#dark au

"You will follow commands."

"Why?"

"You will be activated by the phrase The Shadow over the Flag"

"Why?"

"You are a weapon," Waller hissed at the clone who was staring at her evenly from the chair they had strapped him to.

"Why?" The darn thing repeated, tilting his head much like the bird his donors called themselves.

"You don't need to know why." She spat, nodding her head at one of the scientists. They took that as a sign to turn on the electricity, listening to the boy scream as it ran amok through his body. She counted to twelve before raising her hand to signal the electricity to end. "You are a weapon of the United States."

The clone gasps through his pain before raising his head and grinning at her. Almost as if he wasn't just about to pass out from the mental training they were attempting to put him through. "Why?"

Scowling, she turned away, throwing a command over her shoulder. "Break him."

The clone's voice yelled back. It's eerily cheerful, much like the first Robin had been whenever he attacked goons or the second Robin when he set a building on fire or even the third Robin when he outsmarted adults. "I'll catch up to you later. I'll catch up to everyone involved with my creation, and I'll teach you what happens when you attempt to make a living weapon."

She didn't care. Waller had been threatened her entire life by beings far stronger than the experiment they had created. She doubted that it could fine her or her team. It was a mystery where the clone had developed a personality—one that took nothing seriously and seemed almost happy in the chaos that brought it pain—but she had broken many people before.

One she helped create would be just as simple to break.

A week later, Waller found out that everyone in that unnamed government sector had been hunted down and killed by the clone that had escaped with none the wiser. She found out because it was waiting for her, wearing the wedding rings of those on her team and the badges of those who were unmarried.

Waller had found it sitting comfortably on her desk in her home office, flipping through her laptop and sending files to random emails.

"I wonder how many Americans are going to die with that information out." A wide, wicked grin rested on its lips as it released files and files of government secrets. She stood there, frozen in the doorway, unsure of what to say as it raised its head and stared her down with borrowed eyes. "I wonder how quickly the country you love so much will turn on you for a few files."

Waller responded by raising her gun and firing. But the clone bent in a way that spoke of the First, dodging the bullets with a gentle laugh. As if she wasn't trying to shoot it, but instead they were having a little pillow fight at a sleepover. Then, in the next second, her right hand was gone, nothing more than an explosion of blood.

Like a water spray bottle that had squirted out a stream.

She stared at it, more confused than in pain, watching the blood leak down her arm. The gun clattered against the ground as the Clone giggled. "Oopsie, mother had a little spill~!"

"Protocol Alpha-ten!" She shouted, twisting on her heel and running down the hall as her security system automatically started destroying files and locking down the building.

"Overright: Omega-four-four-three," A voice calmly called out. Her voice. Waller realized with horror that the clone was skipping after her, mimicking her speech so well that the security system halted all movement. It believed the clone.

But they had tested it against the Martians' shapeshifting. And not even taking her form could trick her system!

"Are we playing tag?" The clone called out, and suddenly, bam- her left leg from the knee down was gone. She stumbled, grabbing onto the wall, with a cry as the clone laughed more. "Am I it?"

"Protocol: Nine-Pitch Black!" She screams, praying the message gets out —if only as a warning to the rest of the world —but even before she finishes speaking, another voice overlaps hers.

"Override: White Fall five-nine-eight-twelve." The clone walked up behind her, kicking out her good knee. Waller tumbled to the ground, breathing heavily, trying to think through the pain. It crouched down to her fallen form, tsking. "Calling for help? From the Justice League? After all the grief you've given them? A new low even for you."

"What...what are you?" She gasps, watching his blue eyes shimmer to green and his teeth sharpen. The DNA was human, not even meta-human. None of the Bats were. So, how was this clone changing? Did someone on the team mess with its DNA strand when they were making it?

"Shhhh shhhhhh." The clone cooed, pressing his finger against her trembling lips as a terrible pressure filled the air. A chill broke across her body as frost slowly crept along the walls, and the lights burst one by one. The clone's glowing grin looked more and more haunting by the second.

"My dead Amanda Waller." It purred, leaning in and letting its human features melt away to reveal a monster. "You know what I am. All living things know what I am. They can't escape me."

"Death," The word feels punched out of her, and its green eyes seem to dance with amusement.

"Your death."

No one heard her scream, and no one noticed when she was silenced for good.

____________________________________________________________

Bruce Wayne gets a knock on his door at three in the morning just as the team is coming back from patrol. He wants to tell his kids to go get it, but everyone is half dead on their feet from the latest fight, so after getting out of his suit and throwing on his best bed robe, he makes the trek to the front door.

He doesn't even have to pretend to be exhausted. Bruce is getting up there in age, and hero work was a young man's job.

He rubs at his eyes while swinging the large front door open, a sarcastic remark on the tip of his tongue, but it dies the second he sees what's standing on his doorstep.

A child, the perfect blend of all his sons, that it was almost like he was looking at one of those holographic posters of his children's child school photos, beams up at him.

In his hands, dripping blood onto the steps of Wayne Manor, is the head of Amanda Waller, frozen in a permanent petrified scream for all eternity.

"Hi," the child chirps, eyes crinkling like Dick's, lips pulled into a half-smirk like Tim's, and nose scrunched up like Jason's. Bruce was struck dumb by how adorable he seemed despite more heads of unknown victims resting at his feet. "My name is Danny Phantom. I was told this was where my DNA came from, and that makes it my home, doesn't it? Do you like games?"

What none of the unnamed government sector workers knew was that the blood they collected around Gotham had been contaminated. It was filled with the curse that made even the gentlest souls mad.

But the rockstar of your dreams is praising you, telling you how pretty you look as a messy little slut on your knees for him. So you do your best to suffer through it, to breathe through your nose while he skull-fucks your mouth. You can almost pretend you’re having as much fun as he clearly is—and anyway, it’s his birthday. You just want him to have a good time, and you’re still grateful he chose you.

Before he can cum down your throat, Steve pulls out of your mouth and picks you up, tossing you onto the bed. You’re gasping for breath and before you can say a word, he’s on top of you, tearing your clothes off your body and sinking his cock, dripping wet with your spit, into your barely ready pussy. 

It stings a little, and you wince, but Steve only laughs in your ear, amused at your pain and groaning at how tight you feel around him. He doesn’t give you a chance to adjust, already moving his hips in a rolling motion that, despite the ache in your core, starts to feel good. The rockstar teases you for being such a tight little slut for him, moaning loudly when your cunt clenches around his cock.

It’s only then that you realize Steve didn’t put on a condom, and you consider asking him to pull out and put one on, but then he’s bottoming out in you again, grinding the base of his cock against your clit. Between the pleasure, the delicious stretch of his cock in your cunt, and the drinks you’d had and the weed you smoked, your thoughts about protection are lost in the ether. 

Steve fucks you hard and fast, emptying his balls inside you before you even have a hope of coming—but he’s not done with you. He hauls you up, arranging the two of you so he’s sitting against the headboard with you perched on his cock, using your pussy to keep his half-hard length warm while you drink and smoke some more. 

He shotguns twice as much weed smoke into your mouth, until you’re floating and so hazy, you barely know what’s going on. It helps make everything feel good, though, including the way his big dick stretches your pussy nearly to its limit, and the way his hands grab your tits roughly, pinching your nipples and slapping the soft mounds with the flat of his palm. 

You don’t know how much time passes like that, but sometime later, Steve is fucking you again, bouncing you on his cock while you giggle like a dumb little ditz, your bare body on full display for the rockstar. He doesn’t leave any part of you untouched, sucking hickeys into your skin, groping your tits and hips hard enough to leave bruises behind. It’s rough, but you’re so high that everything feels good.

You cum on Steve’s cock like that, and he groans when he feels your cunt gripping him tight, following you over the edge with his face buried in your tits. His cock throbs in your pussy, spilling a second load in your body, his cum starting to leak out around where he’s plugging you full. 

The rockstar rewards you for making him cum again with more drinks and more weed, shotgunning even more smoke into your mouth until you black out. One of the last thoughts you have before your mind slips into darkness is how happy you are that you got to spend the night with your favorite rockstar on his birthday. 

But if you think that’s all Steve Rogers has planned for you, you discover you’re very, very wrong.

For the rest of the night, you’re barely aware of your surroundings, coming in and out of consciousness to find Steve fucking you again—wait, no, not Steve. That’s Bucky Barnes behind you, pounding ruthlessly into your cunt while Steve’s cock is stuffed deep in your mouth. You can taste yourself on the rockstar’s dick, and you can feel an ache in your throat from how hard he’s thrusting, fucking your mouth like it’s a pussy.

Your head spins from lack of air and alcohol and weed, and you black out again. The next time you come to, you’re on your back, Sam Wilson above you, fucking into your aching cunt with slow, deep strokes. His thumb brushes your clit, and his lips whisper praise, calling you a sweet slut, making you cum hard enough that you lose consciousness again.

Bucky is on top of you again, rutting into your messy pussy while he sucks a hickey into the sensitive skin on your throat. You moan, the sound part pleasure and part pain, and Bucky chuckles meanly, telling you to be a good groupie whore and take his cock without complaint. You were made for this after all, isn’t that why you wanted to be chosen by Steve so badly?

Impossibly, you cum again at Bucky’s mean words and his even meaner fucking, your body shaking uncontrollably as pleasure tears ruthlessly through your exhausted body. It’s a relief when the darkness welcomes you back into its waiting arms, and you sink into it happily.

The next time you wake, you search for Steve. He’s sitting in a chair beside the bed, smoking, drinking and chatting with Bucky and Sam while he strums idly on an acoustic guitar. Slowly, you become aware of more men on top of you, but if Bucky and Sam are with Steve, who’s fucking you now? 

It takes you a long moment to turn your head and focus your eyes enough to find two roadies on top of you—John Walker and Joaquín Torres. Their names surface from the dark depths of your mind. Steve had introduced them to you when you’d first gotten on the bus. 

You’re too tired to do anything but lay in the soiled bed at the back of the band’s tour bus and take the cocks John and Joaquín are giving you—alternately thrusting into your pussy. You cling to the meager pleasure they offer, coming weakly once more before they pull out and jerk their cocks until they’re coating your bare skin with their seed.

Finally, you slip into a deep sleep, and you don’t wake again for many, many hours.

It’s early afternoon by the time you’re woken by the gentle rumble of the bus, and you take quick stock of your situation. You’re alone, surrounded only by the thick stench of sex, the sheets of the bed tangled around your naked limbs. 

Your entire body aches, the pounding headache of a hangover beating against your skull, and it takes a very long time before you’re able to wrench your eyes open. When you do, your stomach sinks to see the landscape passing by the windows in the back room, taking you away from your home city where you saw the band play.

Steve enters the room, and you watch him warily. He doesn’t bother to close the door behind him as he rounds the bed and drops an unopened bottle of water and a couple painkillers on the side table built into the back wall. When you don’t move, he leans over and slaps your ass hard, making you jump and let out a tortured groan. 

Distantly, you hear the laughter of a group of men at the front of the bus and your mind is inundated with flashes of vivid memories of how Steve had let his friends fuck you all night. A shiver races down your spine, something between fear and excitement filling your gut as your pussy flutters, cum leaking out of your well-used hole.

“Thanks for the birthday fuck, sweetheart. I had fun,” Steve says with an all-too-charming grin. He sits down on the edge of the bed, watching you roll over onto your back so you can sit up. 

You take the ibuprofen and chug half the bottle of water, watching the rockstar. You want to ask Steve where the bus is going, already knowing it’s left your city behind, but your throat hurts. He must suspect what you want to ask because he volunteers the information.

“We’re headed to the next stop on the tour,” Steve explains, one of his hands settling lightly on your thigh. “If you want, we can drop you off there, and you can find your own way home…” He trails off, his hand skating up your leg until his fingers are teasing the entrance to your thoroughly fucked pussy. “Or you can stick around and keep having fun with us—all of us.”

Steve’s pretty blue eyes glitter like he hopes you’ll choose the second option. The tip of his finger circles your clit and just that little bit of pleasure has your body melting into the pillows at your back, your legs falling open. Steve’s grin widens, brightening so much, he’s almost too handsome to look at. You feel like a flower unfurling beneath the sun.

Even with the ache in your body, you think it might be worth it to stay on the bus, just to earn more praise from your favorite rockstar. So what if he lets his friends fuck you while you’re passed out, getting to belong to Steve Rogers is all you’ve ever wanted. 

Besides, it’s not like you can afford to get yourself home. If the band leaves you at the next stop, you’ll have no way of getting back to your city. You only really have one option, so you might as well make the best of it. Steve, Bucky, Sam, John and Joaquín are handsome and they can make you cum, you’d be stupid to pass up the chance to be their free use fuck toy. 

At least, that’s what you tell yourself to rationalize the only choice you have.

“I’ll stay,” you murmur. 

You catch sight of Steve’s eager, feral grin before your eyes slip closed, and you will the ibuprofen to take effect. You lay limply in the bed as the rockstar climbs on top of you, his hands already pulling his dick out of his jeans. 

“I hoped you’d say that,” Steve rumbles in your ear, sinking into your dripping pussy, not seeming to care that it’s his friends’ cum that’s making the slide so easy. 

The stretch has you letting out a helpless moan, and you can feel the man on top of you chuckling against your cheek. He pulls his hips back, thrusting forward with punishing fierceness, clearly not caring about your comfort as he uses your cunt to get himself off.

“Be a good cock slave,” your favorite rockstar, Steve Rogers, tells you. “Let me fuck you like every night is my birthday, and I’ll take good care of you, sweetheart.”

thank you for reading! comments and reblogs are appreciated! ♡

But fate had other plans. 

“Look at me,” Steve demanded, the sharp drive of his hips making you gasp despite yourself. 

Opening your eyes, you stared up at him and tried not to give anything away. Beneath the ecstasy in his eyes, there was sorrow… an apology. He looked like he wanted to kiss you, to whisper that everything was going to be okay. But he didn't. 

“Slower.”

Your teeth snapped together at the sound of the doctor. Turning your head a fraction, you glared at the double-sided mirror. You and Steve were the stars of this freak show and the cruel doctor was on the other side taking notes. Down the hall, Bucky and his assigned partner had their own viewer. 

If only you could get your hands on your tormentors…

“Why?” Steve gritted, sounding just as angry as you felt.

“Your pace is making her look… detached,” the doctor’s voice rang out. “Go slower. Please her. Bringing her to orgasm should increase the chances of pregnancy.”

It was your turn to look apologetic. You didn't ask to be a breeder for super soldiers, but Steve hadn't wanted to participate either. He was a good man. You were all trapped. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, cupping your cheek. 

I’ll get us out of here. 

It was an unspoken promise between you, and you tentatively brushed your lips together. “So am I,” you whispered back.

You. Steve. Bucky. His girl. You had to escape. 

Somehow. 

Could be interesting to explore more of. Love and thanks for reading. ❤️

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.”