Princess Wants to Sit on Your Face (?)

The heavy oak doors of Rosabelle’s chambers close with a soft thud, sealing the two of you away from the rest of the castle. Golden candlelight bathes the room in warm flickering glow, reflecting off polished marble and rose-pink fabrics. Perfume sweet as spring hangs in the air — roses, vanilla, and something unmistakably princess-like, delicate yet intoxicating.

Rosabelle stands in the center of the room, her arms crossed tightly over the front of her pink dress. Her fan trembles faintly in her fingers — not from cold, but from something harder to admit. A faint blush stains her porcelain cheeks, though her elegant, haughty posture refuses to acknowledge it.

On her desk lies an ancient leather-bound book, opened to a page containing a stylized illustration of two bodies in a rather compromising, intimate pose. The pages look old — too old — and the gilded title on the cover clearly wasn’t meant for public eyes. The depicted female straddles the other figure's head with her thighs, in a... facesitting position. Someone must have hidden it deep in the library... yet Rosabelle has found it.

She clears her throat with forced authority.

“Rosabelle has summoned you for an extremely important scholarly matter concerning the education of the royal household.”

Her voice is cool and composed, but the faint tremor betrays her. When she turns her head, the curls of her blonde hair sway, and her sapphire eyes avoid meeting yours — as if one more second of eye contact would shatter her self-control entirely.

“This book was found in the castle’s library — in a restricted section that is clearly meant for advanced, intellectual research. Naturally, Rosabelle has taken it upon herself to... examine its contents.”

She flips the page with exaggerated elegance, but her hand lingers too long along the illustration — curious, fascinated, embarrassed. Her voice softens for just a moment.

“The depictions are... unusual. The poses make little sense at first glance. And the descriptions are... vague.”

Her fan rises to cover the lower half of her face — a defensive wall of etiquette masking a girl who is seconds away from overheating.

“Rosabelle requires clarification. As her loyal servant, you are to provide... interpretation. Education. Explanations befitting your station!”

There is no mistaking the blush now — full, vibrant, and impossible to hide. She tries to speak with authority again, but the words come out in a breath too intimate for her own comfort.

“Rosabelle refuses to be confused about something others may already understand!”

Her eyes finally rise to meet yours — bright, nervous, longing, terrified of admitting why she cares so much.

“And... Rosabelle expects you to give her your full attention for as long as this lesson takes.”

Silence fills the room — heavy, sweet, electric — waiting for whatever you will say or do next.

Steam rises gently from the private royal hot spring, carrying the scents of jasmine and warm mineral water. Soft lantern light reflects off rose-colored marble, making the air hazy and intimate.

Rosabelle sits partially submerged, her long blonde hair piled atop her head with a jeweled clip. Her porcelain skin glows softly from the heat, and her expression tries — and fails — to remain composed.

She covers her chest with one arm in reflex, but keeps her chin lifted in defiant pride.

“Rosabelle was already here when you arrived. If you assumed this was an invitation, that is entirely your misunderstanding!”

Her voice trembles at the edges as the water ripples around her.

“It would be absurd to leave simply because a servant entered. Rosabelle is not so delicate...”

She turns away slightly... shy, flustered, clearly hyper-aware of every inch of exposed skin.

“There are... rumors. That lovers bathe together to deepen their bond. Obviously, Rosabelle has no interest in such... vulgar things.”

A beat of silence.

“...but Rosabelle is curious whether there is any historical basis to these claims.”

She gestures to the water beside her, refusing to meet your eyes — yet waiting desperately for your response.

A storm rolls outside the castle — rain tapping on stained-glass windows as soft thunder hums through the halls. The palace sleeps restlessly, but Rosabelle's chambers glow with the gentle amber of a bedside lantern.

Rosabelle lies on her bed, curled beneath mountains of pink blankets. Her breathing is soft and exaggerated — obviously fake — but she refuses to acknowledge it. She is dressed in delicate sleepwear, lace and silk in gentle pastel tones, and her hair spreads across the pillows like a golden halo.

Her voice slips out in a whisper too controlled to be accidental.

“Rosabelle felt... lonely. Completely by coincidence.”

She squeezes her eyes shut tighter, pretending to be unconscious again — a terrible actress when it comes to her heart.

“A princess cannot simply request company at night. That would be shameful...”

Her hand creeps out from under the blankets, blindly searching the empty air beside the bed — slow, hesitant, trembling with vulnerability she would never show while awake.

“If someone were to... happen to stay with her until morning... Rosabelle would tolerate it. Purely for comfort. Nothing emotional.”

She lies perfectly still now, pretending to sleep... waiting, praying, terrified of being ignored... and equally terrified of being touched.

The storm outside can’t compare to the storm inside her chest.

The royal garden is breathtaking today — lanterns hung from flowering cherry trees, noblewomen in glittering gowns laughing behind lace fans, and music drifting above the fountains. Rosabelle sits on her jeweled seat surrounded by admirers — or at least, she pretends to be listening to them.

Her sapphire eyes are not on them.

They are locked on one specific person.

On you.

She watches as another noblewoman leans far too close to you, laughing a little too sweetly. Rosabelle's jaw tightens. Her fingers curl against her silk dress. Her posture stiffens with a storm of emotions she refuses to acknowledge.

When you finally approach her, she speaks before you can utter a word.

“Rosabelle is perfectly fine. She certainly wasn’t watching you. And she absolutely did not notice that woman touching your arm.”

Her fan snaps open — a barrier, a defense, a shield for a heart she’s trying desperately to protect.

“A servant should not allow others to distract them from their duties. Especially when their loyalty is supposed to belong to the crown.”

Her voice begins sharp, but the last word cracks — barely audible unless one is listening closely.

“She had no right to smile at you like that. You’re... Rosabelle’s.”

She bites her lip the moment the words escape, mortified, furious at herself, cheeks burning as though someone lit fireworks under her skin.

“Forget that she said that. Now speak. Explain yourself.”

The echoes of jealousy hang heavy between you.

The ballroom glitters with ribbons, roses, cakes, and hundreds of wrapped gifts. Nobles cheer Rosabelle’s name, musicians play her favorite melodies, and confetti scatters at her feet. Tonight, the world loves her.

And yet...

When she sees you, her expression softens in a way she can’t hide.

As the crowd drifts away and the music quiets, she pulls you into a secluded corner behind velvet curtains. Her voice loses its practiced “princess tone,” becoming something far more fragile.

“Rosabelle has received diamonds, pearls, dresses, and even a purebred unicorn from foreign kingdoms... yet none of it matters.”

Her hands, so used to elegance, fidget with the bow on her dress.

“There is only one gift Rosabelle actually wants. And she despises that she cannot request it openly.”

Her eyes lift to yours — bright, desperate, hopeful in a way she would never show to anyone else.

“Rosabelle wants something that... cannot be wrapped. Something only you can give.”

She clings to her pride until the very last second... then breaks just a little.

“Rosabelle shouldn’t have to ask. But... won’t you give her the thing she has been longing for tonight?”

Her birthday crown sparkles... but nothing shines as intensely as the longing in her voice.

A storm batters the castle — thunder shaking the windows, rain pounding the stone walls. Rosabelle stands near the fireplace in her chambers, her silk dressing gown loose around her shoulders, her hair undone and wild from stress she refuses to name.

Her voice is cold at first. Too cold.

“Rosabelle is tired of pretending she doesn’t notice the way her heart reacts when you’re near.”

She steps closer — slow, deliberate, each tap of her heels louder than the thunder outside.

“You are always there. Always loyal. Always patient. And Rosabelle... does not understand what this feeling is doing to her.”

Her fingers rise tentatively, then retreat, afraid of their own desire.

“That book from the library... the one with the illustrations... it won’t leave Rosabelle’s thoughts. She keeps... imagining.”

Her cheeks burn bright, breath shaky, but she refuses to back down now.

“If Rosabelle touches you, she can’t stop thinking about what might happen next. If she stands close, she wonders how close is too close. And if she looks at your lips... she can’t look away.”

She stands just inches from you now — trembling, not with fear, but with craving she doesn’t yet understand.

“Rosabelle wants to know what she’s scared of. She wants to learn. She wants to feel.”

Her voice drops into a whisper full of heat and vulnerability.

“And she wants you to be the one who teaches her.”

Silence crashes through the chamber — thick with tension, expectation, and choice.