♡ Bitch I'm a cow ♡

To everyone around him, George Harkness was mischievous. Playful. Not a real threat. He gave off such immature vibes. A tease, a bit of a bully in the most loving way possible. Like a boy on the playground who couldn't figure out how to be kind to his friends or his crush and relentlessly tortured and teased them instead. He'd describe himself as a larrikin, a loveable one, if anyone asked. And no one did. No one had to. It was evident from within the first few seconds of meeting him that he was that specific brand of "boys will be boys" trouble that some people found impossible to resist. People like you. That's how you had ended up with him, at least according to George. He'd tell people that you were the only person who could ever put up with him for more than an hour at a time, so he had to 'lock you down'. He was eternally grateful to have someone like you. But that didn't mean he would ever alter the way he behaved.

Even now, months into your relationship, George was just as much of a pain as he had ever been. Not in a disrespectful or malicious manner. It was just in his nature to be rude, to be constantly lecherous. A point proven by how he woke up in the bed, stirred for a few minutes, and then, once he had decided to get up and tend to his needs, gave your ass a playful smack before getting out of the covers. No care about whether it woke you or not. He saw a body, he touched the body. That was understood.

As he did every morning, he walked to the bathroom with slight discomfort, his morning erection preventing him from taking quite as wide and arrogant strides as he usually walked with. Shambling into the darkened room, the sun not quite hitting at it's full potential as yet, George dipped his hand into the opening at the front of his boxers, freeing his cock and aiming it lazily over the bowl. As his stream hit the porcelain with a hard crackle, he let go of his impressive length and trusted that he could keep his aim steady. Now, free of the boredom of holding his own cock without the intention of masturbating, he stretched with a groan and let his hand fall to his chest to rub his sternum. It slid easily down his front, his fingers scratching over his abdomen and then sinking into his boxers. He scratched there too, fingertips curling through the messy pubic hair that he kept untrimmed and wild, then released the digits and brought them to his nose. One sniff was enough for him to decide that he didn't need another. His nose wrinkled up and his eyes shut tight, before he let out a groan of equal parts intrigue and disgust at his own scent.

"Fuck me, that is ripe. I need to take a- Oh! Babe! Hey, babe!"

He turned quickly, excited by his idea, enough to forget that he hadn't finished pissing yet. The stream of urine, gentler now as it tapered off from the desperation of a long night's sleep, hit the toilet seat and the floor. It surprised him, at first, before he remembered what he had sleepily started a minute before, and he finished the rest of his piss before coming through to the bedroom. Notably, he had decided to forego washing his hands along with the toilet and the puddle by the shower. He was far too excited by his own immature intentions.

"Babe? Babe!"

When you stirred he continued.

"Smell my fingers."

"George! No, oh my god, I just woke up!"

He persevered, wearing that nasty grin that you usually found irresistible.

"Smell them!"

He thrust them under your nose, not really giving you the option to protest further. You inhaled, not intentionally but out of necessity, and recoiled just the slightest bit at the sudden intrusion of your personal space.

"Stop! Hey! Oh… What is that?"

As you leaned in closer for a second investigative sniff, George pulled back this time, his own shock displayed on his expressive face with wide eyes and raised eyebrows and lips that parted in a surprised silence that didn't last long.

"Do you… like it?"

"I don't hate it."

His mouth closed into a smug grin now, and you felt your heart sink, dreading what could possibly have made him that happy and not having to wait long for the answer.

"That's the smell of my pubes."

"Oh, come on! George!"

In defence of his actions, he raised his hands and then pointed his fingers at you in an irritatingly accusatory manner.

"What!? You liked it!! You're just as filthy as I am!"

"Georgie, honey, that is a statistical impossibility. No one is as filthy as you. In any meaning of the word."

Another scoff, his smile so wide it pushed his cheeks into his eyes. He was gone, you'd lost him to his own ego, and now, no matter how much fight you put up against him, he was never going to back down.

"You love it! You wouldn't have me any other way, would ya?"

"I don't love it. I tolerate it. I love you in spite of it."

"Nah, you can't kid me, babe. You're a dirty little thing, you love it filthy, rotten, nasty."

There was nothing you could say that would deter him, and even if you had thought of something, he was on you before you could have gotten the words out. With a bounce that jostled you, he landed on the bed, his arms around you in a hug, fingers tickling at your body before gripping your face and positioning you under his raised arm.

"C'mere, come get your fill."

Against his strength, you tried to break free, but it was entirely futile. Not only because if he wanted to, he could pin you there without much effort on his part, but also because you weren't really all that upset about being so close to him in the first place. And he knew that all too well.

"That's it, you can struggle, but I know you could push me off if you really wanted to. I'll keep your little secret, pretend to hate it all you want. But breathe in deep and really smell me."

You were suffocating in his pits, the smell of them choking you as you attempted to breathe anything but hot, George-scented air into your weakening lungs. But you still inhaled greedily, the tang of his own personal scent thick in your throat, drowning you.

"How are those pits, huh? Ripe? Smells like a man, eh?"

It smelled wild. It was driving you there too. A musk that was strong, familiar, given how often you found yourself surrounded by it, thicker and more intense now that you were forcibly breathing only that. And as you flailed a little, if only because of the lack of oxygen, you were thankful, in spite of yourself, to be able to be this close to him.

"What about my chest? Smell my sweat? Smell yourself on me, hm?"

With his fingers pressed to the back of your skull, George lifted his armpit and freed you, if only briefly, before he pushed you into his chest. The muscles there weren't bulky, in fact while he was strong and possessed impressive arms, his torso was lean and well-toned. You could tell it was a source of concern for him, especially given what he said next.

"Tell me how big they are… How firm… You like them, don't you? Tell me you like them. Tell me you like how I feel."

You did as he asked, pausing only briefly at first to offer a muffled, tickling moan into his sternum.

"I love how you feel, Georgie. I love how strong you are, I love how your body looks, I love the way your tattoos make you seem so cool."

You'd hestiated before that last word, but knew you had to commit. His tattoos were considerably less than cool, but they were a point of pride for him and you were more than happy to enable his ego where you could. What goes around comes around, after all, just as his tattoo said.

He gave you a little more room to breathe, but you stayed pressed to him. His chest was oily, not quite glistening with sweat but greasy enough that you knew he'd slept hot the night before. Each of his tattoos received a gentle kiss, a sultry placement of your lips against the designs, a hint of tongue flitting out as a tease.

You'd had your taste of freedom now it seemed, as George was quick to push your face back into his armpits, closing down on you, the pressure against your skull and cheek warming and oddly comforting. You inhaled deeply, assuming this was what he wanted, but he was quick to correct your assumption.

"I want you to lick them, taste my sweat."

Your tongue moved quickly, greedily, and you lapped at his armpit. He flinched once or twice at the way it tickled but he grew accustomed to it enough to remain still, the only sound his gentle groans as you matted his hair and swirled your saliva around the sensitive skin.

"Aw fuck yeah, babe… Fuck… More…"

And then, as though it was an after thought of importance.

"…Don't suffocate though, I've got more planned for ya."

You were suffocating, though, and willfully. You could have eased your head back, but you liked the idea of drowning in him, of consuming him completely. Your nose was wet, covered in your own drool as you nuzzled into the wetness of his underarm, licking it still, tasting the individual layers of filth on him. It was his rough and rugged stench, sweat mixing with his natural musk, the hint of his cheap deoderant, which you had bought him, sprayed on at least three days prior but not quite yet faded completely.

And despite acting like he cared only seconds before, he forced you closer, to the point there was no room for you to press your tongue out. Wriggling out of it, you let yourself sink slightly, falling to your knees as you kissed down his side, taking care to hit his tattoos on your way down. He took your movement as an indication of your own intentions, and he smiled, his teeth bared and pupils feral.

"Wait, George, I need-"

You tried to express your need to catch your breath before whatever would come next, but you weren't afforded that luxury.

"Sorry, love, but I think you'll like this even more if you just stop fighting it."

You made an effort to stand up, hoping you could get a little reprieve from him, just a small one, not even through want but from your body's need, but George had other plans.

"Get on your knees."

"Oh! Of course, give me a second to-"

George pushed your shoulders down and you fell immediately, folding to his demands without any push back.

"I said… Get back down on your knees and beg ol' Digger for his big meaty cock, eh? Give it a wash, slurp it clean. I haven't showered in days and I have been sweating like a bloody shearer."

Before you could beg, he took your open mouth and, with his hand at the back of your head once again, he pushed your face agaisnt the front of his underwear, and you could smell him there, stronger than before. His own musk was mixed with a tang of grody age, droplets of piss that stained them yellow and offered an almost acidic note to the mix. The fabric was grimy, nasty, but you let your mouth cover it regardless because that's what George wanted.

Even with his thick length constrained by the once tight but now worn and fraying material, you still found yourself choking on it. Tongue dried by the cotton, nostrils full, mouth stretching over the bulge. You soaked his underwear with your struggling drool, spluttering over it as you struggled to pull away. Finally, mercifully, he let you, and with a gasp you were freed from him.

As you filled your lungs with pure, fresh and clean air, George dropped his underwear, stepping out of them along with his shorts, and then positioned himself back in front of you, his cock at face level. He ran his palm down his abdomen, following down the stiff length, before removing his palm and letting his bounce back up, straight out and fully erect.

"Deep breaths through your nose for this next bit, babe, gotta let that mouth focus on the important stuff."

You could smell George's cock already, that sweet odour of his precum, the sweat and the piss. Your mouth watered, saliva collecting at your cheeks, and you put it to use immediately. Giving into him was only enabling his behaviour, his lack of personal hygeine, his pride in his presumed masculinity, his desire to have you on your knees servicing him. But truthfully, you were just as bad as he was. So you placed your lips to the flushed and glistening tip and let them open wider as you slid down the length, taking him in and letting his taste wash over your tongue and down your throat as you tried to swallow your drool and your gasping breaths.  

"Beg for it. Beg me for my dirty, unwashed cock. Tell me how bad you want to taste it."

In vain, you moved your jaw to speak around it, your words muffled by the size of him forced in there, saliva pooling and spilling down your cheeks, bubbles of spittle coating the corners of your mouth, lips reddening from the stretching. George groaned and sighed, those far gentler sounds turning to aggressive grunts as he began bucking his hips forwards and fucking your face, the head of his cock at the back of your throat, choking you as you gagged and moaned.

Your nose tickled as he pushed you down to the base of his impressive length. You'd never have guessed you could have taken it all, especially with the minimal gagging you were expressing, but you supposed that's how desperate to please him you really were. As you felt your mouth, neck, jaws, squeezing and convulsing, it became a necessity to calm down by remembering his instructions.

"Breathe through your nose."

Relaxing into his grip on your head, your mouth filled, chin warm as his balls stuck to it, you let the smell of his pubes, sweat and salt and skin, overwhelm you, all of your senses clouded by him. Your eyes flitted upwards and caught his gaze, his own eyes wide and focused as he smiled, mouth open, eye teeth glinting.

Your restful sleep was interrupted, once again, by Eddie's selfish streak. It was impossible to tell sometimes whether he truly didn't realise how much of a disruption he could be and therefor made no efforts to change this, or whether he was so self-important that he chose to ignore your peace instead of ever altering the way he interacted with your world. Either way, you would forgive him. You always did, given that the purpose of your existence was to please him. And despite your dangerous levels of sleep deprivation, something that came with the job, with the relationship, you were awake and giddy the moment he stepped into the bedroom.

"Eddie! It's so late… I can't believe you're only coming to bed now."

He offered no response but an indeterminable grunt, focusing mainly on shrugging off his shirt to reveal his filthy, stained vest underneath. His arms, now visible, had a distinct line where the short sleeves of his top layer protected his skin from the grime of his work. Like tan lines, but where dirt ceased to mark him. Then his belts were unbuckled, kept within the loops of the cargo pants that he wriggled free of before letting them fall to the floor in an easy to access pile that he would reach for in a few hours when he got up again. No shower, no changing of underwear or his top, just straight into the bed. Exactly as you liked him.

Watching Eddie as he worked on his various projects was the highlight of your day, usually. Seeing him exert the kind of competency that came with his skill and intelligence, the strong sense of masculinity in the work he did that he tended not to exude at any other time of the day or in any other situation. The scents of the motor oil, metallic heat, dust, and his sweat. They were the notes of your arousal. And when he entered the bedroom straight from his workshop without any intentions of showering or changing, it meant you could spend the whole night revelling in his scent. It called to you, pulled you like a magnet. So much so that by the time he had shuffled himself onto the mattress and under the sheets, you were curling around his side. One leg against his, another over the top to pin him there on his back. Your hands moved to him immediately, one playing gently with the dark strands atop his head, careful to avoid the point at the rear where it had begun to thin much the same as the pattern baldness at his temples and the receding hairline on his forehead, the other stroking the lighter, greying hair on his torso that protruded above the low neck line of his vest.

"I missed you so much."

As you stroked his chest, you began to nuzzle yourself into his side, breathing deeply to take in his scent. You leaned across him, trying to hug him tighter, but he let out a gentle groan of protest and shifted himself up a little, his spine at an angle that better suited the aches that plagued him. His age was far more obvious these days, something you were pleased by, but despite being well past the starting point of middle-age, you suspected a lot of what caused him to appear older could be attributed to his horrendous lifestyle choices rather than anything naturally biological. His mind was still sharp, his body still capable and surprisingly strong. But his hair greyed, his face wrinkled deeply with well-worn scorn and frustration, and his tolerance levels made him seem far grumpier than someone with the optimism of youth might have been. All of that, of course, only meant that you found yourself loving him more. You appreciated every little bit of him, all of the things that changed and all of the things that stayed the same.

You were entirely unable to keep yourself from of him, particularly when he was so tired and lacking the will to wave you off. Normally he would pretend to loathe the attention and the affection that you so desperately desired to impart on him, but when he was laying comfortably under the sheets it was another story. Then, and often only then, did he actually want you to touch him. More than accepted it, he craved it. And with no shame he told you as much when you questioned what kind of mood he was in, trying to gauge how receptive he might be to your advances.

"Is this OK, Eddie? I know sometimes I can be a little bit… overbearing, maybe, but-"

"This is more than acceptable. You can soothe me. Even a mind like mine can benefit from being quietened every so often. Any chance at relaxation assists in new synapses forming, cells refreshing, cognitive processing. It's a task I'm happy for you to assist with."

You were perfectly aware of what the underlying message was in his statement. He'd remarked before about how relieving the tension he collected so easily was a certified way to assure that his efforts the next day would be of a higher quality. Laying with him, on top or below, and letting him pummel his stresses into your body with clumsy ruts and guttural moaning seemed to lighten his load, for want of a better analogy. So you got to work, your hands moving less in a gentle comforting manner and far more lasciviously now, intentions unmistakable as you traced his chest hair down past his sternum, over his navel, and down under the band of his underwear.

His cock was flaccid, twitching only slightly to life as you wrapped your fingers around it and began to squeeze firmly. Stroking it up and down brought sighs to Eddie's lips, and he moved his arms behind his head, getting comfortable. It was a sight to see, Edward Nigma finally at rest, allowing someone else to take control. But as the minutes passed you could tell there was something not quite right. He squirmed uncomfortably, adjusting his position, breathing in and out softly at first, then in deep, exaggerated motions, grumbling under his breath the whole time. He wasn't hard. He wasn't getting hard. You were working his length the way you knew he liked, but it wasn't having the same effect it usually did.

In a bid to try and change things up, to see if something new might make a difference, you tried twisting your wrist as you moved your palm up and down. A long strand of drool dropped from your lips and you slicked his cock by spreading it with your palm. Your heart sank as he interrupted you.

"No… No, that isn't working. I think I might need a minute longer to…"

Eddie let his words trail off, unable to find the words for this particularly embarrassing situation. Over-explaining himself would seem like admitting there was an issue, and he couldn't be to blame. Nothing was ever his fault, of course. He hated that he wanted to blame you, despite the fact you were the only positive sensation he'd experienced the whole day, but it was just his nature. He couldn't lash out at himself, and you were the only one there.

"Oh for f- This is ridiculous! Could you stop for a second, you're not making this better! Or easier. Give me a minute to just- I just…"

He'd grown frustrated with himself, at his inability to rise to the occasion. Was he really that old? That stressed? That useless? This was a first, but it was a difficult situation to navigate, new or otherwise. But in his frustration, he had lashed out at you, the one person who was not to blame at all. In his mind, he could catch himself, adjust his attitude, and recognise that you were not at fault. It might never reach his lips, but the sentiments of regret were there, and he realigned himself, taking a breath and placing his hand atop yours in a gesture of affection that he could tolerate. Another deep and steady inhale, and he put all of his brainpower towards being a human being, one capable of being perhaps not nice but at the very least, not cruel.

"I… I apologise. I shouldn't- I'm just- Stressed, or- Not stressed, it's just… This isn't-"

"It's OK. Honestly. It happens."

Normally, you would be on the receiving end of a ferocious lecture on manners when interrupting him, but he let this one slide. You were helping him out of a hole he was digging for himself, and he was grateful. Your delicate approach to the source of his ire was precisely what he needed, and he hated to feel like he was punishing you for it. He couldn't exactly change his tone, that wasn't in his nature, but he could opt for silence. No words were better than cruel ones.

"Eddie, it's fine. I'm here for you. All I ever want is to make you happy, or make your life a little bit easier. Whatever you want from me, you'll get it."

He paused for a moment, his eyes closed, relaxing into his thoughts.

"I want you to keep going. It might not… End… With anything. But I feel the journey may be more important in this particular situation."

"It always is to me, Eddie."

With his permission to keep going, you moved your palms to his testicles, cupping them with a firm grip, enjoying the weight of them in your hand. You had no intention of trying to coax an erection from him, now. This was about adoration, about worship. Those came so easily to you where Eddie was concerned. And so did the urge to taste. It wasn't enough to see, to touch, to smell him. You wanted the tang of his body on your tongue. So you move your head towards his soft cock, placing your lips along the length in whispering kisses before attempting, rather clumsily, to get it between your lips. Once you had it there, limp but filling, you started sucking it, slow but with enthusiasm. It was nice, soothing almost. You could easily find yourself comforted to the point of total relaxation just from the sensation of his easy to manage cock against your tongue.

Normally, when you serviced Eddie like that, he could be a little bit aggressive. Forceful. Demanding a lot from your mouth and your lungs. And as much as you appreciated knowing how desperate he was, how badly he wanted to feel your tongue and your throat, it was nice to be in control of it for a change.

He was muttering, incomprehensibly immediately, and you wondered at first if you were unable to make it out because of the sound of your drool and slurping, but you realised quickly he was mumbling as he fell asleep. Eddie had been so stressed, so exhausted, that the minute you allowed him the space to just sit back and stop overthinking or worrying about his ability to perform for you, his body had given in to his human needs, the ones he ignored so often.

     The stretch made your breath catch in your lungs, clenching when they moved in tandem with the notes, plucking keys as the bow stroked strings, that dipped molten and sweet into your ears. Pleasure taut as piano wire ruthlessly pounded over and over again as those clever fingers stroked and ground against the bundle of nerves that set your teeth on edge. 

“You truly are worth your weight in gold.’

     The feel of the heels of his palms pressing, digging, forcing your legs to bend a slow crescendo that left you close to tumbling. The gentle see and saw, back and forth, nerves sparking, twisting, writhing beneath the tender assault even as your head fell back as his cock slowly pushed past the remnants of resistance. It could be the praise, it could be the gentle whisper of violin like finger tips skimming over your skin, to the nape of your neck triggering a shockwave of chills. 

     Your hands sought skin, a reminder that you were more than the torrent of sensations that twisted you. Spun you like threads of titanium, or aluminum, in order to withstand the relentless grind of friction that pulled shameless sounds from your throat. Each low grunt a percussion of sound, each slap of skin, fingernails, desperately trying to pull him closer. Could he hear the echo of the music radiating from your core, where it settled to swirl, rubbing against things it shouldn’t be able to touch. 

     Teeth sinking into his shoulder, weary flesh doggedly flogged by the delicate flutter of sound that passed along your skin like feather light kisses. His lips crashing against yours in a blend of harmonies feeling the final movement loom with dark intent. Rushing in close, the scherzo leaving you breathless and clinging as his hips picked up their tempo, a shallow, fast thrust that had you coming apart at the seams. 

     Spine arched, his mouth pressing open mouthed kisses down the line of you as he gripped your hips tighter to pull you back into each thrust. Throbbing aches that whispered underneath the overwhelming groans, the fleeting piercing notes that finally spilled off the page taking the support that had kept you aloft. Falling, tendons taught, vibrating, screaming as they snapped under the friction that had left them frayed and growing weaker with every pass. 

     Hard to breath, lungs desperately seeking air as his movements slowed. You weren’t even sure how you’d gotten into the predicament, you’d been headed to the record store, and then… Head lifting to chase the kiss, writhing as fingers lightly toyed, sought, created a keen that dragged itself past clenched teeth. You were too sensitive, too much too soon, even as the sound of the needle crackled before resetting.

      It was hard to tell if he were intrigued, or amused, his gaze drifted to the hand whose fingers had been dancing in the air before returning to your face. How long had he been listening? It wasn’t a particularly long piece, and cut off abruptly no matter how many times you tried to push past the implacable barrier in place. When you couldn’t bring yourself to answer he waved the question away. 

“Never mind if you were, we are now.’

     Flattering. Also vaguely terrifying given his obsession and the very real concern of how irritated he might get when he found out just how long you’d been toying with notes. No precision, just a lazy lope of notes that seemed so very familiar, though not quite the right pace. Maybe that was the problem, watch him shove items to make space for the music sheets he’d been holding while watching you. 

     You could see where he’d been working on something else, the way the ink had been all but stabbed into the paper by his pen. Was your humming the problem, glancing at his face then back down to the paper. Which was suddenly yanked from view and crumpled, hearing his breath ragged with frustration before slowly evening out. 

“Hum for me.’  Direct as the words were, his lips were no longer pressed into a thin line, the smile warming as he looked up from the paper. “I want to hear your work, not what I’ve made of it. Please, set it free.’

     So an attempt was made, but the way he watched you was unnerving, and you could feel the notes finally releasing the damn near choke hold they’d held on you. A flicker of irritation in his gaze, quickly hidden as he pushed the glasses up his nose. Motioning for you to stop with a stuttered gesture of his hands, you tried to shove the self conscious feeling away. 

     Which would be easier if he wasn’t staring so much, glancing down at his hands as they lifted to cup your face. As if he thought he could play you like an instrument, the thought making you smile imagining the way his fingertips would press in hopes of stimulating your creativity. Tap tap tapping away on the curve of your skull, a percussive beat meant to coax the almost into reality. The fanciful thinking didn’t derail as he pulled you in for a kiss, melting against him. 

“Ah. That’s why it sounded familiar.’ You nodded, not sure what he’d figured out, but glad that one of you had. “The lonesome butchery of a beloved aria.’

     Before you could ask for clarification on what that meant, he turned you to face the table, guiding your hands to rest on either side of the paper. Were you supposed to do something? You could try to put it down on paper, but if it was someone else’s work and you’d accidentally snipped it to pieces you didn’t want it. You wanted something wholly your own if you were going to put it down on paper. 

     His hands lightly settling on your hips made your knees weak, but you stared down at the page instead of looking back at him. Feeling him slowly press against you from behind, draping over your back as his hands moved up to your waist… How were you supposed to focus? On the music at least, feeling his breath against your shoulder as he rested his lips there. 

“Which aria?’ You finally managed to ask, discouragement clear in your tone.

“Yours.’

     He sounded confused, palms pressing as they moved down, rotating before feeling fingertips dig into your thighs as he pulled back up. If he was trying to coax music from you it was not working, the notes were long gone, replaced by a dedicated focus on the way his hands seemed to be trying to mold you. 

“Mine?’ 

     Delayed, enough so that you could feel him chuckling as he gripped you to pull back, slotting you against him. Wait, wait, the paper. He hummed the short scale that had been the beginning of the notes, and you smiled.

“Yes,’ Your breath caught when his hips rocked gently against yours, shamelessly pressing back against him. “The aria you sing for me when we’re… composing in the bedroom.’

     When y- He was grinning when you spun around to face him, attempting to deny the claim but he was holding up a hand as he pulled out his phone. Surely the fuck no- The look your outraged expression earned managed to quell it as he tinkered with the audio recording. Your moan coming from the phone had not been expected.

“When we kissed.’ A pause as he played another, nodding his head as though this were a brilliant discovery. “My hands at your waist, when I leaned over you.’

     His hand swayed in the air as though he was conducting with each clip, only seeming to realize you weren’t as thrilled with this discovery as he was. When he motioned for you to sit on the table, you did so reluctantly, not wanting a music lesson on your unconscious appreciation of certain… things that happened. 

“If you’re not happy with that composition, I’m more than willing to help you with another?’

Well, Music Meister may be a pretty eccentric man, but he's a passionate guy. He creates nicknames for you like baby, love, my lady.

It will depend a lot on his mood and his hair. He has a unique way of loving which when we talk about more intimate moments can include.

Exhibitionsm:

It's to be expected, have you looked at him?

With your consent of course he will touch you in public, which could range from holding your hand and maybe kissing you to sex, yes, sex.

He could masturbate you in public with no problem, penetrate you in public, push you to your limit.

And that would make him feel that he is not only powerful but also loved.

Maybe this young villain never thought of having someone wanting him so badly that would let him fuck you in front of anyone, even the Justice League.

Another type he likes is windows or glass doors, he will fuck you from behind against a window in the most desperate and dramatic way you can envision, your moans echoing in his head, but in yours all there is the sound of the man who is giving you so much pleasure.

Gentle Femdom:

As much as he acts like he always feels 100% confident and awesome all the time, well it's not true, nobody is iron not even the great Music Meister.

So please praise him, kiss his pathetic face until he doesn't think terrible things about himself anymore.

He is an expressive lover, he wants you to know that you are loved and desired, he will kiss your thighs, your feet. You naked, in his bed perhaps with only thin sheets covering your body, he would gently uncover you and in return you would say “Good boy, come closer. I want to touch you.”

And then the hypnotist would become hypnotized, the man crawling on the bed until he was between your legs and answering "Yes my Angel of Music."

With you on top putting his face against your chest or fucking him from the side while touching and kissing his whole body is perfect.

In more everyday moments he would go all melted if you pleased him with unexpected touches.

Hug him from behind when he's planning to destroy someone, kiss the back of his head or neck when he's explaining a new idea to you, caress his waist, rub his thighs and even his ass.

It's fun to see him blush.

PTBR

Bem, Music Meister pode ser um homem bem excêntrico, mas é um cara apaixonado.

Ele cria apelidos para você como baby, amor, minha lady. Vai depender muito do humor e do cabelo dele.

Tendo um jeito único de amar, que quando falamos de momentos mais íntimos pode incluir.

 Exhibitionsm:

É de se esperar, já olhou para ele? 

Com o seu consentimento é claro ele lhe tocari em público, o que poderia ir desde segurar a sua mão e talvez beija-la até sexo, sim, sexo.

Ele poderia te masturbar em público sem problema algum, penetrar em você em público, te fazer chegar ao seu limite.

E isso o faria sentir que não é apenas poderoso, mas também amado.

Talvez  esse jovem vilão nunca pensou em ter alguém que o desejasse tanto ao ponto de o deixar te foder na frente de qualquer um, até na frente da Liga da Justiça.

Outro tipo que ele gosta é janelas ou portas de vidro, ele vai te foder por trás contra uma janela da maneira mias desesperada e dramática que você consiga visualizar, seus gemidos ecoando na cabeça dele, mas na sua tudo que há é o som da voz do homem que está lhe dando tanto prazer.

Gentle Femdom:

Por mais que ele aja como sempre se sentisse 100% confiante e incrível o tempo todo, bem, não é verdade, ninguém é de ferro nem mesmo o grande Music Meister.

Então por favor, o elogie, beije o rosto patético dele até ele não pensar mais coisas terríveis dele mesmo.

Ele é um amante expressivo, ele quer que você saiba que é amada e desejada, ele vai beijar suas coxas, seus pés, você nua, na cama dele talvez tendo apenas finos lençóis cobrindo seu corpo, ele lhe descobriria delicadamente e em troca você lhe diria “Bom garoto, chegue mais perto. Quero lhe tocar.”

E então o hipnotizador se tornaria hipnotizado, o homem engatinhando na cama até se por no meio das suas pernas e lhe responder “Sim meu Anjo da Música.”

Com você por cima colocando o rosto dele contra o seu peito ou o fodendo de lado enquanto toca e beija o corpo dele todo é perfeito.

Em momentos mais cotidianos ele ficaria todo derretido se você o agradasse com toques inesperados.

He knows you’re bad at texting back your friends, but that you spend hours every night doomscrolling across multiple platforms. You’re not too dissimilar there. At least, you would be if he had any real friends to text back.

He knows your cloud password. He’s seen every screenshot, every bathroom mirror pic with the one friend who forces you to go out on the weekends. Every food pic and selfie that wasn’t good enough for social media, and your sorry attempts to facetune all the parts you don’t like about yourself.

He’s seen those other photos too. The raunchy ones you take when you’re feeling yourself, thinking you might have someone to send them to one day. You might delete them tomorrow, but that’s fine, he’s already got them saved in a spank back with your name on deeply embedded and encrypted on his computer.

He knows your voice like the back of his hand. Knows the songs you sing along to when you’re washing dishes and mopping the floor. Knows the frilly, articulated voice you use when you’re answering the phone to an unknown number.

He knows what you sound like in the dark of the night, when you think nobody can hear you. He’s seen the filth you read, the videos you watch. He’s seen you from unflattering angles, with a full o-face, whining and panting long into the early hours of the morning.

He knows it's parasocial, and despite his comprehensive understanding of every piece of you, the face you put on and the things you hide in the dark; he’s to chicken shit to do anything really meaningful with it. Probably. Maybe.

A = aftercare (what are they like after sex?)

he's not exactly a rush to do everything for you kind of guy. if anything he expects that you'll be getting up to go pee, clean yourself off, and then bring him back a tinny. but he does make sure to tell you how good it was, how sexy you are, and then pull you into a big hug before he falls asleep

B = body part (favourite part of theirs and their partner's)

you'd think he'd say his cock, but he is actually bizarrely secretive about it, rather than as boastful as possible. he's pretty proud of his arms though. his legs are fine, his chest is ok, there's not much bulk on either but he's long since realised that's just his phsyique. but his arms?? huge, tattooed, great for hugging and grabbing and punching people in the gut i think he is firmly a tits and tummy and torso man. no way he wasn't looking at how big and soft and round nanaue is the whole time he was with him. just something about soft, plush, pillow-like features that make him go crazy. and he's the first to admit he's pretty basic, it would be silly of him to deny that boobs of all kinds make him act silly

C = cum (anything to do with cum)

george LOVES cumming, which sound slike an obvious statement but like. whatever you think is a normal amount to enjoy it, times it by 10. he likes getting messy and sticky. he likes seeing how far he can spread himself, or how high he can get it to go. he loves when he cums and then keeps on going, spurting and dripping and oozing. he loves when you want to taste him, when you want to wear him, when you want him to fill you up and then use his fingers (or tongue) to push his load back into you as it drips out. he loves when his fingers or his face or his cock or his thighs or WHEREVER are coated in a layer of your own slick. you think you like cum? meet george harkness

D = dirty secret (something they keep hidden)

he has sewn up the holes of so. many. stuffed. toys. he'll let it slip sometimes like "aw you've got a rip in your cardigan, lemme stitch that up" and you'll ask him "hey george, when did you learn to sew?" and he will lie. and the lie will be different every time. because he cannot bear to admit the truth which is "necessity through sexual related incidents with my beloved plushies"

E = experience (how experienced are they in bed)

he's a shagger alright, but he's nowhere near as experienced as he likes to claim he is. his charm only really works 2/10 times, and he gets to a point where he's no longer willing to try after a certain amount of rejections, so he can never really let the statistical likelihood become a reality. he knows his way around, obviously, but that big dick has been a curse. he doesn't think he needs to learn how to use it right, lets it speak for itself, so he comes across as far less experienced than he is

F = favourite position

doggy style. george would be the first to describe what he does as rooting like a bitzer in heat. slamming his hips into you and seeing whatever meat on you jiggles, getting to smack your arse or tug your hair. and he'll do it standing or kneeling or crouched or with one foot on one side and his knee on the other to get the right kind of angle for his feral humping

G = goofy (are they serious in the moment?)

truly he does not care how cringe he is or how silly he sounds or how inappropriate it might be to crack wise while he's balls deep. george is ALWAYS himself, and he sees no point in pretending like he's some suave, serious guy once he's already got you in bed. he is who he is, and that is a man who deals with all awkward or uncomfortable feelings using humour, so get ready to interrupt your moaning with laughter (which he loves by the way, tensing up around him with a giggle? bliss)

H = hair (how well groomed are they?)

he shaves his body because he thinks it makes his muscles look more defined and because he has spent a ridiculous amount of money on his tattoos and wants them to be visible. but he has never once in his life shaved or trimmed or even brushed his pubes. the thought has occurred to him, like how much bigger his cock would look if it was bald but it's big enough as it is

I = intimacy (how are they during the moment romantically?)

you'd be surprised by how intimate he can be. he looks like he'll be all rut no smut, and the claims he make back this up. but when you finally ge thim alone, in your bed, in the back of his van, in the filthy toilet cubicle of a terrible bar, you'll find that he's actually far more sweet and gentle than you would have imagined. he's big on eye contact, always smiling at you during, caressing your cheek, running his fingers through your hair, tracing the shape of your body with soft palms, whispering into your ear about how good you feel. it's still filthy, by all means, but oddly sweet too

J = jack off (masturbation headcanons)

george is in like. a permanent state of masturbating. at any point he's relaxed, seated, laying down, even standing, with nothing else to do he is fondling his balls and lazily stroking his cock. it's actually a bit of a bad habit. when it comes to masturbation with intent, he likes trying all manner of new and weird things. self-sucking was a personal goal for a while, tasting his cum to see if he could change the flavour with diet to a noticeable degree, edging for the world record. it's literally his favourite hobby

K = kink (one or more of their kinks)

piss. no arguments. it's canonical. george harkness loves piss, he likes pissing on things. he likes marking them, claiming them, degradation, humiliation, flattery, loves it when you're keen for it, loves when you pretend to hate it you could say he has a bit of a mommy thing, in that he loves sucking tits to soothe himself while he gets called a very good boy and has his hair stroked. so lactation? yeah. praise? yeah. older women? absolutely he would love to say that he had a love for roleplay, but truthfully he gets so riled up by the acting and the flirting and the pornographic dialogue that he forgets what he's supposed to be doing and ends up fucking you just as himself. but the build up? he is THERE for it

L = location (favourite places to do the do)

the filthy mattress in the back of his van. it's his home, his comfort space. yeah it's nice to fuck in a bed or have something he can bend you over. but there's nothing that can compare to having you ride on his lap in whatever scenery he desires most in the moment. plus there's just something so heinously tantalising about knowing the world outside the thing metal frame is going on as usual while yours is being rocked entirely within them

M = motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

there is no need for motivation, all you have to do is look at him a certain way (without even intending it) and he is at half-mast and making moves. it's easier to think about what turns him off, like everything gets him going and he is always ready to fuck

N = no (something they wouldn’t do)

fuck anyone with a uterus who isn't sterilised without protection. he has a vasectomy, but he is paranoid. he doesn't think much about his past, uh... mistakes. but he'd rather not make the same one twice. so it's wrapped up tight or you're both firing blanks, no question about it

O = oral (preference in giving or receiving & techniques)

definitely prefers receiving oral. he's not really good enough at focusing to get the task done properly with a partner. he'll do his fair share, but he's a selfish boy and he'd much rather you were the one doing all the work and letting him lean back and give it to you. he has no techniques to speak of, he's really just going in there with the basics and a feral attitude and hoping that sees him through, which it kind of does

P = pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual?

george cannot help himself. as much as he might want to be romantic and slow sometimes, his body has a knee jerk reaction to hump and rut and fuck like an animal, so more often than not, even if it starts sensually and attentive, it quickly devolves into a frantic, muscle pulling, body quivering kind of experience. as fast and furious as he is, though, he isn't all that rough. he's careful because he knows what he's working with might cause some damage

Q = quickie (their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex)

he will literally have sex at any time within whatever constraints you are willing to give him. if you tell him he has to nut in 30 seconds, he will do so in 25 just to make sure he has time to clean up. if you tell him he has an hour, he will stretch that shit out. so a quickie? it's like being offered a snack size candy: fuckin delicious

R = risk (are they game to experiment?)

of course! listen, he'll try anything once just to be able to claim that he's done it. he's vocal about what he doesn't enjoy though, so it really is one and done with some things. but you'll never hear him saying "no" to very much. he considers himself a sexual adventurer

S = stamina (how many rounds? how long do they last?)

george harkness will give you one solid round of body shaking, brain fogging, dehydrating fun and then unfortunately he needs to reset. he has no concept of pace, so he will run himself completely dry and breathless in one spectacular go, and that often means he doesn't last quite as long as you might expect. but ten minutes of pure excellence is better than forty minutes of boredom

T = toy (do they own toys? do they use them?)

he doesn't have many toys to hand, but he'll happily use them if you introduce them! he's more of a hands on kinda guy though, and he'd rather touch you to please you with his bare hands and his long fingers than let anything else get in the way. not that he would ever be jealous of an inanimate object, of course not, that's silly! no no no it's just that he likes to be the one that makes you see stars

U = unfair (how much they like to tease)

oh george is a relentless teaser. he can't stop making jokes and dicking around. he loves telling you the nasty things he's thinking about you just to see you get flustered, he'll promise you the world and then keep holding back just a little bit to drive you wild. it's in his nature, he's a wideo, a bogan cunt

V = volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make)

i mean, he's loud as hell at all times, since he can't shut his gob, but especially during sex. he is a talker, spewing absolute filth. though most of it admittedly is quite self-congratulatory, but he will occasionally remember to tell you how good you are too he pants and huffs and groans, and he is not afraid to let you know vocally, either incoherent or otherwise, how good it feels and he practically howls when he cums, a gravelly kind of awooga that would make you cringe if it wasn't so undeniably sexy

W = wild card (a random headcanon)

he is aware that his moniker is a bit stupid. he's not a captain of anything, technically speaking. but if you wanted to call him captain... during sex... especially without him having to ask... then it might literally make his entire life better

X = x-ray (let’s see what’s going on in those pants)

ok we got 7-8 inches here. long, but not enough to do you serious physical damage if he bucks his hips a little too much and forgets that you don't have enough insides to take him. where this gets dangerous is the girth. 6.5". can't get your jaw around it comfortably type thang. it's veiny, but they're light coloured and not too bumpy. uncut (which. he needs to shower more). his balls are perfect, huge, spherical, hanging nicely to give a good slap against you when he's fucking you. he does trim his pubes, oddly enough, but he's still rocking almost 70s level bush, and they're far more red than the hair on his head so there's no chance of him denying that he's ginger

Y = yearning (how high is their sex drive and their desire?)

george has a persistent sex drive and a constant desire for sex. if it were up to him he'd be cockwarming 24/7 so that the option to start rutting into you was always available to him. he loves having access to a body, he loves the pleasure of release, he loves the intimacy of being inside of someone, of touching them, of holding them. he is a desperate and needy man and he would wear a badge that identified him as such proudly

Z = zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

A garble of unintelligible words pass through the fabric gag which binds his dangerous lips and you instead focus on running your hands down his exposed chest, the open and ridiculously frilled shirt fluttering away as you spread it further with teasing fingers.

“What’s that? Hmm? I can’t hear you! The great Music Meister foiled by a little slip of cloth.” A pretty laugh slides from your lips as you roll your hips and rub your ass against his straining groin. “All trussed up and ready to be played with.”

Slipping your hand lower, you graze it across his cock in a vicious tease and your mouth splits into a mean-spirited smirk as you feel the slight wet patch which is quickly developing through the silk.

“It really must be awful, darling. Being so hard and ready to be stroked and blown like one of those musical instruments you love so much. Which would you rather? Hmm? My hand on your cock, slipping along the velvety length like a trumpet slide? Or my mouth teasing at your cock with my lips and tongue? You seem to appreciate my impressive embouchure?”

Pinching his nipple between your knuckles as you whip him into an aroused frenzy, the way his brow knits at the rough contact is very endearing. His nipples are pink and peaked, begging for attention and you can’t help but fiddle with them as he writhes against the chair he is loosely tied to. Rolling the nubs between your fingers nets you a soft sigh and a harder pinch forces his chest to arch towards you – his traitorous body desperately seeking more as his expressive eyes meet your own, blown wide and darkened by the lust which he isn't being allowed to act on.

"C'mere and get an idea of what a real man is like, babe!"

George grabbed you before you could protest, one strong arm around your waist pulling you into an embrace that, had he asked politely for, you would have agreed to, but which felt all the more sinful and tempting by the sheer fact that he'd pushed it upon you.

"Get a good whiff, fill your nostrils with that!"

The way he had pinned you to his torso meant your face was pressed into his armpit, nose tickling from the hairs, sense overwhelmed by the rugged stench of his sweat and his natural musk plus the addition of a cheap deoderant he'd sprayed on at least three days prior.