Reborn in Milfloria: The Only Man in a World of Seductive Queens-Chapter 42: She Called Me Starlight

Henry lay sprawled like a satisfied sinner across the royal chaise lounge, wearing nothing but a towel and the kind of smug glow that only comes from divine booty-based triumphs.

His cheeks were still trembling from the Bounce Trial.

His soul? Slightly fried.

His loins? Dangerously fluffed.

Seraphina sat beside him with a grape between her fingers, staring down at him like he was a cross between royalty and a very obedient golden retriever.

"You’re lucky I love dumbasses," she murmured, popping the grape into his mouth.

Henry chewed slowly, then opened one eye. "Am I... still glowing?"

Climaxa checked her clipboard. "Moist Level: 98%. Emotional Stability: Low. Post-Bounce Radiation: Unregulated."

Henry blinked.

"Translation?"

Seraphina sighed. "Your ass is still charged with sacred energy. If anyone squeezes you too hard, Milforia might flood."

Moistessa entered, wearing a priestess robe that clung to her curves like sin. "Speaking of floods, it’s time."

Henry groaned. "Time for what?"

Thrustina appeared from behind a curtain with a candle and a suspicious bottle labeled "Euphoric Lube of Eternal Praise™."

"The Cheek Mass, my Liege."

Henry blinked. "That’s not real."

Moistessa and Seraphina said in unison, "Oh, it’s very real."

---

The Grand Cheek Mass – A Ceremony of Lewd Devotion

The Moist Cathedral was dimly lit with dripping wax candles and thick incense that smelled like sandalwood, cinnamon, and questionable decisions. Every pew was packed with loyal citizens all women, all breathless, all sweaty in places they shouldn’t be sweaty.

A massive mural of Henry’s sacred squish towered behind the altar.

As Henry walked down the aisle in a golden robe slit open from navel to mid-thigh, the crowd moaned in unison. Actual moans. Like a chorus of praise... and unholy thirst.

One woman fainted from the scent alone.

Another screamed, "I BELIEVE IN THE BOUNCE!"

Henry flinched. "Why is everyone so"

Moistessa gently guided him forward. "Just smile, flex slightly, and don’t clench too hard or someone might pass out again."

At the altar stood Seraphina, dressed like a goddess who moonlighted as a dominatrix. She held the Sacred Staff of Thighfluence and began to chant in an ancient, sultry language that mostly sounded like heavy breathing and half-finished compliments.

Then she turned to Henry.

"Kneel."

Henry knelt.

The crowd lost it.

Thrustina stepped forward and uncorked the Euphoric Lube. The scent alone made the stained glass tremble. With practiced hands, she anointed his glutes with reverent strokes, whispering holy affirmations like:

"These buns have known battle."

"These cheeks have defied gravity."

"Let the Squish be praised."

Henry, barely holding it together, muttered, "Am I allowed to cry during this?"

Climaxa, seated in the choir loft, answered, "Only if it’s sexy."

The Mass escalated.

The High Priestesses circled him, humming low vibrations that resonated with his sacred squish. Seraphina leaned in close, her voice a whisper against his ear.

"You’re the reason Milforia hasn’t collapsed into thighless chaos."

Henry was sweating.

No glistening.

A woman in the third row was openly weeping into a towel embroidered with Henry’s face.

Then came the moment of climax.

Seraphina raised the Staff of Thighfluence. The music swelled.

"Let the Squishcendent BOUNCE."

And so he did.

One last bounce.

A soft, sacred fwomp that rippled through the cathedral like divine thunder.

Several women gasped.

One screamed "YES, HOLY DADDY."

Another exploded into glitter. (She got better.)

The holy pressure in the room dropped. Candles flickered out. The Bounce was complete.

---

Post-Mass Gooning & the Picture Frame

Later, after the robes were removed, the oils washed off, and his sacred cheeks wrapped gently in aloe-vera-infused velvet wraps, Henry wandered the halls alone.

He was exhausted. Elated. Kind of horny. And oddly... sad.

Not the loud kind of sadness. The quiet kind. The kind that creeps into your bones after the crowd’s gone home.

He found an old guest chamber tucked away in a forgotten wing of the palace. There was no one there. Just cobwebs, velvet, and a dusty mirror with a hairline crack running through it.

And on the nightstand?

A picture frame.

Old. Silver. Slightly rusted.

Inside it: an elf. Not just any elf. A woman with sea-green eyes and freckles that danced across her cheeks like secrets. Her ears poked out from honey-colored curls, and her smile...

Gods.

That smile.

Henry sank onto the bed, towel still wrapped around his hips, staring at her like the world had stopped.

He whispered, "You looked at me like I mattered. Even when I was just... me."

His hand brushed the glass.

His eyes softened.

And slowly—without any shame, fear, or hesitation—he slid the towel down, leaned back, and let himself melt into a memory.

No audience.

No ceremony.

Just Henry, the last man alive...

...and the first man to ever fall in love with a woman who only existed now in a photograph.

His fingers moved with lazy confidence, not in lust, but longing. The kind of gooning you do when the world feels far away and you’re just... a boy with a fantasy that felt real, once.

He smiled.

Tears pricked his eyes.

But the grin never left.

"...She called me starlight," he whispered.

His breath hitched.

And for the first time since arriving in Milforia...

Henry didn’t feel alone.

Henry didn’t feel alone.

Not in the literal sense, at least. The velvet bed beneath him felt warm. The room, though dim and heavy with silence, wrapped around him like a secret. Outside the cracked window, moonlight spilled through the vines like liquid silver, catching the dust in the air like stars trapped in slow motion.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t need to.

The photograph rested on his chest now, rising and falling with each breath a quiet rhythm. His eyes never left it. That freckled elf. That impossible smile. There was something almost annoying about how real she looked, even after all this time.

Like she’d jump out at any moment and scold him for laying there with no pants, mumbling to himself like a sentimental idiot.

But she wouldn’t.

Because she was gone.

His fingers hovered just above her lips in the picture. That smile... it wasn’t seductive, not like the ones he was used to now. It wasn’t perfect either a little crooked, the left side tugging higher, always accompanied by a half-snort when she laughed too hard. But it had been real.

She -Elira.

Yeah. That was her name. Elira Moonleaf. The elf girl from the eastern groves. The one who taught him how to fish with enchanted thread and bite his tongue when a dryad offered you mushrooms. The one who taught him how to spot constellations not by shape, but by feeling.

"Find the one that makes your chest ache," she used to say, pressing his hand over his heart. "That’s your true star. The one that follows you."

He hadn’t thought about that in years.

Henry exhaled.

Something in the room shifted.

Not physically. Emotionally. Like a layer of memory had unzipped behind the walls. He closed his eyes, sinking deeper into the velvet, deeper into the past.

---

A forest. The air thick with pine and magic. Young Henry—back before Milforia, before divine cheeks, before the world needed him to be anything.

He was seventeen.

Dumb, broke, and wandering.

And she had found him. Quite literally.

He was caught in an elven snare trap, hanging upside-down with his pants around his knees, yelling something about squirrels being government spies. She had laughed until she couldn’t breathe, tears streaking down her cheeks as she cut him loose with a whisper-blade and offered him a slice of mango wrapped in moss.

"You’re either cursed or stupid," she’d said.

"Both. Mostly cursed, though. The stupid part’s inherited."

That was the beginning.

She was older. Sharper. Wild. But she saw something in him no one else had: worth. Not usefulness. Not potential. Just... worth. As he was.

Henry’s hand curled slightly on the photograph.

Back in the room, present-day Milforia, a candle flickered. The shadows danced.

His thoughts wandered to the night they slept under the Celestial Tree. Stars had spilled through the leaves like diamonds through lace. She had held his hand then, not because she needed to but because she wanted to.

"Even if all the men vanished," she whispered, "I’d find you again. Somewhere. Somehow."

He had laughed it off. Said something sarcastic.

But now?

Now he wondered if she had known.

Henry wiped his eyes. The grin was still there, soft and boyish.

He let out a shaky laugh.

"I ended up in a world of women who worship my butt. You’d hate it, Elira. Or maybe you’d laugh your pointy ears off. Who knows."

The moonlight brightened for a moment, catching her eyes in the frame. They glinted.

And then a sound.

Footsteps.

Slow. Hesitant.

The door creaked.

Henry didn’t hide the photo.

Seraphina peeked in. Her hair was down. Robes replaced by a sheer nightgown that clung in all the right ways. She looked half-angel, half-habitual trouble.

She saw the photo. Said nothing.

Just walked in and sat beside him.

Silence hung. Not awkward. Comfortable.

"She was someone special, wasn’t she?"

Henry nodded. "Still is."

Seraphina looked at him, and for once, there was no tease in her expression. Just softness. Maybe a little jealousy. Maybe not.

"You miss her."

"Yeah."

"Did she ever kiss you like I do?"

Henry smiled faintly. "No. Hers were... different. Like a promise. Yours are like a challenge."

Seraphina chuckled. Then leaned her head on his shoulder. 𝙛𝒓𝒆𝙚𝒘𝒆𝓫𝙣𝓸𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝒄𝒐𝓶

"Do you think she’d hate me?"

"No. She’d probably flirt with you. Then stab you for fun."

"Fair."

They sat like that for a while. Him shirtless, towel still half-wrapped. Her tracing patterns on his chest. The photograph resting gently on his lap like a piece of yesterday that refused to fade.

And somewhere between the warmth of Seraphina’s skin and the cool glass of Elira’s smile, Henry finally understood something:

You can belong to more than one world. More than one woman. More than one version of yourself.

Because at the end of the day, you are made of every person who ever loved you.

And if you listen closely enough—in the silence, in the stillness, in the slow ache of longing...

You might just hear them say:

"I still see you."

Henry closed his eyes.

Let the memory hold him.

One last time.

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