houseofvolturi

[houseofvolturi]

beneath volterra 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִaro volturi

pairing: aro volturi x reader

warnings: canon-typical violence, power imbalance, morally gray aro

summary: the disappearances in volterra had been written off as tourist negligence, bad luck, and heatstroke. but you weren’t buying it. you’re a journalist. you chase stories other people don’t want to see. so you came to the city of shadows. and then you met her, heidi. she promised you the tour of a lifetime. she didn’t mention it might be your last.

word count: 1,1k

MASTERLIST

You were one bad story away from being fired when the editor called you into his office.

It wasn’t even really an office, more of a converted storage closet with a desk too big for the space and a window that looked into a brick wall. You’d been freelancing for them for four years, mostly writing fluff: weekend events, restaurant closings, clickbait with just enough of a story to pass for journalism.

But your last piece, an exposé on a vegan dog bakery owner who turned out to be neither vegan nor licensed, had tanked. And when your boss folded his hands across his desk, you already knew what was coming.

“I’ve got one more for you,” he said. “One more, and then we’re done.”

You blinked. “You’re giving me another chance?”

“I’m giving you the story no one else wants.” He slid a manila folder across the desk. It was thin. “Missing tourists. Italy. Volterra. A bunch of girls, mostly American gone without a trace. Local police say they’re runaways. But their families don’t think so.”

You opened the folder. Grainy photos. Blurry screenshots. A few printouts of Facebook messages that ended mid-sentence.

“I send you there,” he said, “you get something real, something that makes people click. And maybe you keep your job. Maybe.”

You swallowed. Italy. Alone. On your own dime.

But if you didn’t go you were done. So you bought a one-way ticket.

And two days later, you stepped off a train into the hot, sun-baked stone of Volterra.

Volterra was beautiful. Like it didn’t know how to be anything else. Winding alleys, blood-red rooftops, beautiful fountains and people that whispered in Italian. It was a city built on myth, and it wore that skin well.

You stayed in a second-floor walk-up above a bookstore, drank bitter espresso, and wandered through the same squares the missing girls had last been seen in.

The tourists didn’t seem worried. No signs. No police. Just heat and history.

You went to local authorities. They brushed you off. You asked the guide at the museum. He laughed. “Americans always run,” he said. “They come here to disappear. Some of them succeed.”

But something was wrong. You felt it in your bones.

The first break came on day four.

You were eating lunch in the plaza — half a sandwich and a warm bottle of water when you noticed her.

Tall. Flawless. Hair dark as ink and eyes like melted garnet. She moved like silk. And everywhere she went, people stared.

She stopped in front of a group of tourists. Smiled. Spoke to them softly.

You watched them follow her. No one hesitated. You would later learn that not one of them came back.

You asked the café owner who she was.

He shook his head. “Private tour company. She’s not listed anywhere. Always brings groups through the back.”

Your breath caught.

You felt it — that flicker of instinct. Of danger.

So you followed.

Her name was Heidi. You approached her at dusk, on a narrow stone path behind the cathedral.

“I heard your tours are special,” you said. “I want in.”

She looked you over like she was choosing wine. “You’re not the usual type.”

“I’m adventurous.”

She smiled. “It’s exclusive. Very few are chosen.”

“Choose me,” you said. “I want to see something real.”

She leaned in, her voice velvet. “Be at the fountain tomorrow. Just before noon. Wear something bright.”

And then she vanished into the alley.

You didn’t sleep that night.

You packed a hidden mic. Tucked your phone in your bra. Wrote a note and emailed it to your editor: “If I disappear, start with a woman named Heidi.”

You dressed like a tourist. Bright yellow dress. Sunglasses. All of it topped with a fake smile.

When she met you the next morning, she didn’t ask any questions. You were grateful for that.

There were ten of you. She said nothing. Only smiled and led you into a side alley, then through a narrow corridor you hadn’t noticed before. Down. And down. And down.

Stone turned damp. Air turned stale.

That’s when you fully realized: this wasn’t a tour. This was a trap. And you were already too far in to turn back.

The door closed behind you.

There was only darkness and a silence that throbbed.

And then out of nowhere — screams. Not yours.

Not yet.

The others. Ripped away. One by one. Blood and teeth and shrieking breath.

You stood frozen, trembling, your recorder still running in your shirt, your legs like water.

And then you saw him.

He moved like the air bent around him. Cloaked in black, eyes glowing softly beneath the shadows.

He didn’t run. Didn’t pounce. He walked.

And when he reached you, the others were already gone.

You were the only one left standing.

“A curious one,” he said softly. His voice was smooth, melodic. “And not afraid?”

You swallowed. “I..”

“Or maybe,” he continued, tilting his head, “you are afraid. But you’re used to pretending not to be.”

He took a step forward. You took one back.

“Stop,” you said.

“I have,” he murmured. “See? I’m not touching you.”

You stared at him. “Who are you?”

He smiled. “A king. Of sorts.”

“Of what?”

“Of secrets. Of silence. Of things that should have stayed in the dark.”

Your breath hitched.

“I know what this is,” you said. “It’s a trafficking ring, isn’t it? You take people. Girls. Tourists.”

His smile widened, amused and almost sad. “Oh, my dear. If only it were that simple.”

He reached out a hand.

You flinched. He didn’t touch you.

“I won’t harm you,” he said. “You’re not here by accident. You’re here because you saw the pattern. Because you looked when no one else would.”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

“And more importantly…” he stepped closer, “you’re mine.”

Your heart stuttered.

“I.. what?”

“I don’t know how,” he whispered, “but I’ve been waiting for this longer than you’ve been alive.”

He stared at you. Not with hunger. With something worse.

Recognition.

He didn’t kill you. He didn’t let the others touch you.

He took you to a candlelit room with stone walls and ancient books and watched you sit, shaking.

“I don’t understand,” you whispered.

“You will.”

“What are you?”

He gave a soft smile. “Something terrible. And something that’s been waiting for a long time.”

“For what?”

He looked at you for a long, quiet moment.

“For you.”

[houseofvolturi]

too late for forever 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִaro volturi

pairing: aro volturi x reader

warnings: canon-typical violence, major character death ( reader dies ), hopeless ending / tragedy

summary: you weren’t meant to follow bella to volterra. you didn’t ask to be a part of their world. you weren’t part of the fight. but in the end it didn’t matter.

word count: 1k

MASTERLIST

You were never supposed to be part of any of it. You weren’t a vampire. You weren’t a Cullen. You weren’t part of their strange, glittering world.

You were Bella’s older sister. That was all.

But it had been enough to pull you in.

Enough to take you to Italy that day. To see the black stone halls of the Volturi, the haunting smiles of men who had long since stopped pretending to be human. Enough to feel red eyes watching you not like prey, but like you were the most interesting thing in the room.

You remembered him.

Not by name. He’d never introduced himself. But you remembered the weight of his stare. The stillness in him. The quiet, intense gravity of someone who saw not just what you were — but what you would be.

You’d met Aro Volturi once.

You never forgot. And neither did he.

You were never told how close to death Bella had come in that marble throne room. She never wanted to relive it. But you saw it in her eyes after. The kind of hollow that doesn’t heal with sleep or sun.

And maybe that’s why you kept coming back. Why you stayed close to the Cullens, even when Bella tried to push you away. You weren’t ready to let her stand alone in a world where things like them existed.

You told yourself you weren’t afraid. Not really. Not anymore. You’d already met the most terrifying people in it.

You had no idea.

The newborn war was never meant to touch you. It was a whisper at first. Something the Cullens discussed in hushed voices. Seattle. Blood. Shadows.

Then came the wolves. The training. The battle that Bella swore she would never be part of.

And then she was.

So you went, too. Because you always did.

You stood at the edge of the field. The air was thick with ash and the metallic stink of blood. It clung to your clothes, to your skin, like smoke after a house fire.

You weren’t supposed to be there.

But then again, neither was the girl.

Bree Tanner knelt in the dirt, trembling. Her arms were raised, eyes wide, her voice a broken string of pleas. “Please, I don’t.. I didn’t want to! I didn’t kill anyone. I was just..”

And standing before her Jane.

Inhumanly beautiful. Cold. Her red eyes glittered with amusement, not mercy.

“Rules are rules,” she said softly.

No one moved. Even Carlisle said nothing.

Bree looked around the field and saw nothing but silence. Surrender.

And then there was you. You stepped forward. Not with strength. Not with power. Just with humanity.

“Wait,” you said, voice steady. You stood between Bree and Jane, your palms up, your chest rising and falling far too fast. “She’s surrendering. She’s a child.”

Jane blinked once. Her smile never moved.

“A child who slaughtered humans in the street.”

“She didn’t ask to be made,” you said.

“She didn’t ask to die, either,” Jane replied. “But here we are.”

Her hand lifted. A sick, sharp rush of air moved around you. And then pain.

You didn’t even scream. Your body hit the ground like a fallen branch. Hard. Fast.

There was a silence that followed. A stunned, breathless quiet.

Bella gasped. Edward stepped forward. But it was too late.

You were already still.

Bree Tanner didn’t run. She just knelt there, stunned, her mouth open in a silent sob.

Jane gave no orders. She didn’t have to.

Alec stepped in. Felix moved forward. The girl didn’t last long.

Another body in the clearing. Another rule enforced.

Bella stood over you after the Volturi left. Carlisle knelt beside you, hands pressing to your chest, as though he could rewind the clock with pressure alone.

But your heart had stopped long before he arrived.

You died in silence.

And you died without ever knowing what you meant to him.

When Aro learned your name, it was from a report. A letter delivered without fanfare. One he might have skimmed. Tossed aside.

Except it mentioned you.

A single line.

“The human, Swan’s sister, was killed in the clearing. Crossfire, it seems. She attempted to shield the surrendered newborn.”

Aro stared at the parchment for a long time.

He read it again. And then again.

And then something in him snapped.

He took the letter to his study. Closed the door. Sat in the high-backed chair carved centuries ago.

And read it once more. You had died.

You. The girl he couldn’t name. The pulse he couldn’t forget. The eyes that met his for one second too long in the throne room.

You, who had felt like something he’d once been promised.

He hadn’t touched you. He hadn’t dared. He told himself it was restraint. That he had time.

But time had never belonged to him.

And now, neither did you.

When he touched the parchment, your name still wet with ink, something sparked.

He saw flashes of you. Of your voice. The warmth of your skin. The way you stood between death and a girl who would never thank you.

The bond hit him like a storm. It was violent, instant, irreversible. You were his mate.

And you were gone.

He didn’t scream. He refused to rage. He just sat in silence for hours. Then days.

Marcus came once. Said nothing. Left a single candle burning on the table.

Aro didn’t move.

Not until the ink faded. Not until your name vanished from the page.

They never found your body.

The Cullens buried what they could. Charlie was told a lie. Bella never stopped wearing your bracelet.

And in Volterra, Aro never spoke your name again.

But sometimes, in the deepest part of the night, the guard would hear a voice whispering in the halls.

Repeating something that no one could understand.

It wasn’t a name. Not anymore.

It was a prayer.

One never answered.

[houseofvolturi]

until you’re ready ( part two ) 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִaro volturi

pairing: aro volturi x reader

warnings: emotional trauma, panic attacks / flashbacks, mentions of manipulation and abandonment, fear of physical contact, heavy angst

summary: you were turned without warning, without mercy, and abandoned before the flames of your new thirst even settled. the volturi found you — starved, mute, terrified. you flinch at red eyes and fangs, at footsteps in stone halls. you flinch at him. aro, king of kings, your mate, an immortal whose soul has waited three thousand years to find yours.

word count: 1k

᭝ part one ՟

MASTERLIST

You never knew silence could feel like peace. It had once been a prison — those early days after the turning, when your own body felt like a threat. You had screamed without sound. Curled inward. Refused every kindness like it might bite.

But now, silence had changed.

It lived differently here. In the small moments. In Aro’s presence. In the way he never spoke unless you wanted him to. In the way he looked away when you stared too long, like he knew what it meant to be looked at when you weren’t ready.

You didn’t love him. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But you’d stopped fearing him.

And that was something.

You began to ask for him.

It started with simple requests. Books. Stories. Candlelight when the days were too long. He brought you everything you asked for, and nothing you didn’t.

And then, one night, you asked, “Will you stay a little longer?”

His breath caught. You heard it. But he only nodded and folded himself back into the armchair by the fire, as if he hadn’t just waited a hundred lifetimes for that question.

You didn’t speak again that night. Neither did he. But when the candles burned low and your eyes began to shine red, you looked over and whispered, “Thank you.”

His smile was small. Quiet. The kind of smile that doesn’t try to be seen.

But you saw it anyway.

There were still bad days. Sometimes, without warning, a scent in the hallway would make your throat tighten. A flicker of movement would send you spiraling. Your body remembered things your mind hadn’t dared process.

Aro never asked you to explain.

But when you curled in on yourself, when your hands trembled and your voice vanished again, he would simply sit on the floor, mirroring you from across the room, and stay.

He always stayed.

He showed you the gardens one evening.

You’d never seen the outside of the castle. You hadn’t dared. The idea of exposure, even under moonlight, made your limbs seize with anxiety.

But Aro had waited until you asked.

“Is it safe?” you said.

“With me?” he asked quietly. “Always.”

And so you let him lead you down the stone corridors, through carved archways and cool air, until you stepped out onto ancient stone paths laced with moss and candlelight.

The moon was high, pale and full. The scent of night-blooming flowers hung in the air like incense.

You stared up at the sky. You hadn’t looked at the stars in weeks. Maybe longer. They were still there. Quiet. Watching.

“They look the same,” you whispered.

Aro’s voice came gently behind you. “They are.”

You turned slightly. “Even when everything else isn’t.”

He didn’t reply. But the silence said yes.

You sat together on a bench under an old olive tree. Your hand rested close to his — close enough to feel the brush of his sleeve against your skin when the wind stirred.

“I used to believe love had to feel like fire,” you said quietly. “Like something that burned.”

Aro looked at you, not directly, but in the way someone listens with their whole soul.

You swallowed. “But maybe… maybe it’s supposed to feel like this.”

His expression didn’t change. But something in his stillness did.

Like hope exhaled.

You began to speak of your turning. Only in pieces. Only on your terms. A name. A smell. A moment you hadn’t remembered until you did.

Aro listened. Always. He never interrupted. Never offered vengeance.

You’d thought you wanted revenge, once. But now, all you wanted was space to breathe.

“You’re not what he made you,” he said one night, voice barely above the rustling fire. “You never were.”

You didn’t reply. But your hand drifted across the space between you, and this time, it found his without trembling.

He didn’t hold it.

He just let it be.

It happened slowly.

The love.

You didn’t recognize it at first. It lived in the pauses. In the way you waited for his voice. In the way your shoulders loosened when he was near.

You’d once hated being touched. Feared it. But now you brushed against his side as you passed in the corridor. Sat closer. Rested your hand against his chest when you couldn’t sit still.

You never apologized.

And he never asked why.

He didn’t tell you he loved you again.

Not out loud.

But he showed you every day, in the stillness, in the offerings, in the way he never once made your healing about him.

You saw it in the way he averted his gaze when you smiled. Like it hurt to look. Like it meant too much.

You wondered if maybe it did.

One night, in the gardens, under violet moonlight, you stood beside him and whispered, “I think… I’m beginning to feel something.”

He didn’t move.

He didn’t breathe.

You looked at him. “I don’t know what it is yet. But it’s not fear.”

His lips parted. Then closed.

You reached up slowly, cupping his cheek in your hand — so lightly, like he might break.

Or maybe, like you might.

He closed his eyes. Not with want. But with relief.

And for the first time, you leaned forward and pressed your forehead to his.

Your voice was barely there. “Don’t move.”

“I won’t,” he whispered.

You kissed him one week later. It was brief. Soft. Almost startled. Like both of you were afraid to admit it had happened.

You pulled back quickly. He didn’t chase you. Didn’t press.

But he smiled. A real one. The kind that cracked through centuries of grief.

And you found yourself smiling back.

You weren’t healed. Not completely.

Some days, the nightmares still came.

Some days, you still wept in the quiet, too ashamed to say why.

But you weren’t alone in it anymore.

You had someone who sat with you in the dark without needing to fix it. Someone who didn’t need your love to feel whole — only your presence.

And you were starting to want to give him both.

You still didn’t say the words.

Not yet.

But one day, you would.

And he would wait.

[houseofvolturi]

masterlist .ᐟ

aro volturi

his to keep

જ⁀➴ when rumors reach aro of a second hybrid, this time not a child, but a woman, he invites you to volterra. what starts as fascination soon becomes something deeper. but everything aro offers comes with a cost.

warnings: power imbalance, emotional manipulation, morally gray aro

────────────── 𝖁 ───────────────

older than time

જ⁀➴ from the moment you first saw his face, trapped in oil and brushstrokes in carlisle’s study, you knew. aro volturi, the immortal king. philosopher, monster, your mate. years later, you’ve come to volterra. not to beg. not to be spared. you’ve come to join him. and aro, patient and cunning, has been waiting for you all this time.

────────────── 𝖁 ───────────────

until you’re ready ( part one | part two )

જ⁀➴ you were turned without warning, without mercy, and abandoned before the flames of your new thirst even settled. the volturi found you — starved, mute, terrified. you flinch at red eyes and fangs, at footsteps in stone halls. you flinch at him. aro, king of kings, your mate, an immortal whose soul has waited three thousand years to find yours.

warnings: emotional trauma, panic attacks / flashbacks, mentions of manipulation and abandonment, fear of physical contact, heavy angst

────────────── 𝖁 ───────────────

too late for forever

જ⁀➴ you weren’t meant to follow bella to volterra. you didn’t ask to be a part of their world. you weren’t part of the fight. but in the end it didn’t matter.

warnings: canon-typical violence, major character death ( reader dies ), hopeless ending / tragedy

────────────── 𝖁 ───────────────

beneath volterra

જ⁀➴ the disappearances in volterra had been written off as tourist negligence, bad luck, and heatstroke. but you weren’t buying it. you’re a journalist. you chase stories other people don’t want to see. so you came to the city of shadows. and then you met her, heidi. she promised you the tour of a lifetime. she didn’t mention it might be your last.

warnings: canon-typical violence, power imbalance, morally gray aro

────────────── 𝖁 ───────────────

velvet chains ( to be added )

જ⁀➴ after the almost-battle with the cullens, aro returns home shaken, not by the fight that never was, but by the image of your death in alice’s vision.

warnings: controlling behavior, gaslighting, implied captivity, morally gray aro

[houseofvolturi]

until you’re ready ( part one ) 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִaro volturi

pairing: aro volturi x reader

warnings: emotional trauma, panic attacks / flashbacks, mentions of manipulation and abandonment, fear of physical contact, heavy angst

summary: you were turned without warning, without mercy, and abandoned before the flames of your new thirst even settled. the volturi found you — starved, mute, terrified. you flinch at red eyes and fangs, at footsteps in stone halls. you flinch at him. aro, king of kings, your mate, an immortal whose soul has waited three thousand years to find yours.

word count: 1,3k

᭝ part two ՟

MASTERLIST

You didn’t remember his face. Not clearly. You remembered his voice, low and thick with hunger, and the feel of his hands. Hard, unyielding, cold like wet stone. You remembered the burn. The fever. The way your body broke and reassembled in the dark. The agony had been endless, like drowning in fire. And then… silence.

You weren’t supposed to survive. That much had been clear. You hadn’t been turned out of mercy. You had been taken. Used. Changed. And left to rot.

The first face you saw when the fire in your blood dimmed wasn’t his. It was hers — Jane, with her strange red eyes and perfect lips curved into something unreadable. She stood with her hands behind her back as you huddled against the wall, dirt-caked, trembling, too starved to fight.

Demetri was next. He stepped toward you once and you screamed. You hadn’t meant to. It just tore out of you — raw and primal, a sound born from fear so old it already felt ancient in your chest.

That was when they realized you weren’t dangerous. You were broken.

They brought you to Volterra in silence. You didn’t struggle. You didn’t speak. You barely moved. When they gave you a room — soft, warm, full of things that should’ve comforted you. You didn’t lay in the bed. You didn’t touch the books. You sat on the floor, back pressed to the wall, shaking every time a footstep echoed in the hallway.

You drank only when the pain in your throat grew too unbearable to ignore. Cold bags of donated blood, passed through the door without ceremony. You hated how easily your body accepted it. How natural it had become to hunger for something so wrong.

You didn’t understand what you were. You only knew what you were not, safe.

He came three days later.

The door opened without fanfare, and you looked up — already braced to flinch, to cry, to beg. And then you saw him.

Tall. Dressed in black. Movements so slow, so deliberate, he barely seemed to breathe. You didn’t know his name. You didn’t know who he was. But you felt something the moment your eyes met his.

Not comfort. Not recognition. Not even fear. Something else.

It was a pull.

You recoiled instantly, body folding in on itself, hands out like you were warding off fire. “Don’t,” you croaked. Your voice cracked, your throat raw. “Please don’t come near me.”

He didn’t. He froze where he stood, hands lifting ever so slightly in surrender. And then slowly, carefully, he knelt.

Not like someone humbling himself. Not like someone worshiping, either. It was quieter than that. Sadder.

“I won’t touch you,” he said softly, his voice low and ancient. “I give you my word.”

And then he sat there, silent. Not watching you like a predator. Not speaking. Just existing in the same room, as if his presence alone might help you remember what it meant to be yourself again.

You didn’t speak to him. You didn’t look at him again. You waited for him to leave.

He stayed for an hour.

And then he left.

He returned the next night. And the next.

Always the same — he would knock once, step inside without a guard, and sit. Sometimes by the fire. Sometimes on the far wall, his back against the stone.

He never crossed the room. Never raised his voice. Never tried to touch you.

He spoke occasionally. Small things. Questions he didn’t expect answers to. Stories you didn’t understand. Observations about the stars you couldn’t bring yourself to see.

And then, one night, after nearly two weeks of silence between you, you whispered, “Why?”

He looked up slowly. You were curled in the corner still, but your voice — faint, hoarse, lingered in the quiet like a match burning in the dark.

“Why are you here?” you asked.

His eyes softened, and for a long moment, he said nothing. Then: “Because I felt you long before I ever saw you.”

You didn’t know what that meant. You weren’t sure you wanted to.

You began to understand, piece by piece. You heard whispers from the guard. From Alec. From a woman named Chelsea, who never dared come near you but often stood outside the door when Aro visited.

“She’s his mate,” someone said once.

“He found her too late,” said another. “She doesn’t even know what she is.”

You hated them for saying it. You hated him more for not denying it.

Because you felt it, too.

Not in your chest, where love should’ve lived. But in your bones. In your blood. In the way your body reacted to his presence — tense and small and drawn like a string pulled tight.

You hated it.

You hated him.

And still… you waited for the sound of his footsteps. Every night. Without fail.

“I want it gone,” you said one evening, eyes on the fire, voice hollow. “This… connection.”

Aro didn’t answer right away. He was seated across the room, his hands folded in his lap. You never looked directly at him, but you always knew where he was.

“It’s not something I gave you,” he said at last. “And it’s not something I can take away.”

Tears welled in your eyes, sharp and angry. “Then what good is it?”

His voice didn’t tremble, but it cracked faintly. “I ask myself the same question.”

He brought you books, scrolls, soft silks. He never tried to bribe you with comfort. It was quieter than that. He simply left them there, never commenting if you didn’t touch them.

You began to read, eventually. You liked the old ones best. Books that were handwritten, bound in leather. Words that had survived the passage of time.

He noticed. But he didn’t say a word.

He only smiled, a small, hidden thing you caught in the firelight.

And still, he never moved closer than the threshold.

One night, you asked, “Do you want me to love you?”

The question hung like smoke.

Aro looked up slowly, his eyes red and heavy with years. “I want you to live.”

You stared at him, shocked by the answer.

“Loving me,” he said quietly, “is something you never have to do. But living… that’s something I pray you choose.”

The first time your hands touched was by accident. You were reaching for a book and your fingers brushed his. You froze. He did, too. The air shifted. The bond surged.

You yanked your hand back like you’d been burned. Your body shook, your vision blurring. You whispered, “Don’t. Please don’t.”

He stepped back at once, hands open, face twisted in quiet agony. “I never will,” he said. “Unless you ask me to.”

You didn’t speak for three days after that.

And then, softly, you began to change.

You laid on the bed. You asked for music. You ate without sobbing afterward. You started asking questions: Where did he grow up? Did he believe in God? What did it feel like to live this long?

Aro answered everything with slow, careful honesty. He never tried to enchant you with power or status. He never tried to convince you to love him.

But in every word, you could hear it: the devotion. The restraint. The ache.

And it broke you.

Because for all the love he held for you — he never made you carry it.

“I’m not healed,” you whispered one night, eyes fixed on the fire.

Aro sat in the chair beside you, as he always did now. Not close enough to touch. But closer.

“I know,” he said.

You hesitated. “I’m not sure I’ll ever be.”

He looked over, eyes soft. “Then I will love you while you try.”

You didn’t cry. You hadn’t in weeks.

But you thought you might, then.

You touched his hand a week later. Not by accident. Not for long. But it was your decision. Your fingers curled around his gently, trembling but sure.

His eyes widened. You watched the pain fall away from his face in a single breath.

And he didn’t say a word.

Because for Aro, that was enough.

For now.

[houseofvolturi]

older than time 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִaro volturi

pairing: aro volturi x cullen!reader

summary: from the moment you first saw his face, trapped in oil and brushstrokes in carlisle’s study, you knew. aro volturi, the immortal king. philosopher, monster, your mate. years later, you’ve come to volterra. not to beg. not to be spared. you’ve come to join him. and aro, patient and cunning, has been waiting for you all this time.

word count: 1,1k

MASTERLIST

It began with a painting.

You weren’t looking for anything. You were only exploring, newly turned, trying to ground yourself in the vast stillness of immortality. Carlisle’s study was always open, always full of warmth, books, and quiet candles.

You wandered in one night, restless. And then you saw it.

A portrait tucked behind a bookcase, half-forgotten. Three men in crimson cloaks — Caius, Marcus, and Aro. But only one held your gaze.

Not because he was the center. Not because his cloak shimmered slightly more than the others.

Because his smile was soft. Knowing. Dangerous.

Because something in your chest shifted.

You couldn’t look away. And you never truly looked back.

You tried to forget it. You told yourself it was nothing. You had a coven. A family. You hunted animals. You pretended to be human.

You laughed with Emmett. Read with Edward. Watched the sun set beside Esme.

But something inside you remained untouched. An ache. A thread pulled tight.

You had never seen Aro in person. And yet, he filled your dreams. A voice without words. A face painted in memory.

Carlisle never spoke ill of him. Only carefully. Cautiously. Reverently, at times. He had once walked beside him. And part of you wondered… had Aro painted himself into Carlisle, too? Had he ever let go?

And so, the decision became inevitable.

You would go to Volterra. Alone.

Not to negotiate. Not to deliver a message.

But to offer yourself.

The journey to Italy felt like floating toward a star you’d never touch. Every step felt guided by something older than instinct. Older than fate.

The guards were waiting when you arrived. They recognized your name immediately. Tension rose in the air like lightning before a storm.

“Carlisle Cullen’s creation,” one of them muttered. “What would she want here?”

You said nothing.

They led you deep beneath the city, past limestone walls and iron gates until the air grew cold and the silence turned heavy.

You didn’t flinch.

The doors to the throne room opened. And you walked through.

He was already standing.

Aro.

Time slowed.

His eyes met yours and the earth seemed to fall away beneath you.

The red of his irises burned like coals. But they weren’t cruel. They were… hungry. Not for blood. For something deeper.

He stepped down from the dais slowly, carefully — as though afraid to startle you.

“You…” he said, barely louder than a whisper. “At last.”

The guards stilled.

Caius’s expression twisted into confusion. Marcus only tilted his head slightly.

But Aro, he never took his eyes off you.

“You’ve come far,” he said, now just a foot away. “For what purpose?”

You didn’t hesitate. “To be with you.”

Something trembled in the room. Not physically — but in the air. In the meaning of what you’d said.

Aro’s gaze sharpened.

“I saw you,” you said softly. “Long ago. In Carlisle’s study. The painting. I felt the pull then, even though I didn’t understand it.”

“And now you do.”

You nodded once. “You’re my mate.”

The word mate fell like thunder.

Aro didn’t move. He only stared. And then, finally, he smiled.

“You always were,” he said. “From the moment your heart first beat.”

He offered his hand — not for power. Not to see your mind.

To touch you.

When your fingers brushed his, it was like exhaling after holding your breath for a century.

The bond ignited immediately. A thread drawn taut between two ancient souls, one just beginning, the other too long alone.

His thumb traced the back of your hand.

“I have waited centuries,” he said, reverently, “but I never thought the end of my waiting would walk into my halls.”

You didn’t reply. There was no need.

You expected pushback from the others. And it came.

Caius questioned your loyalty. Jane watched you like a hawk. And Demetri whispered about what Aro might see in you.

But he said nothing to them. Only kept you close. Introduced you to the archives. Let you sit beside him at court. Taught you the names of the vampire kingdoms you’d never even heard of.

You learned quickly. You fed when needed. You held your head high.

But you remained soft only for him.

One night, in a chamber lined with velvet and parchment, you finally asked him.

“Why didn’t you come for me?”

He turned, startled.

“When I was new,” you said. “When you felt the bond. Why didn’t you take me?”

His expression was unreadable. Then, slowly, it cracked into something more vulnerable.

“Because I knew,” he said, “that if I came too soon… I would not have been able to let you go again. Even if you weren’t ready.”

You stepped toward him. “I was ready the moment I saw your face.”

He smiled sadly. “But you still had to find your way. If I had taken you then, it wouldn’t have been your choice. It would have been mine.”

You looked at him, the oldest vampire alive. The one who could bend empires with a whisper. And yet — he had waited for you.

You kissed him then. A slow, deliberate thing. Not hungry. Not desperate.

A claiming.

And he let himself be claimed.

The next morning, he took you deeper into the castle than ever before. Into a gallery of sealed portraits. Some ancient. Some more recent.

He stopped in front of one. You.

Painted in soft gray tones. Eyes fierce. Lips curved faintly upward.

“I had it commissioned,” he said quietly. “When I first saw you through Carlisle’s mind.”

Your chest tightened. “So you knew.”

“I always knew.”

He turned to face you. “But even then, I wasn’t prepared for the real you. You burn brighter than I imagined. You are not what I expected.”

“And still,” you said, “you want me?”

Aro stepped forward and took your face in his hands.

“No,” he said. “I need you.”

That night, he took you to the rooftop above Volterra.

The city glowed golden beneath you, quiet and ancient.

You leaned against the railing. Aro stood beside you, his cloak fluttering gently in the breeze.

“Do you miss them?” he asked after a while.

“The Cullens?” you asked. “Sometimes. They were kind to me. But I never felt like I belonged.”

“And now?”

You turned toward him. “Now I feel like I’ve stopped pretending.”

He smiled. “You are more than I hoped for.”

You touched his chest, where a heartbeat once lived. “So are you.”

Aro bent down then, and kissed you with the full weight of centuries behind him.

And the flame that lit inside you never dimmed again.

[houseofvolturi]

his to keep 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִaro volturi

pairing: aro volturi x hybrid!reader

warnings: power imbalance, emotional manipulation, morally gray aro

summary: when rumors reach aro of a second hybrid, this time not a child, but a woman, he invites you to volterra. what starts as fascination soon becomes something deeper. but everything aro offers comes with a cost.

word count: 1k

MASTERLIST

You never expected the invitation to be so… polite.

An ivory envelope, hand-delivered by a cloaked envoy with crimson eyes. Your name written in delicate script. No threats. No force. Just a request.

Aro of the Volturi requests the honor of your presence in Volterra.

You didn’t know what to make of it. Most people never heard from the Volturi unless they were about to die. And yet, you weren’t afraid.

You were curious.

That was your first mistake.

Volterra was colder than you imagined — old stone and quiet corridors, soft candlelight glowing like memory. The castle felt like it breathed around you, ancient and awake.

They didn’t restrain you. You were led through the halls like a guest, not a prisoner. But the guards didn’t blink. You could feel them assessing your every move, measuring how easily you could be killed.

You were half-human, after all. Breakable. Vulnerable.

But not quite.

You entered the throne room with your chin held high. Aro sat at the center, draped in black, flanked by Caius and Marcus like marble statues.

His eyes locked on you the moment you stepped in.

“So,” he said softly, rising from his throne. “The rumors were true.”

You said nothing. Let him study you.

“A hybrid,” he breathed, approaching you. “But not like the Cullen child. No… older. Changed. Not born.”

You stood your ground as he came closer. You didn’t flinch when he stopped just a breath away.

“May I?” he asked, raising a hand toward yours.

You hesitated. Then offered it.

His fingers curled around yours — cool, dry, and impossibly light.

Aro’s eyes fluttered shut.

Then his expression darkened.

He opened them slowly, studying you.

“I see only fragments,” he murmured. “Memories woven like torn silk. You weren’t turned the usual way.”

“No,” you said, voice steady. “I was dying. The venom didn’t finish the job.”

He seemed… delighted.

“A miracle,” he whispered. “An in-between thing.”

“I’m not a thing.”

Aro smiled. “Of course not.”

He turned and gestured. “Walk with me.”

You glanced at the guards. “Is that a command?”

He tilted his head. “An invitation.”

You followed.

The halls of the Volturi were strangely beautiful. Every inch whispered history — tapestries, statues, books that had never touched sunlight.

“You do not thirst,” Aro mused as you walked. “But you are not human.”

“I eat food. I sleep. I bleed.”

“But your strength… your speed…”

“Stronger than a human. Weaker than you.”

“Fascinating,” he said again, half to himself.

You stopped at a balcony overlooking the city. The night air touched your face, and for a moment, Aro was quiet beside you.

Then he said, “Why did you come?”

You glanced at him. “You asked.”

“Others would have run.”

“I’m not like others.”

“No,” he said. “You’re not.”

He turned to face you, something sharper behind his smile now. “Do you know why I asked for you?”

“You wanted to see me.”

He nodded. “True. But more than that, I wanted to understand you.”

“Because you see me as a threat?”

“Because I see you as potential.”

You raised a brow. “For what?”

“For change,” he said simply. “For something new. You are a crack in the old world, my dear. A path forward. Or… a danger to be handled.”

You didn’t react.

“You think I’m cruel,” he said.

“I think you’re dangerous.”

He smiled at that.

“And what do you want?” he asked.

You looked down at the streets of Volterra, golden and distant. “I’ve never belonged anywhere,” you said. “Too human for the vampire world. Too strange for the human one.”

Aro’s voice lowered. “And if I told you that you could belong here?”

You turned to him slowly. “As what? A specimen? A weapon? A pet?”

His smile faded.

“No,” he said. “As something cherished.”

Later, you were led to a private chamber. Not a cell. A room. With a bed, and books, and a window that let in the stars.

You stood there for a long time, not sitting, not speaking.

Then the door opened.

He had come alone.

No guards. No fanfare. Just Aro, as quiet as the dead.

“I should let you rest,” he said. “But I find myself… reluctant.”

You didn’t answer.

He stepped inside. “You must understand how rare you are. Not just for what you are. But how you carry it.”

You watched him closely.

“You haven’t tasted human blood,” he said. “But you’ve felt the pull.”

“Yes.”

“And resisted it.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

You hesitated. “Because I know what I’d become if I didn’t.”

“Do you think that makes you noble?” he asked. “Or afraid?”

You looked him in the eye. “Both.”

Aro’s lips parted, and he laughed softly. Not mockingly. Like he was surprised.

“You are unlike any creature I’ve known,” he whispered.

He crossed the room. And this time, you didn’t stop him.

His fingers brushed your cheek. Cool. Careful.

“I could give you anything,” he said. “Power. Knowledge. Eternity.”

“I have eternity,” you said.

He stepped closer.

“But not purpose.”

You felt it then — that dangerous, electric thing between you. The way he looked at you. Like a king discovering something holy. Like a man staring into the unknown.

“I don’t trust you,” you said.

“No,” he murmured. “But you want to.”

You swallowed.

He leaned in. “May I?”

You hesitated. Then nodded.

He kissed you — not with heat, but gravity. Like he was memorizing the shape of your lips. It was soft, cold, and strangely human.

When it ended, he didn’t pull away.

“You could stay,” he said. “You would never be alone again.”

You closed your eyes.

“But I would never be free.”

A long silence.

“I won’t lock the door,” he said. “But I’ll always be here when it opens.”

You looked at him.

“You don’t want a companion,” you whispered. “You want a keepsake. Something to marvel at and admire. But never truly know.”

His expression was unreadable.

And then, quietly: “Perhaps I want both.”

You touched his chest, just briefly, where a heart had once beaten.

“I’m not ready to be someone’s possession,” you said.

“Then be no one’s,” Aro replied. “Be mine.”

Your breath caught.

But you stepped back.

“I’ll leave in the morning.”

“I won’t stop you.”

You nodded once. And turned away.

Before he left, he said: “You will come back. I’ve seen it in you.”

You didn’t answer.

But your pulse was louder than ever.