A loud holler of ‘MESSAGE FROM DADDY CULLEN!’ echoed down the long halls of the Volterra coven accompanied by the telltale stomp squeak stomp squeak of rubber soled platform boots.
Aro sighed and failed to keep his attention rooted to the illuminated text balanced on his crossed knee as a second holler of ‘MESSAGE FROM DADDY CULLEN – OUTTA MY WAY!’ slammed off the walls and into his skull.
Eventually the oak doors flung open to reveal the source of the offending noise aside a mildly terrified rookie guard.
‘I’m so sorry sir, I did try to stop –‘
Aro did not raise his eyes or his voice instead halting the young man’s babbling with a hand. The guard all but tripped back out the door in relief when Aro made a shooing motion with said raised hand. The loud stranger made a mock bow ushering him out before slamming the door behind.
‘Message from –’ They began again, swaggering forward.
‘The Cullens.’ Aro sighed, snapping his book shut. ‘I know.’
This was their little ritual. Their game. The Classy and the Crass.
‘From the cute blond one.’ The Messenger continued, removing their gloves and stuffing them into their back pocket.
‘How wonderfully non-specific.’ Aro drawled.
‘And here I thought the ‘daddy’ bit was a sure-fire give-away.’
Aro actually chuckled at that. The Messenger smirked and began rolling their sleeves up far higher than strictly necessary, still swaggering forward.
‘So what does dear Carlisle have to say for himself?’ He attempted to nonchalantly deposit the book onto Caius’ empty chair but misjudged spectacularly. It clipped the arm and after a quick front flip for style hit the flagstones spine first, golden edged pages fluttering open like butterfly wings.
The Messenger thrust out their hand no less than a full step short of comfortable reach. Aro raised an eyebrow. The Messenger waggled their fingers. Aro uncrossed his legs and threw his arms out in a look that clearly said I am not moving, you move. So they did. Sliding their hand slowly, deliberately down the fingers of his right hand. Down over the palm. Finally clasping at the base of his thumb. Aro’s other hand swept up and over both.
His eyes glazed over. Head tilting ever so slightly as waves of unfiltered thought washed over his mind.
‘Mio Caro your mind is filthy.’ Aro breathed, relinquishing their hand.
The Messenger winked. Bowed. Then backed out of the room.
Aro exhaled slowly, heavily, then recrossed his legs.
Whose idea was it to bite the messenger anyway? Oh, that’s right. It was his.