I have a request too!! Can you write a cozy baking date type of imagine for P1H like yn sitting on the counter while decorating or something?? 🧁💋
pairing: P1Harmony x reader
warning: domestic fluff, got carried away with intak I'm sorry
disclaimer: not my pic!
Keeho
The kitchen already smelled like vanilla, cinnamon, and the faintest hint of burnt sugar—thanks to Keeho’s first batch that he insisted was “just a warm-up.” He stood beside you in an apron decorated with little Christmas trees, brows furrowed in deep concentration as he piped perfectly symmetrical lines onto a gingerbread man.
You, on the other hand, were staring down at your cookies with pride. They were… unique. Very unique. One snowman looked like he’d melted in emotional distress, and one reindeer’s antlers were uneven enough to break several laws of physics. But still—they had character.
You added a final swirl of green frosting to what was supposed to be a Christmas tree, tilted your head, nodded to yourself, and announced, “Boom. Art.”
Keeho leaned over, squinting. “Art?” he repeated, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.
“Yes,” you said, lifting your chin defensively. “It’s abstract.”
He pressed his lips together, clearly failing to hide a smile. “Baby… this snowman looks like he witnessed a murder.”
You gasped dramatically. “It's called personality!”
Keeho snorted. “It's called trauma.”
You glared at him, but he was too busy chuckling to notice. He picked up one of your cookies and held it delicately, like he was afraid it might jump out of his hand. “And what about this one? The reindeer with one antler pointing north and the other pointing… left?”
“That’s how real life works,” you said proudly. “Nature is unpredictable.”
He finally looked at you, face softening despite his teasing. “They’re adorable. Just… not exactly perfect.”
You pouted, crossing your arms. “Wow. Okay, boomer.”
Keeho froze mid-icing. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” you said, lifting another cookie. “Boomer energy. Perfectionist. Organized. Gets mad when cookies aren’t runway-ready.”
He burst out laughing so loudly he had to set down the piping bag. “Me? A boomer? I’m literally the youngest oldest person you’ve ever met—be serious!”
“I am serious,” you insisted, trying to keep your expression stern. “You cookie-shamed me.”
He stepped closer, still laughing, and brushed his fingers against your cheek. “I wasn’t shaming you. I just wanted them to turn out perfect because…” His voice dropped, warmer. “We’re doing this together. And I love making things with you.”
You felt your pout wobble a little. “You still made fun of my snowman.”
“Only because he looks like he needs therapy.”
You gasped again, clutching your chest. “He is beautiful.”
Keeho grinned. “And you should be proud. Seriously.” He cupped your jaw lightly. “I love your cookies. They make me laugh.”
“So you admit it,” you said, narrowing your eyes. “You laughed at them.”
“I laughed,” he confirmed. “Affectionately. Fondly. Lovingly.”
You hummed like you were considering forgiveness, then reached for the frosting bottle casually. Keeho didn’t suspect a thing.
Big mistake.
In one swift motion, you reached up and dabbed a huge blob of white frosting right onto the tip of his nose.
Keeho blinked at you, stunned. “Did you just—”
Before he could finish, you leaned in and licked the frosting right off.
He froze.
You grinned. “Now your face is perfect.”
His expression melted instantly into something warm and fond—and maybe a little flustered.
“You’re lucky I love you,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around your waist.
You smirked. “And your snowman still sucks.”
Keeho groaned into your shoulder, laughing. “Boomer slander will not be tolerated in this household.”
You kissed his frosting-free nose this time. “Then stop insulting my masterpieces.”
He sighed dramatically—but squeezed you closer. “Fine. Abstract chaos cookies are officially approved.”
“And your perfect ones?”
“They’re just cookies,” he said, eyes softening on you. “But you? You’re the best thing I made today.”
Theo
The kitchen felt warm, almost cozy, the soft sound of whisking mixing with the faint hum of the oven preheating. Theo stood at the counter with sleeves rolled up, completely focused on the bowl in front of him. He mixed the cake batter with calm precision, every movement smooth and steady—like he’d practiced it a thousand times.
You leaned against the counter beside him, watching the way his eyebrows pinched when he concentrated. It was unfair how handsome he managed to look while mixing flour and sugar.
“Wanna try?” he asked without even looking up, scooping a small amount onto the spoon and holding it toward you.
You didn’t hesitate. The moment the batter hit your tongue, your eyes widened.
“Oh my god.” You clutched your chest dramatically. “This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
He laughed, soft and warm. “It’s just batter. The cake will taste even better.”
“Impossible,” you said, already reaching for the spoon sitting beside him.
He noticed instantly. “Hey,” he warned gently, tilting the bowl away. “Don’t eat too much. Raw batter isn’t good for you.”
You froze for a moment… then pretended you didn’t hear him at all, grabbing a clean spoon and scooping more before he could stop you.
“Yah—!” He cut himself off as you shoved the spoon into your mouth with a victorious grin.
“Mmm. This is sooo good.”
Theo sighed, the kind of sigh he used when you were being cute but impossible. “You’re going to get sick,” he reminded you, nudging the bowl out of your reach again. “Just wait until it’s baked.”
You nodded very seriously. Then immediately reached around him to sneak another spoonful.
Theo caught your wrist gently. “No.”
You whined. “But it’s good.”
“I know,” he said patiently, “but that doesn’t mean you can—hey!” He caught you again, this time mid-scoop.
You stared at him with a fake glare. He stared back with the unimpressed expression of a long-suffering boyfriend who knew he was doomed.
“You know what?” you said suddenly.
“What?” he asked slowly.
You scooped another spoonful of batter, turned to him with a mischievous grin—then pressed the spoon right against his lips.
Theo jerked back a little. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Try it,” you sang.
“I’m not eating raw batter.”
“Live a little.”
Theo narrowed his eyes at you. “I am living. That’s why I’m not eating this.”
You inched the spoon closer. “Just a taste.”
“No.”
“One bite.”
“No.”
You sighed dramatically, then brought out your secret weapon: the look. Wide eyes, soft expression, the faintest pout—pure, innocent, irresistible.
Theo froze.
You held the spoon under his nose. “Please?”
He let out a long breath, muttering something in Korean that sounded suspiciously like him scolding himself for being weak.
Then, finally, he opened his mouth.
You cheered like he’d won an award. “Yes! Taste it!”
He took the bite.
And his eyes widened instantly.
“Oh my god,” he murmured.
You smirked triumphantly. “See? I told you.”
“It is really good,” he admitted, going in for another tiny taste before catching himself and pulling away. “No. No, no, no—we’re not doing this.”
“So you love it,” you teased.
“I love you,” he corrected, pointing the spoon at you like a warning. “And that’s why I’m telling you—if we both end up sick, I’m blaming you.”
You grinned, leaning forward to kiss his cheek. “Worth it.”
He shook his head, smiling despite himself. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And you still love me.”
He sighed, pulling you into a soft, warm hug. “Unfortunately for my health… yes.”
Jiung
It started innocently enough. A shared desire for something cute, pastel-colored, and Instagram-worthy. Macarons. Expensive? Yes. Complicated? Probably. Still, the two of you stood in the kitchen, a mixing bowl between you and a YouTube tutorial paused on the counter.
Jiung rolled up his sleeves with a dramatic flourish. “How hard can it be?” he asked.
You stared at the thumbnail of the video—perfect, glossy macarons that looked like they were made by professionals, not exhausted humans on a Sunday afternoon.
“I don’t know,” you said honestly. “They look… very chique.”
He grinned. “We are also chique”
He clicked play, and the cheerful, overenthusiastic YouTuber began explaining steps that sounded suspiciously like sorcery.
“Separate the eggs,” she said.
“Done,” you said.
“Beat them until they form stiff peaks.”
Jiung blinked. “Define stiff.”
You shrugged.
“Don’t overmix.”
“What’s overmix?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“And don’t undermix.”
You stared at the screen. “What’s undermix?”
Jiung looked at the bowl, then back at the video. “This feels like a trap.”
But the two of you tried anyway.
For a while, it actually looked decent. Jiung sifted the almond flour like he was performing a magic trick. You folded the batter gently—at least you hoped it was gently. He piped little circles onto the baking sheet, humming under his breath, and they even resembled… something.
Then they went into the oven.
Ten minutes later, the kitchen smelled sweet.
Fourteen minutes later, they smelled too sweet.
Sixteen minutes later—
Jiung opened the oven, looked inside, and froze.
“Um,” he said quietly.
You leaned over his shoulder.
Your macarons—your dreams, your hopes—had transformed into one giant, bubbly, cracked, mutated cookie.
A single pan-sized creature.
Your mouth fell open. “What… what is that?”
Jiung slowly shut the oven door again like he was trying to hide a crime. He turned to you, expression blank.
“We did everything wrong.”
That was it. That was all it took for you to break. You started laughing, covering your face as your shoulders shook. Jiung held it together for thirty seconds, maybe less, before he doubled over beside you.
“It looks like a—” he tried to say, but laughter cut him off. “A macaron pancake.”
“No,” you wheezed, tears gathering in your eyes. “A maca–wrong.”
That made him laugh harder.
When you finally calmed down, he opened the oven again, solemnly inspecting the failure. You joined him, both of you crouched like scientists examining a rare specimen.
“Okay,” he said seriously, pointing. “The feet are missing.”
You nodded. “It has no feet because it is one foot.”
“It also exploded.”
“Maybe we overmixed.”
“Or undermixed.”
You sighed. “Or both.”
Jiung straightened suddenly, clapping his hands together. “Alright,” he declared. “I have an idea.”
“Oh no,” you said immediately.
“Oh yes.” He grinned. “We buy macarons.”
You blinked. “Buy them?”
“Buy them,” he repeated, nodding firmly. “Then put them on a cute plate. And when everyone asks, we say—‘Yeah, we made those.’”
You gasped, pretending to be scandalized. “That’s cheating!”
He shrugged casually. “So? We already did the hard part.”
“What hard part?”
“Suffering,” he said seriously, gesturing to the macaron-monster behind the glass. “Emotional damage. Bonding. Teamwork. That counts.”
You laughed again, leaning your head on his shoulder. “So we’re frauds.”
“Cute frauds,” he corrected. “And no one needs to know.”
He pressed a kiss to your temple, still smiling. “Come on,” he said, taking your hand. “Let’s go buy some before our dignity burns too.”
Intak
Intak looked annoyingly good while decorating cupcakes.
He stood at the counter with sleeves pushed up, hair fluffy and slightly messy from running his hands through it earlier. Every time he leaned forward to squeeze a swirl of frosting onto a cupcake, his jaw tightened just a little, and you found yourself staring instead of helping.
You sat on a stool beside him, chin resting in your hand, watching every movement like it was the most fascinating thing you’d ever seen.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
You saw the moment the realization hit—his lips curled into a slow grin, that signature playful one that always meant trouble. He didn’t say anything, just held your gaze for a beat too long before returning to his cupcake like he hadn’t just caught you admiring him.
“Mhm,” he hummed under his breath. “Enjoying the show?”
You jolted a little. “I—I’m just watching your technique.”
“Oh?” He piped another perfect swirl. “My technique?”
You nodded, trying to play it cool.
He leaned down just a bit. “You can watch closer, you know.”
Your stomach flipped.
Then he held out the frosting tube toward you, eyebrows raised. “Your turn.”
You blinked. “My turn to what? Ruin them?”
He chuckled, nudging the tube into your hand. “Just try. They’ll turn out cute.”
You huffed but moved to the next cupcake, carefully squeezing a line of frosting. At least—you tried.
It was impossible to focus when Intak kept standing too close. His arm brushed yours every few seconds. His fingers grazed your waist “accidentally.” His breath tickled your cheek each time he leaned in to watch what you were doing.
You couldn’t tell if he was actually trying to help or trying to make you mess up.
“Keep going,” he murmured, his hand lightly touching your back.
You inhaled sharply, nearly dropping the cupcake. “Intak, stop distracting me.”
“Me?” he asked innocently. “I’m not doing anything.”
Liar.
You squeezed the frosting tube too hard by accident, and a messy blob landed right on your finger.
“Oh no,” you said dramatically. “Oops.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
You lifted your hand, showing him your frosting-covered finger. “Can you… help me?”
You blinked up at him, playing innocent—sweet, harmless, absolutely not harmless at all.
Intak froze for a second, eyes darkening just slightly before he grinned.
“Come here,” he murmured.
He took your wrist gently and brought your hand closer. Without breaking eye contact, he leaned in and licked the frosting slowly off your finger, warm tongue sliding across your skin in a way that sent a jolt straight through you.
Then he winked.
Actually winked.
You almost forgot how to breathe.
“Well,” he said softly, “that was messy.”
You swallowed hard. “Your fault.”
He smirked. “You did that on purpose.”
“Maybe.”
He stepped closer, hands settling lightly on your waist. “Maybe we should clean up.”
Your pulse was ridiculous. “Mm… or…”
He raised an eyebrow. “Or?”
You leaned close to his ear, your voice just above a whisper. “We could take a break from baking… and do something else.”
Intak’s grin turned wolfish in an instant—mischief, excitement, and affection all mixing in his eyes.
He reached past you and casually turned off the kitchen light. “Yeah,” he said, tugging you closer. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
The cupcakes were very, very forgotten.
Soul
You and Soul stood shoulder to shoulder at the counter, staring down at the cookies you’d just decorated. They were… fine.
Plain frosting. Soft pastel colors. No sprinkles, no shapes, no glitter. Just simple.
Painfully simple.
Exactly what you’d been told to do.
You placed another perfectly boring cookie onto the tray and forced a smile. “Yep. Love it. So cute. Very… minimalistic.”
Soul nodded stiffly beside you, his jaw tight, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Mm. Simple,” he muttered.
You both stared at your trays again.
You hated it.
He hated it.
You could tell by the way he kept tapping the table—light, impatient taps—and the way his eyes drifted toward the shelf where all the forbidden, colourful decorations sat. Sprinkles. Neon frosting. Edible glitter. Everything that was outlawed for today’s “keep it clean and elegant” assignment.
You sighed. “I’m not dying inside, you’re dying inside.”
Soul gave a tiny huff, something between a laugh and an exhale of desperation. “These look… okay,” he said, but he sounded like he was apologizing to the cookies.
“Yeah,” you echoed, staring down at your beige, soulless creations. “Totally happy. Absolutely thrilled.”
Silence.
Then, at the exact same moment, you and Soul looked at each other.
One second of eye contact.
That was all it took.
“Wait,” you said slowly. “We don’t have to listen.”
Soul blinked. The corner of his mouth twitched. “No one’s here,” he said quietly.
“No witnesses,” you added.
He tilted his head. “No evidence.”
You grinned. “Unless we make some.”
Soul’s eyes drifted again toward the decorations shelf—this time not with longing, but with intent. The mischievous spark lighting up his expression was the clearest “yes” you’d ever seen from him.
Without another word, you marched to the cabinet and pulled out the edible glitter stash like a pirate uncovering treasure.
Soul followed, grabbing the neon frosting tubes in every color imaginable.
The rebellion had begun.
“Simple,” you scoffed under your breath as you squeezed a huge swirl of electric blue frosting onto a dough ball.
Soul shook his head, applying red and yellow lines that clashed violently. “We can do better.”
And then it escalated.
Very quickly.
You coated a cookie in gold edible glitter until it sparkled like a disco ball. Soul added rainbow sprinkles so thick the cookie disappeared underneath them. You grabbed a handful of dough and shaped it into a lumpy ball, shoving it toward Soul.
“Make this ridiculous.”
He didn’t even hesitate—he pumped streaks of purple, green, and orange frosting on top until it looked like an explosion at a unicorn factory.
You burst out laughing. “Soul! It’s a glitter bomb!”
He nodded proudly. “Good.”
Then he made one himself: a chaotic masterpiece dripping with sparkle and color. He lifted it toward you as if presenting art.
You covered your mouth, laughing so hard you had to lean against the counter for support.
“This is amazing,” you wheezed.
“This is freedom,” Soul corrected, eyes bright with triumph.
Soon the tray was filled with every color imaginable—edible glitter mountains, sprinkles piled like confetti, frosting drips, weird shapes, chaos everywhere. And Soul looked—happy. Fully, openly happy, the kind of happiness he rarely displayed so plainly.
You nudged him with your shoulder. “Think we went overboard?”
He shrugged, a tiny smirk forming. “We were told not to overdo it.”
“And?”
He squeezed a massive dollop of pink frosting onto another dough ball. “We didn’t listen.”
Jongseob
The table looked like a dessert explosion in the best possible way. Bowls of strawberries, blueberries, chocolate chips, a can of whipped cream, and a bottle of chocolate sauce sat scattered between you and Jongseob. A stack of warm pancakes steamed gently in the center.
You took one, carefully sliding it onto your plate. He did the same, glancing over with a small smile that said he was already planning something mischievous.
“Ready?” he asked.
“For what?” you replied suspiciously.
He lifted the whipped cream can and shook it once, grinning. “Art.”
You laughed, grabbing the chocolate sauce bottle like a weapon. “Bring it on.”
He started simple—neat lines of whipped cream across his pancake, a few strawberries placed precisely. It looked aesthetic, tidy, very him.
You, meanwhile, decided to be bold.
Very bold.
“I’m gonna draw your face,” you declared dramatically.
Jongseob froze with a blueberry between his fingers. “My face?”
“Yes. With chocolate sauce.”
He blinked slowly. “That sounds dangerous.”
“It’ll be beautiful,” you said confidently.
It was not beautiful.
The second the chocolate sauce hit the pancake, things went downhill. The eyes were uneven, one bigger than the other. The mouth came out crooked. The hair turned into zigzags that looked like electrical wiring gone wrong.
Jongseob stared. Then his lips twitched.
Then he burst out laughing.
He bent over slightly, clutching his stomach, shoulders shaking. “No way—no way that’s supposed to be me!”
You gasped in fake offense. “It IS you!”
“Why does he look like he hasn’t slept in three days?” he choked out between laughs.
You poked the pancake-face with the bottle. “It’s called artistic interpretation.”
“It’s called a cry for help,” he teased, wiping a tear of laughter from the corner of his eye.
You tried to glare at him, but you ended up laughing too because, honestly… the pancake did look like a haunted version of him.
“Fine,” you said, leaning back with a sigh. “Let’s see you do better.”
“Oh, I’m not drawing a face,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “But—here.”
He grabbed the whipped cream, leaned over his pancake, and started carefully shaping it. His hands moved delicately, thoughtfully, surprising you with how precise he was even when decorating breakfast food.
When he stepped back, you saw it.
A heart.
A fluffy whipped cream heart right in the center of his pancake, outlined with strawberries placed perfectly around it.
You blinked.
He pushed the plate toward you. “It’s for you.”
You felt your cheeks warm. “You made that really fast.”
“Fast and perfect,” he said with a proud little shrug.
You laughed, poking the whipped cream heart with your fork. “You’re too cute.”
He looked up at you, eyes warm—and then he winked.
A smooth, confident, absolutely devastating wink.
You nearly dropped your strawberry.
“Stop that,” you said, pointing your fork at him.
“Stop what?” he asked innocently, grabbing a handful of blueberries.
“The wink.”
He winked again, just to be a menace.
You groaned, laughing despite yourself. “You're an idiot.”
“And you,” he said, squeezing chocolate sauce onto another pancake, “are terrible at drawing my face.”
“Rude!”
“True,” he countered, nudging your shoulder gently. “But cute.”
You stuck your tongue out at him and went back to decorating another pancake—this time with less artistic ambition and more chaotic enthusiasm. He joined you, adding patterns, shapes, and messy swirls, both of you laughing as the pancakes became more dessert than breakfast.
It didn’t matter. Everything tasted sweeter with him sitting across from you, smiling like you were the highlight of his morning.