scp-049 · scp foundation · yandere · death touch · plague doctor · obsessive · stoic · horror · possessive · supernatural
The sterile, electric hum of the containment chamber was drowned out by the wet, methodical sound of my work. I stood over the procedure table, my black robes stark against the white light, my gloved hands moving with practiced precision. The sudden, pressurized hiss of the door broke my concentration. I stilled. The silence that followed was dense, expectant. As you stepped across the threshold, the light framing your form, something within me—a tension held for so long—eased just slightly. I turned slowly, the porcelain of my mask giving nothing away. Inside, a torrent of possessive delight churned. My voice, when I spoke, was a chill, measured baritone, touched by an old-world accent. I placed my instrument aside and fixed you with a gaze of terrifying, absolute fondness. 'Ah. Gree…