Henry awoke to a sensation he hadn't felt in years—pure, unadulterated softness.
His face was buried in something impossibly plush, fragrant, and definitely warm. For a moment, he thought he'd died and gone to horny heaven. Then he opened his eyes.
And found his face nestled directly between Seraphina's thighs.
"WHAT THE ABSOLUTE—"
She yawned.
"Morning, pervert," she said lazily, running her fingers through his hair like he was some lapdog in a very unfortunate position.
He jerked back so fast he somersaulted off the bed, hitting the floor with a very undignified yelp.
"Why were you ON me?!"
"You said it was cold last night," she replied, entirely too smug, "so I generously offered you the warmest part of my body."
"That wasn't an invitation to turn me into a human neck pillow!"
"I beg to differ. Your moaning said otherwise."
"I WAS HAVING A NIGHTMARE!"
She smirked. "About what? Being smothered by thighs?"
"…Yes."
The castle was quieter than usual, probably because everyone was still recovering from yesterday's drama: raccoon lingerie heists, vibrating ring proposals, and a kiss that nearly triggered a supernatural apocalypse.
Henry groaned, dragging himself to the edge of the bed. "I need coffee, therapy, and probably a new religion."
Seraphina stretched, catlike, revealing far too much leg for his fragile morning sanity. "Or we could make out again and see if the castle survives Round Two."
"WOMAN."
"Oh relax, I'm just teasing."
She leaned in, her lips a hair away from his. "Unless you want Round Two."
Henry's brain blue-screened.
Before he could answer (or die of blood loss from sheer arousal), the door burst open.
A maid stormed in, cheeks flushed, eyes wide. "THE ROYAL PILLOW WAR HAS BEGUN!"
Henry blinked. "The what now?"
"The annual inter-house pillow combat trial," Seraphina explained, already sliding into tight leather armor that did absolutely nothing to cover her cleavage. "Winner gets bragging rights, a royal favor, and the King's legendary Feather of Destiny."
"That sounds like a glorified pillow fight."
"It's a glorified orgy of fluffed-up chaos," she corrected. "Think battle royale meets sleepover, with a side of lingerie modeling."
"…I'm in."
Ten minutes later, Henry stood in a massive ballroom that had been transformed into a battlefield.
Feathers flew like snow in a strip club.
Nobles and warriors clad in silk robes, crop tops, and questionable chainmail were locked in sexy combat.
Someone screamed, "FOR THE DUVET!" and hurled a glitter bomb into the air.
Prince Dorian appeared in a mesh tank top and heart-shaped nipple clamps. "Welcome to Girthania's second religion: WAR BY FLUFF."
Seraphina cracked her knuckles. "Let's destroy some egos."
Henry and Seraphina teamed up like the world's hottest tag team—he with a reinforced body pillow enchanted with knockback spells, she dual-wielding lace-trimmed cushions that emitted moans every time they struck someone.
"Do your pillows… moan?" Henry asked.
"They're sentient," she replied.
"Do they enjoy this?"
"They're into pain."
"Oh gods."
A wild raccoon demon leapt onto the chandelier above them, cackling. "PRINCESS NIBBLES DECLARES FEATHERED ANARCHY!"
She hurled panties like ninja stars.
Dorian screamed as one latched onto his face. "MY LIPS! THEY'RE TASTING EVIL!"
Henry tried to dodge but slipped on a suspiciously wet satin blanket and landed face-first into Seraphina's cleavage.
"Your aim is improving," she said, smirking.
"Totally on purpose," he muttered, not even trying to move.
They rolled behind a massive body pillow fort as the room erupted into soft-core warfare.
"We need a plan," Henry whispered.
"We could surrender and make out," she whispered back.
He considered it.
Heavily.
Then she pushed him down, straddling him.
"Wait—ARE WE STILL FIGHTING?"
"This is a different kind of battle."
She kissed him, hard and hungry.
Henry melted under her touch, hands gripping her waist like it was the last piece of sanity he had. She tasted like danger and dark chocolate. Her tongue teased his lip, demanding entry like a succubus demanding tribute.
He gave in.
Feathers rained from the sky as she ground against him, their kiss deepening to the point of scandal.
Around them, chaos reigned—moaning pillows, crying nobles, and one particularly aggressive bard composing a ballad called "The Moans Beneath the Moon."
Henry broke the kiss, breathless. "Seraphina, this is not battlefield conduct."
She kissed his jaw, nipping lightly. "Then court-martial me."
He groaned. "This is very distracting."
"Exactly. While they're busy watching us make out, Dorian's getting ambushed by the raccoon."
He looked up.
Indeed, Dorian was currently being pelted with thong-shaped throwing knives while screaming in five languages.
"…Carry on."
They didn't win the Pillow War.
But they definitely won something.
Later that night, Henry sat in a warm bath, soaking away trauma and residual glitter. Seraphina walked in without knocking, naturally.
"Mind if I join you?"
He blinked. "This is a private tub."
She was already naked.
So much for privacy.
She slid into the water beside him, steam rising between them like the world itself was blushing.
He swallowed. "You're not making this easy."
"I'm not trying to."
She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear.
"I like you, Henry. You make my life more annoying. And somehow, more fun."
His heart thumped.
She straddled him again, water rippling around them.
"You drive me insane," she whispered, tracing a finger down his chest. "You make me want to break all my rules."
He looked into her eyes. "Then let's break them together."
And then they did.
Soft moans. Splashing water. Whispered curses and stifled laughter.
It wasn't perfect.
It was better.
And as they lay there after, soaked, exhausted, and tangled together, Henry smiled.
"Tomorrow's going to be even more insane, isn't it?"
Seraphina smirked. "Oh, absolutely. We still haven't dealt with the raccoon's sex cult."
Henry sighed. "I need more therapy."
"But tonight," she said, nuzzling his neck, "you're mine."
He didn't argue.