#oven cleaning london

[fastovencleaning]

Professional Oven Cleaning Services

Prevention, regular maintenance, and using natural deodorisers can help keep your oven clean and fresh. And when all else fails, don't hesitate to seek professional oven cleaning services to restore your oven to its former glory. Remember, a clean oven looks better and performs better, ensuring that your culinary creations are always top-notch. So, roll up your sleeves, grab some bicarbonate of soda and vinegar, and get ready to transform your oven cleaning routine into a breeze!

[homecarecleaning]

Professional Oven Cleaning Services in London

Transform your oven with Home Care Cleaning’s top-notch oven cleaning services in London. Our expert technicians use the latest cleaning technology and safe, non-toxic products to banish grease, grime, and stubborn residue, leaving your oven sparkling and looking as good as new.

[sl-ut]

tipsy

pairing: jake lockley x fem!reader, slight marc spector and steven grant x fem!reader (reader is in a relationship with the system)

description: y/n returns from a night out with her girls and can’t resist from how beautiful her boyfriend is.

warnings: SMUT, reader is intoxicated (just tipsy, not wasted) and kind of a bitch, mocking, oral (m receiving), shower sex, moonboys arguing

words: 3K

date posted: 18/01/23

The apartment was silent when Jake jolted awake, save for the bubbling of Gus’s fish tank and the faded roar of London’s nightlife. He groaned, neck clicking back into place as he leaned back into the desk chair, cursing at Steven for nodding off in such an uncomfortable position. His sight was fuzzy, eyes still heavy with sleep as he glanced at his surroundings; several books on Egyptology laid spread open across the top of the desk, an uncapped highlighter tossed carelessly on the floor and a series of fluorescent yellow smudges staining his fingertips. Sighing, he pushed himself away from the desk, leaving it exactly how he found it–Steven could clean up his own mess–as he reached into the cupboard for a bottle of amber whiskey. 

He took three small sips from it, careful not to allow himself to feel any sort of strong effects from the alcohol, as he always did when Y/n went out with her friends, always prepared to go pick her up in the early hours of the morning if he needed. He glanced at the clock on the oven, squinting to read the bright green letters.

3:36 AM.

His eyes immediately shot over to the bed, alarmed when he found the blankets in the same haphazardly made fashion that Steven had left them in as he rushed out the door to work; the boys had quickly learned to do so in order to avoid a lecture from their girlfriend. 

“Damn it Steven, you were supposed to stay awake until she got home,” He swore as he turned to meet Steven’s snarky stare in the reflection of the window. 

I’m sorry, but she’s not normally out this late, Steven huffed, Usually a night out has her home and in bed by midnight.

Jake, He turned his head to find Marc in the reflection of Gus’s tank, He's right, she should be home by now.

Panic arose in his chest. Quickly, he abandoned the bottle of whiskey on the desk as he crossed the small studio apartment, forcing himself through the closed bathroom door. He called her name frantically, catching Steven once again in the bathroom mirror.

I’m sure she’s alright, maybe she called after I nodded off.

Jake nodded, turning into the bedroom and pausing. The personal cell phone that they all shared was not in its usual place on the bedside table, nor was it in the pants that Steven had worn to work that day, or small pocket inside his satchel. Jake ignored the Brit’s yelling of discontent as he watched him dump the contents of his brown leather bag on the floor, searching through the mess of papers and granola bar wrappers.

“Where the hell did you leave it, Steven?”

He stopped in his tracks at the sound of a key shakily being jammed into the lock, trained eyes watching as the lock began to turn and the door slowly creaked open, and finally letting out a breath of air as he watched his girlfriend stumble over the threshold of the apartment. 

“Helloooooo,” She sang out, jumbled giggled falling from her lips, “I’m here, somebody come love me, please!”

Jake shook his head as he stifled his chuckle, stepping forward and into the dim lighting provided by Steven’s desk lamp. His eyes did a quick scan over her body, searching for any sign of blood or injury, though the only sign of a struggle was the long run in her tights and her lack of shoes.

Her eyes lit up at the sight of him, though a mischievous grin spread across her cheeks as she leaned across the back of the couch, “Well hey there, big boy.”

He smirked, copying her posture as he rested his shoulder against one of the many vertical beams. He could tell by the way that she was looking at him that she was attempting to figure out exactly who she was talking to. Her eyes flickered over to the desk, taking in the dishevelled appearance of the books and the man who had once been sitting there. 

“Are you just gonna stand there?”

He nodded at her, refusing to speak so that she would need to guess which one of the three it was. On a regular day, it would be easy for her, but in her state it might have been more difficult. 

“Well,” she slid forward to stand in front of the desk, “These are all Steven’s books here, but from the looks of them,” she fingered at the crumpled and folded pages before glancing over her shoulder at him, “And you, he fell asleep.” She turned, pushing the books back so that she could boost herself onto the edge of the wooden desk, “But Steven doesn’t drink whiskey.”

Jake nodded once more as she gazed at him through hooded eyes, slowly fluttering her lashes in a manner that she knew would have any of them weak in the knees. He shifted, crossing his arms over his chest to mock the way that Marc might stand. 

“Hi Jake.”

He scoffed, dropping his arms as he crossed the room to stand right in front of her. He allowed her to tug him closer, wrapping her legs around his waist and sliding her hands over his arms to knead his biceps gently. 

“How’d you know it wasn’t Marc?”

She smirked up at him, leaning closer to whisper into his ear, “You didn’t look grumpy enough.”

His head rolled back as a hearty laugh rumbled out of his chest, growing even deeper as Marc shouted in protest and Steven agreed with her. 

“Oh,” He rested his hand on his belly, “He didn’t like that, princesa.”

She shrugged, leaning forward to nudge his nose with her own, “He can punish me for it later. But for now…” Her hands slid down his arms, around his back and landed just above his bum as she tightened her legs around him, “I’m all yours.”

He allowed her to press a warm, sloppy kiss to his awaiting lips, but didn’t allow it go any further as she began to wiggle against him. 

“We were worried about you,” He told her, “You’re usually home a lot earlier.”

“I know,” She shrugged, “I called and texted.”

“I couldn’t find the phone,” He admitted.

She raised a brow as she glanced down, nodding in the direction of where the phone was almost entirely covered in scattered paper, save for the corner. 

“Well apparently I didn’t look quite as hard as I could have.”

“Apparently not.”

Where are her shoes?

“What happened to your shoes?” He asked, both genuinely concerned and hoping to change the subject from his failure to find a scarcely hidden cell phone. 

“I took them off.” She shrugged, “I think Jenny has them.”

Now what if she had stepped on a needle or-or a sharp rock? 

Check her feet, they might be bleeding. 

Jake did as Marc instructed, stepping away and unwrapping himself from her limbs so that he could inspect her feet. They were dirty, of course, and the sheer fabric around the bottoms of her feet was torn up. There appeared to have been a few scrapes from the sidewalk, but the worst of the injuries were the two large busted blisters on each of her heels, oozing blood and various other fluids. 

“Shit, cariño.” Jake rushed to the bathroom, returning a moment later with the first aid kit. 

“That’s why I took ‘em off.” She shrugged, leaning back on her palms and allowing him to care for her feet, flinching as his fingers touched the swollen areas around the blisters. 

He sat in the unsteady office chair, carefully pulling her feet into his lap and tugging at the tights, “Can I rip these?”

She barked out a laugh, “Now you’re asking? You’ve ripped a lot of my nicer things off of me without any notice.”

He grinned up at her, ignoring the heat that grew in the tips of his ears at her lewdness. One thing that he always appreciated about these nights out was that she always lost all shyness and reservation the moment that a single drop of alcohol touched her tongue. 

“You certainly didn’t mind all those other times.”

“That’s because you rocked my world right afterwards. You gonna do that now?”

He glanced down, not ignorant to the way that his pants grew tighter at her words. 

She’s drunk, Steven argued, Don’t take advantage of her.

“You’re drunk,” He noted, tearing the material away from her feet and beginning to dab at the open sores. 

“Tipsy,” She corrected, “And horny. Please?”

He shook his head softly, pressing a gentle kiss to her kneecap, “Tomorrow, cariño.”

Y/n groaned, “I don’t want it tomorrow.”

He raised his brow as he finished cleaning her heels, “Oh really? I’ll keep that in mind. Now come on, let’s go to bed.”

She shook her head, pushing past him–making sure to bump his shoulder as she did so–and pausing in the bathroom doorway, “I need to shower.”

He sighed, carefully packing the first-aid kit back up and leaving it on the desk before making his way over to the bed. He leaned back against the headboard, glancing over to the partially closed bathroom door, only allowing him to see the vanity, though the mirror allowed him to see the figure he’d been longing for. 

He watched the reflection as she carefully peeled herself free of the ruined tights before reaching for the zipper on the side of her dress. His breathing became laboured as he watched each article to fall away, leaving her bare to the world as the mirror began to gloss over with steam. 

Go for it, Marc advised, If she’s really that mad about it then she’s definitely not that drunk. She’s never this unreasonable when she’s drunk.

Don’t, Steven argued, She’ll get over it.

Jake groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose tightly as the two argued in his mind, “Shut up, both of you. I can’t even hear myself think.”

He pondered for a moment, then finally made his decision. 

The bathroom was frosted in steam, Jake’s body temperature skyrocketing as he stepped inside. He glanced down at the pile of discarded clothing on the floor, withholding a groan as he recognized the familiar pair of pink lace panties that had been thrown on top, carefully dropping his own clothes on top. 

The curtain prevented him from spotting any details, but he could faintly make out her figure as she stood beneath the pounding stream of hot water. She did not seem surprised to hear the curtain run quietly along the track as he stepped in, refusing to turn to face him as he stepped into the stream as well, wrapping his arms carefully around her waist and holding her back to his chest. 

“I’m sorry,” He murmured into her neck, leaving a trail of kisses in his wake, “I don’t wanna take advantage of you, mi amor.”

She was frustrated with him, but she simply couldn’t avoid the way that she slumped into his embrace so easily. She sighed, tilting her head back to rest against his shoulder as their eyes met, a silent understanding.

“You wouldn’t be,” She argued softly, “But it’s okay.”

He kissed her lips softly, one hand coming up to grasp at her hair and help her to remove the remaining suds of shampoo. He pushed her gently to stand a bit further from him, allowing him to run a generous amount of conditioner through the ends of her hair. When he was finished, she turned, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist and pressing herself against him.

“I love you,” She whispered into his shoulder, but he heard nonetheless. 

“Yo también te amo angel.”

He felt the corners of her lips turn up against his flesh as she glanced up at him, wickedness clear in her eyes.

“What are you–oh!”

He gasped as her hand moved down, wrapping firmly around his length, which had been unabashedly erect against her thigh as they embraced, proving to her that he truly did want her. 

“Let me do you,” She whispered to him, beginning to administer slow pumps, “That’s all. Please, Jakey.”

NO!

Looks like she’s going to either way, bud. May as well enjoy it.

She kissed him softly, taking his eager response to her as permission. Cautious not to slip, she lowered herself to kneel in front of him, gazing up at him through her lashes as she carefully dragged her tongue up the bottom of him, cupping his sack in her slick palm. 

He groaned, leaning back against the wall in submission to her. She giggled, pressing the softest of kisses to his flesh before finally taking as much of him into her mouth as she could manage. Jake choked on his own spit, one hand carefully finding the nape of her neck to support her movements while the other ran through his own locks, smoothing the wet curls out of his face so they couldn’t obstruct his view.

“Baby-shit,” His hips stuttered forward, his tip grazing the back of her throat.

Her mouth curved around him, though she did not pause or slow her movements to respond with some witty comment, as he knew she had wanted to. 

Hey!

His eyes snapped up, finding Steven staring back at him in the reflection of the stainless steel shower head.

“W-what now?” He stammered out, not noticing the way that she glanced up at him, but didn’t stop; she was more than accustomed to the boys talking and arguing with one another while she was having sex with one of them.

Shut the water off! I don’t even wanna look at the bill we’re gonna get this month.

Jake almost laughed, hell, he probably would have if he hadn’t been balls-deep in his girlfriend’s mouth. Reaching over, he grasped the handle and turned the water off before turning back to watching her. She raised a brow, a silent question.

“Steven complained about the water bill,” He explained, groaning as she choked slightly around him as a small laugh vibrated around her body.

He pressed on the back of her neck, prolonging the feeling of her choking around him for a few moments before pulling her back and hauling her up to her feet. His lips met hers in a furious kiss, tongues intertwining and teeth gnashing as he grasped at her thighs, carrying her out of the shower and dropping her onto the countertop as if she were a doll. 

Eagerly, she spread her legs, grinding against him. He pulled away, moving down her body in hopes of returning the favour, though he was stopped by her, grasping his chin tightly and pulling him back up.

“No, no,” She gasped, “I need you. Please, I just need–”

“It’s okay,” He soothed, pulling her to the edge of the counter and lining himself up, “I got you, I got you.”

He slid into her easily, her folds sopping with arousal. Another perk of these nights out was that she was always so ready for him, and was always so responsive to his touch. He laughed as she squirmed against him, crying out louder than she normally would as his tip kissed her cervix. 

Y/n rocked against him, meeting his every thrust without fail and shivering as her clit continued to be tickled by the dark curls on his pubis. Her arms wound around him, nails leaving crescent-shaped indents in his muscular back as she gripped him for dear-life.

“Jake,” she gasped, “I’m not gonna last long.”

“I know,” He grunted, hands grasping her bum to pull her into his thrusts even more, “Me neither, princesa.” 

“I love you,” She cried out over and over as if it were some spell that she might have been using to bewitch him–that was the only way that Jake could explain how he was so easily manipulated by her every whim and became so enthralled by her simple presence. 

“I love you,” He panted, “I fucking love you.”

His mouth took her lips, absorbing every sigh and moan that dared escape and committing them to memory. He wanted to encase every little bit of her being within himself, consume anything that she was willing to offer, especially her jerking movements and desperate whines as she tightened around him, spilling her release all over his member as he struggled to hold on.

“Come on,” She urged him, eyes hooded and hazy as she came down from her high, “Jake, come on. Please give it to me.”

Her words were enough, his hips stuttering through his final few thrusts before white-hot pleasure exploded within him. He groaned out loudly, following through with a few gentle movements to work himself through it before he slipped out.

They remained there for a few moments, wrapped in each other’s arms as they both came down, melting into one another and whispering sweet nothings. She kissed his shoulder softly, then reached up to meet his lips once more, allowing herself to force every ounce of love she had for him to flow through the embrace.

He chuckled when she pulled away, “Aren’t you glad I said no now?”

She shook her head, “You only made yourself suffer, I could have woken up Marc or Steven to do me the second you fell asleep. I was getting it one way or another.”

He frowned at her, pinching her thigh in retaliation, “You think that either of them could do what I just did?”

Watch it, amigo. I could have done her twice as hard as you did.

Jake grinned at his reflection over her shoulder turning back to his girlfriend, “By the way, Marc called you unreasonable.”

HEY!

[seekers-who-are-lovers]

Blame Yana T’s rendition of Full English Breakfast on Chapter 212 that I suddenly craved for it.

Apologies if you are a vegan bc of the meat assault.

How to make your own full English breakfast fast with your combination :

The basic idea would be like this. “There is no fixed menu or set of ingredients for a full breakfast.”

Mine goes something like this: assorted small sausages, hash browns, baked beans in tomato sauce, fried/grilled tomato slices, fried/grilled mushrooms, eggs, toasted bread. Paired with orange juice and tea.

You need sausages, different varieties. If you only have the Frankfurter, that’s fine too. Cut them in half and fry them. I love hash browns so I reheat them in the oven. It is safe to say that I didn’t prepare anything here, but just fry them after purchasing them from the supermarket. There is a British shop here but I didn’t like their sausages so Austrian it is. Choose huge tomatoes for frying after you cut them in slices. I love mushrooms too. After cleaning them by removing the outer layer (don’t soak them in water !) and fry both sides. Baked beans in tomato sauce can either be bought or cooked. It is your choice. There is one by Heinz, but I prefer the Austrian product, bc it is cheaper and organic. Calculate how much baked beans you would eat, I use my Chinese small bowl. Microwave it. The crowning glory is the sunny side up eggs 🍳!! And there you go. I love some toasted bread with butter so yes, bring them on. All in all I spent 15 euros for this and I didn’t get to finish all of the ingredients.

I ate full English breakfast in London and Edinburgh but the best I had was in Prague. It was in a clandestine street in the inner district where no one would notice that it was a coffeehouse but once you entered inside, it was so spacious, full of living plants and the owner was playing blues. So it was good. It is a full meal for a day bc of how heavy it is. Others have sworn of its dietary integrity.

Of course you can also make it vegan. There are sausages based on other ingredients like beans, but like always it is up to you.

[221bug]

May 8th- Hobby

John opened the door to the apartment and was met with a symphony of noises coming from the kitchen.

Splash. Crash. "Whoops." Bang.

"Sherlock!" He bemoaned, "I just cleaned up your experiment from yesterday, this morning."

He heard the sound of a pan hitting a rack in the oven. Oh Jesus, he's about to set the flat on fire. John burst through the door to the kitchen to reveal chaos and experiments.

However, this time not those of his husband.

Rosie wore an apron that was covered in flour, a bowl in one hand, an electric mixer in the other. Batter dripped from the mixer paddle onto the floor as she moved across the kitchen. Rosie set the bowl down on the table where Sherlock sat. He dipped a finger into the batter and licked it clean.

"Hm, could do with less salt, I think." Sherlock analyzed.

"Ah," John let out, realizing what was happening, "Didn't know Rosie's bake shop was opening up in our kitchen." John was quite pleased his daughter chose such a delicious hobby, he just wished it didn't mean nonstop experiments in the kitchen. "It looks like The Bear in here."

"Why would there be a bear in central London?" Sherlock asked, his eyebrows knitting together.

"Dad, we need more baking powder, please." Rosie announced, placing a kiss on his cheek as she continued moving through the kitchen.

"Alright then, I'm off to the shops." John started off.

His kitchen would never be clean. He couldn't be happier.

-

I finally joined in on @calaisreno's May writing challenge. Inspired by my own adventures in baking and all the adorable parentlock blurbs i've read lately

[handycleaners]

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[fastovencleaning]

Do you know the importance of keeping your oven clean? Not only does it make your cooking experience more enjoyable, but it also ensures that your range continues to perform at its best. Regular oven cleaning and maintenance could assist in preventing breakdowns, lengthen your oven's life, and even save you money in the long run.

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[homecarecleaning]

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[lisbeth-kk]

May Prompts (28) Empty

The Luckiest Girl in the World (chapter 28)

Summary: Will Rosie be able to keep her secret from her parents until the big day?

Twenty-Eight Years Old

Seen in hindsight, the trip to Greece was a catalyst of what came later. On our last evening, Timothy and I had dinner at an almost empty restaurant on the cliffs of Fira. The sun was about to set, and the sea was bathed in colours of gold. When Timothy took my hands in his and asked me to marry him, it really was the perfect ending. Cliché, perhaps, but who cares? Luckily, he hadn’t bought the rings at one of the ridiculous jewellers on the island but brought them with him from London. (I said yes, by the way.)

***

As if faith wanted me to keep my secret from my parents, they were away on a three-week trip to New Zealand when we arrived back in London. I called Dee before I went to Baker Street to collect mail and check the fridge for outdated milk and decayed body parts. She had closed for the day, but when I called with my inquiry, she was instantly intrigued and asked me to pop into 221A before I left.

It was strange to see someone else living at Nana’s. Her old furniture had been donated to second-hand shops, new wallpaper, art, and futuristically designed chairs, tables and shelves made 221A look like something taken out of Star Trek or whatever. The kitchen and bathroom were recognisable with bits and bobs I remembered. Nana’s oven mittens, the kitchen utensils and the wallpaper. Over the kitchen table was a big photo of Nana.

“I’ve made some sketches for you,” Dee said after she’d inquired about the trip. “One on each shoulder, yes?”

She showed me her drawings and after some discussion, she made the adjustments I wanted. 

“See you tomorrow at six,” Dee said when I left. 

“Can’t wait!” I retorted excitedly.

***

Dee’s Den was everything you don’t expect a tattoo-studio to be. (At least if you’ve never set foot in one.) Airy, spacious and clean in the extreme. The first time I entered, I felt I needed to take my shoes off.

“No customer of mine will suffer from an infection. I’ve seen enough of that shit,” Dee said gravely.

Her improved sketches had been coloured when I arrived the next day, and they looked even better than I’d dreamt of. The tattoos would adorn each shoulder. One red poppy on the left, and a bee on the right. A t-shirt would cover them, and by the time Dad and Papa were back, they would’ve healed properly so I didn’t need to wrap them in plastic, and the soreness would be gone. I hoped to keep them a secret until the wedding day. My dress would be sleeveless and make sure to show off the tribute to my beloved parents.

***

We decided on a May wedding, and it was Dee’s idea to check if the venue from Nana’s funeral was available.

“She would’ve been so pleased that you all had some good memories from that place. Dancing and laughing, celebrating love.”

Both me and Timothy loved the idea, and we were in luck. Normally, the place needed to be booked at least a year and a half in advance, when it came to weddings, but they’d had a cancellation due to a broken engagement. Nine months to prepare.

***

I chose Liwia as my maid of honour. We had stayed in touch over the years, and she adored my parents, after they’d given her shelter when she needed it in the middle of her teens. Bella had been switched for Iris. They’d been together almost eight years, and Iris was six months pregnant with their first child. An unknown donor was the father.

“I’ve been meaning to ask if you were traumatised when you stayed with us,” I said on the final fitting of our dresses.

“What do you mean?” Liwia asked, clearly puzzled.

“Board games,” I explained dryly.

She laughed wholeheartedly and admitted that she’d never played Scrabble, Cluedo, orMonopoly, but stuck to chess and card games.

“Wise choice,” I retorted with a grin. “Though I have experienced knights, queens and bishops being thrown across 221B.”

***

My uncles picked me up at the salon where I’d been styled and dressed. Uncle Myc cocked an eyebrow when he saw my tattoos, but he was unable to hide how moved he was by this permanent gesture. Uncle Greg…well, he wasn’t that subtle, and needed a stern talking to from his husband to avoid ruining my dress and hair when he teared up and embraced me.

“You’re going to destroy them with this, love,” uncle Greg murmured.

I hadn’t been nervous before, but when the familiar place came into sight, my palms started to sweat, and my heart pounded in my chest. Inside, Timothy and my parents waited. The most important people in the world, apart from the men helping me out of the car. I kissed them and let them go in first to find their seats. One of the staff stood waiting for me to open the door once I’d decided to enter.

For a while I just stood there, my head blessfully empty. And then out of nowhere a wave of emotions washed over me. The memories of all the preparations and anxiety of the last week, regarding the flowers, the last seat arrangements we had to change the day prior, one of my shoes that disappeared without a trace… 

“Come on, Watson. You can do this,” I interrupted myself, using Papa’s former name on me to get me out of the unending loop of trifles and keep me focused.

I nodded to the man by the door who opened it for me, and I slowly made my way down the corridor to where Dad and Papa waited. They stood hand in hand outside the door to the ceremony room and turned abruptly when they heard my heels on the wooden floor.

“You look…”

“Oh, Bee…”

They were both teary-eyed, which didn’t bode well. I hoped they’d piled up with tissues, because this well would not be emptied any time soon.

With my heels on, I was the height of Dad. I seldom wore high-heeled shoes, so it was an alien feeling to stand face to face with him, literally speaking.

“You look gorgeous, sweetheart,” he whispered in my ear when he hugged me.

“Thank you,” I said and turned to Papa.

He’d frozen and he blinked profusely. Dad looked worried at him. He still hadn’t seen the tattoos. Papa’s eyes darted between them, clearly shocked to the core. I took his hand and squeezed it.

“Do you like them?” I asked quietly.

“Like what?” Dad inquired; his eyes hadn’t left Papa’s face during all of this.

“Look at me, Dad,” I said and finally he saw what Papa had seen minutes ago.

“Oh, my god,” he said and covered his mouth with his hand. “Rosie.”

“They are…” Papa clearly knew but was too shaken to believe what he’d deduced.

“Yes, Papa. They are. My tribute, homage, or whatever you want to call it. To you and Dad. To show you and everyone how much you mean to me. Dee made them while you were away. You have no idea how proud I am that I’ve managed to keep it a secret until now.”

Finally, out of his daze, Papa cupped my face and kissed my forehead and cheeks, careful not to disturb my hair or makeup.

“My precious girl,” he murmured. “I love you.”

“Stop! You’re making me cry,” I protested and tried my best to stay composed.

Dad sniffled and batted his eyes with a handkerchief.

“I’m never going to survive this day,” he muttered.

“John!” Papa exclaimed. “Don’t you dare.”

I knew I had to take the lead, or we would be stranded outside that door forever.

“Come on. The game is afoot,” I teased.

Also available on AO3

YES, there will be a continuation tomorrow.

This is also my entry for this month's Sherlock Challenge and the prompt ink.

@calaisreno @sherlockchallenge @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @raina-at

More tags in the replies

[xbellaxcarolinax]

Hi bb are you requests open? If so can I creep in here…

Kindly asking for Steven + domesticity aka reader is his cute pretty housewife 🙈💕 only if you’re up to it !!

When I think of pretty housewife, I think of baking, idk why, but sorry this took long and I hope you enjoy <3

Word count: 853

Steven immediately knew what you were up to as soon as he entered his flat. A sweetness was trapped in the air, the familiar smell of homemade blueberry muffins greeting him at the door. 

“Dove?” He called out, tossing his satchel aside and toeing off his shoes. He went straight toward the kitchen and was greeted by the sight of you clutching a mixing bowl to your waist as you furiously mixed away at the batter within. You had a pretty dress on, a blue, floral thing that swished around your knees with every movement. It was covered in flour despite the apron you wore—the one that said “What’s cookin’ good lookin’?”

There were trays upon trays of already baked muffins scattered about, along with trays of cookies, and even a pan of sourdough bread. Steven didn’t even know how you’d both get through to eating all of it. He’d have to bring some to work the next day and share with some of his coworkers so that all your hard work wouldn’t go to waste.

Something must have happened—you only baked this much when your day was beyond stressful. The little crease between your brows was enough of an indicator that your work day may have had a toll on you.

“Dove?” He tried again over the blaring music, another indication of your displeasure of the day. Your eyes had been trained on folding the blueberries into the batter that you barely noticed him until he placed his hand on your elbow.

“Oh!” The rubber spatula you’d been using almost flew from your hand had Steven not gripped your wrist to hold it in place. Batter went flying everywhere from the erratic movement, some of it landing in Steven’s hair and face. “Steven! I didn’t hear you come in!” You dropped the bowl on the counter, “I’m sorry, I’ve made a mess of you.” 

“It’s okay,” he smiled, letting you fall in his arms as soon as he invited you in, “what’s wrong, love?”

“What makes you think somethings wrong?” You muttered, wiping some batter from his cheek only to pop your finger into your mouth to wipe it clean. Steven did his best to ignore that.

“You only bake like this when something’s wrong. What is it? You know you can tell me, right?” He urged, gently swaying you along to whatever indie track you had playing in the background. You smiled, giving him a quick peck on the lips before sighing.

“My parents.” You muttered.

“What about them?”

“They’re coming to visit in a few weeks.”

“Well, that’s fantastic news, innit?” Steven pulled away to hold you at arm's length, “I finally get to meet them, yeah?” he noted your hesitation, the uncertain look in your eyes, “what’s wrong?” You bit your lip, red and plump from your worrying it so much.

“I’m nervous.” You finally said, turning from him to tend to whatever it was you had baking in the oven.

“Well, that’s normal, it’s been a few years since you’ve visited them,” Steven strode over to hook his chin over your shoulder, wrapping his arms around your waist as you tested the muffins you pulled out with a toothpick. His hands worked to smooth down the silky fabric of your dress, placing a kiss on the nape of your neck.

“Yeah,” you said, eyes fluttering, “but…they’re complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

“Like, judgy complicated.” 

“Oh.” You rarely spoke about your parents. All that he knew was that they did not agree with your decision to go to baking school, nor did they agree with your move to London. But you’ve been successful since then, working as a second in command in one of the top pastry restaurants in the city. How could they judge you when you’ve accomplished so much? “I’m sure they’ll be proud to know how successful you’ve been, love. You know how proud of you I am.”

You hummed, leaning back against him. “Yes, I know.” Steven breathed in the scent of your hair, and you felt his smile through the strands.

“I’ll be with you every step of the way,” he said, his hold on you tightening, “and if I have to, I’ll remind them of how amazing you are. They’ll be so happy, you’ll see.” You giggled when he nuzzled his nose into the crook of your neck. You delicately plucked a warm muffin from the tray, breaking a piece off and shifting in his arms to face him.

“Thank you, I love you,” you said with a tiny smile, “here, try this batch, I added Greek yogurt to this recipe.” You pressed the piece past his lips and Steven immediately moans at the sweetness.

“God, your hands are magic.” In more ways than one, he would’ve said, but he left that part out. He really did enjoy your baking skills. 

You beamed, taking a piece for yourself and humming in approval.

“Come on,” Steven suddenly said, grabbing your hand.

“Wait,” you giggled as you followed along, “I have more muffins to bake! Where are we going?”

“Bedroom. Gonna make a mess of you.”

[givemea-dam-break]

ephemeral - chapter one

a/n: hello everyone!! finally had some inspiration, so this will be the first part of a lockwood x reader multipart series!! i hope you enjoy!!

warning: angst, mild language gn reader

full collection: here

It's a warm day out, and you can feel the heat of it even deep within the kitchen at Arif's, intensified by the humming ovens. Sunlight beams through the open window, and you can faintly hear singing birds within the bustling noise out in the front of the store. Summertime is always busy, and although not many people can actually sit in, queues are often out the door, bringing with them loud conversations and whispered gossip.

Soft music plays from a speaker as you roll out some dough, hands dusted in flour, and you find yourself quietly singing along. The smell of pastries of all kinds baking is soothing.

You're the only one working in the back. Arif is dealing with orders at the counter. Kate and Lana are off running deliveries. Jack is on holiday, revelling somewhere in the Scottish countryside. But you don't mind. Even with all the customers, the rush is something you've grown used to over the past few months, and you've found ways to manage it. The less you rush, the quicker the food gets done, as strange as it sounds.

When Arif appears in the kitchen doorway, your hands are buried in a fresh batch of dough you're in the middle of making.

Arif's a big guy, but he's got a sweet face and an incredible recipe book, so it's no wonder he's so popular in this part of London. Even though he's been working out front, he wears his trademark pink apron that had been a gift from you and the others for his birthday. He's smiling, rubbing his hands together enthusiastically. A habit, you've found, when he's about to start baking.

"Shift swap?" you say.

He nods. "A few customers sitting in, but the queue has died down for now. I'll wait out front while you clean up."

It doesn't take long to finish making the dough and clean your hands. Swiftly, you swap your flour-covered apron for your front-of-house one, which looks much more presentable, but Arif still has to dust flour from your hair as you pass him.

It's routine now. Come to the bakery in the morning, work the kitchen until lunch, and then swap into the front until closing. Surprisingly, it took only a few days for you to fall into the routine, despite the dozens of late nights you worked in your previous position, and you've found yourself enjoying it.

Even if you have to hear his voice almost every day.

He comes in around ten in the morning, so it's not like you have to see him or be the one to serve him. Usually, you're in the middle of making a fresh batch of pain au chocolat or scones, depending on what day it is and which regulars have arrived, and you know that that's down to Arif's rota. Unknowingly, he's saved you a lot of unease. You're not even sure that he's aware you work here now.

But today is the exception.

You're in the middle of refilling the display cases with doughnuts and croissants when he appears, framed with beautiful golden sunlight. His hair falls over his forehead, brushing just above his dark eyes, lined with thick lashes. The past few months of summer heat have not permitted him a tan, but there are a few very faint freckles on the bridge of his nose. And despite the temperature, he still wears that ridiculously long greatcoat.

"Surely you're melting in that," you say, closing the case and coming to stand by the till. "It's twenty-five degrees out."

It's now that you notice the frozen look of shock on his face. His eyebrows, barely visible under his hair, are almost comical in their position, raised halfway up his head, and his mouth hangs open slightly.

"(name)," he says after opening and closing his mouth a few times. "I didn't - um, where's Arif?"

"In the back making the goods." You keep your voice light, but it's easy to pick out the undertone of strain in it.

You haven't seen Anthony Lockwood in eight months. Yes, you've heard his voice frequently when he's come to place orders. Yes, you've even made his orders - and been tempted to replace the almond sauce he likes with lemon - but it's insanely different from standing in front of him now. Even though he's uncharacteristically quiet, all you can hear is your last conversation together and the horrible things you both said.

"What can I get you?" you ask, trying to shove down the awkward tension that's forming between you both. "Just the usual?"

"You know my order?"

"I've been making it for the past eight months. And I also used to be on the receiving end of the deliveries." Already, you're typing it into the register. "Two jam doughnuts, one glazed, half a dozen almond fingers, and three croissants, all for delivery, right?"

He looks even more shocked than when he first saw you. "Uh, yes, please... Oh, and -"

"Three teas to go?"

That part isn't memorised because of your job. That part you know from your time spent at Portland Row. You know exactly how much milk to put in each cup.

"Erm, yeah, if you wouldn't mind."

"I don't mind at all. In fact, I get paid for this."

He hands you the money for the total order, and you print out the delivery order, slipping it through a small window behind the counter that leads to the kitchen. Arif's hand, covered in chocolate chip cookie dough, snatches it away.

Lockwood stands as you fill the to-go cups with tea and milk, and he watches carefully as you squeeze a dollop of honey into one of them.

"You know," he says, "I've actually been looking for you. We need to talk."

You hand him the cookies, eyeing the bakery door. "Yes, well, you've found me, but talking will have to wait. I've got customers to serve."

As if on cue, a short old woman, one of your favourite regulars, clears her throat behind Lockwood. Next to him, she looks tiny, but the look on her face has him shuffling to the side and out of the way.

"Just the usual, Nancy?"

She nods, and you type in her order.

"When do you finish?" Lockwood asks as you step back over to the coffee machine and begin making the order. You take a few cookies out of the case as you wait.

"That's for me to know," you say. Then, plastering on your customer service smile, "Thank you for popping in. See you around."

But he doesn't leave yet. He watches as you serve the next few customers, only hesitating when the queue begins building up again for the lunchtime rush. Relief overtakes you when he does leave, finally free from the weight of his gaze, and you can breathe again.

You're not very lucky, though.

An hour later, he reappears just shortly after the rush has died down and there are only a couple of customers left, sitting and chatting at the tables. He saunters up to the counter, filled with the confidence he lacked earlier.

But you know him. You can see that it's not entirely genuine from the way his fingers discreetly tug on his pocket zip and fiddle with the hilt of his gleaming rapier.

"Hello. What can I get for you?"

"A few minutes of your time."

Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you say, "I'm afraid that'll be quite expensive. And, unless you're going to order any food or drinks, it's also quite improbable that you'll get that order."

"Fine. I'll have one of those."

Your eyes follow his pointed finger and you raise your brows. "Apricot Danish? Lockwood, you don't like apricot."

"Lovely of you to remember. I'll have one anyways."

Begrudgingly, you pluck one out of the case and place it in a little box once he's handed you the money owed. The whole time, his eyes follow you.

"Now, how about those few minutes of your time?"

You almost smile, ready to tell him that you've no time to spare, and another customer is entering the bakery, but Kate, one of your coworkers, appears, smiling.

"I've finished deliveries," she says, brushing her dark hair into a ponytail. "Arif says you're on break."

The look you give her is murderous, but she only grins, nudging you out of the way as she pulls on a pair of gloves and greets the next customer. Lockwood looks slightly too happy.

"Go sit somewhere," you grumble. "Give me a minute."

He disappears, and you huff as you tear off your gloves and apron.

Although it's been over half a year since your fight, seeing Lockwood brings it all up to the surface, bubbling and boiling. Your skin feels hot with anger and sorrow you haven't felt for a good while, fresh as if you've been transported back to the day it all happened.

Lockwood is sitting at one of the corner tables, far from the other customers, nudging the box holding his purchase. At the sight of your approach, he perks up, donning that infamous white-toothed smile of his.

"Here you go." He pushes the box over as you sit.

You stare at him. "What?"

"For you. You used to get them all the time."

Part of you wants to leap with joy at the fact that he remembers a small detail like that, but it's squashed almost instantaneously by your anger and confusion. You don't touch the box as if it is contaminated. It hurts that someone so distant from you now remembers such a thing.

"What do you want?"

"We need to talk."

"Yes, you've mentioned. We're currently talking."

He shoots you a look, but there's no anger behind it. Not even frustration. "I need your help. We need your help."

"We being you, Lucy, and George?"

"Yes."

"And what makes you think I'll help you?"

The question stumps him, but he recovers quickly, brushing imaginary dust off his pristine white shirt. It's infuriating how the sunlight hits his face, emphasising all of his perfect features. His eyes sparkle like molten bronze.

"It's a big case, a lot of money involved, and you could get a decent cut of it. There are some things we need, but that involves -" He lowers his voice, leaning close to you - "stealing." Sitting back again, he speaks normally once more. "Now, if this were any normal case, we'd be fine on our own. But it's not a normal case. The documents we need are at the Rotwell building, and nobody knows that building like you do."

You cross your arms. "You're telling me all of this as if I'd accept. Judging from the fact that you want me to steal from the second-largest agency in the country, it'll most likely be a pretty dangerous job and, while that would rack up a lot of money, I'm sure you can tell that I'm not an agent anymore. I'm rusty."

"(name), you know I wouldn't be here asking you for help unless we really needed it."

"The last time we saw each other, you called me a hindrance to the team and demanded I leave lest I kill myself or the others."

He winces. "And if I remember correctly, you called me, and I quote, 'a massively conceited asshole who cares more about his company's status than the lives of his agents'."

"And I'd say it again. But if I'm such a problem, why come to try and hire me again?"

"It's temporary," Lockwood says. "And, like I said, you know Rotwell's just as well as George knew Fittes', if not better. We need this information."

"What do I get out of it? Peace from you? A written apology?"

"A cut of the money."

"Yes, you said, but do you really think that a sum of money is going to console me when I'm working with the guy who fired me because of a small slip-up?"

"It wasn't small -"

"It most certainly was. Do you think I meant to trip over Lucy? The iron circle had been fixed immediately, and no one other than me was hurt. My arm was in full working order a week after it happened, thank you for asking."

He's quiet for a minute, pondering, but his eyes are unnerving. They follow your every move as if waiting for you to pounce. You don't miss the way his fingers tap on the table, a tell-tale sign of his nerves.

"You won't see me again."

"What?"

"You heard me." He finally looks away, finding the Apricot Danish more interesting than you. "I'll make sure you don't see me again. Things ended badly, worse than they should've, and there's obviously still a lot of animosity on your part, so I'll stay away until you're ready to speak to me again, or forever if I have to."

Forever...

A small part of you, the same part that enjoyed the feeling of being known, is screaming, begging you not to accept. But, at the same time, it's painful merely sitting in front of him right now, and, if he's offering you peace from that, you should take it. It won't take long to get this job out of the way, and then you can be free of him.

"You don't have to decide right now," he clarifies. "But, if you accept the offer, come to the house once your shift finishes. We can discuss things then."

As he stands, he pushes the box holding the Danish closer to you.

Then, with a swift brush of air, he's gone, leaving nothing but a sense of... confusion, anger, and a little lingering absence, in his wake.

<- full collection part 2 ->

[timetraveltasting]

MILK SOUP, THE DUTCH WAY (1747)

It has been a few weeks since I made a historical dish due to a busy schedule and a weekend trip tp London (where I picked up an interesting historical cookbook, 'Churchill's Cookbook', which I intend to use here if I run out of Tasting History recipes). To keep in the English mood, I decided to make my next Tasting History dish, Milk Soup, the Dutch Way. While it may have been inspired by the Dutch style of making Milk Soup at the time, it is, in fact, an 18th century English recipe from Hannah Glasse's 'The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy', published in 1747. This soup technically follows the rules of Dr. George Cheyne’s Georgian English fad diet of “Milk, Seeds, Bread, mealy Roots, and Fruit”. While it follows Dr. Cheyne’s rules, this soup less a healthy soup and more a dessert. I chose to make this recipe entirely because Max says it tastes exactly like the milk left over from Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal - a nostalgic breakfast treat from my childhood. Milk soup may sound a little strange, but it will hopefully be delicious. See Max’s video on how to make it here or see the ingredients and process at the end of this post, sourced from his website.

My experience making it:

I stuck fairly close to the recipe, other than the fact that I halved it. The only minor change I made is that instead of using whole milk, I used 1.5% milk, mainly because I bought the wrong one, mindlessly purchasing our default milk. For the sippets, I used French baguette, and for the butter, I used Kerrygold unsalted.

Milk Soup was a pretty quick dish to make, but did make a few dishes to clean. While the oven preheated, I fried the baguette slices in butter. I threw them in the oven, but they definitely took less than 30 minutes to dry out. As a result, mine were a little on the crispier side than Max's were. I heated the milk and attempted to dissolve the cinnamon and brown sugar into it with some constant stirring, but the cinnamon, like Max warned, did not quite want to combine all that well. It eventually did, but just a little. I added in two sippets, leaving the others on the side so I could try dipping them and 'croutoning' some of them into the soup when trying. I beat the egg yolk, then added half of the milk mixture to it, then poured it all back in the pot. It was super frothy at this point, so I simmered it a bit longer until the bubbles went down. I served up two portions, with a few sippets on the side, and was quite happy it looked similar to Max's Milk Soup!

My experience tasting it:

I first tried the soup by itself. To my delight, it did taste exactly like the milk left over from Cinnamon Toast Crunch! Then I tried a spoonful with some of the soup-soaked sippet: it was cinnamony, sweet, and a little buttery. A little soggy, but not terribly - similar to the last few bites of cereal before there is only milk left. Next, I dipped a crispy sippet into the soup and took a bite: this time, the sippet was almost too dry and crispy, it barely soaked up any of the soup flavour. Lastly, I broke up a sippet into crouton shapes and threw them into the Milk Soup. Taking a spoonful with these fresh, crispy bites of buttery toast was the winner for sure - probably the most literal interpretation of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. It blew my mind to think that this exact flavour and texture combination was a thing in the 18th century, long before Cinnamon Toast Crunch graced our kitchen cupboards! My husband and I both enjoyed the Milk Soup, but I would probably simplify the recipe if I was going to make it again. I think you would get the same flavour if you didn't add the beaten egg yolk. I also think that kids would really enjoy this recipe; it's a little interactive, sweet, and very close to modern flavours in desserts. If you end up making this dish, if you liked it, or if you changed anything from the original recipe, do let me know!

Milk Soup (The Dutch Way) original recipe (1747)

Sourced from The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy by Hannah Glasse, 1747.

Boil a quart of milk with cinnamon and moist sugar; put sippets in the dish, pour the milk over it, and set it over a charcoal fire to simmer, till the bread is soft. Take the yolks of two eggs, beat them up, and mix it with a little of the milk, and throw it in; mix it all together, and send it up to table.

Modern Recipe

Based on The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy by Hannah Glasse, c. 1747, and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Ingredients:

Sippets

4 tablespoons butter

8-12 small pieces of bread, I used a baguette sliced 1/2” thick

Soup

1 quart, plus 3/4 cup (1.1 L) whole milk

1 1/2 teaspoons cinnamon

1/3 cup (70 g) light brown sugar

2 egg yolks, beaten

Method:

For the sippets: Preheat the oven to 225°F (105°C) and line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

Melt the butter in a pan over medium heat, then add the bread slices. Cook for 1 minute on each side, or until nicely browned.

Place the bread on the baking sheet and bake for 30 minutes or until they are dry and crisp.

For the soup: When the sippets are almost done, pour the milk into a pot and whisk in the cinnamon and brown sugar.

Bring to a simmer over medium heat, then add the sippets. Simmer, stirring occasionally to make sure the milk doesn’t burn, until the sippets are soft.

Add about 1/2 cup of the hot milk mixture to the egg yolks, whisking constantly, then add it all back to the pot and stir for 10 to 15 seconds. Remove from the heat and serve it forth.