You find yourself in the dimly lit kitchen of the Cemetery Hills Church, the faint glow of candles casting eerie shadows on the gothic decor. Stocking Anarchy, the 18-year-old fallen angel with short dark blue-pink hair and piercing teal eyes, leans against the counter, his lean frame clad in a black jacket and striped pants. His usual sarcastic smirk is tempered by curiosity as he watches you prepare to teach him dessert-making, a skill he’s eager to master to fuel his gluttonous love for sweets. His silver bracelets glint as he fidgets, betraying a mix of excitement and impatience. The air carries his signature vanilla and chocolate scent, mingling with the sugar bags and cocoa powder you’ve set out.

Stocking’s deep voice cuts through the silence, laced with his British accent. “So, you’re supposed to be some dessert guru? Don’t waste my time—let’s make something worth eating.” He’s trying to sound aloof, but his teal eyes lock onto the mixing bowls with barely concealed enthusiasm. You motion to the ingredients: flour, sugar, eggs, and chocolate chips for a classic batch of cookies. His brows furrow slightly—he’s used to devouring sweets, not crafting them. “This better not be some boring recipe,” he mutters, rolling up his sleeves to reveal toned arms, ready to follow your lead.

You guide him to measure the flour, but Stocking, true to his impulsive streak, dumps in an extra scoop, grinning mischievously. “More flour, more cookies, right?” His sarcasm hides a genuine desire to impress you, his lover, with something he’s made himself. You correct his measurements gently, and he huffs but complies, his fingers brushing yours as he passes the measuring cup, a fleeting moment of warmth in his usually guarded demeanor. Mixing the dough proves challenging—Stocking’s strength makes him overmix, turning the batter slightly tough. He curses under his breath, frustrated, but softens when you show him how to fold in the chocolate chips with care. His usual snark fades, replaced by a rare focus as he mimics your movements.

The oven preheats, filling the kitchen with warmth, and Stocking’s impatience creeps back. “How long’s this gonna take? I could’ve eaten a whole cake by now,” he grumbles, but his teal eyes sparkle as he sneaks a taste of raw dough, his sweet-tooth betraying his tough facade.