of course. Lead the way.”

Cramped as the little city may be, it’s surprisingly much harder to navigate when you’re trying to remain in the most well-lit spots. Conversation speeds up and slows with your meandering and Aro’s occasional interjection, all the while keeping a good bit of distance between you while you walk. His hands remain clasped in front of him, where you can see them. Making a show that he means you no harm. 

He probably won’t murder you tonight, you decide. 

You learn that he’s quite fond of history. That his friends are much the same. Even the ones that are very clearly children have a passion for preserving the arts and maintaining what Aro defines as ’cultural customs’.

It all sounds vague enough to be a little fucking hinky, but there’s a degree of relief that washes over you when Aro assures you they’re not funded by the Catholic church. 

He’s also a bit pretty, and you’re humble enough to admit that your brain goes smooth when you’re confronted with pretty. 

“So what is it you’ve been trying to write all week?” He eventually asks, gaze flickering to the laptop folded under your arms.

“That’s the issue.” You admit. “I haven’t really found my muse.”

“You just write about anything?” He presses.

You snort. “Wouldn’t that be nice. Right now I’m giving travel writing a whirl. Saved up a while after I finished my degree, but the longer I’m out here, the more I’m starting to realise student loans can’t really be paid off in stories.”

“Is it the stories upsetting you?” Aro frowns. “Or the loans?”

“It’s kind of fucking hard to feel inspired when all you’ve got in savings is the plane ticket home.”

“That explains all those free meals you’ve been charming everyone into.”

The heat returns to your face. He’s really been keeping an eye on you.

“Yeah — I’ve, uh—“ You keep your gaze front and centre on the road. “Sort of run out of money.”

Aro considers that for a moment. His steps slow. Then stop.

“Then, would you like a job?” He asks. 

Your brow furrows, thoughts already flicking through every possible trafficking scenario and how to stage a rebuttal, and his hand raises in defence just as you open your mouth. “You would be working with a few young friends of mine.”

You think about that. “Oh, yeah. Very…varied sense of fashion.”

“Heidi’s dress sense is the most modern of us, I assure you. She leads our public outreach, but she’s a single point of contact.” Aro explains, trailing off into thoughtful contemplation. “I like to pride myself on the diversity of our group, but things don’t move as slowly as they once did, and the internet is becoming too big a sandbox for just one voice to be heard so much lately. Perhaps you could lend a hand.”

All of Aro’s words up until that pitch have sounded pretty organic in comparison. That whole thing was rehearsed, for certain. 

“I don’t buy it.”

“Would you, if you had an allowance?”

”Well, yeah. That’s sort of what a job is.” You frown. For an apparently wealthy man, he's not great with employment terminology.

“You’d be compensated more than fairly.” He persists. “Most of us are volunteers, but if it helps put food on our tables, I’d be curious to see how successful you might be.”

He’s got you by the balls with this whole money thing, you won’t lie. It makes it hard to say no.

“What do you and those other two do, then?” You ask, referring to the men he had stuck to his side on your last meeting. Scraping through whatever you can amidst the glamour of his offer just to find something to poke holes in.

“We boss everyone around.”

Once it’s adequately clear that you’re not amused, Aro pivots, resuming his pace. “Marcus is in charge of relations. Caius keeps everyone in line, and I oversee the structure of everything we do.” He expands. “I do a lot of travelling. Talent scouting, recruitment. We’re globally spread. It’s…busy work, keeping track of everyone.”

“Sounds like you don’t have middle management.” You comment. “Why not hire me for that?”

That earns you a chuckle.

”It’s not perfect, but it’s preferable that olive branches are extended personally.”

”So you’re middle management.”

“In less grand terms, you could say I’m intuitive.” Aro explains, lingering for you for fall back into step. When you stop again, he does too. “I’m quite good at reading people.”

“An empath, are we?” You ask drily, turning your attention over the retaining wall at blackened country hills.

He doesn’t pick up on it. “How kind of you to say. No —“ He extends a well-manicured hand to you, keeping respectable distance. Just enough to demonstrate that this is an offer. Not an order. 

He’d look like kind of a jerk if you left him hanging, so you relent and offer your own.

“If I touch you, I can see your thoughts.”

Your hand stops just short of his, pulling away just as he reaches for you. “Sorry. I’m not into the whole street art thing.”

“Not to worry.” Aro assures, outstretching his fingers until the tendons flex over his knuckles. “I’d never commit such an act without your consent.”

“Yeah. I already fell for a a bracelet scam in Barcelona.” You insist. “Once bitten, twice shy. Maybe another time.”

Aro observes you for a long moment. He’s been doing a lot of that, tonight. 

“Perhaps another time.” He agrees, and the beat he takes doesn’t go unnoticed. He’s not used to being denied.

“You’re not rescinding the job offer for that, are you?” You frown.

“Don’t be ridiculous. We’re friends now.” Aro replies. “Besides; if anything, if you’re sitting in my office I won’t have to worry about you taking my favourite seat outside.”

You squint at him. Unblinking. He only gives you patience in return.

“I’ll get you in contact with one of my colleagues, and one day, you’ll let me perform my party trick for you. Sound agreement?”

It’s all just a little too good to be true, and a little too weird to be charming. You attempt a sympathetic look, but it feels more like an outright wince. “I’m sorry, it’s gonna have to be a no.”

Aro’s lips purse. His fingers lock together at his front, knuckles pressing while he thinks. 

Then, he regards you with a split-second point of his finger. A final bid.

”I’ll pay for your dinner tonight.”

…

Sold.

[tattantatvetoc]

Tiếc Demi thời Sonny ghê. Vừa xinh lại vừa hài hước #tttvt

[vasiktomis]

TripAdvisor's Top 10 Things To Do In Volterra, Tuscany (18+)

Previous | Part 2 | Next Part

Pairing: Aro/F!Reader(No use of y/n). Rating: Explicit (Minors do NOT interact). Word Count: ~6000. Warnings: Implied stalking, blood and gore, gaslighting, criminally annoying protagonists. Aro probably using his index finger to type on his phone. Read it on Ao3 Here!

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Mid-Late-Summer. 

You never would have said yes to this job if Aro had told you upfront that you would be working underground.

Like, you are, in an off-the-books, tell-everyone-who-asks-that-you’re-a-receptionist kind of underground, but you’d have been fine if it ended with that. No — instead, your workplace is one of the tallest buildings in the entirety of Volterra, shadowed only by an old cathedral up the street (an enviable margin of 14 centimetres), and your office just had to be the one with no windows. 

Actually, that’s not quite the truth. There is a window. Just one that faces into a long stretch of corridor that connects your little space to the rest of the building, like a damp little catacomb.

Bars and all.

If that bastard had told you beforehand that you’d be clocking into what felt like a medieval prison five mornings a week on your own solitary basement floor, you’d have never taken that free dinner in the first place.

Having said that, you never would have been able to buy so much new shit if you hadn’t said yes to spending the majority of your days in this gloomy old building.

The way everybody in the company dresses makes a little more sense in this setting; everyone seems to have a particular century of dress they favour, and its not hard to see how they’re all so damn pale. A small handful of receptionists and admin workers scattered throughout have a more human hue to their complexion, but it seems to you that everyone who claims to have worked here, quote: ’for years and years’ all seem to suffer from albinism. The vibes are creepy; it smells like old stone and candlewax and the occasional whiff of raw meat, but you’re getting your bag, and your flow hasn’t been this good since you began college.

Your immediate boss — Heidi — is gorgeous and wants absolutely nothing to do with you beyond ensuring her contact details are alluded to in each of your pieces, and you’d like to work for her forever. The money’s great, too; nothing’s ever done a better job at getting that muse juice flowing. You get paid daily in bank-fresh cash and the commute’s barely ten minutes. 

You don’t question it. You just take.

It’s been a relatively nice handful of weeks, honestly, but one thought has been beginning to surface lately in your quiet moments.

You don’t see the man who hired you whatsoever. 

It’s odd, given the near-daily barrage of text messages. He’s your boss, and yet he gives you no instruction. He has no professional presence. Your days typically awaken to a slept-through invitation for a walk, an apology on your part, an experimental smiley face on his, and then you proceed to go about it all as per usual: typing what ever Heidi asks you to type, alone on your own presumably sea-level floor of the castle. You’d think that for a man so keen to find you, he could easily seek you out on his own property during working hours.

It’s partly for this reason that you never take him up on his incessant invitations. It’d feel like a little win, watching the man drag himself down here to seek your time rather than feel entitled to it at any hour he wishes.

Prying gossip from pale workers on the upper levels, amidst either scoffs of indignation or extremely forward comments about your scent, proves only mildly fruitful. The man is difficult to find unless he intends to be found, so on and so forth. He and his partners practically liveup in the highest tower when they’re in-country, surrounded by ‘the guard’. You assume this is Itanglese for security, even if almost no one in the building actually speaks with an Italian accent. 

‘Don’t be nosy.’ Heidi has warned you for enquiring. ‘Clock in, clock out, and don’t do anything more until you’re invited.’

She’s so cagey and bristly about the whole situation that you can’t help but foster the curiosity. With each ignored question and snap to quit it, it only becomes more stark that Aro may have left out a few factors when he pitched this job to you.

By the time Summer hits its peak, you still haven’t see him, and it’s on one particularly humid evening that your path just so happens to cross with Heidi’s at home-time. 

The woman’s making a half-hearted effort to fluff up her absolute mane of hair when you shut down your desktop and pack away your things. The lack of air circulation in such a damp little space is hell for you, and you can’t fathom how she’s able to keep from sweating through all those heavy runway fabrics.

”Got a thing on?” You ask, and in the mirror she looks at you, already irritated.

It takes her a moment to respond. “A tour.”

”A tour where?”

You hold her piercing gaze until she breaks. She may be terrifying, but you hold a greater power: you’re annoying.

Heidi returns to her scrunching. The longer she draws out the moment, the more obvious she makes it. The answer she’s withholding is the one you’ve been trying to catch her on for weeks, and it finally escapes her in a sigh. “Up to the towers.”

”Ooh, haven’t been-“

”No.”

”Oh, come on-“

“No.”

”Heidi, how am I supposed to write good articles about what you do if you won’t even let me see?” You whine, commencing pursuit as she breaks away from the mirror with a scoff and makes for the door.

“I’ve told you already. Until you’re called on, you stay out of everyone’s way.” She stalks the cobblestone corridor, speeding up into the fastest power-walk you’ve ever witnessed on a sober person in stilettos. There’s a check over her shoulder at you, still giving chase, and she borders on a snarl this time. “Your day ended a minute ago. Stop following me and go home.”

There’s no shaking you. “Perfect! Wow, what do you know. Looks like we’re going the same way.”

”You never take these stairs. You take those stairs.”

”You’re crazy.” 

Heidi rounds on you the moment you touch down on the next landing. A new wing of the castle. Busier than the path you normally take. There are actually desks up here. People working at them. Pairs and trios in conversation rather than the rare run-in. The moment your boss opens her mouth, a young man appears over her shoulder, grinning down at you.

“Is this for me?” He asks, giddy.

She takes none of it. Heidi gives such a hard shove to his solar plexus that he staggers a step back with a profoundly upset look. “No, she’s not.” She answers sharply, not a hair out of place. The man doesn’t even question her; he just huffs in indignation and accepts defeat, stalking away under Heidi’s scornful eye to lick his wounds and god, your boss is so cool.

It’s a shame you’ve elected to be a thorn in her side. 

In the blink of an eye, Heidi’s shifting her attention back to you. She cranes over you, trying to shepherd you back down the stairs. When you refuse to give in, she grits her teeth like she’s never been more frustrated. “You have no idea how much trouble I’ll be in if someone up here gets you.” She hisses. “Aro will literally kill me.”

You pull a face at that. 

Bit dramatic. You're a solo female tourist in Europe. If someone hasn't snatched you by now, it's never gonna happen.

"Go. Home."

“Know what? Fine.” You relent with a wave of your hand. “I’ll go take the other exit. It's a better exit anyway.”

”Thank you.” Heidi grumbles. “Do me a favour and show up tomorrow.” 

“Sure.”

A long moment stretches between the two of you. You begin to tap a little rhythm into the iron bannister.

“Well?” 

“I'm going! I'm going."

With that, you skulk back down the stairs, pretending not to keep the woman in your periphery until she's satisfied that you've reached the floor-level landing, and stalks out of sight. There, you scan overhead, just in case she might try and hit you with a surprise return.

One...two...three...

Once you reach thirty, you ascend the stairs once more.

__________________________________

Jesus, how fast can one woman be?

You only gave her a thirty second head start. What had she done to evade you so well? Broken into a full sprint the moment she’d left you where she thought she’d left you? In those shoes? There’s no way she’d make it this far without eating shit on the fancy flooring. 

No matter — it takes all of ten minutes for the lies to start streaming through your head while you head through hallway after hallway, climbing stair after stair. You’re technically her responsibility. If you wind up somewhere you weren’t meant to be, you can always allude to negligence. Perhaps you were supposed to be with her for the tour. Perhaps you got separated. 

Perhaps the most logical means of eventually regrouping meant heading in the same direction she would end up in once the tour was concluded: upstairs, where your own interest just so happened to reside. 

The winding corridors go on. People gradually become far apart. Few between. 

You’re about to admit defeat and accept that you probably took a wrong turn somewhere a few storeys down when you finally hear the murmur of speech rather than just your own footsteps. 

“Heidi?” You call.

Nothing responds to you. The source carries on as if you weren’t heard — so you resolve to hear it instead. 

Voices. A conversation. Sharp and hushed versus cool. No. An argument. It concludes with a muttered hiss of a statement you fail to make out, and an encroaching shadow from around the bend.

A man you haven’t yet seen strides around the corner, sporting a goatee and a sour expression. Despite the obvious fact that you’re in his path, he seems to make a conscious effort to ignore you. Like just about half the rude pricks in this damn building.

It only makes it more tantalising to be a bother. 

You step into the centre of the corridor, and there it is. A curl of his lip. 

There’s no stopping his trajectory, though. He only slows for you.

“You dare look at me?” He hisses through his teeth. “Your nose ought to be to the floor, little dog.”

His clothes are from another continent entirely, but that contrast doesn’t set him apart from the others nearly so much as his smell. He’s perfumed; woody, like resin. Agar. Pleasant. Heavy enough to make you feel light-headed.

He looks through you. There is no person standing before this man, and he has no qualms letting it be known. 

Maybe you’d take more offence if you haven’t been getting so much practice with similar sentiments these past few weeks. 

“I’m looking for Aro.” You say, giving him nothing. Your gaze drops to his chin, but sinks no lower. 

It doesn’t make a cherub out of him, but the wind is taken out of his sails a little. Red eyes flicker toward the direction he came. 

“Do you take drugs?”

”Um. I’m partial to a drink.”

”That’s a shame. He deserves you to taste fouler than that.”

Then, he leaves you. Disappearing silently and completely, and you’re left momentarily dazed. Aro, you reason. The sooner you find Aro, the sooner you can be shielded from any more people in this building saying weird shit to you. Probably. He’s not a large man from memory.

You push on, rounding the corner, and thank god, you’ve made it.

Your attention naturally latches onto your target first; standing amongst much of the same group you saw him with on your first meeting. The blonde man, Caius, stands across from him, while between them stand two tween children and that one particularly tall one with the sad eyes. From the amusement on all their faces, you can assume this group are likely the reason for your previous run-in’s hostility. 

Whatever conversation they were having, it was at his expense. Not one of them regards you.

Then, the conversation dies as a collective. All heads turn in your direction. 

Hm.

Don’t like that.

”Goodness. Amun’s perfume really is strong.” The young boy comments.

Aro, meanwhile, goes bug-eyed at the sight of you. His chest expands. A beam spreads across his face to cover a split-second of panic. Nice of him to opt for the former, you think. You’ve been hanging out for weeks to see those teeth again, and the reunion does not disappoint. Still perfect.

“My friend!” He exclaims, and the tall man looming over his shoulder winces. Even at less of a proximity, you’d agree, he’s quite shrill. “What luck!”

On broader inspection, it seems like most of his company aren’t fond of his enthusiasm. Even the expressionless young girl pointedly averts her gaze. Does he embarrass them? Is it always like this? Or are his grating theatrics only reserved for you? 

Nevertheless, you’ll admit it’s a friendly feeling, seeing him again. 

“Aro. Hey.” You say as if this run-in is a complete accident, approaching when the man steps away from the tight circle.

Aro reaches for you, but before you can even think to react, he’s pulling back with an ‘ah’, reaching into his jacket pocket. It’s with a particularly playful flourish that he withdraws a pair of fine, casual, leather gloves. “Don’t think I haven’t forgotten our little experiment.” 

He says it like the act of slipping into them is a sort of taboo, and the excitement on his face once he demonstrates with twinkling fingers has you turning your head so as not to cringe. Several pointed looks are directed at the accessories, but Aro dismisses any impending questions with an incline of his head, fluidly stepping way too close for comfort. You can feel the neatly chopped ends of his hair brushing your shoulder. A jolt rushes up your spine at the brush of two fingertips against your back. “Our new hire and I have the most fascinating wager. A sort of in-joke, isn’t it?”

The tall, sad looking one regards you from the man’s opposite side. Then, he looks at Aro. Then back at you. Then, he looks at the ground with a barely audible: “Oh, Lord.”

”I heard it’s rare to see you downstairs.” You comment. “Were you leaving?”

”Didn’t think it’d be your business.” The young girl clips, emotionless.

The look Aro affords her is something a little too warm to be scornful. ”We were just seeing our old friend Amun out.” He explains. 

”With the goatee?” You ask. “Ran into him in the corridor back there.”

There’s a tick in Aro’s brow. “Alec.” He coos, not breaking eye-contact with you. “See to it that he doesn’t continue to stray into the wrong rooms.”

The boy departs without a word.

Leather-clad hands reach for your own, squeezing them at breast height. Like a joint prayer; reverent. Or maybe like a couple of schoolgirls. “Already a raven in the trees.” Aro says. He casts a look to his grim company, then. “Her Italian is tragically irredeemable,” That line draws a few humourless chuckles which die the moment he returns his attention to you, “but we can’t hold it against her. Are you settling? How are they treating you downstairs?”

“Assignment’s squared away.” You reply. “Just in time for dinner.”

“You don’t say.” The girl muses.

“Unfathomable, running on so little time. You must join us, for a moment at least — to meet everyone — then you can run along.” Aro’s words tighten at the end of his sentence, and you realise Heidi might have been telling the truth. This is evidently not the best time to have come looking for him. Maybe one person’s end-of-day is another person’s peak hour. Not to mention the vibes are a little fucking off. 

Perhaps you can aid the both of you by getting out of here sooner. Accepting that this was a dumb idea and that perhaps you should have just accepted an invitation to see him rather than forcing an accident.

“Oh, um —“

“No need.” The tall, forlorn one inclines his head to you in greeting. “I’ve been immobile long enough. I may take the long way upstairs if you don’t mind, Aro.”

“Surely you might need company on this fine evening.” Caius offers, already lurching to take his leave.

“Surely, I don’t.”

Aro appears delighted at the denial. All the same, he’s prepared a denial of his own. Before you’ve even registered it, he’s pinching Marcus’s sleeve between his thumb and pointer. Barely any tension in the fabric, and Marcus drifts to a halt like a docked boat. Weightless.

The mood isn’t lost on you. You’re absolutely the reason they all seem so eager to leave, but you can’t recall having said or done anything that would be considered an affront to the group. On an individual level, absolutely, but the collective? You’re practically a lamb. Aro in particular, as the ringleader, looks to expect the others to fall in line with his doting, so you can’t have done something too upsetting. 

“This is Jane.” Aro moves to fill the silence, catching you staring at the girl. “And Caius. Marcus. I’ve told them all about your charming little articles. Tour bookings have increased — what was it — forty percent? We have many thanks to offer.”

He's told them about you?

That wasn't in the narrative he was having you and Heidi pitch to everyone downstairs. The pitch was supposed to be that you answered phones — and that was only in the event that you were even seen. What is he playing at?

The young man — Caius — rolls his jaw in irritation. That’s when you remember. That’s where you know him from. This is the one with the grudge potential. This is the one who very nearly suffered a public tantrum when you stole his seat. “It’s Summer, Aro. Bookings always increase in the Summer.”

Aro shoots him a look. Still smiling, but tense. A warning. “And we’ll always welcome potential for outside help. It’s not often we have casual volunteers who don’t right-away throw themselves at our feet, begging to serve.”

“Interns.” You nod grimly, and Aro lets out a squawk of laughter.

“Isn’t she a marvel?” He demands his remaining company, either failing to notice or care for their lack of shared enthusiasm. 

“I'm surprised Heidi's allowed you to assist her. Must be an interesting story. Tell me, how are you liking being her pet?” Caius inquires, gaze flickering on you before he once again decides you’re unworthy of his time. 

You frown. “Aro was the one who hired me.”

That makes Caius stop short. His mouth shuts quickly, pressing into a thin line. Now you’ve got his lasting attention; he’s gone from pretending you don’t exist to unbroken, unblinking eye contact. Between you, Aro lets out a breath of laughter. Compensatory.

You shouldn’t have said that.

”Aro hired you.”

”And what seems to be her talent, Aro?” Marcus asks, tired eyes drifting to the man, who has now stumbled into a series of sheepish giggles.

Aro regards you while he answers. ”That was supposed to be a surprise.” It's a subdued, strained little noise. It screams 'stop talking effective immediately'.

What, is he embarrassed to have hired you? Your frown deepens. “I’m a writer. Pretty sure I was hired for my writing talent.”

”Oh, no—“ Marcus tuts.

”Hey?”

”Your gift.” Caius snaps. “Daft girl, what would Aro desire you for?”

Daft girl? This motherfucker. What is he implying?

“My turn of phrase.” You grit. 

Caius blinks once. Twice. Searching your face for something he does not find. “Aro, you can’t be serious. Tell me this isn’t serious.”

You won’t lie. Everyone’s starting to stand a little too close for comfort. Your gaze flits to Aro, who breaks eye-contact the moment you establish it. It’s too late now. His partners have well and truly caught on to something not being quite right, and they’re not going to let this go. 

“The important thing is that the figures are up, and that’s thanks to our newest addition. The rest is background noise.” Aro explains.

“Have you witnessed one of our tours?” Caius goes on, thoughtfully, ignoring the smokescreen. Brow still furrowed, but retreating from his own hostility nonetheless. “Has Aro never invited you?”

You give the man in question room to answer, casting him an expectant look. He doesn’t give you anything in return. He refuses to look at you. He’s far too busy boring a hole into Caius and Marcus’s heads with the fakest smile yet. 

”Actually, I was separated from Heidi just before.” You butt in. The lie instantly wipes that smile off his face.

“You should enquire with him about paying us a visit.” Marcus’s voice drifts in from above, and you look to find him standing over you as if he’s been there for ages. That dreadful, sunken expression gives way to brief warmth. “If one of our family has found a friend in you, perhaps you would do well to know who it is you’re a friend to.”

There’s that little laugh again. Aro is ill-at-ease, and the feeling is really beginning to brush off on you now. It’s a curious situation, but the tension in his smile gives you the indication that you should not press on. This is business beyond your realm. Executive level business. 

You should not be here, but your pride only spurs you onward. 

“For better or for worse, you’re in the network now, dear.” Marcus’s breath curls against your ear. Aro’s face falls into something vaguely uncanny, lips pursing minutely when Marcus gives your shoulder a squeeze. "Any friend of Aro is a friend of ours."

Caius, meanwhile, watches you without any trace of emotion. Male-speak for blood-rage. His lips part. His head angles back, like he’s just thought of something. “Why not bring her for lunch? She claims she was headed there after all.”

Aro’s gaze snaps to the blonde, outrage flashing on his face. “She’s not ready.” He says immediately, voice half an octave lower than usual.

“Now there’s an idea.” Marcus chimes in, fingers still clasping your shoulder.

“Surely you’d like to see upstairs.”

Jane regards you. Unblinking. “It’s certainly a room.”

“We should discuss this later.” Aro insists. Caius is already leading the group, however, cheerily looking back over his shoulder as you follow the pressure to move with them. Swiftly, silently, the brunette falls into step by his side. He mutters something sharp that goes ignored. Then, something you can make out on his lips when he turns his head to hiss at the other man: "She doesn't know. Stop this and I promise you, we can talk.”

“We don’t keep secrets, Aro. Not from each other.” Caius bites back. “You’d hold us to the same standard of transparency.”

Each of the group ascend several flights of stairs without a single audible breath as you’re led up to the tower and down a long stretch of empty hallway. No doors. It feels akin to a funnel, tightening eventually to a large pair of doors.

You catch up just enough to lean to Jane just a little. “This isn’t hazing, is it?”

She doesn’t respond. She doesn’t even acknowledge you. Then, when Aro pushes the door open and everyone else spills into the room, her attention flits to you for just a second. “Your heart is noisy. Like the rest of you.”

…

Hmm.

Really don’t like that.

You don’t get to reflect on the statement for long, though. The girl departs from you. As do Marcus and Caius, crossing the large, circular chamber within to where three rather gaudy chairs lie in mimicry of thrones. As the two men each claim an end — leaving the centre command presumably for Aro — Jane stands to the side. Still presiding over everyone from the raised stage on which the chairs are placed, but there is a clear pecking order here. 

Several men and women stand around the perimeter of the room, curious eyes on you, but otherwise silent. Still. In the very centre, segmented moonlight from the glazed, domed ceiling carries onto the floor underfoot. 

“What’s going on?” You murmur to Aro, who has remained tentatively by your side despite a particular look from both the man’s partners that suggests he must be seated with them right now.

”You know the theatre of it doesn’t strike when we’re not all in position, Aro.” Marcus drones from his spot.

It’s too late for response or action. 

Doors to your right are pushed open, announced with the shriek of scraping wrought iron and a familiar voice beckoning, “—and this is the atrium.”

Heidi stalks into the room, a dozen tourists dressed for the warm weather following in her wake. Some chatting amongst themselves. One or two respectfully quiet. The woman glances at you as she passes, already poised to deliver whatever rehearsed speech she has for the tour group.

Then, she does a double-take.

Her mouth falls open. Then closes. Gloved fingers curl around your upper arm, guiding you across the atrium to stand by her at the foot of the stage. To the other guests in the room, they must see you as one of them — your colleagues look so alien in comparison that in spite of all typical other differences appearance-wise, there are now only two distinct groups in the room: the people you work for, and the people you look like. The only thing separating you from them is Aro having physically shepherded you into his own group. 

“Stay with Heidi.” Aro’s consonants lick cold against your ear. “Do not leave her side.”

The moment he turns on his heel to finally join his partners, Heidi leans toward you. “What the hell are you doing up here?”

”I was looking for a bathroom.” You lie nervously, and the woman’s shoulders seem to sag.

”Great. There goes my vacation.”

“So, Aro hasn’t told you what happens here.” Caius regards you, waiting for Aro to catch up before he seats himself to the man’s left. “I take it you’re interested in finding out?”

You nod. Another lie. Truth be told, you couldn't give a rat's ass as to what happens up here.

"Then let's skip the dramatics."

You follow Caius's gaze to Aro. Fingers curled delicately on the rests of his chair, looking terribly important and utterly lost in thought.

Then he looks at you, and for just a second, you see how apprehensive he is.

"Begin."

Something to your left splatters on the floor. An object moves in your periphery too quick to know what it was. Then it happens again, and a third time.

Out of nowhere, you’re doused with something hot. Your entire right side feeling the impact of a ludicrous amount of blood exiting someone’s body. Your vision splatters black and grainy, and before you can even think to scrub at your eyes, the room fills with the screams of the remaining tourists. One by one, they’re choked into quiet, diminishing in gargles and gurgles, and from what little you can make out, Aro’s staff have gathered around them in pods. Pulling at their bodies. Teeth sinking into flesh in graceful silence.

Your fingers finally dig enough of the blood out of your eyes for you to make sense of things. The thick coating layered over you is chilling quickly, coagulating. Scabbing onto a body it doesn’t belong to. 

Heidi seems to have caught a few drops from the spray that you've been drenched with, and she looks beyond fed-up. "Felix! Eat with your mouth closed!"

Aro, Marcus, and Caius haven’t moved a muscle. They remain in their seats. Observing. Marcus absently accepts a neatly filled glassful of —  blood — he’s drinking blood like its cask fucking wine — watching the chaos on the sunken floor like a re-run of the game. Aro is offered the same, but declines with a wave. He’s too busy watching Caius, who hasn’t broken his gaze from you since the frenzy began. 

Heidi has inched in front of you. Anyone who looks in your direction swiftly meets her eye and just as swiftly shifts their attention elsewhere. You creep further into her shadow. Not quite able to make sense of the scene, but all too happy to let her shield you from it all the same—

“Heidi.”

Caius beckons both your attentions.

”Stand aside.”

The woman shifts an uncertain gaze across to Aro, like a child looking to a spare parent for intervention. Caius tracks their exchange before he rises to a stand.

”Stand aside.” He repeats smoothly, and this time Heidi bows her head, breaking away to place herself on the far side of the stage, out of the young man’s way.

Heads lift from their prey. Eyes on the blonde with fascination as he comes to join their meal.

All that lies between you and the pit of squirming, feasted-upon bodies is Caius, and it’s clear that he does not see you as his own.

He’s in front of you before you can even register it. You take a step back, and he takes two forward.

Panic doesn’t quite stir in you the way you want it do. It doesn’t manifest in a scream, or in any attempt to run. There’s no terror. There’s outrage for certain, but you take less offence to dying by this man’s hand than you do over your brand new, now ruined, clothes. 

Dying.

Fuck. Fuck, you’re going to die. 

In another instant, Aro is at your side. His palm presses hard against Caius’s sternum, stilling him from approaching further. 

The room goes silent. The feast is aborted.

“All of you. Out.” Aro speaks, and in the blink of an eye, the room has emptied. Just you, the three leaders, Heidi, and Jane remain. 

“I knew it!” Caius barks at Aro. “You thought you could hide the fact that you were grooming a human from us?”

Aro, to his credit, is unshaken by the display of anger. If anything, he looks a little tired of it. “For us, brother — I was grooming a human for us.”

”By hiding it away in the basement? Heidi hired her. That’s what you told us.”

”Pedantry.” Aro scoffs. "Really, you ought to have more trust in me after all these years."

Caius’s head whips around. The ire now aimed at poor Heidi, still as a statue. Eyes wide and cast to the floor. “Speak. Were we supposed to know of this arrangement?”

Aro nods smoothly, fingers tented beneath his chin in mock-contemplation as he turns to regard the woman.

“Master, I—“ Heidi starts with an incredulous frown. When Aro’s head cocks the tiniest bit, her words die in her throat. She shoots you a glance, before bowing her head. “I’m sorry. It slipped my mind. I should have introduced you sooner.”

You can see what’s going on. She’s covering for him. 

All three men stare between the two of you until Aro finally dismisses your immediate boss with a wave of his hand. 

“Perhaps you should reflect on your thoughtlessness. Go.”

The door’s opened and closed before you can register that she’s gone, leaving you alone to fend for yourself. 

There’s a painfully long stretch of silence, then. The corners of Caius’s mouth curl down. He looks nauseated. 

“You haven’t taken it as a mistress, have you?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Caius.” Aro gasps. There’s something vaguely scandalised that registers in him, but he otherwise gives the man nothing, keeping his gaze fixed squarely on you. Gauging your reaction despite doing the talking for you.

”We don’t keep these things from each other. You might be able to see us all, but you need to tell us what on earth it is you’re thinking.”

This must be something of a delicate matter. Maybe if you had more of a dramatic flair, you might be able to keep up, but without that, you just stand there. Lamely. Rinsed half an adult human’s worth of blood and the awkward flattery of being called out as the boss’s favourite. You could say you’re not a believer, still. That the vague allusions of their conversation don’t mean anything to you and that you’d prefer to maintain a working relationship built on ignorance and maybe a dash of corporate greed. 

You’d like to.

But you did just watch your superiors suck the blood out of a dozen tourists like they were Capri-suns, so that really throws a spanner in the works. 

“Speak, damn you.” Caius demands of you now, eyes blazing. “Not minutes ago you were prattling on like you owned the building.”

That’s it. Your fear evaporates the moment your patience snaps.

”Is this all because I took your view? There’ll be another one next year.” You huff.

”I don’t want to wait until next year!”

“We made a deal.” Is all you can muster without cussing him out. “I work here. That’s all.”

You don’t mention the part of the deal that pertains to no touching. Caius seems to take this mind-reading thing seriously enough that a pang of worry echoes through your head that it may be real.

It might be real. It’s probably real. Shit, it’s real, isn’t it.

“Naturally, you have expectations to be turned?” Marcus finally stirs, still pooled in his chair as if he’s been rotting there for months. 

You share a glance with Aro. 

“It hasn’t been discussed.” He answers. 

“Discussed?” Marcus echoes.

“You haven’t even read her?” Caius hisses, outrage colouring his face. “Your personal pied piper, and you haven’t even looked into her head? How do you know she won’t expose us?”

“Don’t be silly, Caius.” Aro chirps merrily. “You’re catastrophising. There’s nothing to be concerned over.” There’s a tiny glance in your direction at that.

Your brow furrows. You don’t go for avoidance the way Aro does. Your accuser is clearly smarter than you, and your one ally beyond the man defending you (though it seems like he’s more interested in making sure his own ass is covered) is pure, honest, anger. “It’d be a whole lot easier if you don’t waste half my pay-check by ruining my clothes.”

There’s a moment of silence. 

A huff escapes Marcus across the room. He trades the amusement with Aro, who stifles his own smile. “Less humanity than half of us. No wonder she gravitated into a nest of monsters, Caius.”

”Do you expect to be turned?” Caius echoes, low and dangerous. 

Why do they keep asking that? Turned into what? What stupid fucking jargon could possibly allude to—

Your gaze drifts down to the drained corpses on the marble flooring. It hits you.

Oh. 

“Oh.” You mutter. Vampires. It’s vampires. You made a whole fucking group of vampires miss a sunset. No wonder this guy wants to kill you so badly. 

Jesus fucking christ. Okay.

You’re good. You’re fine.

You’ve been doing good work here. Aro said it himself. You’re of value. Even without what ever personal investment he has in you — you’ve been contributing to their meals, and they have no reason to dispose of you for offering such a service. 

If anything, you’re a hero to this pack of freaks.

“I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“It remains to be seen.” Aro interjects as fluidly as possible. You feel his hand guiding you forward by the small of your waist, promoting you to the other two men and marking his territory all the same. “There’s a degree of suggestion about this one that takes my interest. Meanwhile, she does fine work of keeping Heidi’s lines busy. I see no reason to make dinner of her yet.”

Caius stalks his way back to his seat. “You will get bored of this, Aro.” He promises. Slumping down like a scorned child. 

“Are we to consider this a protege, then?” Marcus asks.

”Try pet.”

“Assistant.” Aro corrects softly, punctuating with a nod. “She will be kept close to me while I determine her worth to us, and rest assured, she will not act of line again.”

That’s bullshit. But the other two eat it up.

“Of course, that is, unless you’d prefer to leave us.” He adds, peering down at you. Palm still pressed to your back. You realise how awfully cold his touch is.

It’s an empty offer. You’ve seen what this pack does to people who carry their secret. But it’s not the implication that steers you away from aborting. 

You clear your throat. Making a quick attempt to tidy up. Fingers struggle to comb through hair caked with drying gore.

“Would — uh,” You begin, smiling wide enough that someone else’s blood cracks on your lips, “Would it be untoward to ask what we do with their belongings?”

__________________________________

[vasiktomis]

TripAdvisor's Top 10 Things To Do In Volterra, Tuscany (18+)

Previous | Part 3 | Next Part

Pairing: Aro/F!Reader(No use of y/n). Rating: Explicit (Minors do NOT interact). Word Count: ~5500. Warnings: Overt stalking. Gaslighting. Borderline infidelity. Kind of sexually weird behaviours all around. Read it on Ao3 Here!

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Autumn.

One couldn’t throw a rock in the home of the Volturi without hitting an unprincipled mortal submitting themselves for servitude. Of course, these humans do so with the intention of being made into immortals. You, on the other hand, stray into territory Aro doesn’t find himself familiar with. 

It strikes such a curiosity in him that he can’t help but survey your actions when you assume privacy. It’s only fair, really — if you won’t let him see your thoughts, you can at least allow him to play guessing games in his free time. Playing detective the way his trackers do: acquainting himself with your routines, following your network. Finding out what makes you tick outside of what you elect to tell him. 

It’s not as if he’s doing any harm, anyway. What you don’t know won’t hurt you, and this whole game is centred around secrets. If you didn’t want this, you shouldn’t have started it. He can’t be faulted for simply accepting your proposal, can he? 

No matter —

You’re a curious sight when you think you’re alone. No different to the way you behave in his presence. Irritatingly elusive in that regard; he’d hoped to at least uncover a shred of something hidden from your daily life. Some vulnerability. Some sweetness. Loved ones, perhaps. The kinds of weaknesses mortals have — but in the months he’s known you, he’s not known you to speak of anyone beyond mutual contacts and the odd celebrity. You fill your time greedily. Blindly. And amidst that, you don’t call anyone. 

You’d make for a perfect recruit, if the rest of you wasn’t such a risk.

In the meantime, until he grows tired of the puzzle, Aro is content to play along. He'll endure your shallow phone-app gossip about Taylor The Swift with the knowledge that no human could ever compete with his own kind in terms of speed, and the security that brains are no different. You're no match for him, intellectually. You’re bound to slip up. Whatever mask you don’t want him peering beneath will crack, and so long as you remain entertaining, he’ll keep you alive. In the meantime, he’s still plenty able to lift far more information from you than you realise. He doesn’t need to touch you to find out what makes you tick, and he’s already beginning to notice a pattern in your rhythms. 

This isn’t a nightly routine, mind. Just a carefully curated set-up to ensure that when he does grow bored — when he just so happens to pass by one particular window in the castle, he needn’t make any other effort but to simply stand and observe.

Aro’s nothing if not generous. Those Airbnbs you hopped to and from offer little in the way of a personal touch. They were cramped and beyond your sustainable budget. There's less of a paper trail in your wake when you're not scrambling to find a new rental, and simply providing you with options bought in a faux name prove advantageous for his end of the board, anyway. This way, you have more presence. More security. More freedom to adorn your living space with all of the things that have taken your fleeting interest; artwork, furnishings, what you refer to as ’tasteful clutter’ — all purchased with the money he gives you, of course. It’s akin to watching a magpie fix her nest with trinkets, and in a static position, the viewing experience is less of a hassle.

Had he ensured your living space faced perfectly toward his own abode, graced with the view of the place that gives you whatever you ask?

Of course.

Do you ever appreciate the wonderful view of the castle from your new home?

Hardly.

This is fine by him, he supposes. 

The less you peer out into the dark, the less concern he has watching you from it. 

Over the course of your relocation, you’ve decided to make your bedroom the room with the view, and with only minimal encouragement from Aro. Most of your time nowadays is spent by his side, and majority of the time not is devoted to resting. You don’t lounge in your living spaces unless you’re hosting Volturi, who are barred from your sleeping quarters. Meanwhile, your human guests only ever appear to be hosted in the opposite manner. 

It’s not the nature of your ventures that interests him; human bodies are filthy. Graceless. Marked up with scars and spots with stories too boring to justify in this era. Each of your guests is as imperfectly mortal as the last — as are you — and you never, ever, bring the same person home twice. 

It’s not what you do with them physically that Aro pays close attention to. It’s the psychological aspects that strike him.

You’re unkind to your lovers. They appear to frustrate you. Matters that go beyond teasing and taunting. They’re simply not up to scratch. Its not for a lack of trying, either; you never give anyone more than an overnight chance before you’re done with them. No afterglow. No intimacy. No second chances. You take what your body needs and send them on their way. 

Well, you try. 

It seems from observation that the only one who is capable of impressing you is yourself. Hardly any different from your public life, really. 

You’re hideously skilled at convincing people to do things for you, and yet you seem to have tremendous difficulty with this. If only your lovers could dip into your mind. They’d know precisely how to give you what you’re chasing. 

He could. Not that he wants to. 

He’d never. 

When you’re alone, it’s different. There’s no bumbling presence obstructing you from him. No one to watch you suffer through pretend patience with as they try in vain to figure out how to please you. You know how to provide for yourself, and tonight is one such fortunate, lucky night.

He prefers it when you’re like this, like tonight: neatly in-view atop your mattress, sheets kicked away, minute little motions of your hand betwixt your legs. If he were human — if you knew you had an audience, it'd almost feel taunting, the way you never remove your underwear; no matter how inconvenient it appears to have them still on. The most gratifying part of it though, Aro finds, is when everything is over. When you’ve emerged from your haze, and the first thing you do is roll over, lift your smartphone from the bedside table, and cause his own device to buzz in his pocket.

A fleeting thought entertains your reaction to his correspondence at this very minute, with your dominant hand — as per usual — obscured by the fabric of your underwear. The potential of your irritation is delightful already, but the possibilities are snowballing; would it bother you enough to make you stop altogether? Would it stir you from your state, or would you keep going, as unbothered with his presence as you are your partners?

Perhaps —

Perhaps it would excite you. 

Venom pools beneath his tongue. Aro takes a moment to dampen his throat. His hand finds his pocket. Considering it. 

He could test how much power a text would have over you right now.

Then, something more reasonable stills him. For all his reflections, you could simply ignore him. Your phone could be on silent for all he knows, and while you’d never even know it, he would be forced to wear that as a loss.

He shouldn’t be doing this.

It’s best he doesn’t involve himself in the moment. Excitement doesn’t bode well for games of chance. 

Your posture stiffens. You’re on the brink. If he really wished it, he could hone in on you. Drown out the city noise and focus on what might be catching breaths and the tack of parting, wetted flesh. The fine hairs on the back of Aro’s neck stand on end. Fingers curl delicately around the phone in his pocket, thumb impatiently drifting back and forth along the glass. 

Then, after teetering for too long a moment, you slacken.

You give up. Drawing your hand out of your underwear and letting it fall beside you on the mattress while you glower at the ceiling. Aro, meanwhile, tugs his hand from his pocket with an unimpressed huff.

Amidst his own annoyance that you are already taking far too many seconds to pick up your phone, Aro notes that this has been an increasingly common ending for you. Not that he’s interested in that aspect of it. He couldn’t care less for the hormonal activities of a mate-less human. Even if the smell that permeates the home he bought you is — really quite something — especially in the minutes after. Normally, alone, you’re quite capable at this. 

Nowadays, much less so. 

He supposes it doesn’t matter, now. He’s more concerned with the far too many centimetres between your hand and the bedside table. Where the presence he’s trying to impose goes ignored. 

...

That does it.

He tugs his phone out of his pocket. Eyes emoji. Conveying expectation while committing to a funny little in-joke with just himself. That'll do nicely. Send.

Across the way, your own device lights up, and you stir from your annoyed state. Checking it nonchalantly. 

Then, you do something new. Angling the phone above your head the same way you've taught him to take the most flattering photographs on the go. Tugging the collar of your shirt outward.

You —

You can’t be doing what he thinks you’re doing. Not to him.

How vile. He’s fathoms beyond you. 

Aro's gaze flickers to his phone. 

Nothing on his end. Not yet.

Your device lowers. You hit send. 

Still nothing.

Perhaps there’s an issue with your reception. He should have received whatever tasteless picture you’d taken by now. 

Seconds pass. Then he’s tapping out another message. Nails clacking with more urgency on the screen. Two eyes emojis. Now that’ll get your blood pumping.

…

Now this is just getting ridiculous.

Rapid-fire pressing of buttons. Aro holds his phone to his ear. He scowls out the window, watching your thumb swipe far too slowly before you greet him.

“Hey, boss. Hot night out, huh? So much for Autumn.”

“What are you doing right now?” It's something of an effort to keep the question from sounding like an accusation.

“I’m sending photos of my tits to some slob on the internet.”

“Ah.” Disarmingly candid as usual, he thinks. “Did you consider it might be inappropriate to tell your mentor such a thing?”

“Pardon. I’m using wireless network technology to transfer illicit images of my body at the behest of an acquaintance who intends to use them to coax money out of a wealthy male — who, probably — finds it sexually thrilling to parted from said money. Is that formal enough?”

“How charitable. Look at that.” Aro comments, watching you peel yourself out of bed. “There’s a humanitarian in you after all.”

“If there was a humanitarian in me, I wouldn’t be working eight hours a day being your breadwinner.”

“Then I'm sure you'll have no qualms explaining why you stay for ten.” He ignores the clumsy euphemism, turning away from the window. He’s gotten the conversation on the right track. “Not including our quality time.”

“Speaking of — when are you dropping by?”

“I thought it might be more polite to wait until I was invited.”

“Aro.” Your voice lowers. Long-suffering. “You show up unannounced half the time.”

“You’re mistaken. No fault of your own. Humans don’t have the best memories.”

“Nice try.”

It’s then that Aro spies Caius turning onto the stretch of hallway. The blonde’s mouth opens, about to regard him before he takes notice of the call and shuts it.

“Two minutes.” Aro promises. 

“Wh-“

He hangs up. There’s no time to spare for your reply, lest present company develop further concerns. Caius has made it quite clear over recent weeks how much he protests the little arrangement the two of you have going on, and to be frank, Aro tends to hear less of it when he’s given as little ammunition as possible. Downplaying your existence entirely whenever you’re not in the room seems to be the only effective means of keeping the other man off his back. 

Not that he’d prefer to be chatting about you, anyway. Any interest regarding his new protege takes an immediate turn for the suspect.  “Aro.” The blonde greets curtly. 

”Caius.” Aro smiles back. “Enjoying the longer hours outside?”

Caius is onto him already. He’s far too acquainted with that sour expression to fool himself into thinking he’s not on his trail. “The hours are fine. What are you doing up here?”

“Admiring the altocumulus clouds.” He lies, inching to the centre of the window to cover as much of the view with his back as possible.

”Altocumulus clouds.”

”Indeed.”

“How sweet.” Caius sneers. “Let me see —“

“Come, since when have you taken an interest in cloud formations?”

“Since when have you been interested in cloud formations?”

Finally, the blonde succeeds. 

”Aro.”

”I’m keeping an eye on her to ensure she’s not doing anything nefarious.”

”Don’t lie.”

"Is it such a crime for me to simply watch?" Aro snaps. "It's not like you to have such little faith in me."

“Your agency is your own.” Caius says, reluctant to fathom the words. “But it’s only a matter of time until word spreads past the continent, and the questions arise.”

“Our answers are sound. Times are changing, Caius. If the vegetarians succeeded so well in training a mortal for their own collection, what’s the harm in us doing the same? We both know public relations haven’t been positive for a few decades. Perhaps having a potential in  the midst of the Guard wouldn’t be such a bad thing.”

“That —“ Caius points over Aro’s shoulder, guiding his gaze across the street. You’ve vanished. Likely bathing. “— is not potential. That is a costly distraction.”

There’s an awfully long pause while Caius chooses his next words. Both of them know what he’s going to say. Both of them can’t stand to look at each other while he says it.

“How many centuries has it been since you visited Sulpicia?”

“Really now —“

“You’d do well to remember she exists.” Caius grunts. “I’m sure your wife would appreciate your visit.”

“Glass houses, dear Caius.”

“Just don’t make this another Carlisle.” The blonde warns. 

“Impossible.” Aro dismisses. “If this one fails, there won’t be a challenge in dispatching her.”

“And if you fail her too late, it could turn into an awful mess. Personalities like your pet go rogue.”

“Personalities like that one are easy to rein in with the right measures. Take Chelsea; she does whatever she’s told as long as she gets whatever she asks for. Our guest is no different. So long as we hold the scrap, the dog will follow.”

Words won’t get through to him. They rarely do. Caius's loyalty lies in firm philosophy, and contradictions are not to be tolerated even amongst his oldest allies. Aro relents, holding out his hand for the other man to take. “Show me how I can convince you, brother.”

Caius regards the gesture with a purse of his lips. His hands remain clasped in front of him, and something in Aro's chest stirs. Uneasy. It's not a sharp enough feeling to have him feeling threatened by the man, but it's enough to warrant concern. Caius would never snatch at helm. He's far too weak. Much too uncharismatic. But he, along with Marcus, make up the completed image of a functioning, harmonious unity. If his own brother in purpose is keeping something from him, it needs to be rectified immediately.

However, Aro's a little preoccupied right now. This time, the blonde's temper will have to simmer on its own for a few hours yet.

The best he can do now is respect Caius's boundary. Show poise. A human in their midst will not upset the integrity of the Guard, and the quickest way to making this clear is honesty. Business as usual.

Everything is under control.

“I don’t like the way the light bounces in this room, and I believe this window is at fault.” Caius declares. “It should be filled in, don’t you think, brother?”

Aro smiles for a moment longer than he knows he should. It doesn’t matter. They both know the gesture is hardly a fond one. “As you like.”

__________________________________

“Let me touch you.”

You blink at the smiling man at your doorstep. “Hello works, too.”

Vampires are persistent animals, you’ve learned — but none more so than Aro. Ever since he’d decided on going public with his decision to make himself something of mentor to you, the senior ranks among staff have all made it quite clear how royally you’ve fucked up by putting in your lot with them; how you had better hope you don’t lose your novelty by the time you die of natural causes, lest their leader grow bored with you. To the chagrin of most — and to your initial delight at the former — your days and nights through the end of Summer and most of Autumn have been in at least some aspect shadowed by Aro. 

His head tilts to the side, just a little as he examines your face. His gaze flits to your collar. “You’re flushed. Are you well?"

To his credit, Aro is probably the most streetwise person you've ever met. He may be ancient, but he's really not bad at keeping up with modernity, with societal change and evolution. He's got an answer to offer to any question you ask, and the ones he doesn't, he's simply keeping from you. That's where, you think, his intelligence falters. The first few times carries a Wow factor. A god, this guy knows everything. Then, he gets talking. Then, he gets long-winded. Then, he's insisting on his smarts. It becomes as inescapable as any other studious white guy flaunting passages he's picked up from books — only Aro's got a few thousand years more passages to cover.

Like most men you've encountered in life, even the ones that would swear otherwise, Aro's Achilles heel is he's utterly convinced that you're dumb.

You’re aware of how little he thinks of humans. Their creations and their impacts, he respects well enough, but individuals are little more than food. At first you’d assumed that the fuss he made over your wit was a polite ploy to force you upon his coven, but as the weeks have drawn on, it’s become clear that he genuinely expected you to be too stupid to realise the habits he’s picked up in regard to his studies of you. 

For instance, the gifted apartment with the gigantic fuck-off window angled directly at the tower he haunts. The way he knows exactly when to call you, where you are, and when you sleep to the minute. 

“Went for a run.” You answer, and his acknowledgement comes a second too late to feel organic.

You both know what you’ve been doing. Only he’s under the assumption you don’t know that he knows. It makes his allusions feel ham-fisted. Aro, it seems, gets sloppy when he thinks he’s in the lead.

The others have been honest with you: Aro’s interests are intense. This game has gotten under his skin, and he’s willing to use any advantage he has on you (an apparently inexhaustible list) to be the victor. You don’t really mind, to be honest. It’s a new vein of fun, being the subject of obsession. Maybe if it were a human following your every move, you’d be creeped out. Not to say that Aro doesn't set off alarm bells; he hits nearly every base in that regard. It's just that, normally, men who want to make a possession out of you are scores less interesting.

Aro steps forward, inviting himself past you, slowing to inhale. It occurs to you that you’ve never heard him breathe passively before. It’s not like he needs to. 

He’s fucking smelling you.

“I would never. Not without your permission.” He assures. A 'come on, please' dressed up to make it feel like you've got far more agency than just what his amusement allows.

“No, Aro.”

”Then hello will have to do.”

This man could kill you whenever he pleases. Instead, he goes out of his way to assure you he's a total consent king. A thousands-year-old blood-drinking monster who stalks your shadow day and night and a simple refusal has him completely enthralled with having you in his vicinity, alive. At least for a while. 

You’re not ashamed to admit it. It’s fun. There’s a fascination with Aro that keeps your own boredom at bay. Beyond the otherworldly aspects of him, beyond the flattery of fixation, you do enjoy trying to figure him out as much as he seems to enjoy figuring you out. There’s almost something familiar about him to you, but there's nothing in memory that you can compare him to. Maybe its just subconscious representations of Dracula in media throughout your childhood; likenesses that have almost absolutely been influenced by him.

If only he wasn't so annoying. You might be more inclined to fuck him sooner if he'd stop trying to read your mind every few hours.

“Why don’t you just go ahead and ignore me one of these days so I can save my breath.” You mutter, closing the door behind him.

“Where would be any fun in that? What we’re doing is far too much fun to fathom it.” Aro tuts, taking in the environment, scanning shelves and surfaces for anything new. It makes him happy to see his influence on your life, you’ve found. Like he has power over you. “Jane has a message she’d like me to pass on.” He waits until you motion for him to continue. “She’d like you to stop trying to make her smoke cigarettes.”

Little tattletale.

“S'not like it’ll give her cancer.” You retort. “Can vampires even develop addictions?”

“Heavens, no. It’s the principle. Besides, we could do without the smell sticking to the walls.”

“Like the meat and borax smell is so much better.”

“Why are you so intent on this?”

“Times have changed! You might have gotten to see it in your day, but this might be my only window to see a child smoking.”

Aro winces at that. “I wouldn’t advise wording it that way in her presence. She and Alec were burned at the stake.”

“Sounds like they could both do with a vice or two.”

“Oh, you are so charming.” Aro scoffs, making his way into the living room. “You know I’d adore if you made more of an effort to ingratiate yourself with my family. Personally, I think you’d make a handsome newborn. I’d like to see that happen before your life is forfeit. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Is that why you haven’t left me alone?” You ponder, pressing a mocking hand to your chest. “Are you grooming me?”

He gives nothing to your theatrics, sticking to his own. “There has been chatter. Nothing is ever set in stone until it reaches the court, but there’s a consensus.”

“And what’s that?”

“That you’re…” He pauses a few seconds, ensuring he’s captured enough of your attention that a cheery little smile won’t go wasted. “A list of expletives I won't lower myself to repeat, but one of the more friendly terms thrown around the room was 'bossy'.”

You take a seat, watching as the man begins to listlessly pace back and forth in front of you. “You know I didn’t sign on to be turned, right?”

Aro shoots you an amused look. “Yes, but why wouldn’t you want to be? You want to remain like —“ He gestures at you. “— this?”

Maybe he said the no offence part too quiet for you to pick up on. 

“None taken.” You offer, just in case. 

“Pardon?”

“Forget it.” Asshole. “I don’t know why you’re so keen for your coven to like me when most of them don’t even seem to like each other.”

 “Marcus likes you very much.” Aro informs, ignoring the latter statement. “Caius has his reservations.”

“You can say he wants me dead, Aro.”

“He might certainly like you more if he knew he could trust you. Caius is a bitter old man, but I understand his caution.”

“I’m not sure what would make you trust me.” You shoot back. “Especially when I never asked for you to tell me all this. I could be sitting down in Heidi’s office, none the wiser. If you ask me, the responsibility’s on you three for dragging me along for the murder tour.”

“A tour you happily continue to send your audience on.”

“I’m happy to do anything my job description states I get paid to do.”

The corner of Aro’s mouth twitches. He didn’t enjoy hearing that. He slows to a stop, bowing his head as he turns to regard you front-on. “They’re both of he opinion that while you refuse to be read, we can’t fully trust you. Playing nicely with others is a valuable trait to have. Our communities are small, and things flow better when we all get along.” He explains. “There’s no question, you’d be an enviable power, but that amounts to nought if you have to be put down for failing to play nice. It’s quite an investment, turning someone, especially in this — sensitive era. Decades of effort.”

You watch him from your spot on the couch. Never quite able to put your finger on what angle he’s playing. Your legs shift, creating a space, and after a moment, Aro takes the invitation. Sitting beside you. 

“So I’m either turned, or I’m dinner for your guards.” You conclude. “Just like all your other human staff.”

Aro makes a face at you. Theatrical sympathy. A gloved hand settles on your knee, and just as a little thrill runs through you, it retreats. Hm. “Oh, no. You’re my favourite, and you’re my catch. I’d be the one who eats you.”

“Can’t I just — stay human?” You ask. “I’m sorry but I sorta like what we’ve got going right now.”

“That—” Aro taps your shoulder with both index fingers. “— is exactly the root of contention. Your apathy. Without me seeing your soul, without anyone to use their gifts on you, there’s simply no telling how much faith we can put in your loyalty.”

“So how are you supposed to find out?”

“The old-fashioned way. With time. But, I’ll never stop asking you.” He says. Eye contact unbroken. “I would be honoured if you’d consider —“

His fingers stretch toward you, gesturing to be taken in yours. It’s not the touch you want.

“Yeah.” You acknowledge the action with a glance, and momentarily, his pupils constrict. Then, you do not move, and the muscles cornering his lips twitch downward. “I’ll consider it.”

He recovers with a renewed grin, inclining his head. “You realise you’re challenging an immortal to a game of patience.”

“Or a race to see who gets bored first.”

Maybe you should be throwing him a bone for refusing to kill and eat you, you wonder. Maybe you could be rewarding this game a little more.

Maybe there's a way for you both to get half a deal out of this.

Your fingertip finds his on the backrest of the couch, and there’s that little thrill again. A layer of leather between you and only a few centimetres of contact, but still, you find yourself quite content to feel along the backs of his knuckles through the material. 

His gaze flickers to the little movements. His throat bobs.

The smile fades, but there’s something much nicer about his face without it. More sincere.

Fuck it. It’s not like you’re having an affair. It's just a touch.

Aro's lips part. Brow stitched. Concerned. But he doesn't pull away.    

“I have a wife.”

…

That was not the direction of sincerity you were anticipating.

You have to hand it to you; you play it cool for a good two seconds before sitting up. “You have a wife.”

Aro straightens out as well, following suit after you’ve withdrawn your hand. “Forgive me. I’d like for us to be on the same page.”

He’s so convincing about this that you almost forget about his window habits. What a scumbag. Surely he could have mentioned being married at some point over these past few months. 

“No, we are. Totally platonic. Strictly professional.” 

Thank god you didn’t go through with sending that photo of your tits to him earlier.

“With the colder weather, our community has more opportunity to congregate in the coming weeks.” Aro explains, gaze now fixed ahead. “You’ll get the opportunity to meet her. As well as our wider network —“

“Is that a good idea?” You ask. “Introducing your wife to a new assistant, to whom you spend majority of your week begging to touch? See, I don’t know about you, but I’ve been fielding some pretty pointed questions about what we get up to together.”

“I don’t beg.” He retorts. “But I do insist. It would be beneficial for you to acquaint yourself with Sulpicia and Athenadora—“

”Two—?”

“Caius’s—“

”Caius has a wife—?”

”It would look better from an outsider’s perspective.” Aro hisses, patience wavering. His eyes — just a little more red these days than you remember them being — fix you to the spot, scowling disproportionate frustration. "Is it really so difficult to fathom that our friends might benefit from having a better idea — the right idea — about us? It would be nice to dispel a few rumours before they become a wildfire."

You hold his gaze, refusing to fold. “Just say everyone thinks that you’re fucking a human.”

That earns you a particularly revolted scoff. He breaks away first. Victory. “Don’t be so crass.”

If you were immortal, would he be so outraged by the prospect? Regardless, you get the feeling that even if you were, he’d still be forcing you into this situation anyway. He’d still have rumours to shirk and a reputation to maintain. Even if you weren’t so foul to him, there’s no way he’d sacrifice that to elevate your own status. 

No, there’s a reason this conversation’s wiped that smarmy little smile off his face, and it goes beyond your humanity.

“I’ll bring my own date. A human.” You propose. “You’ll be honest. Introduce me as your protege. Then you’ll introduce my plus one. Move the attention to them. Act familiar.”

Aro considers that. His tongue shifts between his teeth. “That works. They’ll know you as a couple rather than a spinster. Marcus could vouch for you, so long as you source from another province.”

“Done.”

“Excellent.” Aro inclines his head, sealing the deal. “You’ve a knack for deception.”

“Yeah, I’ve got a real affinity for bullshit.” You say, drily. “Must be why I’m the only person who likes you.”

The corners of his mouth tug. A crooked, organic smile. Then, it turns symmetrical again. Manufactured. “Perhaps you should let me touch you.”

You hum thoughtfully, and the lack of outright denial this time has Aro lurching into your space. One hand braced on the back of the couch. The other already poised to remove his glove. “Perhaps I’d let you if you made good on those rumours.”

Aro stills. Glassy eyes unblinking, imperceptible. You can’t tell if he’s terrified or furious — but that stupid smile falters, and you smell blood in the water. 

“Shame you can’t stomach it.” You continue, pushing yourself up into his space, now, shepherding him out of yours. “Looks like you’ll have to keep pretending from the window.”

Silence stretches between you. Aro’s lip curls.

“Don’t misunderstand our rapport. You are a subject to me, and if you aren’t cautious, you will find yourself beyond my interest.” He warns, and just like that, you’re knocked off your pedestal.

He —

No fucking way.

Is he gaslighting you? Your own stalker, negging you?

Your gaze hardens. ”I think you should get off my couch and go back to your wife now, Aro.”

”Oh, don’t be discouraged.” Your own anger seems to crack through his. Aro fixes you with an amused little chuckle, and you feel the ghost of a gloved fingertip graze your chin. “Consider it incentive to play nice. I don’t want you, but the concept of taking you would be far more agreeable if you were immortal. If nothing else serves to encourage you —“

“I get it. From now on I’ll close the shades before I masturbate.”

”Goodnight."

[vasiktomis]

header for tttvt chapter 4 idea what do u guys think i worked really hard btw

[vasiktomis]

Some TTTVT chapter 2 crumbs FUCK Aro this fic is about HEIDI now <3 <3 <3

[vasiktomis]

“Taylor the Swift” is KILLINGGGG MEEEEEE I’m so excited for chapter 3

How fast can she be? Aro would like to know.

[vasiktomis]

i am being so brave and good patiently waiting for the next part of tttvt

(i do not mean this passive aggressively. i am just excited plz take ur time)

I’m SO sorry for answering this so late I’ve been hoarding it and keeping it for myself. Thank you for enjoying it so much! I’m currently working on chapter 4 ❤️

[vasiktomis]

Been lurking here over here for a bit bc I loved the fic but saw this and thought of the tttvt texts so

CANON.

Consider also, the Aro Alec Jane family group chat:

[vasiktomis]

could i hypothetically tag you in an aro fic im working on?? you've thoroughly inspired me

sincerely, someone who also commented on ao3 how amazing the tripadvisor fic was

Oh my god yes I just saw your comment today and I was so MAD I didn’t find a fic on the account that posted it! PLEASE tag me id love to read your fic!

[vasiktomis]

This isn’t a question but I wanted to say that chapter 3 of tttvt is great and I love it! It’s probably my favorite fic rn because of the humor and how you write Aro/the Volturi (also how they clash with reader’s very abrasive personality is so fun). It’s been a difficult weekend, but your writing does a lot to lift my spirits so thank you.

I’m so glad you’ve been enjoying it, and I’m sorry to hear about your weekend!

Hoping the rest of your week looks up ❤️

[vasiktomis]

Omgggggggg I’m getting off work in 2 mins I just saw part 3 was out IM VIBRATING RN SO ESCITED TO READ

Hope you enjoy! ❤️

[vasiktomis]

Born to write smut ab a vampire freak, forced to do university work

[vasiktomis]

Okay so I’ve been meaning to ask this for a while and first I just want to say that I rlly love tttvt, but I also just want to know: if you could pick three adjectives to describe tttvt, which would you choose?

STINKY

SMELLY

Sad : (

[vasiktomis]

TTTVT 3 is going well and Aro is definitely not up to no good.

[vasiktomis]

Homie got me reading Twilight fanfiction in 2023, smh.

Nah but fr it's fantastic as always. God your writing is so enjoyable.

I'm SO glad you've read chapter 1 and I CAN'T WAIT to make you regret it <3 Thank you and I'm sorry in advance