#thevolturi

You were Aro's beloved niece.

Sometimes, you were all the King talked about. Photos you'd sent of places you'd been, people you'd met, people you'd eaten (though Uncle Aro didn't typically encourage reckless behavior, it was quite impressive). Besides, you always cleaned up your messes.

And eventually, you always returned home.

And here you were, after close to 70 years. Pushing the doors to the throne room open, a bright beaming smile on your pointed teeth. You dropped your bags onto the porcelain floor with no shyness, looking straight up at your uncle. You ignored the other two on the thrones, not bothering with introductions. After all, your uncle had never allowed you to formally meet them. Not until you got old enough, of course.. Ironic considering how ancient you truly were.

"Dear Y/n!" Your uncle nearly squealed with delight, erupting off from his throne in flight. When he reached the floor, you pulled him into a tight hug.

Caius Volturi remained on his throne, arching a snowy eyebrow. Hugs. Aro typically despised them. He'd throw someone's head against a wall for even attempting to make contact with his pure velvet cloak.

He studied you while you greeted. You certainly looked the part. Long, black hair cascading down your back. Bright red eyes. A jaw droppingly gorgeous face, made to be a very alluring monster.

Aro held you at arm's length, his crimson eyes sparkling with genuine delight. "Seventy years, and you look more radiant than ever, my dear! The world agrees with you, it seems."

"The world is a fascinating buffet, Uncle," you replied, your voice a melodic hum that echoed pleasantly in the vast chamber. "But even the most exciting buffet grows tiresome. I missed home." Your gaze finally drifted from Aro, sweeping over the other two thrones. Your eyes lingered on Marcus for a moment, acknowledging his eternal, melancholic silence with a slight, respectful nod, before they landed on Caius.

And stayed there.

He was exactly as Aro had described in his letters: severe, pale as a marble statue, with an aura of pure, unadulterated frost. His white hair was like a crown of ice, and his golden eyes held a permanent, simmering irritation. He looked… challenging. And you had never been one to back down from a challenge.

Aro, ever the perceptive showman, saw the flicker of interest in your eyes. A slow, cunning smile spread across his lips. "Ah, but where are my manners! Y/n, you have been away so long, you have not been properly introduced to my dear brothers. You know Marcus, of course." He gestured vaguely. "And this," he said, his tone dripping with theatrical importance, "is Caius. The sharp edge of our justice. The fire to my… intellect."

The same kind of smile snaked across your lips as you analyzed Caius further.

You took a step forward, your movements fluid and utterly un-intimidated by the imposing throne room or its icy king. "Caius," you repeated, your voice tasting the name. "My uncle has written so much about you. Though, I suspect he left out the best parts."

Caius did not move. He simply stared down at you, his expression one of profound boredom laced with a hint of contempt. "Did he," he stated flatly. It wasn't a question.

"Indeed," you continued, undeterred. You circled slightly, your eyes tracing the lines of his throne, his posture, his face. "He mentioned your… fervor for order. Your distaste for chaos. He failed to mention how the light catches your hair. It's like freshly fallen snow."

A faint, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of Caius's mouth was your only reward. Behind you, Aro made a sound somewhere between a cough and a chuckle, quickly disguising it by clasping his hands together.

"Caius, my brother, do not be so stern! My niece has just returned. She brings fresh perspectives from the outside world," Aro chimed in, the picture of innocence. "Y/n, you must tell us of your travels. Caius is particularly interested in the… disciplinary measures of other covens. Aren't you, brother?"

Caius’s golden eyes narrowed slightly, shooting a silent warning at Aro. "My interests are in effective rule, not tourist anecdotes."

"But discipline can be so… nuanced," you purred, stopping directly before his throne and looking up at him. The height difference was significant, but you held your ground, your stance confident. "In the East, I learned a technique for interrogation that involves a single, precise needle and the slow drip of venom. It’s not about pain, you see. It’s about anticipation. The mind breaks long before the body. I thought it might appeal to your… sensibilities."

For the first time, his gaze shifted from one of pure dismissal to one of analytical consideration. He was, if nothing else, a connoisseur of punishment. He leaned forward ever so slightly, the movement so minimal it would have been missed by a human eye.

"Anticipation is a worthless tool if the subject lacks the imagination to be terrified," he countered, his voice a low growl.

"Then you find a way to inspire their imagination," you countered smoothly, a sly smile playing on your lips. "It's a art form. Perhaps I could demonstrate sometime."

The sexual tension in the air was now as thick as the ancient stone walls. Aro looked like a cat that had gotten not only the cream but the entire dairy. He had thrown a spark into a room full of kindling, and you were happily fanning the flames.

Caius leaned back again, the brief moment of engagement over. He looked away from you, as if you had suddenly become a mildly irritating stain on his vision. "Your travels have made you bold, child. And talkative."

You laughed, a sound like chiming bells that seemed horribly out of place in the grim hall. "I'm centuries old, Caius. Hardly a child. But if you'd prefer I act like one, I can start by pestering you relentlessly until you pay attention to me. I'm told I can be very persistent."

You turned on your heel, your long hair swishing behind you, and picked up your bags. "It's been a delight, truly. Uncle, I'll be in my usual chambers. Caius," you said, throwing a final, challenging look over your shoulder. "I look forward to… boring you with more of my anecdotes soon."

As you swept out of the throne room, leaving a trail of disruptive energy in your wake, Aro floated back to his throne, humming with satisfaction.

Caius finally spoke, his voice cold and hard. "You brought that here on purpose, Aro."

Aro's smile was wide and unapologetic. "My dear brother, the castle has been so dreadfully quiet. I merely thought it needed a bit of life. And who better than my dear, persistent niece to provide it? Do try to play nice."

Caius said nothing, but his knuckles were white where they gripped the arm of his throne. He stared at the spot where you had stood, the ghost of your impertinent smile and the echo of your laugh seared into his mind. It was going to be a very, very long eternity.

It became your new favorite game: finding Caius. He was a creature of rigid habit, and after a week, you had his schedule memorized. Your favorite place to ambush him was the ancient, cavernous library, where he would often review centuries-old decrees.

You found him there, silhouetted against a towering stained-glass window, a scroll in his hands. You didn't speak. Instead, you drifted to a shelf nearby, pretending to browse. You selected a heavy tome on medieval torture methods — a subject you knew he respected — and leaned against the shelves, reading aloud a particularly gruesome passage about the Judas Cradle.

Your voice was low, melodic, giving the horrific description a sensual, rhythmic quality. You let your scent, a unique blend of night-blooming jasmine and cold, ancient stone, waft towards him. You felt the air shift, a subtle tightening that indicated he was listening, despite his perfectly still posture.

After a long moment, he lowered the scroll. "The historical account is inaccurate," he stated, his back still to you. "The angle of descent was steeper. The point, blunter. It was not about slow impalement, but about the explosive rupture of internal organs. The author was a romantic."

You smiled, closing the book. "A pity. I rather liked the slow, theatricality of it. But I defer to your expertise." You took a step closer. "Perhaps you could give me a private lesson on the correct application? I'm a visual learner."

Caius finally turned. His golden eyes were like shards of topaz, cold and hard. "I am not a tutor for bored nieces with too much time on their hands. Go pester your uncle."

He turned back to the window, dismissing you as completely as if you’d vanished. The rejection was absolute, a door slammed in your face. But as you left the library, you didn't feel defeated. You saw the way his fingers had tightened on the parchment, crinkling the edge. He had heard you. He had corrected you. It was a start.

Next, you found him walking the perimeter of the inner courtyard, a nightly patrol he undertook alone. The moon was full, bathing the stone paths in silver. You fell into step beside him, not saying a word for several laps. The only sounds were the soft fall of your feet and the distant chatter of the guard.

"You know," you began, your voice soft against the night, "in my travels, I met a coven in the Amazon. They believed that walking in silence with someone under a full moon created a bond stronger than blood. That their souls would intertwine."

Caius didn't even glance at you. "Superstitious nonsense."

"Perhaps," you conceded. "But it's a beautiful thought, isn't it? That without a single word, you could become tied to another for eternity." You let your hand brush against his cloak as you walked, the faintest whisper of contact.

He stopped dead. The air around him grew frigid. "Your attempts at seduction are as subtle as a thunderclap," he snarled, finally looking at you. His gaze was furious, but in the moonlight, you caught something else, a flicker of raw, primal awareness. "You smell of desperation. I have no interest in bonds, beautiful thoughts, or the childish games of a fledgling who has seen too much of the world and understood too little of it."

You smiled in his face innocently, your eyes peering up at him unbothered.

He turned and strode away, his form disappearing into the shadows of the castle walls. The insult should have stung, but it only made your unbeating heart thrill. Furious was better than bored. He was feeling something. You had gotten under his skin.

Finally, you tried once more.

This was his most sacred space. The map-strewn table, the battle plans, the seat of his power as a military strategist. You entered without knocking, finding him leaning over a map of Northern Europe, his brow furrowed.

"Aro said you might need a fresh perspective on the Balkan situation," you announced, moving to the opposite side of the table.

His head snapped up. "Get out."

"I know the terrain," you continued, ignoring him and pointing to a mountain range. "I spent twenty years there. The local covens don't fight by your rules. They use the humans as shields. They—"

"I said, get out!" he roared, slamming his fist on the table. The stone cracked under the impact. The sound echoed through the room like a gunshot. He was across the table in a blur, his face inches from yours, his features a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. "You think your pretty face and your stories give you the right to invade my space? To speak on matters of strategy? You are a distraction. A nuisance. Aro's indulgence is the only reason you are still breathing in my presence."

You didn't flinch. You held his fiery gaze, your own expression calm. The sheer force of his anger was intoxicating. This was the real Caius, the storm beneath the ice.

"You can yell all you want, Caius," you said, your voice as cold as steel. "But it doesn't change the fact that I'm the only one in this castle who isn't afraid of you."

For a long, charged moment, you stared at each other. You could see the conflict in his eyes, the desire to simply snap your neck warring with something else, something he refused to name. With a sound of utter disgust, he turned and stormed from the room, leaving you alone with the cracked table and the scent of his fury hanging in the air.

It was his strongest resistance yet. You were sure you had lost. In fact, you were ready to switch your attention to something else.

Caius was gorgeous, yes. A prize. Something you had your eyes set on more than anything else.

But there were other men in the world. Not as beautiful or interesting as Caius, but.. Close.

For days, you let him be. You were either exploring the mountains of Italy, hunting human prey, reading the millions of books that your uncle had to offer you, or ordering expensive silks and velvets from the tailor to boost your self esteem (not that you needed it much.)

It was past midnight when a silent presence at your door pulled you from your thoughts. You opened it to find Caius. He wasn't raging. He wasn't cold. He looked… weary. And resolved.

He didn't wait for an invitation. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft, final click. The room suddenly felt very small.

"I have resisted you," he stated, his voice low and rough, as if the words were being torn from him. "I have insulted you. I have threatened you. I have banished you from my sight."

"You have," you agreed, your heart a still, silent stone in your chest, waiting.

He took a step closer, his golden eyes burning in the dim light. "You are a plague. A persistent, maddening, insufferable plague upon my existence."

You said nothing, simply watching him.

"And yet," he continued, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your eyes again, "I find my thoughts are of nothing else. Your voice. Your scent. Your infernal impertinence."

He closed the final distance between you. He didn't reach for you, not yet. He simply stood there, allowing you to feel the full force of his presence, his centuries of power, his surrender.

"The bond under the full moon," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. "A foolish superstition."

"Utter nonsense," you breathed.

His hand came up, his cold fingers gently tracing the line of your jaw. The touch was electric, a shockwave after so much resistance. "Then it seems our souls will have to intertwine the old-fashioned way."

And finally, after weeks of chasing and four brutal rejections, Caius Volturi bent his head and captured your lips with his. It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a conquest and a surrender all at once, a release of seventy years of tension. It was full of anger, and frustration, and a raw, undeniable need that had finally, irrevocably, caved.

A sound, half-gasp, half-moan, escaped you. The challenge in you, the one that had teased and provoked him, sparked to life one last time. Your hands came up, not to pull him closer, but to push against his chest. It was a futile, reflexive act of defiance.

A low growl rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure, predatory triumph. He captured your wrists in one of his large, cold hands, pinning them easily against the stone wall behind you. The movement was fluid, effortless, a stark reminder of the immense power he’d always held back.

"Did you think your games would end with a gentle caress?" he snarled against your mouth, his breath a frosty whisper. "You begged for a monster, little one. Now you have one."

He used his free hand to fist in your hair, tilting your head back to give him deeper, more brutal access. This wasn't about pleasure; it was about possession. It was about marking you, branding you as his after so long denying the claim. His teeth scraped against your bottom lip, not enough to draw venom, but enough to make your entire body jolt with a sharp, electric thrill.

You being systematically dismantled. Each dominating kiss, each restrictive hold, chipped away at your defiance, melting it into a pool of raw, submissive need. Your struggles ceased, your body going pliant against his. A whimper, genuine and utterly surrendered, vibrated in your throat.

He released your hair, his hand sliding down to grip your hip, his fingers digging into the flesh there with bruising force. He ground the hard ridge of his arousal against you, a blunt, unmistakable promise of what was to come.

"All that impertinence," he murmured, his lips trailing a searing path down your jaw to your throat. "All that clever talk." He nipped at the sensitive skin where your shoulder met your neck, and you arched against him, a silent plea. "Silenced. Finally."

He released your wrists, but you didn't move them. They stayed pinned against the wall by the sheer force of his will. His hands roamed your body now, not with tenderness, but with a frantic, greedy urgency. He tore at the delicate silk of your shift, the fabric rending with a sound that was obscenely loud in the quiet room. The cold air hit your bare skin, followed immediately by the colder touch of his palms, mapping your curves, claiming every inch.

His mouth found yours again, this kiss slower, deeper, more devastatingly intimate. It was no longer just about anger. It was about a hunger so profound it felt like agony. It was the final, irrevocable cave-in, and you were both buried in the avalanche.

When he finally broke the kiss, you were panting, your mind blank of everything but him. His eyes, burning like liquid gold, scanned your face, your lips, your dazed expression, the complete and total submission in your posture.

The ghost of a smirk touched his lips. The brat was tamed.