she/her, twenty-one, persian. . . .equal parts devotion and delusion, curated through romantic obsession, beautiful catastrophes, and the art of loving too much.
𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐍 𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐗𝐓𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑, 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐑𝐄'𝐒 𝐃𝐎𝐄, 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐍'𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐅𝐄—at least according to the editorial direction.
Consider this a collection of soft violence, dark affection, and stories that linger longer than they should.
𝐍ot every boyfriend has it, and no, confidence alone isn't enough. a boyfriend who serves cunt enters a room like he's carrying a secret, wears sunglasses indoors without irony, and somehow makes basic eye contact feel editorial. he's equal parts charisma, style, and the quiet certainty that everyone is looking at him—and he's right. the true test? whether he could stand beside a supermodel and still look like part of the campaign.
𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓 ◞ open.
𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ◞ masterlist. pinterest.
𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓 ◞ slap at the face that eats me pt.1 : yandere aerion targaryen. good for nothing : yandere batboys. want you back honey : yandere akotsk men. pink bracelet pt.5 : yandere benjamin poindexter. let it go honey : yandere akotsk men.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
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❝ friendship was supposed to make things easier. that's what dex keeps telling himself. you're his friend now. he gets to see you, talk to you, walk beside you after work, sit across from you while you laugh and ramble and force him to try drinks he never would've ordered himself. but somewhere along the way, something starts changing.⠀⠀❞⠀
◜ including ⠀! ⠀benjamin poindexter.
◟ warnings ⠀! ⠀part 5 of series. part 1 + part 2 + part 3 + part 4. fem reader. obsessive dex. jealousy. dex is fucked in the head. masterlist. gifs by @.novagif. english is not my first language.
After that, seeing you becomes part of his routine.
Not a habit.
Something worse.
Habits can be broken.
This settles itself deeper than that.
The first morning he walks into the café after you agreed to be his friend, the bell above the door jingles softly.
And before he even sees you—
he hears you.
Laughing.
Somewhere behind the counter.
The sound reaches him first.
Then your head lifts.
Your eyes find him immediately.
And your entire face changes.
It happens so fast he almost thinks he imagined it.
One second you're talking to a coworker.
The next—
you light up.
Actually light up.
Your smile stretches across your face so suddenly it almost startles him.
"Dex!"
His stomach does something strange.
Something painful.
Something warm.
You sound happy.
Happy.
Because he walked through a door.
Nobody has ever sounded happy because he arrived somewhere before.
Not like that.
And then you're already moving around the counter.
Walking toward him.
Fast.
Like you were waiting.
His brain immediately starts trying to find another explanation.
You're just friendly.
You're like this with everyone.
Don't be stupid.
But then you grab his wrist.
Just casually.
Naturally.
Like you've been doing it forever.
And before he can even make it to his usual booth, you're pulling him away from it.
"Nope."
"What?"
"You can't sit over there."
His eyes flick toward the dark corner automatically.
"Why?"
"Because I said so."
You tug his hand again.
"Come on."
And suddenly he's sitting at a table much closer to the counter.
Close enough that he can actually see you working.
Close enough that you can see him.
Close enough that every time he lifts his head—
there you are.
The realization makes something flutter unpleasantly inside his chest.
You return to work afterward.
Customers keep coming.
Orders keep coming.
People keep talking.
The world keeps moving.
But every few minutes your eyes find him again.
And every single time—
you smile.
A real smile.
The one that reaches your eyes.
The one that makes your cheeks lift.
The one that somehow feels directed entirely at him.
And every single time his chest tightens.
Because he doesn't know what to do with that.
He doesn't know where to put that feeling.
People aren't supposed to smile at him like that.
People smile because they're being polite.
Because they're professional.
Not because they're genuinely happy to see him.
But you do.
Again.
And again.
And again.
A week passes.
Then two.
Then three.
And before long, everybody at the café knows him.
Not well.
But enough.
Enough that nobody asks if he's waiting for someone anymore.
Enough that your coworkers glance between the two of you and smile knowingly.
Enough that his usual table is unofficially his.
Enough that you stop asking what he wants.
"Banana milkshake?"
"I was gonna order coffee."
"Too bad."
"What?"
"You need to try this."
And suddenly you're already making something else.
Dex watches you move around the different machines.
You always do this.
You decide he's trying something new.
And then you stand there waiting afterward.
Watching him.
Expectantly.
Like a parent waiting for a child to eat vegetables.
"Well?"
He takes a sip.
You stare.
His stomach twists.
You stare harder.
"Weeell?"
"It's great."
Immediately your face brightens.
"There."
Like you've personally accomplished something.
Every time.
Every single time.
You care.
You actually care.
The realization never gets easier.
At first you wouldn't let him pay either.
That lasted approximately four days.
"No."
"I'm paying."
"Dex."
"I'm paying."
"Dex!"
"I'm paying."
And then somehow he ends up paying while you're glaring at him.
You never actually stop him.
You just complain about it every time.
Outside the café things begin happening naturally.
At least naturally for you.
Nothing about this feels natural to Dex.
You walk together after work.
Sometimes just for a few blocks.
Sometimes for an hour.
Sometimes until neither of you notice how late it's gotten.
You introduce him to food trucks.
Street vendors.
Tiny restaurants squeezed between larger buildings.
Places he would've never entered on his own.
You seem to know everybody.
Or maybe everybody just likes you.
The distinction feels irrelevant.
You always talk while you eat.
Always.
About customers.
Coworkers.
Stories.
Random things.
You fill silence effortlessly.
And Dex mostly listens.
Because listening to you feels easy.
Because your voice never feels like noise.
Because somehow his brain makes room for it.
And the more you talk—
the more he learns.
You love your friends.
That becomes obvious immediately.
Painfully obvious.
"Karen stole my sweater again."
You laugh.
Dex smiles faintly into his coffee.
That sounds like you.
Actually, that doesn't make sense.
How does that sound like you?
You've known Karen for what—three years?
And you've known him for—
His brain immediately supplies the answer.
Twenty-three days.
Not counting the first day.
Twenty-four if you count the first day.
Normal people don't count days.
Stop doing that.
You keep talking.
Something about going shopping with Karen.
You look happy.
Relaxed.
Your hands move when you talk. He notices that a lot now.
Always moving.
Always alive.
His eyes drift toward your wrist automatically.
No bracelet.
Because he has it.
The thought settles warmly somewhere beneath his ribs.
Mine.
No.
Not mine.
Fuck.
Stop.
It's a bracelet.
You gave him a bracelet.
That's all.
You're friends.
Friends give each other things.
You give Karen your clothes all the times.
Normal.
Perfectly normal.
You keep talking.
Then—
"Foggy is genuinely the sweetest person I've ever met."
Foggy.
You love Foggy.
You always sound like you're proud when you're talking about him.
Like you're proud that someone as good as Foggy is your friend.
His chest aches unexpectedly.
Not painful.
Just...
Empty.
A little.
He doesn't know why.
Maybe because nobody talks about him like that.
Nobody ever has.
Nobody sits across from someone else and lights up talking about Benjamin Poindexter.
Look at this guy.
You'd love him.
But Dex's strange and lonely and stares too much.
His fingers tighten around the coffee cup.
You'd laugh at that.
Probably.
No.
You wouldn't.
That's the problem.
You never laugh at him.
You should.
Most people do eventually.
"And Matt—"
There he is.
Again.
Dex takes a sip of his coffee.
Too hot.
Doesn't matter.
"Matt's ridiculous."
You're already smiling.
Oh.
There it is.
There what is?
That.
The smile?
That fucking smile.
Does she smile like that when she talks about me?
No.
Obviously not.
Don't be stupid.
You keep talking.
Something about Matt winning another court case.
You're laughing now.
Actually laughing.
God.
You really like talking about him.
His stomach twists slightly.
Not jealousy.
Probably.
Maybe.
Shut up.
You don't know Matt.
You've never met him.
You're already building a whole person in your head from stories.
That's insane.
You have no room to judge anybody.
"He's got the prettiest brown eyes."
Dex looks up.
The prettiest what?
You smile into your drink.
"He doesn't even know it."
The ache inside his chest gets a little sharper.
There.
That.
That thing.
He hates that thing.
The feeling doesn't have a name.
Or maybe it does.
He just doesn't want to use it.
Because if he names it, it becomes real.
You keep smiling.
Still talking.
Matt.
Matt.
Matt.
Jesus Christ.
You don't even realize you're blushing.
Does she know she's blushing?
Probably not.
She doesn't notice things like that.
You notices things like that.
That's his problem.
He notices everything.
The tiny smile.
The way your eyes get softer.
The way you stare at the table when you're talking about him.
The way you keep finding more stories.
One after another.
One after another.
One after another.
Does she like him?
The question appears suddenly.
Simple.
Clean.
Does she like him?
His stomach drops.
No.
Maybe they're just friends.
She talks about Karen too.
Not like this.
No?
No.
Not like this.
Maybe she's always like this.
Maybe.
The answer feels wrong immediately.
You smile again.
God.
You really smile when you talk about him.
Do you know you're doing that?
Do you know everybody can see it?
Can he see it?
Matt.
Can Matt see it?
The thought makes something twist painfully inside his chest.
Maybe Matt likes her back.
Stop.
Stop.
Stop.
You don't know that!
You don't know anything.
You're sitting in a coffee shop imagining relationships between people you've never met.
synopsis ⠀:: ⠀ aerion sits in his psychiatrist’s office holding himself together with threadbare control, every word carefully rehearsed while his body betrays him in small, restless tremors. the news that you are returning fractures something already unstable inside him—turning therapy into interrogation, silence into pressure, and memory into a living thing that won’t stop breathing against his ribs. and as questions continue to land like quiet blades, it becomes painfully clear: your coming back isn’t just an event… it’s a pressure point waiting to break him open.
including ⠀! ⠀ aerion targaryen. ✶
contents ⠀! ⠀ concept/part 1. horror/psychological thriller. modern au. sick obsession. twisted feelings. reader is aerion's twin sister. incest. narcissistic aerion. depressed aerion. pathetic aerion. substance misuse. dark reader. sadistic reader. reader have (aspd) aka she's a psychopath. she's aerion selfobject. aerion have grandiose delusional disorder. aerion is a loser honestly. both aerion and reader are fucked in the head. dead dove do not eat. masterlist. gifs by @.speed-s. english is not my first language. ✶
You're coming back.
Fuck.
The thought hits before he even sits down.
You're coming back.
Not a dream.
Not a rumor.
Not one of those stupid family gossip chains.
Real.
Actual.
Confirmed.
Aerion sits across from Mr. Smith and immediately regrets coming.
The office smells like coffee.
Coffee and paper.
Paper and dust.
Dust and old books.
His skin feels wrong.
Too tight.
His hands won't stay still.
His knee won't stop bouncing.
Stop moving.
Stop.
Stop.
Stop.
It keeps bouncing.
Mr. Smith notices.
The man notices everything.
That's his entire job.
Aerion hates him for it.
"How are you doing today, Aerion?"
Fine.
Lie.
Bad.
Lie.
High.
Lie.
Sober.
Lie.
Miserable.
...
Aerion smiles.
"I'm doing fine, doc. Don't worry about it."
The pen moves.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Writing something down already.
Amazing.
World record.
Three seconds.
Aerion stares at the notebook.
What is it today?
Agitated?
Guarded?
Hostile?
Poor insight?
The classics.
"But you seem nervous."
Nervous?
The word almost makes him laugh.
Nervous.
Like he's giving a presentation.
Like he's about to go on a first date.
Nervous.
The understatement is so ridiculous he actually lets out a short laugh.
"Nah, doc."
His voice sounds normal.
Good.
Normal is good.
Normal keeps people calm.
Normal keeps his father calm.
Normal keeps social workers calm.
Normal keeps doctors calm.
"I'm just excited. My sister's coming back after all."
The silence afterward is tiny.
Less than a second.
But Aerion catches it.
His eyes immediately lock onto Mr. Smith.
There.
There it is.
That look.
That tiny little flicker.
Concern.
Mr. Smith recovers quickly.
Too quickly.
But Aerion saw it.
"You mean Y/N?"
Who the fuck else would I mean?
The thought comes instantly.
Sharp.
Mean.
Aerion swallows it.
"Who else?"
Too aggressive.
Shit.
Too aggressive.
Mr. Smith notices.
Of course he notices.
The pen moves again.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Aerion wants to grab the notebook.
Just for a second.
Just to see.
Just to confirm.
Just to know what everybody keeps writing about him.
He wonders if his file is thick.
It has to be thick.
Years of therapy.
Years of evaluations.
Years of medication.
Years of incidents.
History.
Such a funny word.
History.
"How do you feel about her coming back?"
There it is again.
There you are again.
Every fucking conversation.
Every fucking room.
Every fucking second.
You.
He should've known.
Of course we're talking about you.
Always you.
"I told you."
His voice stays calm.
"Excited."
Lie.
Mr. Smith is staring.
Stop staring at me.
He know that look.
Everybody does that look.
The careful look.
The one where they're pretending they aren't worried.
The one where they're pretending they aren't judging.
They're always judging.
Always.
Always.
Always.
His leg keeps bouncing.
Stop.
Stop.
Stop.
It doesn't stop.
His fingers are twitching now too.
Fantastic.
Amazing.
Real subtle.
Mr Smith can see it too.
Of fucking course.
That's his job.
Notice.
Observe.
Analyze.
Write things down.
Put him in a little folder.
Put him in a little box.
Aerion Targaryen.
Male.
Substance abuse history.
Anger issues.
Family violence.
Psychiatric treatment.
Medication compliance inconsistent.
What a fucking joke.
The thought makes him want to laugh.
Instead he grinds his teeth.
My jaw hurts.
Why does my jaw hurt?
Oh right.
Because he been clenching it for twenty minutes.
Or three hours.
Or ten years.
Hard to tell nowadays.
Time feels wrong.
Everything feels wrong.
The room feels wrong.
The lighting feels wrong.
The coffee smell is too strong.
The clock is too loud.
Why is the clock so loud?
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Shut the fuck up.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
I swear to God—
Mr. Smith says something.
Aerion misses half of it.
His brain is moving too fast.
No.
Too slow.
No.
Both.
Both at once.
Thoughts crashing into each other.
Thoughts eating each other.
Thoughts looping.
Repeating.
Repeating.
Repeating.
Y/N.
There it is again.
Y/N.
God, he hate you.
I hate you.
I hate you.
I hate—
No.
That's not right.
It's bigger than hate.
Hate would be easier.
Cleaner.
This thing isn't clean.
This thing is mold.
It's rot.
It's years.
It's memories that won't stay buried.
It's every conversation replaying over and over and over until he don't know if he's remembering something that happened or something he imagined at four in the morning while he was high and staring at the ceiling.
Mr. Smith is talking.
Nod.
Just nod.
There.
Good.
He thinks you're listening.
You're so good at this.
You've been doing this your whole life.
Smile.
Nod.
Pretend.
Pretend you're normal.
Pretend you're stable.
Pretend you're not one bad day away from completely losing your shit.
Easy.
Easy.
Easy.
The funny thing?
Nobody ever asks if he's tired.
Not really.
They ask if he's angry.
They ask if he's sober.
They ask if he's taking his medication.
Nobody asks if he's tired.
I am.
I'm so fucking tired.
Tired of doctors.
Tired of pills.
Tired of support groups.
Tired of hearing words like healing and progress and recovery.
Tired of waking up.
Tired of being what he is.
The thought settles heavily in his chest.
He immediately hates it.
Pathetic.
That's pathetic.
Don't think like that.
Weak people think like that.
You're not weak.
You're not.
You're not—
Then why are your hands shaking?
His stomach twists.
Mr. Smith says your name.
Just your name.
Nothing else.
Just your name.
And suddenly something ugly moves beneath his skin.
Not anger.
Not exactly.
Something rawer.
More embarrassing.
Like an exposed nerve.
You left.
Everybody forgets that part.
They talk about everything else.
Never that.
You left.
You got on a plane and disappeared.
Years.
Gone.
Gone.
Gone.
And somehow he stayed here.
Same city.
Same family.
Same doctors.
Same medication.
Same stupid fucking life.
Who's the loser in that equation?
Me.
The answer is him.
His throat tightens.
The realization burns.
Because that's the thing nobody understands.
The thing he'd never say out loud.
Not even here.
Not even now.
He's terrified.
Not of you.
Not exactly.
He's terrified of what happens inside his own head when you walk back into it.
Because the structure already feels unstable.
The walls already feel cracked.
The foundation already feels rotten.
The drugs help until they don't.
The medication works until it doesn't.
The therapy works until it doesn't.
Everything is held together with tape and lies.
And now you're coming back.
And everybody is watching.
Waiting.
Watching.
Waiting.
Watching.
Waiting.
To see if Aerion Targaryen finally falls apart.
The worst part?
He isn't sure they're wrong.
For the first time all session, he looks away from the doctor.
Looks out the window.
Grey sky.
Grey rain.
Grey city.
His reflection stares back.
The man in the glass looks exhausted.
Older.
Hollow.
A stranger.
For one brief second, a thought slips through all the noise.
Quiet.
Cold.
Terrifying.
He don't think he's getting better.
Mr. Smith asks another question.
Aerion smiles automatically.
Perfectly.
Beautifully.
Like a liar who's had years of practice.
"I'm doing great, doc."
And somehow that's the biggest lie he has said all day.
synopsis ⠀:: ⠀ aerion sits in his psychiatrist’s office holding himself together with threadbare control, every word carefully rehearsed while his body betrays him in small, restless tremors. the news that you are returning fractures something already unstable inside him—turning therapy into interrogation, silence into pressure, and memory into a living thing that won’t stop breathing against his ribs. and as questions continue to land like quiet blades, it becomes painfully clear: your coming back isn’t just an event… it’s a pressure point waiting to break him open.
including ⠀! ⠀ aerion targaryen. ✶
contents ⠀! ⠀ concept/part 1. horror/psychological thriller. modern au. sick obsession. twisted feelings. reader is aerion's twin sister. incest. narcissistic aerion. depressed aerion. pathetic aerion. substance misuse. dark reader. sadistic reader. reader have (aspd) aka she's a psychopath. she's aerion selfobject. aerion have grandiose delusional disorder. aerion is a loser honestly. both aerion and reader are fucked in the head. dead dove do not eat. masterlist. gifs by @.speed-s. english is not my first language. ✶
You're coming back.
Fuck.
The thought hits before he even sits down.
You're coming back.
Not a dream.
Not a rumor.
Not one of those stupid family gossip chains.
Real.
Actual.
Confirmed.
Aerion sits across from Mr. Smith and immediately regrets coming.
The office smells like coffee.
Coffee and paper.
Paper and dust.
Dust and old books.
His skin feels wrong.
Too tight.
His hands won't stay still.
His knee won't stop bouncing.
Stop moving.
Stop.
Stop.
Stop.
It keeps bouncing.
Mr. Smith notices.
The man notices everything.
That's his entire job.
Aerion hates him for it.
"How are you doing today, Aerion?"
Fine.
Lie.
Bad.
Lie.
High.
Lie.
Sober.
Lie.
Miserable.
...
Aerion smiles.
"I'm doing fine, doc. Don't worry about it."
The pen moves.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Writing something down already.
Amazing.
World record.
Three seconds.
Aerion stares at the notebook.
What is it today?
Agitated?
Guarded?
Hostile?
Poor insight?
The classics.
"But you seem nervous."
Nervous?
The word almost makes him laugh.
Nervous.
Like he's giving a presentation.
Like he's about to go on a first date.
Nervous.
The understatement is so ridiculous he actually lets out a short laugh.
"Nah, doc."
His voice sounds normal.
Good.
Normal is good.
Normal keeps people calm.
Normal keeps his father calm.
Normal keeps social workers calm.
Normal keeps doctors calm.
"I'm just excited. My sister's coming back after all."
The silence afterward is tiny.
Less than a second.
But Aerion catches it.
His eyes immediately lock onto Mr. Smith.
There.
There it is.
That look.
That tiny little flicker.
Concern.
Mr. Smith recovers quickly.
Too quickly.
But Aerion saw it.
"You mean Y/N?"
Who the fuck else would I mean?
The thought comes instantly.
Sharp.
Mean.
Aerion swallows it.
"Who else?"
Too aggressive.
Shit.
Too aggressive.
Mr. Smith notices.
Of course he notices.
The pen moves again.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Aerion wants to grab the notebook.
Just for a second.
Just to see.
Just to confirm.
Just to know what everybody keeps writing about him.
He wonders if his file is thick.
It has to be thick.
Years of therapy.
Years of evaluations.
Years of medication.
Years of incidents.
History.
Such a funny word.
History.
"How do you feel about her coming back?"
There it is again.
There you are again.
Every fucking conversation.
Every fucking room.
Every fucking second.
You.
He should've known.
Of course we're talking about you.
Always you.
"I told you."
His voice stays calm.
"Excited."
Lie.
Mr. Smith is staring.
Stop staring at me.
He know that look.
Everybody does that look.
The careful look.
The one where they're pretending they aren't worried.
The one where they're pretending they aren't judging.
They're always judging.
Always.
Always.
Always.
His leg keeps bouncing.
Stop.
Stop.
Stop.
It doesn't stop.
His fingers are twitching now too.
Fantastic.
Amazing.
Real subtle.
Mr Smith can see it too.
Of fucking course.
That's his job.
Notice.
Observe.
Analyze.
Write things down.
Put him in a little folder.
Put him in a little box.
Aerion Targaryen.
Male.
Substance abuse history.
Anger issues.
Family violence.
Psychiatric treatment.
Medication compliance inconsistent.
What a fucking joke.
The thought makes him want to laugh.
Instead he grinds his teeth.
My jaw hurts.
Why does my jaw hurt?
Oh right.
Because he been clenching it for twenty minutes.
Or three hours.
Or ten years.
Hard to tell nowadays.
Time feels wrong.
Everything feels wrong.
The room feels wrong.
The lighting feels wrong.
The coffee smell is too strong.
The clock is too loud.
Why is the clock so loud?
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Shut the fuck up.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
I swear to God—
Mr. Smith says something.
Aerion misses half of it.
His brain is moving too fast.
No.
Too slow.
No.
Both.
Both at once.
Thoughts crashing into each other.
Thoughts eating each other.
Thoughts looping.
Repeating.
Repeating.
Repeating.
Y/N.
There it is again.
Y/N.
God, he hate you.
I hate you.
I hate you.
I hate—
No.
That's not right.
It's bigger than hate.
Hate would be easier.
Cleaner.
This thing isn't clean.
This thing is mold.
It's rot.
It's years.
It's memories that won't stay buried.
It's every conversation replaying over and over and over until he don't know if he's remembering something that happened or something he imagined at four in the morning while he was high and staring at the ceiling.
Mr. Smith is talking.
Nod.
Just nod.
There.
Good.
He thinks you're listening.
You're so good at this.
You've been doing this your whole life.
Smile.
Nod.
Pretend.
Pretend you're normal.
Pretend you're stable.
Pretend you're not one bad day away from completely losing your shit.
Easy.
Easy.
Easy.
The funny thing?
Nobody ever asks if he's tired.
Not really.
They ask if he's angry.
They ask if he's sober.
They ask if he's taking his medication.
Nobody asks if he's tired.
I am.
I'm so fucking tired.
Tired of doctors.
Tired of pills.
Tired of support groups.
Tired of hearing words like healing and progress and recovery.
Tired of waking up.
Tired of being what he is.
The thought settles heavily in his chest.
He immediately hates it.
Pathetic.
That's pathetic.
Don't think like that.
Weak people think like that.
You're not weak.
You're not.
You're not—
Then why are your hands shaking?
His stomach twists.
Mr. Smith says your name.
Just your name.
Nothing else.
Just your name.
And suddenly something ugly moves beneath his skin.
Not anger.
Not exactly.
Something rawer.
More embarrassing.
Like an exposed nerve.
You left.
Everybody forgets that part.
They talk about everything else.
Never that.
You left.
You got on a plane and disappeared.
Years.
Gone.
Gone.
Gone.
And somehow he stayed here.
Same city.
Same family.
Same doctors.
Same medication.
Same stupid fucking life.
Who's the loser in that equation?
Me.
The answer is him.
His throat tightens.
The realization burns.
Because that's the thing nobody understands.
The thing he'd never say out loud.
Not even here.
Not even now.
He's terrified.
Not of you.
Not exactly.
He's terrified of what happens inside his own head when you walk back into it.
Because the structure already feels unstable.
The walls already feel cracked.
The foundation already feels rotten.
The drugs help until they don't.
The medication works until it doesn't.
The therapy works until it doesn't.
Everything is held together with tape and lies.
And now you're coming back.
And everybody is watching.
Waiting.
Watching.
Waiting.
Watching.
Waiting.
To see if Aerion Targaryen finally falls apart.
The worst part?
He isn't sure they're wrong.
For the first time all session, he looks away from the doctor.
Looks out the window.
Grey sky.
Grey rain.
Grey city.
His reflection stares back.
The man in the glass looks exhausted.
Older.
Hollow.
A stranger.
For one brief second, a thought slips through all the noise.
Quiet.
Cold.
Terrifying.
He don't think he's getting better.
Mr. Smith asks another question.
Aerion smiles automatically.
Perfectly.
Beautifully.
Like a liar who's had years of practice.
"I'm doing great, doc."
And somehow that's the biggest lie he has said all day.
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