20 - Vodka
It had been a long day. Aristotle was desperate to go home to you, and a few of his work colleagues had been talking about the Ashmer killer, saying things like he deserved torture, or a monster like that would rot in hell.
Before he trudged home, Aristotle Abbot stopped by a store. Somewhere he knew was a little less than respectable. As he entered, the man behind the counter nodded to him.
“What can I getcha, kid?” he asked. Aristotle pinched the bridge of his nose, a headache forming.
“Anything alcoholic,” he stated. The man nodded.
“For here or to go?”
“To go. I can’t risk being found drinking underage.” The man nodded.
“Smart, kid.” After bagging a white bottle and paying the man who would remain nameless, Aristotle drove home. The bag at his side burned in his hand. He wasn’t an alcoholic, but it’d be a lie to say he didn’t drink every once in a while. He wasn’t a saint.
For obvious reasons.
After he got home, he found you asleep on the couch, a movie playing on the television. You were so sweet, a smile on your tired lips. Seeing you eased a bit of his anxiety, but a drink would still help.
The first glass burned down his throat, leaving a welcoming raw feeling. Pain was better than feeling nothing at all.
The second glass was gone before he knew it, and he was still thirsty, so he poured a third glass. Then a fourth, then a fifth. He kept going until the bottle was gone. Aristotle’s hands shook, and his vision was blurred. The glass in his hand tumbled to the floor, shattering on impact.
You jolted awake at the sound of broken glass. You raced to the kitchen, finding Aristotle leaning against the counter for support.
“Oh my goodness,” you breathed, rushing to his side. “Ari, are you okay?” He nodded, swaying back and forth. He then quickly shook his head as a wave of sickness crashed over him. “C’mon. Let’s get you to the couch.”
With Aristotle fading in and out of a drunken sleep, you swept up the broken glass in the kitchen and checked out the empty bottle on the counter. It was vodka. How the hell did he drink an entire vodka alone in less than an hour?
You went to check on him after the kitchen was cleaned up. You didn’t want him dying of alcohol poisoning anytime soon. As you kneeled beside him to make sure he was still breathing, his wrist caught yours. He drunkenly and tiredly leaned over, looking deep into your eyes. You were frozen. What the hell was he gonna do?
Before you knew it, his lips crashed onto yours, and the taste of vodka overpowered your senses. You were frozen in fear. His tongue traced your bottom lip, asking for entrance. You didn’t respond in any way, shape, or form. Aristotle slid off the couch, sitting on the floor with you now. You were unresponsive as his hands ran through your hair, still kissing you.
It was as if you didn’t know what was happening until you snapped back into reality. Aristotle was kissing you… why? He was drunk, that’s why. The obvious reaction would be to shove him away and run to your room.
But then again, you had never been an obvious girl, now had you?
You kissed back, falling into his embrace as you sat on the floor. His fingers ran through your hair, playing with it, toying with it. Your arms rested around his neck as his hands traveled south to your waist. He pulled you close to him, so close you were straddling his lap.
As his hands danced over your waist and under your shirt, you shuddered at his warmth. His lips kissed down you jawline and to your neck, sucking softly and leaving a hickey. You moaned at the feeling, suddenly realizing what sound you just made. Your hand ran to cover you mouth as your face began burning red.
Aristotle drunkenly chuckled at your endearing nature. He tiredly resting his head in the crook of your neck, not moving for a moment.
“YN…” he murmured into your skin. Your hands rested on his shoulders, keeping you balanced and him close. “I love you.”
Your heart stopped. You hadn’t been prepared for this. You tried to think of the last time anyone had said that to you and genuinely meant it.
Your parents had never said ‘I love you’. They had said they loved you to other people while you were around, but they never looked into your eyes and stated ‘I love you’. This was foreign territory. But you knew what you were going to say.
“Aristotle,” you breathed, your hands resting on his jaw and pulling him to look at you. His beautiful eyes were cloudy and hazy from his stupor and tired state. He was beautiful, not just on the outside, but inside as well. He wasn’t an angel. You knew that. But he wasn’t a demon, either. Maybe he was something in the middle, a guardian demon, a fallen angel, a lavender rose… a charming mask to hide the raging war.
“I love you, too.” He smiled widely and pulled you to lay beside him on the carpet, sun setting.
*****
Aristotle confessed! HE CONFESSED!You better treat my son with the utmost respect, young lady! If you hurt him... well, he is a serial killer.
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Silken Shackles
RomanceYANDERE SERIAL KILLER X READER You are a freak. Plain and simple. You live in Ashmer City. And recently certain events have been taking place in your city. Murders. Your peers have been being found dead around town, and there's one man to blame. Ari...