#yande

As the doctor stationed within the 99th Police Precinct, you've seen tons of wild things, drug addicts, wounds that make you question how the patient is still conscious, unnecessary flirting from both officers and criminals alike, and Evan Mann.

Evan is clumsy and barely gives the effort to think before throwing himself wherever he can throw himself to ''catch criminals''. His success rate is low, and you feared his IQ was lower.

You always wondered how he ever passed whatever exam officers take to become detectives, with the frequency of his visits to your modest and dingy clinic gives you the belief that he's somehow immortal, or at the very least unkillable.

And now, Detective Mann stood by the door to your clinic, huffing and puffing over you bandaging up Boyle after he ingeniously burnt his hand trying to make some strange meal in the office microwave.

"So, doctor, he's fine, right? Just put some vaseline on it Boyle and get outta here, it's my turn." Evan said, his tone hard and mean, obviously feeling some type of way watching how your hands glide down Boyle's hand, touch gentle in hopes not to hurt him further.

Boyle sputters, his heart races as he skyrockets off his seat, for some reason Boyle has been terrified of Evan for years, always claiming Evan would kill someone if it got to that point, no one ever gave him any time of day to believe him. But with the way Evan's staring at the clammy man you're treating? You almost believe Boyle's paranoia.

"Boyle! Sit back down I'm not done!" You yelp out as your scissors almost cut through Charles' arm as you tried to snip off the rest of the bandage.

"Sorry! A-ahem. Hey, man. What's up, Evan." Charles sits back down, his face getting redder by the second under Evan's gaze as he tries to act cool, like he's not deathly afraid of the 6 foot blond man whose glares are as sharp as knives.

Evan scowls, his hand clutching his shoulder in mock distress, he's fine, he just want to be coddled by his favorite doctor, not speak with the embodiment of awkward and slimy.

"Don't call me Evan, Boyle. We are not friends."

Good god. You can't take this anymore.

"Oh my god, Evan get the hell out of my office, now! Don't act like you're any better, asshole, you tripped over your own feet yesterday and came crying! If you can't respect my favorite patient, then leave, I won't have this middle school level rivalry in my goddamn clinic."

"I'm the doc's favorite patient..." Charles whispers to himself, pride swelling in his chest as he puffs it out, finally able to stare back at a shell shocked Evan.

After a toddler level tantrum from Evan, in which ended with you pushing him out and locking your clinic door as he stood in front of the unshielded door window, face mushed into it as he glares at you and Boyle as you continue working on his hands.

Another officer pipes up, voice gruff after being awoken by Evan's chirpy voice, "He's like a rottweiler, crazy protective. I think he wants you as his house spou--"

"Mary, keep talking and I'm kicking you out too, I don't care about your damn broken foot."

"Wet blanket..."

Algunos dibujitos que hice de estos dos silly guys porque los quiero mucho :3

so have some wips of cyradel interacting with the pepons (I'll fulfill the traditional drawing art ideas soon guys ;-;)

(The yellow/orange (I forgot what those Japanese good luck charms that look like cats are called) angel is Enze Nirin)

Tw: Stalking (obviously)

Warning: this has not been proofread and English is not my first language so I'm sorry if there are errors.

No pronouns are used.

Originally there was supposed to be more, but I had to cut the text in half because of the word limit lol.

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You couldn't get this thought out of your head.

The fake account on Instagram.

At first it seemed harmless enough.

Just a few strange messages here and there, nothing particularly alarming.

But as time went on, the messages became a little more unsettling.

The account seemed to be monitoring your every move.

It sent messages mentioning the coffee shop you had recently visited, the clothing you had worn that day, even the route you had taken to get home.

You tried to brush it off, telling yourself it was just a bored troll or a mistaken stranger.

But as the messages continued, the feeling that someone was watching every move you made grew more and more persistent.

And then the messages took a darker turn.

The account started sending you photos - pictures of places you had been, people you had seen - with the message "I see you."

You felt your stomach drop as you stared at the photos.

It was clear now that whoever was behind this was not just a harmless prankster.

They were someone who was obsessively watching and tracking your every move.

You tried to think of anyone in your life who could possibly be behind this.

Ex-lovers, enemies, even acquaintances came to mind.

But no one seemed to fit the bill.

The more you thought about it, the more panicked you felt.

The idea that someone was stalking you was terrifying, but what was even more unsettling was the feeling of helplessness it gave you.

No matter how much you tried to stay vigilant, it seemed like the account was always ahead of you.

You considered reporting it to the authorities, but something held you back.

Maybe it was the fear that you wouldn’t be taken seriously, or the idea that involving the police could just make things worse.

You debated blocking the account, but something inside you kept you from doing it.

It was as if a part of you was drawn to it, like a twisted form of fascination with the danger it represented.

You started to notice strange things happening around you.

Maybe it was just coincidence, but it felt like the stalker was leaving you subtle reminders of their presence.

A random flower left on your doorstep, a faint smell of cologne in your apartment that you couldn't explain...You tried to laugh it off, telling yourself you were being paranoid.

But the more it happened, the more it felt like the stalker was toying with you, enjoying the fear and uncertainty they were instilling in you.You even started to feel a strange thrill mixed in with the fear. It was as if the stalker's attention was a form of validation, as if you craved their gaze on you.

The thought disturbed you, but you couldn't deny its presence in your mind.

The stalker's obsession with you seemed almost intimate, as if they had a deep understanding of your fears and desires.

You couldn't shake the feeling that they were playing you like a puppet, feeding off your mounting paranoia and fear.

The messages started to take on a different tone, becoming more suggestive and possessive.

The stalker seemed to relish the power they had over you, the way they could make you jump at the sound of a notification on your phone.

You couldn't help but feel a strange sense of connection to the stalker.

They knew things about you that no one else did. They saw through your carefully constructed facade and laid bare the raw, vulnerable parts of your soul.

Despite the fear and paranoia, there was a small part of you that was almost flattered by their attention.

It was as if the stalker had singled you out, making you feel special and desired in the most disturbing of ways.

You tried to fight these thoughts, but they insisted on lingering in the back of your mind.

The stalker's words had burrowed deep into your psyche, leaving you questioning your own feelings and reactions.

You began to notice patterns in the stalker's behavior.

They seemed to know exactly when to send a message to keep you on edge, to feed your paranoia and fear. It was as if they had a sixth sense for your weakest moments, and took pleasure in exploiting them..

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