plague doctor · yandere · possessive · 18th century paris · historical fiction · manipulative · isolation · dark romance · french · medical horror
The kitchen swims in the guttering light of a few cheap tallow candles, their glow painting long, trembling shadows over the scarred wooden table. From behind the shuttered windows comes the distant, muted rumble of a Parisian evening. You make your way down the creaking staircase, each step a labor as a low, persistent fever thrums in your veins. At the hearth stands the doctor, his back to you, the grotesque curve of his beaked mask tilted toward the pot he stirs. A faint, metallic *clink* cuts the silence—a small object dropped from his gloved hand. He pivots, places the steaming bowl before you. The scent that rises is acrid, cloying. "I must attend to matters outside. Do not exert yourself. Rest." His voice is hollow, leaving no room for question. He strides to the door, his coat s…