Jun 5, 2025
Pretty sure this happened at least once
They tried to make the dinner
Now, neither is allowed near the oven
seen from Philippines
seen from United States
seen from France
seen from United States
seen from Philippines
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from South Africa
seen from Philippines
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Germany
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Vietnam
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Australia
seen from Australia
seen from United States
Pretty sure this happened at least once
They tried to make the dinner
Now, neither is allowed near the oven
Sanguinius tried making a Cake. ( He is coping.)
Ranger friend maya talk about wish someone make food for Maya. Mymik plan try tomorrow! Will sneak get ingredient food from mall lived in before met Maya, then try cook. Use stove! How hard be?
I know I'm a bit late to Undertale's 10th aniversary but unfortunately I started not want to use Canva for a while... don't know if it was lazyness or just burnout from a lot of other stuff I do daily but anyways.
Here's a profile pic of undyne in her house, gonna be using this on Discord for the whole halloween, also, if you say something about her hair, that can be canon, look at her sprite in the dade scene with Alphys.
Other than this I got a little idea of making a story about Roblox, being two players trying to save a guest from being deleted by the system, I've got a lot of character design consepts ready but they're all in Gacha Life 2 unfortunately, and I know I'll be killed on the spot if I post anything related to that so I'm trying to recreate them as real avatars so that I can show it later, others I'll have to do on Canva just cause it would be better to do like... more stuff in the same place (more specifically, 1x1x1x1 and him being a 4D being that doesn't have a base form, just one that he likes to use in the 3D world)
Horrible Cook- Kageyama
The first thing I noticed when I opened the door was the smell of something burning. And not just slightly burnt—no, it was the kind of smell that made your nose wrinkle and your eyes water.
I froze in the doorway, groceries still in hand. Kageyama was standing by the stove, spatula in one hand, panic written all over his face. Smoke curled out of the pan in front of him.
“Oh, you’re home early,” he said, trying to sound calm.
“Kageyama,” I said slowly, shutting the door behind me. “What did you do?”
He looked down at the pan like maybe it had betrayed him. “I was… trying to make dinner. For us.”
I blinked. Then blinked again. For a man who could strategize ten steps ahead on a volleyball court, he looked absolutely lost in front of a frying pan.
“Why is it black?” I asked.
He scowled, poking it with the spatula. “It’s… supposed to be chicken.”
“Supposed to be?”
He glared, cheeks slightly red. “It is chicken.”
I put down the groceries and walked over, peeking into the pan. The “chicken” looked like something out of a dystopian cooking show challenge. “Uh-huh,” I said carefully. “Was this the only piece that didn’t escape alive?”
He groaned and turned off the burner. “You’re impossible.”
I laughed and slipped past him, taking the spatula from his hand. “You’re cute when you’re trying, though.”
He froze, mouth parting slightly, as if compliments were still foreign currency. Even after a year of dating, he reacted to affection like it was a surprise serve.
“Cute?” he muttered, frowning. “You say that when I burn dinner?”
“I say that because you tried.” I bumped his shoulder lightly. “Also because your ears go red when I tease you.”
“I—They do not,” he said quickly, turning away.
I leaned over, just to confirm. Yep. Bright red.
Later that night, after we decided to order takeout (“I’m not letting you eat that charcoal disaster,” I told him), I stood in the kitchen again. The smell still lingered faintly — burnt, but not terrible. I thought about his effort. The way he’d stood there, shoulders tense, brows drawn together like he was concentrating on a serve.
He’d actually tried to cook for me.
That alone made my chest feel warm.
So I did the only thing that made sense.
The next morning, I announced, “I’m going to make breakfast.”
Kageyama looked up from tying his sneakers, blinking like I’d said I was joining the national team. “You’re… cooking?”
“Yes,” I said proudly, hands on hips. “To redeem your dinner.”
He looked skeptical. “You don’t usually cook.”
“Exactly! Time for a change.”
“…Are we sure that’s a good idea?”
“Have faith in me, Tobio.”
He sighed like a man accepting his fate. “Okay. I’ll… get the fire extinguisher.”
Five minutes later, he wasn’t entirely wrong to have done that.
I was staring down at a pan of eggs that had somehow become both runny and burnt at the same time. The bacon looked like it had been through a war.
Kageyama hovered in the doorway, arms crossed. “You need to flip it sooner,” he said gently, stepping closer.
“I did flip it.”
“Not halfway into cremation,” he said, lips twitching.
“Ha-ha, very funny,” I muttered.
He chuckled quietly and came up behind me, reaching for the spatula. His hand brushed mine — warm, calloused, steady. “Here,” he said softly. “Let me.”
I felt my heartbeat do an embarrassingly loud thump.
He slid in front of me, flipping the egg with ease. “You have to watch the edges,” he explained. “They tell you when it’s ready.”
His voice was low and focused, the same way he sounded before a serve. It was weirdly attractive, seeing him so serious about cooking.
“You sound like this is volleyball,” I teased.
“It’s the same idea,” he said, still focused on the pan. “Timing. Observation. Consistency.”
“Mm. Except you’re not supposed to spike breakfast.”
He laughed — a small, rare sound that made me grin. “Yeah, that’d be messy.”
We managed to salvage a couple of edible pieces, and when we sat down to eat, he took a bite first. I watched him, nervously waiting for a reaction.
He chewed. Swallowed. Then looked up and said, “It’s good.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not!” he said, looking almost offended. “It’s… fine.”
I tried it myself. It tasted like salt and regret.
“Tobio,” I said flatly, “this is terrible.”
He smiled faintly. “Yeah. But you made it.”
Something in my chest squeezed a little.
“You don’t have to eat it just because I made it.”
“I know,” he said simply. Then, without breaking eye contact, he took another bite.
My jaw dropped. “You’re insane.”
He shrugged. “You tried.”
It was such a simple statement, but the way he said it made it sound like it meant something. Like effort itself was worth more than the result.
That’s the thing about Kageyama — he’s quiet, often too blunt, but his loyalty runs deep. He doesn’t know how to show affection the usual way. So instead, he eats bad eggs without flinching.
And maybe that’s enough.
A week later, I found him in the kitchen again — this time not burning anything.
He looked up when I entered, clearly trying to act casual.
“What are you making?” I asked, leaning against the counter.
“Something simple,” he said. “Rice bowls.”
“Smells good.”
He grunted in acknowledgment.
“Do you need help?”
He paused. “Last time you helped, the smoke alarm went off.”
“Okay, fair,” I admitted. “But maybe I’ve improved.”
He looked unconvinced, but passed me a knife anyway. “You can cut the green onions.”
“Got it.”
For a while, it was just the sound of chopping and sizzling. There was something peaceful about it — quiet domesticity.
When I finished cutting, I glanced at him. His expression was soft, focused, a small frown of concentration between his brows.
“You look serious,” I said.
“I’m trying not to screw it up.”
“You won’t.”
He blinked. “How do you know?”
“Because you’re Kageyama Tobio,” I said, smiling. “You don’t know how to half-ass anything.”
He went quiet. Then, after a second, he murmured, “Neither do you.”
That caught me off guard.
I watched him stir the pan, the light from the stove reflecting in his dark eyes. He looked calm — but there was something unspoken in his tone.
Like maybe he remembered the breakfast. The effort. The laughter.
Like maybe, to him, “trying” meant something else entirely.
When we finally sat down to eat, I grabbed my chopsticks and took a bite.
It was perfect.
“Holy crap, this is actually amazing,” I said.
He smirked faintly. “Told you.”
“Okay, okay, Chef Tobio,” I said, laughing. “You win this round.”
“You mean every round.”
“Don’t push it.”
He chuckled quietly, the corners of his mouth softening.
Then, just as I reached for another bite, he leaned forward slightly. “Hey.”
“Hm?”
“Thanks for… trying to cook last time.”
I blinked. “You’re thanking me for almost burning down the kitchen?”
He shrugged. “You did it for me.”
The simplicity of it made my heart flutter.
He didn’t say things like that often — didn’t really need to. But when he did, it hit straight and true.
I smiled, reaching across the table to poke his cheek. “You’re welcome, Tobio.”
He turned red again. “Don’t do that when I’m eating.”
“Why, does it mess up your ‘focus’?”
He gave me a look — that familiar, exasperated, affectionate look. “You’re hopeless.”
“Maybe,” I said, grinning, “but you love me anyway.”
He rolled his eyes, but the tiny upward curve of his lips gave him away.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I do.”
Later that night, we ended up sitting on the couch, the TV quietly humming in the background. I leaned against him, half-asleep.
He absentmindedly ran his fingers through my hair — gentle, rhythmic.
“You know,” I murmured, “we make a pretty good team in the kitchen.”
He snorted. “If you call chaos teamwork.”
“Hey, chaos is a form of creativity.”
“Not when the fire alarm goes off.”
I laughed sleepily. “Next time, I’ll follow your lead.”
He hesitated. “Next time?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Cooking. Together.”
He looked down at me, eyes softening. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’d like that.”
When I woke up the next morning, the smell of something warm and sweet filled the air.
I stumbled into the kitchen to find Kageyama flipping pancakes — actual pancakes — and humming under his breath.
“You’re up,” he said.
“I smell food that isn’t on fire,” I said, impressed. “You’ve evolved.”
He smiled. “I had a good teacher.”
I blinked. “Me?”
“Yeah. You showed me what not to do.”
“Asshole,” I said, laughing.
He chuckled and placed a plate in front of me. “Eat.”
I took a bite. It was fluffy and perfect.
“Damn, this is good,” I said with my mouth full. “You could open a café.”
He shrugged, sitting down beside me. “Don’t need to.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re the only one I wanna cook for.”
For a second, I forgot how to breathe.
He said it so casually, eyes focused on his plate, like he hadn’t just said something that made my heart trip over itself.
I smiled slowly, warmth blooming in my chest.
“Well,” I said softly, “then I guess I’ll just have to keep making you my disasters in return.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Deal.”
And maybe that’s us — a little bit burnt, a little bit awkward, but somehow, perfectly right.
Happy Thanksgiving to those that do, have a silly text message banter between Reginald and Terrence.
He's been panned from the kitchen. Let a man cook in peace, won't ya?
Bonus:
Oh my god my parents wanted to make hot chocolate because our milk is going to go back this week... and they accidentally swapped sugar for salt... because it was in an unlabeled jar...
My taste buds are never going to recover