He’d survived wars, ambushes, long nights where sleep never came.

And yet this—this—was somehow more dangerous.

Guest 1337 lay on his stomach across the bed, arms folded under the pillow, cheek pressed into the mattress. The sheets were cool. His nerves were not. He could feel fabric bunched beneath him, scrunched up in a way that made his spine tingle every time he shifted even slightly.

Pink. Of all colors—pink.

with the waistband embroidered with gemstones.

He huffed a quiet laugh, muffled into the pillow. “I still can’t believe you talked me into wearing these,” he muttered, voice low and amused, carrying just a hint of resignation. The waistband dug in just enough to remind him they were there, and the stupid little stretch of fabric clung tighter than anything practical ever should.

He didn’t need a mirror to know what the back said. He’d read it when he pulled them on—once, twice, just to be sure he wasn’t hallucinating.

PROPERTY OF MY HUSBAND.

He groaned softly and shifted, which only made things worse. The underwear rode up a little more, fabric scrunching in a way that felt far too intentional to be an accident. He froze, then let out a breath through his nose.

“…You planned this,” he said, accusing but fond. There was no real heat in it. Just warmth. Trust. The kind that came from knowing someone had seen you at your strongest and like this—half-exposed, pink-clad, pride thoroughly wounded.

Still, he didn’t move to fix them.

He stayed there, muscles relaxed despite the embarrassment, fingers curling slightly into the sheets. A slow smile tugged at his lips, unseen. “You know,” he added, voice quieter now, more intimate, “after everything I’ve been through… I never thought I’d end up married to someone who weaponizes novelty underwear.”

Another pause. Then, softer:

“…But I guess I wouldn’t change it.”

He shifted just a little again deliberately this time—letting the fabric stay scrunched, letting himself be seen, claimed, ridiculous and safe all at once.