White Oleander
Jul. 18th, 2012 02:25 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
intheheartAuthor: Kat
Title: White Oleander
Rating: R.
Summary: This monster in the dark thing isn't doing it for Aaron anymore.
AU: Sociopathic Besties
Warnings: emetophobes beware; also murder by poisoning, mention of suicide.
Notes: Title shamelessly nicked from the book.
The monster out of the dark thing wasn't doing it for Aaron anymore.
It had been safer when he was still young, still teenaged, weedy and weak. Then, his best weapon had been surprise, and the fear of a blade slicing out of the shadows. Now he was older, wiser, and most importantly for his purposes, larger, and he wanted something a little more... intimate.
He was ready for this, he thought, scanning the crowd in the nightclub. He'd thought over every possible contingency, prepared every way he knew how, and he was ready.
This was just opening night jitters.
--
He was tipsy when Aaron got to him.
He'd been watching this man for a while now, Friday and Saturday nights, learning his habits. He was a regular, never got drunk but never left sober, with a different girl every night. Handsome and aware of it, the worst kind of man. He hit on girls smiling scared in front of his current date, grabbed breasts and pinched buttocks, didn't tip the bartender or the servers.
He was not an innocent, and he was certainly not helpless. Fair game.
The question was simply how to get him out of the bar.
--
In the end Aaron got him with the prospect of a party elsewhere, with good booze and better drugs. To his surprise it was easy, words flowing from his lips, haloed by charm. He even explained the gloves as a fashion accessory, laughing and gesturing. The man's suspicion melted away under his glow until he was smiling and laughing and bitching about women, strolling along the street with his hands in his pockets.
Aaron smiled, nodded along, and offered him a sip of vodka from his bottle when they hit one block of the motel.
The man drank without blinking.
--
By the time they hit the room, the man was holding his stomach and looking distinctly green. "I don't feel so good," he mumbled, and Aaron tipped him easily onto a bed, all concern.
"Have some more vodka," he said. "Party's next door, but we can hang out here until you feel better."
The man nodded, swigged vodka, then clutched at his stomach and began to moan. "God, now it hurts, what the hell?"
Not time yet. Not time. Aaron professed worry and hovered over him, the thrill rising all the while, riding his spine.
Not time yet, but almost.
--
"Must've been bad vodka, man," the man slurred, wiping his mouth after the third round of vomiting.
Time.
Aaron leaned back on the chair he'd pulled to the bed and said, "I should hope so. It's mixed with oleander."
The man stared at him for a moment, then said, "What?"
"Oleander," he repeated, the thrill tightening his stomach. "One of the most poisonous plants you'll find in a random garden. Or, in this case, a flower shop." He examined his gloves, watching the man's expression turn horrified from the corner of his eye.
"You poisoned me?"
"Of course," Aaron said.
--
The man threw up again and fell over on his side; this time there was blood in the vomit. Aaron talked faster.
"Your heart is beating erratically," he said, as calmly as he could given the hot rush of excitement curling up his skin. "That's dropping your blood pressure, causing the dizziness. Any minute now, you'll lose consciousness from the lack of blood in your brain. After that, it's only a matter of time until you die." He folded his gloved hands together over his knee. "Any last words?"
The man's eyes were wide, terrified.
"Why?"
Aaron shrugged. "Why not?"
--
His eyes were still wide open in death, his lips slick with blood and vomit. Aaron left them that way.
Oleander worked faster than anticipated. He'd have to take that into account next time; he'd imagined this would take longer. Not that he was disappointed, not at all.
The memory of the terror in the man's eyes made him shiver.
It had been a good kill. Clean. With any luck they'd rule it suicide; vodka to disguise the oleander's taste. Yes, a good kill; one he'd remember.
He shivered again, remembering the power.
He had to do this again.
Soon.
Title: White Oleander
Rating: R.
Summary: This monster in the dark thing isn't doing it for Aaron anymore.
AU: Sociopathic Besties
Warnings: emetophobes beware; also murder by poisoning, mention of suicide.
Notes: Title shamelessly nicked from the book.
The monster out of the dark thing wasn't doing it for Aaron anymore.
It had been safer when he was still young, still teenaged, weedy and weak. Then, his best weapon had been surprise, and the fear of a blade slicing out of the shadows. Now he was older, wiser, and most importantly for his purposes, larger, and he wanted something a little more... intimate.
He was ready for this, he thought, scanning the crowd in the nightclub. He'd thought over every possible contingency, prepared every way he knew how, and he was ready.
This was just opening night jitters.
--
He was tipsy when Aaron got to him.
He'd been watching this man for a while now, Friday and Saturday nights, learning his habits. He was a regular, never got drunk but never left sober, with a different girl every night. Handsome and aware of it, the worst kind of man. He hit on girls smiling scared in front of his current date, grabbed breasts and pinched buttocks, didn't tip the bartender or the servers.
He was not an innocent, and he was certainly not helpless. Fair game.
The question was simply how to get him out of the bar.
--
In the end Aaron got him with the prospect of a party elsewhere, with good booze and better drugs. To his surprise it was easy, words flowing from his lips, haloed by charm. He even explained the gloves as a fashion accessory, laughing and gesturing. The man's suspicion melted away under his glow until he was smiling and laughing and bitching about women, strolling along the street with his hands in his pockets.
Aaron smiled, nodded along, and offered him a sip of vodka from his bottle when they hit one block of the motel.
The man drank without blinking.
--
By the time they hit the room, the man was holding his stomach and looking distinctly green. "I don't feel so good," he mumbled, and Aaron tipped him easily onto a bed, all concern.
"Have some more vodka," he said. "Party's next door, but we can hang out here until you feel better."
The man nodded, swigged vodka, then clutched at his stomach and began to moan. "God, now it hurts, what the hell?"
Not time yet. Not time. Aaron professed worry and hovered over him, the thrill rising all the while, riding his spine.
Not time yet, but almost.
--
"Must've been bad vodka, man," the man slurred, wiping his mouth after the third round of vomiting.
Time.
Aaron leaned back on the chair he'd pulled to the bed and said, "I should hope so. It's mixed with oleander."
The man stared at him for a moment, then said, "What?"
"Oleander," he repeated, the thrill tightening his stomach. "One of the most poisonous plants you'll find in a random garden. Or, in this case, a flower shop." He examined his gloves, watching the man's expression turn horrified from the corner of his eye.
"You poisoned me?"
"Of course," Aaron said.
--
The man threw up again and fell over on his side; this time there was blood in the vomit. Aaron talked faster.
"Your heart is beating erratically," he said, as calmly as he could given the hot rush of excitement curling up his skin. "That's dropping your blood pressure, causing the dizziness. Any minute now, you'll lose consciousness from the lack of blood in your brain. After that, it's only a matter of time until you die." He folded his gloved hands together over his knee. "Any last words?"
The man's eyes were wide, terrified.
"Why?"
Aaron shrugged. "Why not?"
--
His eyes were still wide open in death, his lips slick with blood and vomit. Aaron left them that way.
Oleander worked faster than anticipated. He'd have to take that into account next time; he'd imagined this would take longer. Not that he was disappointed, not at all.
The memory of the terror in the man's eyes made him shiver.
It had been a good kill. Clean. With any luck they'd rule it suicide; vodka to disguise the oleander's taste. Yes, a good kill; one he'd remember.
He shivered again, remembering the power.
He had to do this again.
Soon.
