pin me to the tree ser duncan

Come out, come out, little knight. It's time you faced the dragon.

or: wildfire makes your husband wild with desire/aerion in heat?

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ৡঌ༄.°• ✸ .°•༄ঌৡ

The scent of smoke and burnt copper never truly left him.

When Aerion Targaryen swallowed the wildfire, expecting to be reborn as a dragon of legend, the maesters braced for a gruesome death. Instead, the substance did something far worse, and far more terrifying: it adapted. It didn't burn him to ash; it fused with his bloodline, burning away every lingering trace of human frailty and leaving behind a creature of pure, predatory instinct.

Before the wildfire, he used to steal you away to the hidden corners of the Red Keep's overgrown godswood, far from the prying eyes of the court.

You remembered one evening in particular, just before everything changed. The summer air had been soft, smelling of crushed pine needles and damp earth. Aerion had been entirely a prince then—polished, arrogant, and draped in rich silks—but the moment he was alone with you, the sharp edges of his public persona would melt away. He had pulled you onto his lap beneath the weeping branches of an ancient oak, his fingers gently unbraiding your hair just so he could feel the strands slip through his hands.

"They think I only care for crowns and ash," he had murmured against your temple, his breath warm and steady, his arms wrapping around you with a quiet, protective warmth. "But they don't know that my world begins and ends right here. I would burn the Seven Kingdoms to the ground before I let anyone take you from me."

He had kissed you then, a slow, deep promise that tasted of sweet wine and pure devotion. It was a memory you clung to like a lifeline, a beautiful contrast to the nightmare your life had become since the night he drank the green fire.

Now, that sweet memory felt a lifetime away.

For a full moon’s turn, Aerion had been a ghost. The proud, arrogant prince who used to haunt your steps and demand your undivided attention had vanished into the shadows of the holdfast. From your window, you had watched his new, broader silhouette pace the battlements at night like a caged beast. By day, the letters you sent him were returned unopened.

Sitting at your vanity in the quiet of your chambers, the rejection gnawed at you, twisting into a bitter, heavy ache. You stared at your reflection, wondering if your love had finally found a light more dazzling than yours. Perhaps the wildfire hadn't just changed his body; perhaps it had burned away his affection for you entirely. You feared he was seeking someone else—someone stronger, a highborn maid worthy of the dragon he claimed to be—or that he had simply grown bored of a mortal girl now that he felt like a god.

You had given him your heart when he was just a proud, flawed prince. To think he had cast you aside the moment he attained the power he always craved was a betrayal that made your chest hollow.

But the air in your room was growing unnaturally thick, swallowing the evening chill. The heavy iron doors of your chambers were bolted from the inside, yet the familiar, rhythmic thudding of boots in the corridor made your breath hitch. It was followed by a low, vibrating growl that shook the very floorboards.

The temperature spiked, the air tasting suddenly of sulfur and dry heat. Then came the sound of leather and metal scraping against the wood, followed by a heavy, desperate lean against the door.

"Open it," a voice rasps. It barely sounds like Aerion anymore. The polished, lyrical voice of the prince you loved is gone; this is deep, jagged, and dripping with an unnatural, feverish heat. "Open the door, little bird. I know you're in there."

Your hands tremble as you stand, caught between the ache of his weeks of silence and the terrifying intensity radiating through the wood. You slide the heavy iron bolt back.

The door doesn't just open; it is violently shoved inward. Aerion crashes into the room, his massive frame nearly filling the doorway, and the sheer physical presence of him forces you a step back. He looks like a man who has been wrestling with demons in the dirt. His silk shirt is discarded, leaving his torso bare, his skin a roadmap of pulsing, dense muscle and violet veins that glow with a faint, sickly green light beneath the surface.

He is vibrating, his muscles twitching with a frantic, overcharged energy, but his luminous green eyes lock onto yours with a frightening, possessive focus.

"I told you," he hisses, his voice a jagged ruin. "I told the guards to bar the way. Why aren't you away? Why are you still here?"

"You've been avoiding me for a moon's turn, Aerion," you say, the pain in your chest finally boiling over into a trembling defiance. "If you want a new companion—if you want me gone—you only have to say it. Don't hide from me like a coward."

He took a jagged breath, his chest heaving. The smell of ozone and hot metal was overwhelming.

"I stayed away to save you, you fool," he growled, his luminous green eyes fixed on yours with a frightening intensity. "The fire... it’s not just in my blood anymore. It’s a hunger. A rut that doesn't end. If I touch you, I won't be able to stop. I'll break you. I'll consume you until there's nothing left but ash."

"I'm not afraid of you," you whispered, taking a step toward him.

"You should be!" he roared, slamming his fist into the stone wall beside him. The masonry cracked under the force of his new, unnatural strength. He slumped against the wall, his head hanging low, his long silver hair damp with sweat. "I love you so much it's rotting me. Every time I smell your skin through the vents, every time I hear your footsteps in the hall, the dragon screams to claim you. To mark you. To keep you in a cage where no one else can even look at you."

He looked up, and the raw, unhinged devotion in his gaze was more piercing than any blade. He wasn't just a prince anymore; he was a territorial beast, barely holding onto the leash of his own mind.

"I am a monster now," he rasped, his eyes darting over your face as if memorizing it before he lost control. "A beautiful, golden monster. And I am starving for you."

He didn't wait for your permission this time. He crossed the distance in a blur of heat, his hands catching your waist and lifting you off your feet as if you weighed nothing. He pressed his forehead against yours, his skin so hot it felt like a brand.

"Tell me to leave," he begged, even as his grip tightened possessively, his fingers sinking into your hips. "Tell me to go. Tell me you want to be free of me. I love you so much I cannot bear to hurt you when my desire takes over. Because if you don't... I'm never letting you out of this room again."

He didn’t wait for you to answer. The moment your hands came up to cup his face, the fragile wall of his restraint crumbled completely.

With a low, desperate sound, Aerion buried his face in the crook of your neck. He was crushing you against him, his massive arms wrapping around your waist like iron bands. Yet, for all the terrifying, animalistic power humming through his muscles, the way his lips pressed against your skin was unbelievably tender. It was a frantic, worshipful heat, his mouth tracing up your throat to your jawline, leaving a trail of scorching kisses that made your skin tingle.

"I thought I lost you," you whispered into his damp silver hair, your fingers tangling in the strands. "I thought the fire took whatever love you had for me."

"Never," he choked out, the word vibrating violently against your chest. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his luminous green eyes swimming with a desperate, wild adoration. "The fire changed everything else. It made me a monster, it made me mad—but it only made this louder.” He brought your hands to his chest, his heart thrumming frantically.  “It’s the only part of me that still feels human. You are the only thing keeping me anchored to the earth."

His hand came up to your cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle given the bruising grip he’d had on your hips just moments ago. His thumb, rough and intensely hot, traced the line of your lower lip.

"When the fire takes me, I forget my own name," he whispered, his voice cracking with a raw, unhinged vulnerability. "I forget the throne. I forget my father. But I never forget you. Your face is burned into the back of my eyelids. Every beat of this broken heart is just your name, over and over again."

You leaned into his touch, pressing a kiss into his palm despite the unnatural heat radiating from it. "Then don't run from me anymore, Aerion. Let me stay."

A shudder ran through his entire frame at your words. The territorial, predatory gleam in his eyes flared brighter, but this time, it was laced with a profound, aching relief. He loved you with a ferocity that bordered on religious devotion; you were his sanctuary, his goddess, the only beautiful thing in a world that had suddenly become loud and violent.

"You are my rib," he growled softly, a feral but deeply devoted smile breaking through his exhaustion. He lifted you effortlessly, carrying you toward the bed as if you were the most precious heirloom in the Seven Kingdoms. "My little bird. The dragon’s heart. If you stay, I will worship you until the flesh rots from my bones. I will give you everything I tear out of this world."

He lowered you onto the mattress, shifting his heavy body over yours with an agonizingly slow deliberate care. His hands pinned yours to the pillows, fingers interlocking tightly, sealing the bond. Even as the primal heat of his rut demanded total surrender, he paused, his forehead resting against yours, breathing you in.

"I am yours," he swore, his voice a dark, possessive vow that echoed from the very depths of his altered soul. "In this life, or in the ashes of whatever comes next." 

The mattress groaned under his newfound, dense weight as he shifted completely over you. He pinned you, his massive chest pressing down until the air left your lungs in a breathless gasp. He felt massive, broader and heavier than any man had a right to be, his entire torso radiating a terrifying, feverish heat that bled straight through the layers of your shift.

"Aerion," you whined, the sheer, primal gravity of him overwhelming your senses.

A low, vibrating growl rumbled in his throat—a sound so deep you felt it resonate inside your own ribs. His hands, calloused and burning like hot irons, slid up from your wrists to cup your face. He wasn't gentle, but there was a desperate, frantic reverence in the way his large fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat.

He consumed your lips, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth with a bruising, hungry urgency. He tasted of smoke, copper, and a wild, intoxicating heat that made your head spin. You gasped into the kiss, and he used the opportunity to growl against your lips, his hips bucking down against yours in a heavy, involuntary twitch of pure, unadulterated need. The friction was electric, sending a sharp jolt of desire straight to your core.

He broke the kiss, panting heavily, his breath scorching your lips as his gaze racked over your face. His glowing, toxic green eyes were completely dilated, the violet edges swallowed by a dark, manic lust.

"You're so small," he rasped, his voice dropping to a jagged whisper as his large hands slid down your neck, tracing the delicate line of your collarbone before gripping the fabric of your shift. "So soft. I’ve been dreaming of breaking you. Of taking you until you scream my name to the gods."

With a single, effortless twitch of his hands, the linen of your shift tore open down the middle. You shivered as the cool air of the room hit your bare skin, but the cold lasted only a fraction of a second before Aerion replaced it with his own blistering heat.

His mouth tore down your jawline, burying itself in the crook of your neck. He bit down hard enough to leave a deep, possessive mark. You cried out, your arching spine lifting off the bed as a wave of intense pleasure rushed through you.

"Mine," he growled against your skin, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs, bruising your flesh as he forced your legs apart. He crowded himself between them, his thick, heavy thigh pressing hard against your aching center, creating a friction that had you sobbing out his name. "Tell me you're mine, little bird. Tell the dragon who owns you."

"I'm yours, Aerion—gods, please," you begged, your fingers digging into the tight, corded muscle of his bare shoulders. His skin felt like polished stone, shifting and rippling beneath your fingertips with terrifying power.

He groaned, a loud, unhinged sound of pure triumph. He reached down, his fingers finding your wetness, and you buckled against his hand. He was completely feral now, his movements devoid of courtly patience, driven entirely by the frantic, roaring rut in his veins. He stroked you roughly, his thumb smearing your heat over your clitoris until you were weeping, your hips chasing his hand in a desperate bid for release.

"Look at what you do to me," he gasped, his forehead dropping against yours as he guided his swollen, aching length against your entrance. He was massive, hot, and twitching with a desperate need to claim. "I am a god, and I am begging at your feet."

He didn't wait. With a heavy, relentless thrust of his hips, he buried himself inside you in one deep, unyielding stroke.

The fullness was staggering. You threw your head back, a loud sob tearing from your throat as your body stretched to accommodate his massive, unnatural size. He froze above you, his entire body trembling violently as he held himself deep inside you. The veins along his arms and chest flared a brilliant, luminous green, pulsing in time with his frantic heartbeat.

"Gods," he choked out, his eyes rolled back slightly in sheer, agonizing ecstasy. "You're so tight...so warm. You're squeezing me to death."

He began to move, and all sanity left the room.

It was a brutal, relentless pace. Aerion possessed you with a feral, animalistic rhythm, his heavy hips slamming against yours with a force that rattled the heavy wooden bedframe. Every thrust was deep, bottoming out against your womb, filling you with a blistering, white-hot sensation that threatened to consume you entirely.

You clung to him like a drowning survivor in a storm. Your legs wrapped tightly around his thick waist, riding the wild, unhinged waves of his lust. The room faded away; there was only the smell of sulfur and sweat, the slap of his heavy torso against yours, and the terrifying, beautiful sight of the monster who loved you with a madness that defied the heavens.

"Sweeter than the fire," Aerion roared, his pace turning frantic, desperate, as he sensed the end drawing near. He leaned down, pinning your hands above your head again, his chest crushing yours as he drove into you harder, faster, completely lost to the beast. "Burn with me! Let it consume us both!"

The friction built to an unbearable, agonizing peak. Your walls clamped around him tightly, triggering your orgasm in a sudden, violent rush that made you scream his name into the empty room.

Hearing your release broke whatever microscopic shred of restraint Aerion had left. With a loud, guttural roar that sounded like a dragon breaking its chains, he delivered three final, devastating thrusts, burying himself as deeply as physically possible inside your twitching body.

He came with a violent, shuddering intensity, filling you with a deep, scalding heat that felt as though the wildfire itself was pouring into your womb. His entire body went rigid, the luminous green light beneath his skin flaring to a blinding brilliance before slowly, agonizingly fading back into the deep violet of his veins.

He collapsed over you, his heavy, sweaty chest heaving against yours, his breath coming in ragged, exhausted gasps. He didn't pull out; instead, his arms wrapped around you tightly, pulling you into his side and burying his face back into your hair.

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TAGLIST:

you all held me (unintentionally) accountable, and I hope you enjoy my dream!daeron

Until Morning

synopsis 𓂃 ໒꒱ after a sudden late-night unknown call wakes you up, you’re shocked to realise it’s your ex, aerion targaryen. what starts as confusion quickly turns into something far more unsettling as you realise who’s on the other end, and the longer you speak to him, the more he begins to lose control, unable to hide what he’s doing or how much hearing you affects him. (2.8k+)

pairings 𓂃 ໒꒱ aerion targaryen x fem!reader

contains 𓂃 ໒꒱ dark!modern au, canon divergent, dark aerion, toxic past relationship, possessive / obsessive ex, implied one-sided phone sex (non-graphic), implied sexual content (non-graphic), psychological tension, power imbalance (mdni).

You hadn't realised it was Aerion calling.

There was no reason for you to think it was him.

His number had been deleted months ago, erased during a moment of frustration that had eventually turned into necessity, because keeping any trace of him within reach had made moving on impossible. For weeks after the breakup you had still caught yourself searching for his name whenever your phone lit up, still found yourself checking notifications with that ridiculous flicker of hope you hated admitting existed. Eventually you'd grown tired of fighting yourself and removed every easy reminder you could find.

daeron couldn’t wait to become your husband, and as soon as you had exchanged cloaks before the seven, he ordered the servants to start packing your belongings. and so you set off for summerhall, to spend your happily ever after there, basking in the sun and drinking wine every single day. he doesn’t even care whether you give him heirs or not — he’s just happy that his sweet wife is always by his side, and that’s more than enough for him

pairing: unhinged!aerion x therapist!reader

tags: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, dark romance, yandere!aerion, therapist/patient Relationship, modern au, kidnapping, captivity, obsessive behavior, possessive behavior, psychological manipulation, savior complex, emotional dependency, eventual smut, dubcon/noncon (eventual), rough sex (eventual)

summary:

She thought she was helping him heal.

Week after week, session after session, Aerion Brightflame became everything a therapist could hope for.

Polite. Cooperative. Hopeful.

The perfect success story.

Until the night he came looking for her.

Saving people.

It had been your achilles heel since you were ten-years-old.

You couldn't help yourself. It was chemical - a compulsive need twisting itself into your blood, your DNA, ever since the day your mother got diagnosed.

Bipolar.

You had no idea what it meant back then. Even now, it seems wrong that one word can be used to describe the beautiful mess that was your mother.

She'd had a lot of bad days. Days where you'd hide under your bed from the raving, the yelling. Days where you'd learned to cry in silence. One particular day when she sent your father running out the door and he never came back.

But it didn't matter. Not to you.

Because a good day always followed.

You'd never seen someone so colorfully alive. She'd hold your hands and dance with you in the kitchen while the soup burned just a little on the stove top, prancing around with pure vibrance.

And the stories. Nobody could tell a story like your mother. She could make any page come to life, the changes in her voice, the glimmer in her eyes, nobody could make a fantasy feel like reality except for her.

Until she died.

You loved her endlessly. You'd bring her meals on days when she couldn't get out of bed, you'd gently feed her the medicine she so heavily relied on those last few years, you never held her condition against her.

But it wasn't enough.

You weren't enough.

That's why you became a therapist. You'd never say it, you couldn't even think about her without feeling the same ache that Sunday morning you found her. Birds chirping outside, sun peeking gently through the linen blinds. Peaceful. You understood why she did it then.

You understood everything about her.

That's why your failure didn't make any sense in the beginning. But as you started learning - about people, about the very many ways their minds could be tortured - you recognized your previous inadequacy.

Inexperience.

If only someone had told you then what to study, what to learn. If only your mother had a good therapist, not the man who instructed you to "get it over with and throw her in the looney bin."

If only you could've been then what you are now.

_______

You got your license two years ago. You skipped as many semesters as possible, burning through school on an accelerated track to get through the papers, exams, lectures, all the bullshit preventing you from your true purpose. Connecting.

Your first job was working with kids at a troubled youth center. Whatever the hell "troubled" meant. To you, they were just young, struggling, and desperately holding onto any purpose in the chaos of tumultuous households and teachers who dismissed them as hopeless.

You loved them. And they loved you. Nobody had ever listened to them that way before, heard their darkest thoughts without retreating in disgust, let them feel their emotions without judgement.

You sobbed the day you left. But the head of the center said you had to transfer. That you'd gotten too attached. Whatever the fuck that meant.

Still, you wrote on occasion asking for updates, checking on how their medication was working out, if their new counselor was kind. Four ended up going to college. You felt as proud as if they were your own kids.

That's why you started working there. The prison. High security for high-risk patients. People the world had deemed troubled. Deemed hopeless.

He was your first patient.

Aerion Brightflame.

A monstrous name belonging to a monstrous man.

He'd been in and out of the facility over the last few years, constantly escaping then being taken in for a new crime.

Theft. Battery. Murder.

He was violent and he was cruel, but even the first time you met him you couldn't help but see something beyond the madness in those blazing violent eyes - something that reminded you of the kids.

Something that reminded you of your mother.

He didn't talk for the first few weeks. He simply eyed you carefully as you asked questions, long fingers stirring lazy circles into his cup of coffee. He never recoiled, never flinched at the heat. It was as if burning was his predisposed nature.

The Wednesday of that third week had been different. He looked even more crazed, haunted, sweat breaking his unruly silver hair into sharp spikes. His eyes, bloodshot, darted around frantically as if he was hearing something, speaking to someone else in his mind.

You begged him, pleaded with him to tell you what was wrong.

But no answer came.

Till later that night when you were called back into work at 3 in the morning. You got a page, beeping madly on your nightstand with one word: EMERGENCY. You scrambled to get up, slipping on the first pair of jeans you could find.

When you got back to the prison, you saw complete carnage. Aerion had beat his knuckles bloody against the iron bars. He'd smashed every small piece of furniture into bits. He screamed, a raw, desperate sound that tore every ounce of humanity out of your chest.

"What happened to him?"

You asked, tears welling in your eyes. You'd seen difficult patients before. You'd seen episodes, instability, but never this level of suffering. The blood spattered on his body, the bones peeking out of his knuckles, it was beyond anything you'd ever imagined.

"Don't know."

Chimed in one of the guards.

"He was asleep and then he just started fuckin' screaming. About fire. About blood. Some shit about dragons. That's when he started breaking his fists on the bars."

You moved closer, eyes glued to the security camera footage. He turned his head to the camera, licking blood off the iron bars, tongue curving into something inhuman - something reptilian.

Something inside you went still. Your mother would have understood that sentence.

Aerion probably did too.

"I'm going in there."

Your voice was alarmingly calm amidst the insanity unraveling before you.

"Are you crazy? He's gonna tear you to pieces."

"I'm his psychiatrist. It's my responsibility."

The guard looked at you like you had a death wish before unlocking the door. You tiptoed in cautiously, the noises ripped from Aerion's throat piercing your ears, even more horrible without the metal wall protecting you.

He turned away from the door, the muscular pale of his back decorated with the biggest most elaborate tattoo of a dragon you'd ever seen. His breath came out in wild huffs as if he was going to turn around and spit fire at any second.

You approached him slowly, reciting all your training in your head to alleviate the overwhelming fear pulsing through your body.

He's in crisis. He has no intention of hurting you. He's hurting himself.

Keep your movements predictable. Stay calm. Regulate yourself first.If you panic, he'll panic.

If you can become the safest thing in the room, he'll find his way back to you.

You were an arm's length away now, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin. Close enough to make out every detail, every cut, every bruise.

"Aerion."

No response. His shoulders continued to rise and fall in violent bursts.

"Aerion, I need you to focus on my voice."

Nothing.

Your hand moved with impossible care, a care beyond your control. It was as if it had a mind of its own, resting two fingers on his forearm, your cool skin scalding at the feel of him.

It was just enough. To remind him someone else was there. To remind him he wasn't totally alone.

His breath began to slow as he tilted his head back ever so slightly in your direction.

"I'm here to help you."

You only managed the small whisper before he thrashed violently in your hand.

"I don't need your help!"

He roared, voice shattering the brief moment of calm between you.

Instead of retreating, running away like anyone would, like you should, you moved closer, forcing him to meet your gaze.

You shook your head.

"No. You don't."

"You all think I'm mad!"

He spat back at you despite not moving away from your touch.

"I don't."

He stilled, eyes flashing from rage to complete disbelief.

"I don't think you're mad. Some people feel things deeper than others."

You rubbed his arms reassuringly, a breath of relief escaping your lips as he relaxed into your touch.

"You're right. You don't need my help. But it's nice to have someone who can listen. Someone who understands."

His knees, heavy and bruised, fell to the floor in exhaustion. He slid his fingertips into yours, interlacing you together as his head hung in what felt like a surrender.

The gesture was strangely intimate. Not romantic, but far beyond anything you'd been taught to expect from a patient.

You should have pulled away, but you squeezed instead.

You stayed like that for over an hour, Aerion's broken body panting beneath you, hands entwined together. Suddenly, he rose.

"Tend to my wounds."

Your face lit up as you turned to the camera.

"Can someone come help with - "

"No."

He didn't yell. Didn't scream. Yet there was a finality in his voice that froze every cell in your body.

"You. Just you."

You nodded your head at the camera, signaling to the guards.

It made sense. It had taken weeks for him to let you speak to him, let alone touch him. He wouldn't accept anyone else in his current state.

Trust was fragile, especially for patients like Aerion. Progress rarely arrived in grand revelations. More often it appeared in moments so small they were almost invisible.

A conversation, a question answered, a hand not pulled away.

You watched him carefully as he sat on the floor, blood drying across his knuckles.

For the first time since you'd met him, he was asking for help.

A guard arrived handing you a wet cloth. You looked at Aerion and then over to the bed, a small invitation for him to sit.

He tilted his head down and sat, gaze fixed on the floor as you took a seat next to him.

You gently dabbed the gash cutting through his brow in complete silence. You could feel him. His eyes. Studying you, not daring to blink.

You ignored it, pulling all your attention instead to each individual wound. It was normal for him to be curious. But you were a professional. And you'd crossed enough boundaries for the day.

You moved lower, tending to his hands as he started to lie back in the bed, eyes heavy with fatigue. Before you knew it, he was asleep.

You walked out of the cell, chest heavy with guilt - from what, you weren't sure. You asked the guards to take him to the infirmary the next morning so he could be properly cared for. Then you scheduled an extra session.

Just to check on him. To make sure he'd see a familiar face tomorrow.

You walked home with a strange sense of victory. Yes, it hadn't been technically ideal. Some guidelines were ignored. But he was starting to trust you. And maybe tomorrow would be the start of a new life for him.

___________

When the cell door behind you slammed shut, Aerion opened his eyes.

The scent of your perfume still lingered on his skin. He took a long, delicious inhale as he remembered the way your skin felt on his.

For the first time in years, the voices were quiet.

___________

"How are you doing today?"

You asked, careful that your voice didn't sound condescending, infantilizing. You knew Aerion would hate that.

"I'm feeling much better."

He seemed shy, looking down as he spoke to you for the first time ever in one of these sessions.

"Thank you."

He forced the words out of himself.

"You - uh - really calmed me down."

You couldn't dim the bright smile painted on your face. This is what you yearned for, why you chose this line of work in the first place.

Hope.

Every person possessed some.

And you could see from that moment on that Aerion was full of it.

In the months that followed, you met with him every week and every week he showed more and more progress.

"What's something you like to do? Something just for fun."

He lost himself, eyes searching for a memory.

"I liked fishing when I was a kid. Loved fishing, actually."

You saw it - a flash of childlike vulnerability. It reminded you of one of your kids.

"Well with all of your good behavior these last few weeks, I'm sure we can arrange something."

You smiled as you rose from the metal chair, intent on convincing administration to set up an excursion for him. Six months in solitary. It was more than needed.

"Wait."

His voice caused you to stop in your tracks.

"I also like to draw. But. You know."

He laughed softly as he raised his hands constrained in metal cuffs.

You smiled back at him.

"I'll bring some paper and colored pencils next session. You've shown you don't need those anymore."

You turned to leave again.

"You know you're the only person who's ever looked at me like I'm not crazy."

His eyes glistened with promise, with understanding.

"You're not crazy, Aerion. I'll see you next week."

And seven days later you hadn't backed out on your promise. As the guard led him into the room you pointed at the cuffs.

"He won't be needing those today."

The guard raised an eyebrow that you dismissed calmly with a nod of approval. He pulled out the key and took off the cuffs.

Aerion flexed his hands, relishing the momentary freedom.

"Thanks."

His eyes fixed on you for a moment, studying every feature of your face, every flutter of your eyelashes.

"Are you okay? You look kind of... tired today."

You were tired.

Tired from an argument with your boyfriend that lasted all night. He said you've been drifting these last few weeks. Too focused on your work, too... emotionally attached. You spent the whole night crying. You were so proud of yourself, so proud of Aerion. And he spoiled it.

You knew how much he loved you, how much he cared about you. He wasn't the most exciting man, but he was genuinely kind. He just didn't understand your work, your purpose to connect.

"I'm fine, thanks for asking."

You tried to remain professional.

"Boy problems?"

He chuckled out, face locked into a boyish smirk.

How did he know?

It was a coincidence, it must've been. Aerion was funny, he'd joke with you from time to time. And there was no way he'd know. Not from his cell.

Desperate to direct the conversation, you pulled out a case of pencils and some sheets of paper from your bag and placed them on the table.

"How about you draw while we talk today?"

Aerion nodded excitedly as he fingered through the pencils, examining each one - the color, the thickness.

He continued the rest of the session looking up at you for brief moments before returning to his drawing. It soothed him. Made him happy. You could sense his gratitude - nobody had considered his happiness in a very long time.

"Finished."

He smiled shyly as he handed you the piece of paper. It was beautiful - it was you.

You stilled, something beneath you deeply unsettled. The kids had drawn pictures of you before and you'd laugh as you hung them on the walls of your dingy office. But not like this.

The attention to detail, the softness in your expression, the tiny scar on your forehead nobody else had noticed - it wasn't the drawing itself that disturbed you. But the fact that he saw you like this. Saw all of you. And thought it was beautiful.

You swallowed your discomfort, quickly collecting your things and smiling at him before scurrying out of the room.

"I - I didn't mean to overstep or anything. It's just a picture. And I really appreciate you."

His voice wasn't imposing or desperate. It was honest.

"I think I'm finally getting better. For the first time in my life. And it's because of you."

His sweet words melted away any of the tension you possessed. He was grateful, that was all. He wanted you to have something that showed it.

"I'll see about that fishing trip."

You gave him a playful wink as you exited the room, unable to shake his words and the genuine smile he wore.

You walked into the administrator's office that afternoon, talking points formed elegantly in your head as to why Aerion deserved this trip.

But when you asked, you weren't getting the response you'd expected.

"Yeah, that sounds good."

You were stunned. How could it be that easy?

"His father will pay for it. We told him about all of the progress. You know, Aerion hasn't had an episode since the first month you started working with him? And he's polite with the guards, he's talking to people. I gotta be honest, I never believed in all this shrink bullshit. But you young lady, you must be working some kind of magic."

You couldn't wipe the smile off your face for the next several days. This was everything you'd ever wanted. To bring someone out of the darkness. And you'd done it. You'd really done the impossible this time.

Aerion's fishing trip was scheduled to be the Thursday of that week, one day before your session so you could ask him about it. So you could see some of the pure joy you were able to bring back into his life.

He'd be accompanied by his father, as well as a few guards, one of them promising to take a picture for you.

You could imagine it now: him smiling with his dad's arm around him proudly holding up a trout surrounded by the calm water. The image nearly brought tears to your eyes.

You went to bed Thursday night filled to the brim with excitement, not for yourself, but for him. Today was his day. He'd spent time with his family, showed everyone how much he improved, found himself in the fresh air. He'd finally been able to feel who he'd become - a new man.

Maybe one day you'd tell future patients about Aerion Brightflame.

The man everyone gave up on.

The man who got better.

You never expected the thunder of your front door knocking down in the dead of night.

____________

You stumbled out of your bed still half asleep. Probably just your cat knocking a cookie jar over again.

"Oreo, what did you do this ti- "

You looked up and every limb in your body froze entirely.

"Not Oreo, darling."

Aerion stood in your doorway petting your cat as she purred in his arms.

"She's a very sweet cat."

He placed Oreo on the counter as he moved towards you.

"Maybe we can take her with us."

Your brain hadn't even begun to process what was happening. Aerion was before you. Not behind a cell, not across a metal table, standing in your apartment.

Still in your tired stupor, your compassion took precedence over your survival instincts.

"What - what are you doing here? Are you ok?"

You stammered, rubbing your eyes to make sure this wasn't a dream.

Aerion laughed softly as he moved towards you, gently brushing the loose strands of your messy bedhead behind your ear.

"I'm more than ok. And it's all because of you."

His hand moved to your shoulder. His touch was intimate. Though it wasn't in a sexual way. You couldn't quite name it, but it was something much deeper. Something much worse.

"And now we can be together. Not for one hour a week. Not surrounded by guards. Just us. Together. Always."

He leaned in to press a whisper of a kiss on your forehead. You shuddered beneath him, chills running down your spine.

"Get your things."

He walked to your kitchen counter with disturbing composure, taking your tea kettle and filling it with water.

You stared at him with nothing but impenetrable confusion.

"Aerion. What happened to fishing?"

He spoke as he fiddled in your cabinets, grabbing himself a mug and a tea bag.

"I went. My father had other plans. Saw my progress, decided it was time for me to come home. Well, not home home; they'd find me there again. But a new place. In the countryside."

You couldn't understand what he was talking about. The countryside?

"I - I don't understand."

"I'm better now. I can have a life now, because of you. And there's no one else in this world I can share it with."

He casually sipped on his mug, looking at you now. Observing your every movement, every flutter of your eyelash, every part of your reaction. His expression turned sad, brows furrowing, eyes pleading with you.

"I thought you'd be pleased."

The desperation in his voice was worse than all of the rage, all of the chaos you'd witnessed. You were in danger. Grave danger.

"Aerion, it's not that I'm not happy to see you out. See you free. You deserve it."

You tried to steady your voice as much as possible slowly backing into the bedroom.

"I just - I had my own life. Outside of you. And I'm so grateful for the time we've spent together, I'm so proud of you. But you're better now. It's time for you to have your own life, too."

"No!"

His voice tore through the space between you as he banged the steaming mug onto the table. The hot water spilled onto him, burning his skin. But that was the last of his concerns.

"I have no life without you! Do you remember what I was before you?"

The unevenness in his voice broke your heart. He wasn't evil, just broken. There was still hope, still time for you to save yourself and him.

You walked into the kitchen, wetting a dish towel with cool water before applying it to his burns. He sulked still, but you could feel his wrath cooling with every touch.

"You were what you've always been. A man. Flawed, but human. You don't have to do this. You can go with your family, go live your life. You've done so well, Aerion."

You grabbed onto his shoulders, trying your best to steady him.

"You don't need me anymore."

He avoided your stare as you searched his face for something. For anything. Finally, he turned to you, eyes glossy and face twisted in a frown.

"I didn't want to have to do this."

"You don't, Aerion. You don't."

You smiled, oblivious to the hand he raised behind you. The plate he yielded directly above your head. As you began to relax, believe you'd talked him down, believe you'd brought him to the light once again -

Everything went black.