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“Jeans, Levi,” you enunciate slowly, “they’re called jeans.”
“Uncomfortable,” he corrects, glaring at you with narrowed eyes and a pouted lip through his reflection in the mirror. “They’re called freaking uncomfortable.”
Standing in front of the full-length mirror, Levi awkwardly adjusts the pair of jeans you had coerced him into wearing. Tugging on denim that indeed fits perfectly, but is yet to mutter a single good thing about. The jeans—a timeless straight cut in a dark midnight navy—accentuate the meatiness of his thighs, the surprisingly long line of his legs.
And, too, of course, just so happen to make his ass look great. Round, shapely and dare you say perky? With every milimeter of those well-defined glutes from years upon years of strenuous weight training and combat drills on full display.
“Seriously—?” He continues his complaining. “How the hell do people wear these?”
He takes but half a step forward. “How do you even—” Another curse escapes him. “Shit.”
“How do you even walk in these?”
You cross your arms, leaning against the wall, amused. “One foot after another, love.”
He shoots a glare over his shoulder. The kind that silently says, ‘shut it’. And slowly—slowly—toddles his way over to you, walking like a newborn baby deer. Which, you have to stifle a laugh at. He looks oh so pathetic—and adorable.
It takes him a minute of awkward shuffling and stiffened steps to finally reach your side, much to your entertainment. “There you go,” you hum, “not so bad now, was it?”
He grumbles and turns slightly away bashfully. Only giving you just the right angle to…
Slap.
A playful, cheeky little slap lands right on the pocket of his jeans, right to the fullness of his ass.
He stiffens, then—
“What the—?”
Then, it dawns on him just what you did. His expression—already displeased—only sours further. His lower lip pouts almost pitifully, and his eyes narrow in a way that would have been threatening if not for the rosy pink now dusting his cheeks.
“Watch it.”
He warns, only for it to have no effect. He looks too flustered to be taken seriously right now, much less. “Or I’ll stick you in this shit next.”
“No need,” you smile, unable to hide another little grin, “I’ve got my own.”
“Oh really now,” he drawls, unimpressed. Before crossing his arms over his chest, his legs over one another. “Your own pair of torture pants, huh?”
You pay his remark about the oh-so-terrible torture pants, as he so calls them, no mind. Instead, you hold out your brand-spanking-new jeans. A dark pair of blue denim, not dissimilar to the ones you picked out for him. “Mhm, see?”
He gives no reaction beyond a subtle raise of his brows.
Undeterred, you quickly slide them over the panties you have been wearing as bottoms. Likewise, the jeans fit wonderfully–accentuating you in all the right places. Though your favourite part of them has to be the little red tag on the right pocket, which comes to rest right on the curve of your ass, reading none other than—Levi’s.
Slowly and stiffly, he circles you, still walking in that awkward manner. He inspects you as he would cadets during cleaning duty—eyes trailing over every millimeter of fabric draped atop your curves. When he meets your gaze again, his bottom lip is twisted.
“…You’re going to wear my name on your ass?”
You hum your agreement.
His face sours further as he grumbles and mutters some unintelligible string of curses under his breath. Something something this is so stupid, something something I can’t believe I survived war for this, something something annoying ass brats.
A chuckle escapes you. He shoots you—yet another—glare. You simply raise your brows knowingly.
“You’re insufferable, you know that?” He stands unimpressed, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “A pain in the ass—literally—that’s what you are.”
“Mm, well,” you hum, taking a step forward. Then, with deft fingertips, you straighten out the collar of his button-down, adjusting the fabric neatly. “You married me.”
“Worst mistake of my life.”
“Really, that’s what you’d call it?”
“Yeah,” he repeats. “The worst. The absolute worst mistake of my life.” And because he still hasn’t settled his vendetta against denim, “Now I have to deal with you and the whatever-the-hell-these-things-are-called.”
You giggle, “…Jeans?”
“Yeah,” he mutters, unable to hide the sheer disdain in his voice. “…Jeans.”
He says it with such hatred that you have to stifle another amused giggle. “Aw, they’re not so bad now, are they?”
He pauses, considering.
Then, “I suppose they aren’t too bad…”
He trails off only to place a firm hand on the curve of your ass. Giving the roundness beneath denim a tight, tight squeeze with his palm.
“At least now everyone’s going to know who this perfect little ass belongs to.”