Woof woof

“It’s not about the waist, Captain,” you gripe, pushing the pants away, folding your arms as you step back into your room. Chris pushes the door open and follows you inside, closing it behind him. 

“Woah, what’s going on?” He asks, voice thick with sincerity. It makes your stomach churn, just how sweet he is. He sets the pants down on your desk, his hands raising to his belt.

Men and their tiny hips, they can pick up any pair of pants and as long as one of the numbers is correct, they’ll fit perfectly.

“I–I–those just don’t fit me.” 

“How would you know?” He shrugs, bewilderment still embedded in his expression. 

You groan. “I just know.” 

“You haven’t even tried them on yet.”

“Oh my God, Chris, fine,” you say, stomping toward your desk in the corner, snatching the pants and tossing them onto the bed. You shove your leggings down until your bottom half is covered only by panties and a pair of socks. His eyes widen, out of lust or fear, you’re not sure, but you hope your outburst proves your point anyway. 

You grab the pants, the material stiff and unforgiving and step into the pant legs, attempting to pull them all the way up. Like you suspected, they stop at the tops of your thighs, and don’t even begin to go up over your ass. 

“See?” 

Chris’s almond eyes narrow as he surveys the scene, and he nods solemnly. “Yeah. I’ll see if I can find you another size.” 

You shimmy out of the pants, folding them, and handing them back to Chris. “I don’t need another size in the pants. I need to be another size.” Groaning dramatically, you slouch down on the edge of the bed. 

“What are you talking about?” He discards the cargos and sits down beside you, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. 

“My ass is humongous.”

He chuckles a hearty, rumbling sound that comes straight from his chest, and presses his palm to his heart. When he sees that your face is unmoving, not a peep passing your sealed lips, he wipes the grin  off his face and clears his throat. “Oh, you’re serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious. I can’t find pants that go over it, if they even make it up my thighs.” You dig your fingers into the meat of your still-bare legs. He laughs again, unable to help himself. “Stop laughing,” you command, but there’s not much heat behind it. “It’s a real problem and you’re making fun of me.” 

Chris’s hand comes to your thigh, palming the flesh, caressing your skin with gentle up-and-down strokes. “I’m not making fun of you, kid. It’s just that…I don’t know. It’s just funny that you hate those parts of you, even though they’re what make you so–is ‘hot’ the wrong word to use right now?” 

His face looks so sweet, those little puppy-dog eyes looking at you with all the care and affection in the world. He could call you a ‘bitch’ right now and you’d still want to kiss him. 

So you shake your head, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip to stifle a smile threatening to eclipse your face. 

“‘Hot’ it is then.” His jaw tenses as he thinks of what to say next, the words playing out in front of him. He pivots another inch, drawing closer. “Your legs–that ass of yours? Kind of the hottest things about you. And before you skin me alive, I also happen to think you’re incredibly smart and so, so strong, not to mention really good at what you do here. But there’s a reason I can’t even be in the same training room as you. Fuck.”

“You think I’m hot?” You tease, dipping your head to look up at him through batting lashes. That elicits another rolling chuckle, the sound tickling your skin.