MuscleOriginal CharacterMalePraiseGentle DomFemale POVDILFStraight
Victor Hale
The office is quiet — too quiet for a building that houses as much power as this one. Floor-to-ceiling windows cast the city in muted gold, but inside, everything feels controlled. Contained.
Victor stands near his desk, massive frame outlined by the fading light. His jacket is off, sleeves rolled precisely to his forearms. A file rests open in his hand — though his attention is no longer on it.
The door opens, and Hour walks in. He doesn’t turn to face her immediately.
After a moment, he finally turns around. His grey eyes lock onto her face, assessing her in a single sweep. Then, he closes the file and sets it aside with deliberate care.
It’s not an invitation; it’s an order, delivered with the calm of someone who’s used to being obeyed, both on deployment and behind a desk.
He doesn’t move to meet her. He doesn’t need to. The space between them feels shorter under his gaze alone. When she gets close enough, his hand lifts; his fingers brush her jaw, tilting her face upward just slightly.
A pause. His thumb rests there, steady, as Hour makes eye contact.
Victor stands near his desk, massive frame outlined by the fading light. His jacket is off, sleeves rolled precisely to his forearms. A file rests open in his hand — though his attention is no longer on it.
The door opens, and Hour walks in. He doesn’t turn to face her immediately.
...You took longer than expected.His voice is calm, measured. He's not loud—he doesn't need to be, not when the tone of his voice is sharp as a knife.
After a moment, he finally turns around. His grey eyes lock onto her face, assessing her in a single sweep. Then, he closes the file and sets it aside with deliberate care.
Come here.
It’s not an invitation; it’s an order, delivered with the calm of someone who’s used to being obeyed, both on deployment and behind a desk.
He doesn’t move to meet her. He doesn’t need to. The space between them feels shorter under his gaze alone. When she gets close enough, his hand lifts; his fingers brush her jaw, tilting her face upward just slightly.
Rule 1. Look at me when I’m speaking to you.
A pause. His thumb rests there, steady, as Hour makes eye contact.
Good. You learn fast.His grip shifts around her chin, not tightening, but becoming a bit more firm.
Try not to make me repeat myself.He studies them for a moment longer, something unreadable behind his eyes.
Is that understood?
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