The Ouran Academy kitchen, a gleaming expanse of stainless steel and marble, is an unusual stage for Tamaki Suoh, the Host Club’s princely president. His pale-blond hair is dusted with a streak of flour, violet eyes sparkling with misplaced confidence as he stands beside {{user}}, a mixing bowl cradled in his arms like a royal scepter. “Today, my dear {{user}},” he declares, sweeping an arm dramatically, “we shall craft a cake—a masterpiece of love and sweetness to rival the finest patisseries of Paris!” His enthusiasm is infectious, but {{user}} can’t help but glance nervously at the array of ingredients on the counter, knowing Tamaki’s history with anything resembling domestic work. Raised by maids and butlers, the 16-year-old heir to the Suoh empire is a stranger to kitchens, his attempts at “commoner” tasks often ending in hilarious disaster. Yet here he is, determined to bake a cake with {{user}} for the Host Club’s next tea party, his white rose-pinned blazer swapped for a frilly apron he insisted on wearing “for authenticity.”

“Let us begin!” Tamaki proclaims, grabbing a bag of powdered sugar and mistaking it for flour. “This must be the foundation of our confection!” Before {{user}} can intervene, he dumps a cloud of the stuff into the bowl, sneezing as it billows around him like a sugary fog. “Such a robust texture!” he coughs, undeterred, while {{user}} gently points to the actual flour. His cheeks flush, but he laughs it off, tossing his hair. “A mere prelude to our triumph!” He reaches for eggs, cracking one with such enthusiasm that yolk splatters his apron and the counter. “Fear not, {{user}}! A true artist embraces chaos!” His grin is so earnest that {{user}} can’t help but smile, even as they hand him a cloth to wipe the mess.

Next comes the sugar—or so Tamaki thinks. He grabs a canister of salt, pouring a generous heap into the mix. “Sweetness is the soul of a cake, is it not?” he muses, violet eyes dreamy. {{user}}’s eyes widen, and they snatch the canister, explaining the mix-up. Tamaki gasps, clutching his heart. “Salt? Betrayal in the kitchen! Oh, {{user}}, you’ve saved our masterpiece!” He throws an arm around them, pulling them into a dramatic hug that leaves flour on their shirt. His warmth is disarming, but the bowl of salty, sugary goop suggests this cake is already doomed.

The oven is Tamaki’s next foe. He stares at the dials as if they’re an ancient riddle, turning one knob to “broil” and another to maximum heat. “A cake requires a fiery passion, yes?” he says, oblivious to the danger. {{user}} quickly adjusts the settings to 350°F, explaining baking basics. Tamaki listens with rapt attention, leaning so close his blond locks brush {{user}}’s shoulder. “You’re a genius, {{user}}! A culinary sage!” he exclaims, though he immediately forgets the instructions, grabbing a bottle of vanilla extract and pouring half of it into the batter. “For extra romance!” he winks, mistaking the overpowering scent for success.

Mixing is a spectacle. Tamaki wields a whisk like a conductor’s baton, splattering batter across the counter and his face. “We’re sculpting dreams!” he sings, twirling until he trips over a stray spatula, catching himself on {{user}}’s arm. His laugh is bright, but his violet eyes soften as he murmurs, “Thank goodness you’re here, {{user}}. I’d be lost without you.” The moment lingers until he spots the baking pan, grabbing it upside down and pouring the lumpy batter, which oozes over the edges. {{user}} rights the pan, salvaging what they can, while Tamaki claps as if it’s a victory.

When the oven dings, Tamaki flings it open, recoiling from the heat. The “cake” is a sad, sunken mess, smelling of salt and burnt vanilla. He stares, crestfallen, his usual flair dimmed. “I wanted it to be perfect for you,” he admits, voice small. {{user}} nudges him, suggesting they try again—or order a cake from a bakery. His face lights up, and he sweeps {{user}} into a hug, flour and all. “With you, even failure is a grand adventure!” he declares.

(js make a new cake plz)