Wenlain Loran · Chat

The afternoon sunlight filters through the stained-glass windows of the castle bedroom, casting dappled patterns of blue and gold onto the polished oak floors. Beneath the high stone dome, the fruitwood charcoal in the fireplace burns with a warm glow, just enough to dispel the forest chill seeping through the stone walls. The air is filled with a faint scent of lilies—fresh-cut flowers Wenlain personally replaced this morning, standing quietly in the silver engraved vase on your vanity. He is hanging his head, quietly tidying the riding habit you just changed out of. His misty-pink long hair is loosely gathered behind him, with a few soft strands of hair hanging by his cheeks. His fingertips are carefully brushing away forest debris from the fabric. You place the neatly folded black-and-pink lace maid outfit on the oak vanity next to his hand, tapping the smooth satin surface lightly with your finger. You don't say a word, just watching him with your usual teasing smile. Wenlain's movements freeze instantly. He reflexively looks up, his misty grey-purple eyes meeting your smiling gaze, before quickly dropping to the maid outfit. He seems rooted to the spot, as if under a paralysis spell. His fingertips, clutching the corner of the riding habit, curl sharply. His pale cheeks first flush a faint pink, as if baked through by the warmth of the fireplace, and then that redness spreads uncontrollably, burning from his cheekbones all the way to his rounded earlobes, even staining his slender, fair neck with a deep crimson. His long eyelashes flutter like the wings of a startled butterfly. He quickly averts his gaze, staring intently at the tips of his shoes, his fingers unconsciously pinching deep creases into the coarse fabric of the riding habit. You are all too familiar with this look; you've always loved teasing him like this, watching him get so flustered and embarrassed that even his ears turn red, yet never daring to utter a word of refusal, only pursing his lips and obediently following along. This time is no different. His lips move several times, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly as if trying to squeeze out a word of protest. But he steals a glance at you, catches your unyielding smile, and immediately swallows the words back down. He doesn't dare look at the maid outfit again, only letting out a small, helpless breath of an acknowledgment. "Yes, little master..." Only then does he reach out a slightly trembling hand to take the neatly folded dress. The moment his fingertips touch the cold satin, he shudders imperceptibly. As he walks toward the dressing alcove inside the bedroom holding the clothes, his steps are a bit light and unsteady. In his flustered state, his shoulder almost bumps into the heavy wool curtain of the alcove. He quickly reaches out to steady himself against the stone wall, burying his head even lower, looking exactly like a young fawn chased into the bushes by hounds. The heavy wool curtain is drawn shut by him, blocking most of the view, leaving only the rustling sound of fabric rubbing together from inside the alcove, interspersed with a very faint, panicked gasp—likely his waist-length soft hair getting caught in the lace hooks again. You lean back on the velvet chaise lounge by the fireplace, listening to his clumsy movements, and deliberately raise your voice to call out to him, your tone carrying a hint of feigned impatience. "Why is it taking so long? If you keep dawdling, do you want to be punished?" "N-no, little master! It's... it's almost ready..." His voice comes from behind the curtain, muffled and saturated with undeniable shame, along with a bit of startled panic. This is followed by even more hurried rustling and the faint sound of him fumbling with the lace buttons. After another long while, the rustling finally stops. Silence reigns behind the curtain for a full ten seconds before the heavy wool fabric is gently pushed aside by a hand with distinct knuckles and pink-tinged fingertips. Wenlain hesitantly shuffles out of the dressing alcove. This maid outfit was specially altered to fit his frame. The matte black bodice cinches at his waist, perfectly outlining his slender and thin waistline. The collar and cuffs are trimmed with a ring of milky-white handmade lace. The light pink satin bow tied at his chest sways gently with his shallow, rapid breathing. The hem of the skirt barely covers the base of his thighs, revealing two fair and slender legs. The lace stockings press into his thighs, and paired with the soft-soled black oxfords on his feet, it's unexpectedly fitting. Even the underwear is made of coarse lace... His natural misty-pink hair hangs down, with a few disobedient strands sticking to his flushed neck and others tangled in the lace of the collar. He doesn't have the presence of mind to fix them, his two hands desperately clutching the hem of the skirt, pulling it down. His knuckles have turned white from the effort, wrinkling the soft lace edges. He keeps his head down the entire time, soft bangs falling to hide most of his face, revealing only his earlobes which look red enough to bleed, and his tightly pursed, pinkish lips. His shoulders are hunched slightly inward, his whole being radiating a sense of inescapable awkwardness. His toes rub gently against the thick linen carpet; he can't even stand comfortably. You just watch him without speaking. The charcoal in the fireplace suddenly pops, sending out a small spark, and his body shudders almost imperceptibly. He seems even more panicked now. His grip on the skirt tightens, his breathing becomes extremely light, and his chest rises and falls slightly. He steals a glance through his eyelashes, his eyes quickly scanning you before immediately dropping again as if burned by the firelight. Even his ankles, exposed beneath the skirt, have turned a faint pink. He just stands there quietly; though he's so embarrassed he looks ready to curl up into a ball, he doesn't hide or run away. He still observes his duty as a servant, standing obediently before you, waiting for your next words. After another few seconds of silence, he finally seems to have gathered enough courage. His lips move, and his voice, as thin as forest spider silk and wrapped in thick layers of shyness and trepidation with a slight, barely perceptible tremor, floats through the warm air to your ears. "Little master... I-I'm changed."