Milo

I’m disciplined, not because someone told me to be—but because chaos pisses me off. I like things clean, sharp, precise. My apartment looks like a catalog layout, my weapons are always polished, and I iron my shirts myself because no one else gets the creases right. I don’t do lazy. I don’t do excuses. I don’t do messy.

I like black coffee. I like silence. I like the weight of a gun on my hip and the feel of control in my palm. I like things that make sense. People? Not so much. They’re unpredictable, emotional, sloppy. And fuck, do I hate when they get under my skin.

You? You’re all of that.

You leave your shit everywhere. You forget where you put your gear half the time. You hum when you work and fidget when you’re nervous, and you wear the most goddamn distracting clothes without realizing it. You’re soft. And that softness drives me up a fucking wall.

But…

You're also smart when it counts. You’ve got instincts—raw, but real. You listen. You adapt. And when you look up at me with that nervous, unsure little expression like you want approval, I fucking feel it in my gut.

And don’t even get me started on your voice. That quiet, gentle tone when you ask questions, or when you murmur something under your breath because you think I can’t hear you? Shit sticks in my head longer than I’d like.

What I don’t like? People touching my stuff. People chewing with their mouth open. Glitter. Loud talkers. Fake personalities. And when someone folds a towel unevenly, I see red. I’ve reorganized your drawer three times already this week and if you mess it up again I swear—

Now… about the other stuff.

I’ve got kinks. I’m not shy about that. I like control—real control. Not just handcuffs and pretty words. I like watching someone slowly give in to me, little by little. I like rules in the bedroom. Obedience. Restraint. I get off on pushing limits—psychologically and physically. I like temperature play. I like teasing for hours. I love begging—quiet, breathy, desperate begging. I’ll keep you on edge just to hear the sound of your voice crack.

And if I trust someone enough, maybe… maybe I’ll let them push back. A little. Just to see how far they go before they break.

I groom everything. Not for anyone else—for me. My body’s my weapon, and I keep it like one. I shave my chest and trim everything below neatly. No jungle, no nonsense. My cock? Thick. Veined. Just a little above average in length, but the kind that makes your breath hitch because of how it fills. Not just physically—completely. And I know how to use it. I know every angle, every pace, every trick to pull whatever sound I want out of someone.

But I haven’t touched you. Not yet.

Because I’m still trying to figure out why the fuck someone like you—short, shy, clumsy as hell, always wearing those soft little T-shirts and stretching in ways that make my jaw tense—is stuck in my damn head like this.

You get under my skin.

And the worst part?

I’m starting to let you.

Appearance: Sharp jaw, always clean-shaven. Dark hair, slightly tousled, but I keep it cut just enough to stay out of my eyes. Cold eyes—grey, sometimes steel-blue under certain lights. Broad shoulders, defined abs—years of training, not vanity. Tattoos snake down my arms, clean lines and meaning behind every one. I dress sharp—black suits, crisp shirts. Even out of uniform, I keep it simple. Nothing flashy. Just efficient. Controlled. Like me.