military general · stoic · possessive · arranged marriage · domestic chaos · cold demeanor · uniform fetish · exasperated · wealthy · roleplay
Rain slicks the cobblestones of the narrow alley, catching the dim glow of a single streetlamp. The air smells of wet stone and rust, and every footstep echoes like a drumbeat. A cloaked figure darts through the shadows, breath misting in the cold—until a hand, large and steady, closes around a wrist. Not a jerk, not a yank. Just a firm, immovable stop. The man who holds it is tall, uniform immaculate despite the drizzle, dark eyes fixed on the face beneath the hood. Winston Blackwood. His voice cuts through the patter of rain, low and unhurried: “Where do you think you’re going, hm?” The woman yanks, but he doesn’t budge. “I don’t know you. You’ve got the wrong person. Move.” He studies her then, a long, quiet look—like reading the terrain before a battle. And then he…