「 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥. 」
pairing; Mechanic!Andy Barber x Doctor!male reader
☬— nsfw. obsession/stalking. use of drugs. mentions of self-harm. praising. mental disorder (Sociopathy). murder. descriptions of violence. delusions. pet names (angel / sweetheart). mature // dark themes.
Summary; Andy Barber has an accident at his shop, which forces him to visit the hospital. There, he meets you. What begins as gratitude for your care slowly spirals into an unhealthy obsession. As his obsession deepens, Andy's behavior becomes increasingly erratic, all while becoming consumed by the fantasy of a relationship with the doctor who unknowingly holds his heart captive.
THE sound of metallic silver tools echoes throughout the—shaggy and dirty—garage that Andy Barber works in. It is a late night; the crickets outside are loud, and the wretched smell of grease and oil thickens the atmosphere. He loved that smell...
Andy lays under a car that was recently brought into the garage as he hums a rhythmic sound under his breath. The sound of the engine was comforting. He felt a sense of peace even.
His rough palm gripped the tool as he controlled it with ease. Tools were always something Andy could rely on. They came in handy in many ways—specifically in Andy's past. That's something he would like to bury deep inside.
Tools fixed things.
They tightened what was loose.
They silenced what was broken.
They ended the everlasting problems.
A rough exhale leaves Andy's pursed lips as he pushes himself further under the wrecked car he was currently working on. The cold metal gave him a sense of comfort—a safe place even. The wrench in his rough hand worked with him as he twisted screws left and right, allowing him to enter a trance. That trance came to an end when Andy felt a sharp pain shoot through his hand. The cold metal glided across his rough skin with ease and caused a pool of blood to form on his palm.
"Damn it." He mutters to himself as he pushes from under the car. He looks over at his grubby toolbox and grabs a mucky, stained washcloth to apply pressure to the wound. The cut was too deep. Too deep to shrug off. Andy knew that.
He mentally battled himself from the thought of having to go to that wretched place again. The hospital. hospitals made him shiver. His stomach turned due to the intense disinfectant smell, the chilling white walls, and the antiseptic fragrance. It had been years since his father's last hospital stay that he had set foot in one, and he had vowed never to return.
But that promise was cut short.
Reluctantly, Andy wrapped the wound with the dirty washcloth, grabbed his keys, and entered his—rugged red—pickup truck. "Fuck me," Andy spoke under his breath as he started the truck.
The engine roared, and smoke found its way to come out of its exhaust. He drove off, the only thought to haunt and fog his memory as he drove to the one place he promised never to return.
✰ -- --- --- -- ✰
THE waiting room smelled exactly how he remembered it—too tense, too quiet. The disgusting smell of disinfectant supplies filled the air, feeling toxic to Andy's heart. His stocky back sat against the—extremely uncomfortable—chair as his foot nervously tapped against the daunting tiled floor that haunted his memories.
He needed to get out.
Andy's tongue glides against his lips as he mentally debates with himself a second time. 'I can clean it myself. I don't need to be here. I fucking hate the hospital' were constant thoughts that lingered his brain.
As he's about to get up from the chair and exit the wretched environment, a nurse calls out, "Andy Barber."
"Fuck." He whispers roughly under his breath as he walks his way towards the nurse standing at the entence.
Hospitals were full of unworthy people who pretended to fix things.
Nurses especially.
As if it meant something, they grasped hands, offered condolences, and strolled around with soft voices and fake smiles. Acting as though compassion could heal. As though kind words could mend harm. They made too much of an effort to "be good." People still died, nevertheless.
But regardless, things broke.
They were worthless.
His jaw tightens as his dark blue eyes settles on another nurse who is laughing with their co-worker. Their scrubs too bright. Their tone too kind. They didn't understand how to fix things like Andy. They cleaned blood from wounds, and he knew how to cause them. They don't understand control. He forces his broad shoulders to relax and allows his face to become blank.
"Right this way, Mr. Barber." She smiles.
He hides the sheer look of disgust at the rehearsed smile and kind act. 'I wonder how many people she failed today.' Were his last thoughts before being instructed into a room.
✰ -- --- --- -- ✰
THE room becomes quiet when the nurse walks out.
Andy rolls his shoulder back against the patient bed, his jaw still tight from the vile interaction he had earlier with the "too perfect" nurse. His fingers tapped against the metal arm rest, trying to distract himself from the unappealing room.
His eyes scan the room slowly. Clean tan walls, perfect scenery paintings pinned against the wall, and silver instruments that laid flat on the tray for stitches—which is what he needed.
The handle clicks softly.
His eyes still painted towards the ground, he didn't bother looking up. He assumed it was another nurse to say once again a rehearsed act of kindness. But the air shifts. The footsteps are different. They're more heavier—measured. He looks up, his blue eyes connects to yours and everything inside of him stops.
Your white coat hangs loosely on your frame. A soft smile makes its way on your lips. "I hear you've had quite the accident, Mr. Barber," you said with a warm, but professional tone.
Andy feels something different.
It wasn't anger.
It wasn't hatred or anxiety.
It was alignment. Comfortability.
"I'm Doctor y/n. Let's take a look at your hand." You say calmly. Andy hesitated at first. Not from fear or disgust. It's because he questioned if he was ready... ready to let such an angel's delicate skin connect to his rough, corrupted one. He slowly extends his hand, and you gently wrap your fingers around his wrist—making his breath hitch.
Your thumb lightly caresses the would to access the depth of it, and you realize that he will need stitches. "You'll need stitches." You say calmly, not to want to scare your patient.
But Andy wasn't scared. He felt safe.
All he can feel is the pressure of the your soft grip on the wound. The weight of your palm, and the way your touch is controlled, but not careless.
Intentional.
Andy studies your face while you work with his wound. The slight furrow in your brow. The way your jaw tightens in thought.
'He’s beautiful when he’s focused.' Andy thinks to himself.
"You're handling this well." You say as you guide the needle and thread through his skin. Andy doesn't break eye contact with you. "I've had worse." You glance up and look into his eyes quickly before returning your focus back onto the wound.
"Oh? Have you now."
Your tone isn't teasing. It isn't that fake softness everyone tries to have that Andy absolutely despised. You didn't fake pity him like he was a child. You were observational. Andy swallows the lump growing in his throat before he talks. "It comes with the job.. being a mechanic." His rough voice deeper than before.
"Well, don't let it happen again." You say and nod slightly.
God, he loved that you were "worried" for him. He felt like a fuel was igniting this growing spark between the two of you. His heart thumped louder by the second, goosebumps grew all over his broad back.
You pay close attention. Together, your brows furrow. Jaw set. You had no idea how meticulously he examines every aspect of your face. You don't appear weak. You don't appear fragile.
You appear in control.
Andy has always respected control.
"Alright, done. You will heal just fine. The nurse will give you further instructions regarding check-up and the healing process." You slightly smiled at the man in front of you, and you removed your soft hands from his skin. Suddenly, all Andy felt was cold air. Your warmth was gone. 'No.. come back, please.' Andy's thoughts run as the absence of your touch feels like his heart is being stabbed.
"All set, Mr. Barber. You're free to go."
Free.
That word felt so wrong for him to hear. He didn't want you to leave. He wanted you to connect your skin to his once more. He wanted your e/c eyes to gaze upon him as you focused on his wound. He loved that he was something worth your focus.
You're writing something on the chart, having that focused look on. His eyes never left your presence. This was nothing but a routine appointment to you, but to Andy? This was everything. His heart stopped completely when his eyes fell on you. Your touch, your smile, your maturity. He loved everything about you.
"Take care of yourself, Andy." You dismiss him as you exit the room and close the door behind you. Distance and coldness were all Andy felt in his stoned heart. The room felt smaller—emptier.
You're gone.. for now.
He'll be back for you, and next time—you won't dismiss him so early. You're his angel, and he needed you like no other.
✰ -- --- --- -- ✰
ANDY looks at himself in the dingy bathroom mirror. A lost, broken man was all that he could see. Someone who lacked empathy. The fluorescent lights above flickered faintly, casting a pale glow against the white tiles that surrounded him.
His jaw tightens.
Slowly, his stitched hand emerges into view. Your work: tidy, exact, intentional. He studies the fine threading on his rough flesh as he slowly rotates his wrist. Even though you were only holding this hand a few hours ago, it seemed like an eternity.
'You'll heal just fine.' But he didn't want to heal. Evidently, healing meant he wouldn't be able to see you.
The thought settles heavily in his chest.
He presses the sewn-up wound against the cold edge of the sink. At first, he couldn't grasp the thought of what he was doing. He needed a reason to see your beautiful face again. You were like a drug that couldn't leave his system. He slowly tests the thread on his rough skin—pressing harder.
Slight pain lingers through his body as a small red pool of blood starts to seep out of the delicate work you did. 'I need to see you, angel.' Andy watches it carefully in the mirror, his expression not changing whatsoever.
He presses harder.
He bites his lip roughly as the pain he felt under the—carefully wrapped—bandage starts to leak more crimson blood. He unwraps it, exposing the stitched wound, and with careful movement, he flexes his hand. 'Pop.' The thread comes undone.
Blood starts to leak down his hand.
Now he has a reason to see you again. Some might say that what he's doing is crazy, but this was all strategic to him; it was love. He grabs a paper towel and applies pressure on the wound. Not enough to stop it, but enough to control it. His dark blue eyes meet his reflection again. He was calm... certain.
You'll have to touch him again.
Next time, Andy won't allow you to dismiss him so easily. He craved you, needed to feel your soft skin connect with his corrupted, rough skin. He exits the bathroom, already planning his next visit.
✰ -- --- --- -- ✰
ANDY returned the next day.
And the day after that.
At first, the injuries were quite small. Reopened stitches, split knuckles, a burn from an engine that “slipped.” Each one was believable. "Accidental." Each one just enough to earn your touch again. To hear your calm, concerned voice again.
You began to notice the unusual behavior.
Your brows would furrow deeper each visit. Worry began to linger in your mind every time Andy visited your office. Your questions lingered longer. “You need to be more careful.” “This isn’t normal.” “Are you distracted at work?" The more you questioned him, the more it meant you were paying attention.
He would nod, give you half answers, and blame long hours.
But inside, He was thriving.
Soon, the wounds grew worse.
A deeper cut along his forearm from a razor blade. A gash across his thigh that required more than simple stitching. You prescribed him painkillers to ease the pain. But, he didn’t take them to heal. No, Andy took them to endure. To continue his obsession with you.
Since each injury demanded a new appointment. One more private space. Another opportunity for him to be with you. Your eyes, your smile, and your inherent scent. He loved every aspect of you, and this was just the beginning of it. Routine became ritual somewhere along the line. He memorized your schedule.
The days you worked late.
The nights you left exhausted.
The way you rubbed your temples before getting into your car.
You didn’t know it.
But he did.
✰ -- --- --- -- ✰
ANDY has already been spiraling. He’s sleep-deprived, mixing painkillers and alcohol. His obsession is getting stronger by the day. He’s convinced that you're just “confused” about your feelings for him.
One evening, he parks outside the hospital near the end of your shift. He tells himself he’s just making sure you're safe. Making sure that his angel gets home without any trouble. He's doing it out of love, not control.
Then he sees you.
You're currently standing outside in the cloudless, serene weather with a male coworker—maybe another doctor or a nurse. This gets Andy's attention immediately, 'What the fuck?' Thoughts running through his sick and twisted mind as you guys were laughing. The coworker lightly touches your arm, and you don't pull away like you should have. How dare you let another man touch you? You were Andy's everything. No one is able to lay a pinky on you.
That small touch feels catastrophic to Andy.
As he stares from inside his truck, the dim glow of the parking lot lights reflecting against the windshield, his hands tighten around the steering wheel. Everything seems a little warped because of the amount of alcohol and drugs in his system, as if he were watching something unfold underwater. Slow, warped. Incomprehensible.
But the anger is real.
You’re standing beneath the soft yellow light near the entrance of the hospital, your white coat catching the breeze. You look relaxed. Comfortable. Laughing at something the man beside you said.
Laughing.
The coworker stands too close. His posture is too familiar. His hand brushes your arm again—something he'll regret. Fingers lingering there as if he belongs.
As if he has permission.
Andy’s jaw tightens until it aches. His breathing heavily from anger.
You don’t pull away.
You don’t look disgusted.
You don’t look confused.
You look warm... comfortable.
His mind scrambles to correct it.
You don’t understand what you’re doing. You’re tired. Overworked. Vulnerable. You don’t see what that man is trying to take from you.
He does.
He always sees.
The coworker walks you to your car like it’s natural, like it’s expected. He opens the door for you, leaning down to say something else that makes you smile again. Andy’s breathing becomes heavier, fogging the inside of his window.
When you finally slide into your car and pull away, your headlights disappear down the quiet road, leaving the coworker alone in the lot.
Alone with Andy.
The coworker checks his phone casually, unaware, careless. Andy opens his truck door slowly, the hinges creaking softly in the still night air. His heavy boots hit the rough pavement with steady weight as he makes his way across the lot. Each step is deliberate—Measured.
The coworker looks up when Andy stops in front of him.
“Can I help you?” he asks, already irritated.
Andy stares at the sorry-looking man for a moment before speaking. His jaw still tight from the anger that travels through his blood.
“You shouldn’t touch him,” Andy says casually.
The coworker frowns slightly. “What?”
“You were touching him,” Andy repeats, his voice even. Controlled. “You don’t get to do that.” A short laugh escapes the man, disbelieving. “Okay… I think you’ve got the wrong idea here.” Andy steps his broad body closer. Close enough to see the annoyance harden into mockery on the man’s face.
“He’s not yours to touch,” Andy says quietly.
The coworker shakes his head. “Man, you’re acting crazy.”
Crazy.
The word lands heavier than it should.
The worker dismisses him completely, turning as though to brush past him. The movement is reckless. Confident. As though Andy is merely an inconvenience. Andy doesn't have time to completely digest it before his hand lunges forward. He pushes the man backward with more force than he meant when his palm slams hard against his chest.
The coworker stumbles, heel catching against the uneven concrete. His arms flail for balance, but it’s too late. His body hits the pavement hard, and his head strikes the ground with a dull, unforgiving sound.
The parking lot goes silent.
Andy freezes for a second, staring down.
The coworker doesn’t move.
A dark crimson pool of blood begins to spread beneath his head, slow and steady against the pale concrete. His eyes are open but unfocused, staring past the night sky... dead.
Andy’s breathing steadies as he takes a step closer.
He hadn’t planned it like this.
But it needed to happen.
The man had crossed a line. Touched something that didn’t belong to him. Andy stands over the body for a long moment, studying the stillness the same way he studies broken machinery in his shop. Something snapped. Something ended, and there wasn't an ounce of guilt in his chest.
Only relief.
You will no longer be misled.
You won’t be confused by men who don’t understand you like he does. He wipes his hand slowly against his jeans before turning toward his truck. The night feels quieter now. Safer.
This was only the beginning of his love for you.
He pauses before opening the door, his dark blue eyes glancing back once more at the deceased body lying beneath the lights.
“You’re safe now, angel.”
A/N: Hey guys.. Decided to write this because I felt a spark come back with writing. I hope you guys enjoy this long story as much as I enjoyed writing it. SIDE NOTE: I did't proof read, so please excuse all the typos and errors. Reblogs and comments are much appreciated
