Author's Note: Upon cleaning out my computer's hard-drive, I found some roughly-drafted drabble ideas that weren't developed enough to be turned into anything longer. All of them featured romantic interactions of a sort, and in the spirit of Valentine's Day, I decided to polish them up and post them. Each drabble features different (generally Volturi affiliated) characters, varying ratings, and mostly non-canon pairings. Warning will accompany each chapter, if necessary. There will be fourteen pieces in total.
title: Blank Slate
rating: T
pairing: Aro/Sulpicia
It was her grace, delicacy woven from cobwebs and dawn, that caught Aro's gaze. Amidst the roar and rise of Roman streets, she was purity itself.
In the blue-black dark of her bedchamber, he considers the possibility of underestimation.
"You followed me," she says, her voice lyrically accusing and her eyes like those of a cat, still and wild. The nervous yoke of her shoulders betrays the desire to run. Or fight, perhaps, and that delights him.
"I did."
"I know why." Her heart beats sticky-loud, but steady nonetheless.
"You will find, my dear, that my motives are not those of other men," he says, grinning. The fickle light turns his teeth into a silver sickle, a pale threat.
"Are they not?" She toys with a tendril of hair, before brushing the tawny thicket of her curls away from her throat. "You want me."
He tries to laugh, to declare her an arrogant little girl, but she disentangles herself from her covers. The gesture does nothing to refute the accusation of pride, but beneath the filmy tunic she wears, there is no trace of childishness.
"As I said," she murmurs, stepping closer to the corner where he stands, fabric skimming her hips the way he wishes his fingers could.
His clenched fists betray him, no doubt.
"I did not specify the purpose of my visit."
"Could there be any other?" she muses, so close that he can feel her breath at his throat.
"You are a clever girl," he admits, seeking excuses to touch her. For the acquisition of knowledge, of course. He is not the sort to molest high-born Roman orphans for the joy of it, or so he tells himself.
"And you interest me," she decides.
After examining his features, she spins on her toes, turning her reflection on marble tiles into a dance of silk and shadow, and climbs into bed once more.
"If you are not one of my more vivid imaginings, you may return." Her dignity is effortless. Perfectly patrician.
And he may just accept the offer.