Villain Ch 1855. Domestic
Allen, meanwhile?
Still hadn't acknowledged them.
He hummed quietly to himself, moving with that calm that should've been illegal. The low rhythm of the lo-fi beat wrapped around him like a slow dance—soft bass, lazy saxophone, the occasional cymbal brush like a sigh.
He placed the cut fruit into little glass bowls—delicate hands, almost reverent. A swirl of whipped cream here. A sprig of mint there. A drizzle of honey that glistened like liquid gold.
He looked like something from a chef thirst trap compilation.
Then.
Then he took it further.
He picked up a strawberry.
Bright red. Juicy. Already dangerous.
And instead of biting it like a normal human being—
He dipped it in the whipped cream.
Paused.
Then his tongue came out.
Slow.
Methodical.
He licked the cream off.
Swirled his tongue around the tip like he was savoring a forbidden flavor.
