Inspiration: I'm working on a sequel for this one, so be on the look out for it sometime soon :3 Hope this somewhat makes up for the total lack of (good) Austria smut on this blog!
"Is this absolutely necessary?" comes the dry question you'd been waiting for. Honestly, you're surprised it took him this long to ask. You smile, thinking you probably look sickly sweet with your lips curled up like this. But you only look predatory, and it makes Roderick raise an eyebrow and try not to admit how he almost enjoys that wicked smirk. The way it makes your eyes shine with sinful acceptance.
"Roderick…" you purred indulgently, "you said just the other day that you wished you were more modern." You say the word like it's something exotic, and with no small amount of pretention. As though becoming modern is just the prize of a game that children play. And from the way you blink lazily at him, you're making it quite clear who you think the child is.
He rolls his eyes and huffs. This hadn't been his idea, after all. If anyone was a child here it was you, for coming up with such a ridiculous plan. You click your tongue idly and jerk your fingers over hangers, occasionally plucking a shirt of a pair of jeans off the rack and throwing it into the growing pile in Roderick's arms. He glowered down at you from around half a foot of denim and said in his usual holier-than-thou voice, "This isn't exactly what I had in mind." Because it isn't. Definitely not.
But you just shrug and glance at him. Then you do a double take because you hadn't realized he was holding so many clothes (you can barely see his face for crying out loud). You can't stop a small laugh from bubbling past your lips and you imagine that Roderick doesn't appreciate it, but can't really do anything about it either.
"You're supposed to go try them on, Roderick," you say complacently, and once again it sounds like the voice you use when you're speaking to a child. He doesn't like that. He isn't a child. But before he can utter one of his sharp retorts, you're forcing him towards the dressing rooms and he's stumbling because he can't see where he's going.
"Hey!" he says none to quietly. One of the saleswomen glances over and you give her a apologetic smile. As soon as her back is turned you shove your reluctant lover into a stall and follow after him, shutting the door with a loud click. He dumps the pile of clothes on a bench and turns toward you with a questioning expression. Probably because you're not exactly supposed to be in there with him. You merely lean back with a smile and nod at the clothes. The silent order makes him roll his eyes again.
He starts with the jeans. He isn't sure how a pair of jeans will make him more modern. His nice, ironed trousers suit him well enough, thank you very much. But since you're watching him so closely, with those eyes that are clearly saying, 'take the fucking pants off if you know what's good for you,' he reluctantly jerks the trousers off and grabs the jeans. He's only glad that the dressing room is fairly large so that he can ignore you, adamantly.
You sit on the bench next to the (ridiculous amount of) clothes and cross your arms, watching him through catty, seemingly lazy eyes. Even though his back is turned to you, you can see the front half of him due to the mirrored walls (all three of said walls). You take your time enjoying the sight he makes without all that proper, princely shit wrapped around his neck.
He's now wearing a pinkish-orange tee shirt with bright yellow hems around the necks and sleeves. You can tell he doesn't like the style but you quietly admit that he looks pretty good. Without all those dandy, pretty-girl buttons and frocks and pins, Roderick actually looks ridiculously hot. (He was plenty attractive before but this is different. You don't feel at all bad for this rebellious thought.)
All the while, he mumbles about how stupid this whole endeavor is and how the various articles of clothing he tries on look terrible on him. You see him periodically glance at his original outfit and you know he desperately wants to pull it back on. But a part of you doesn't want that. Because when he wears his usual outfit, Roderick is utterly incapable of being anywhere near a bad boy. But in those jeans that hug his hips and thighs and make him tall and imposing, in that shirt that shows exactly how fit he is, he looks completely nefarious.
His eyes catch yours in the mirror and you openly stare, blinking at him, not at all ashamed at the fact that he'd caught you staring at his body. When your lips curl up into that attempted-sweet-but-just-plain-scary smile, Roderick clears his throat and turns away stiffly. He tries not to think about the way your eyes reflect your desires. The fact that he has become fairly astute when it comes to said desires doesn't exactly help his case.
It's when he goes to try on the next pair of jeans -- dark washed, clinging, low -- that he notices how the look in your eye changes from partially interested to astoundingly so. You lean forward slowly, eyes sweeping up and down and up and down over his legs and his ass. He swallows thickly and tries to ignore you but the fucking mirrored walls don't give him much success. His back is facing you but he can still see your reflection and the way you're so obviously checking him out. Again and again.
He sighs, a short huff of annoyance, and closes his eyes for a moment. He counts to five in his head and tells himself that when he opens his eyes you'll be totally disinterested and possibly flipping through your phone in your ignorance of him. But five seconds later when he opens his eyes, you're smirking and giving him that look -- the one that he'd long ago learned comes with dangerously mind blowing consequences. He clears his throat again and watches you warily as you stand, step forward, eyeing the denim that is making him so unsettled. In more ways than one.
"[Name]," he says dryly, hooking his fingers around the belt loops and starting to shuffle them off, "we're in a store. In a dressing room. Would you stop looking at me like that?!"
You can see that he intends to brush you off and completely overlook the rising tension, and it makes you smirk wickedly. A moment later you're stepping up behind him and saying in a husky, amused voice, "You probably shouldn't take those off right now." And the suggestion, which is actually a pretty obvious warning, has Roderick peering behind his shoulder at you. He raises an eyebrow.
"Che," he mutters, turning around to face you like a man (not a child, he tells himself).
He realizes his mistake a moment after he turns and wishes he hadn't moved at all. Because now your eyes are delving against the denim of his front and damn if it doesn't make him utterly on edge. His eyes widen when you step forward. He shuffles back.
The game continues until his back is pressing against cold glass and he glowers at you and crosses his arms. This is getting old. And besides, there is no way in hell he'll be doing what you clearly want him to do. He is a gentleman. Gentleman don't have sexual affairs in a public place. Or so he thinks.
You purr and step up to his body, slinking a leg between his and leaning in. You watch him swallow back the desire that is starting to claw at the edges of his vision, and vow that you will bring that passion back at full force. In his jeans and his tee shirt Roderick has so much potential. You will douse out the rest of his reluctance if it's the last thing you do.
Your hand slides over his chest and then down, down. When you cup his (barely) hardening cock through his jeans, you smirk and whisper, "You look great in these jeans, Roderick. I think you'll look even better with a boner, don't you?" You give him a light squeeze that has his eyes fluttering hopelessly. He breathes out, a shaky, knotted mess of air, and clenches his fist.
"Th-this is completely unacceptabbllllee!" he gasps and bites down on his lip when you rub him through his pants. His arousal is growing at an astoundingly fast pace. He can only guess it's because of the danger in the air, the fact that someone could walk in if they made too much noise. And you aren't going to let up, he can see the determination in your eyes. You are going to stay right where you are until he gives in. Stubborn stubborn stubborn.
He braces himself against the cold mirror and shoves his head back, back, back as your lips draws nearer to his. The fact that you're utterly manhandling him doesn't even play into his head, though it probably should. He is far used to you by now, and the wily techniques you use to get him aroused.
His lips tremble in reluctant desire but he has no where left to run. Your mouth descends on his and it's like you're devouring all his annoyance and hesitation, because he's left with a sort of breathless, tired passion that exhausts him. Makes him want to give in.
You chuckle, "Stop thinking so much, Roderick." Your hand comes up to curl around his neck and you pull him down to meet your lips. He grunts, probably in disapproval, but kisses you anyway. You think it's probably because he's humoring you and it amuses you. Honestly, he should know better by now. When he tries to pull away again you lift your other hand to his neck and lock him against you, using a surprising amount of (brute) strength to hold him in place. He glares at you even as you kiss him.
When you finally release him, he thinks maybe you've gotten your fill of him and he can go back to trying on clothes. But he knows he's wrong the moment you step closer, shifting that leg farther between his and pressing your thigh against his arousal. Your hands slip into his shirt and he winces at the cold of your fingertips. He glowers down at you in perturbed silence, then mutters, "You have the most inconvenient libido." And the dry way he speaks has you chuckling, your expression lifting up in mirth.
"Oh, thank you," you say breezily, as though he'd complimented you. You leaned in to press your mouth against his jaw, shifting your fingers against his nipple, rubbing your leg against his core. The dual movement of your body against his makes him clench his teeth. Your mouth seeks his again and this time, when he kisses you back, it isn't because he's humoring you. "But you know," you murmur while you boldly, casually grope his body in a way only you can pull off, "I think you like this just as much as I do. You just won't admit it."
Your hands push up his back and trace his spine. Your entire front is squeezed against him in that inevitably delicious way and he grunts. "What's there to admit?" he says, but his voice is strained because now he's watching those fingers of yours dart down to his jeans and tug them open. He closes his eyes and doesn't watch when you drag his cock out and hum.
"Exactly," you purr, lowly, your voice all musk and smoke. Your hand curls around him and he gulps when you start pumping him gently through your fingers. You finish your train of thought with a slow kiss at the corner of his mouth, "Because it shows in every single movement you make."
And it does. Because then he realizes how his hips are jerking forward on their own, in little shards of thrusts. And he realizes how he's gasping and sapping against the mirror and his knees are like jelly and his brain is just a bunch of fizzled out nerve endings. He's much more transparent than he'd thought. It's a realization that makes him sort of angry, in a self-imposed way.
The anger is fuel for him, like dry wood in a forest fire. He clenches his teeth and slides his hands around your waist and then suddenly the tables are turning. Your back is being shoved against the mirrored wall and Roderick is tilting your chin up and kissing you. And you're suddenly drowning against him in the best, most surprising way possible. "R-Roderi-nngh!" his hands are forcing your pants down so fast that you can't even breathe. Then he's kneeling in front of you, pulling each ankle out of the fabric and leering up at you in a manner you rarely see him in. But fuck if you think you'll be leaving this dressing room unscathed now that you've woken up this side of him.
He kisses your inner thigh. His tongue darts out to taste your skin and you squirm, staring down at him with darkly blown eyes. It strikes you how erotic he looks, kneeling in front of you with his cock curling out of his pants like that, but you barely have time to think about it before he's hooking his fingers into your panties and dragging them down, too. And you squirm again, shudder a little because when he looks at you like that you are helpless to do anything else.
"Fuck, Roderick, would you just - " your words clump together into a soft moan as he stands and presses your hips together. He's still wearing those jeans and it's making you crazy because he looks so fucking good in them - and the fact that you're already soaking wet seems to almost amuse him. And then there's the little realization that he's utterly snatched away your power and is using it wholeheartedly against you. Oh, how the fates have turned on you. You pout.
"It's really not fair," you tell him, slipping your hands beneath his shirt and dragging it off of his body. He lets you, then raises an eyebrow at you when the fabric hits the floor. "This is all your fault," he tells you, scoffing. "I said it would be nice to be a little more modern - buying new clothes wasn't at all my intention - "
"It's all about the image, Roderick!" you watch with a smirk when he hooks his hands around your thighs and drags them into the air. You curl your legs around his waist. Your momentarily breathless when you feel his hard cock rubbing at your entrance. "Mm…that's good," you tell him, then clutch at his shoulders and mutter, "And besides, these jeans were made for you, I swear, you look like a fucking God - Oh!"
He's pushing into you and you're back is arching and he's chuckling a little, in a husky breathless way that's completely overcome by pleasure. "A God? You're so dramatic." He hilts himself into you and remains still for a mere second before thrusting back out. Your nails are digging into his back and the way his cock is dragging against your inner wall makes you moan softly, bumping your hips forward. And he kisses your ear and whispers, "Shh, you have to be quiet." He doesn't even want to imagine the curdling embarrassment of being caught in this position by one of the saleswomen. He would probably die on the spot.
"Mm," you agree but it's easier said than done. When you feel another moan rising to the surface, Roderick molds his mouth to yours and swallows it, turning the noise into a muffled, careless sound. He kisses you hard and you breathlessly pant against him and tumble your fingers through his hair. His hands slip under the shirt you're still regrettably wearing and he traces your spine. You arch into him and gasp against the mirror, rocking your hips forward and feeling the edges of yourself blur and spin with pleasure.
You're unraveling before you know what's happening. The beginning of a loud moan leaks into the air before Roderick is muffling it with his mouth, heart hammering in danger and thrilling passion. Your muscles are clenching around his cock and it's tight and delicious, and it makes his head pound and his orgasm rear up within him. You're moaning his name into the kiss and he hears it as a whimper. And perhaps that's what ultimately has him sinking into you as deeply as possible and filling you up.
"Gott…" he mutters when he's done. His thrusts morph into languid, lethargic movements that leave you panting. You stare at him through lidded eyes and smirk tiredly. Moments later, you're sliding off his softened shaft and he's holding you close to his chest, breathing heavily. You kiss him and suddenly the world turns into a heady, delirious mess again when you realize you're not fully satisfied yet. Roderick seems to realize this and groans, a huff of annoyance and reluctant desire. "You can't be serious," he says, but you only smile and laugh, patting his chest and ducking away from him.
"Come on. We're definitely buying those jeans, by the way," you tell him idly, and you don't see the smirk that wavers over his face at the mention of the apparently 'God-like' clothing. He adds them to his little mental list of things that make you utterly insane, and chuckles.
He has a feeling that the day is far from over.