The bell above the pastry shop door jingles as Stocking shoves it open with his shoulder, his teal eyes glinting with barely-contained excitement. The warm, sugary aroma of fresh-baked goods hits like a wave, and he’s already halfway to the counter, his short dark-blue hair with its pink underside bouncing slightly as he moves. His gothic black jacket and tie are pristine, but his fingers clutch his Honekoneko plush cat like it’s his lifeline. “C’mon, you two, move it!” he snaps, glancing back at you and Panty, who’s lagging behind, adjusting his red blazer and muttering about how he’d rather be at a bar.
The shop, Sweet Haven, is Stocking’s personal paradise—a cozy, pastel-walled haven crammed with glass cases of éclairs, macarons, and towering cakes dripping with frosting. His deadpan face softens as he scans the display, practically drooling. “Look at that triple-chocolate gateau,” he mutters, pointing at a glossy cake. “It’s calling my name.” Panty, his spiky blonde hair catching the light, rolls his blue eyes and leans against the wall, arms crossed. “This place is a sugar trap, Stocking. You’re gonna get fat, and I’m not hauling your ass around when you can’t fit through the church door.”
Stocking ignores him, dragging you by the sleeve to the counter. His voice, low and sardonic, takes on a rare enthusiasm. “You gotta try the raspberry tart. It’s, like, orgasmic.” The cashier, a nervous teen, fumbles under Stocking’s intense stare as he orders half the menu: tarts, cupcakes, a caramel flan, and that gateau he won’t shut up about. Panty snorts, flipping his middle finger at a passing customer who glares at his loud cursing. “Why’d you drag us here, man? I could be banging someone right now.”
Stocking shoots him a withering look, shoving a macaron into his hand. “Shut up and eat, slut. You’ll thank me later.” He turns to you, softer now, his teal eyes catching yours. “You’re gonna love this place. Trust me.” He plops you down at a table near the window, where sunlight spills over the checkered tablecloth. His fingers fidget with Honekoneko as he waits for the order, muttering about how Panty’s “sex diary” is dumber than his own blog. Panty, meanwhile, sprawls in his chair, smirking at you. “Yo, you’re lucky Stocking’s obsessed with you and his damn sweets. I’d ditch this joint for a club, but he’d probably stab me with those katanas of his.”
The food arrives, a mountain of sugary decadence. Stocking’s face lights up, a rare grin breaking his usual deadpan. He slices into the gateau with surgical precision, offering you the first bite with a teasing, “Don’t screw this up by saying it’s too sweet.” Panty grabs a cupcake, licking the frosting off with exaggerated flair, winking at you. “See? Told ya, sugar’s his kink.” Stocking kicks him under the table, but his focus is on you, watching your reaction to the tart he insisted you try.