#trying to figure out how to draw cats still

[musubi05]

I don't know until what season you do the requests but could you please make one winchester!sister where she and her brothers are spending a few days with Bobby living normally without hunting, and Bobby starts teaching her how to play baseball.

I imagined this would be fluff like a family moment, with Dean and Sam seeing the two interacting this way between laughter and embarrassing stories about the boys when they were kids could bring a sense of not only peace but family to them.

Sorry for any error, english isn't my first language.

╰┈➤ Home Plate Is Always Here

Bobby Singer x winchester sister!reader Dean Winchester x sister!reader Sam Winchester x sister!reader Summary: Bobby is teaching you how to play baseball and gossiping about the boys when they were younger! Note: Thanks for the request! I thought it was a really cute one. Also, I've watched all the seasons of Supernatural so I can write any of them.

The late afternoon sun draws long shadows across Bobby's junkyard as you gripped the worn baseball bat in your hands, trying to mirror the stance he'd just demonstrated. Three days into what Sam had optimistically called a "vacation" from hunting, you were finally starting to believe that maybe, just maybe, you could have something resembling a normal life—even if it was just for a week.

The morning had started like any other at Bobby's—Dean sprawled across the couch with a cup of coffee that could wake the dead, Sam buried in research that had nothing to do with monsters for once, and you wandering around the house like a caged animal. You'd grown so accustomed to the constant motion of hunting that sitting still felt wrong, like your skin didn't quite fit.

"You're gonna make a hole in my floor," Bobby had observed, watching you pace between the kitchen and living room for the third time in ten minutes.

"I'm not used to this," you'd admitted, gesturing vaguely at the peaceful domesticity surrounding you. "The quiet. It's weird."

That's when Bobby had disappeared into his garage and emerged with a dusty cardboard box, digging through it until he found the baseball equipment. "Figure it's about time you learned something every American kid should know," he'd said, and somehow that had led to this moment.

"Nah, nah, you're holding it like you're gonna beat a wendigo to death," Bobby chuckled, his gruff voice softened by genuine amusement. "This ain't about brute force, kid. It's about timing and patience."

You huffed a laugh, adjusting your grip. "Everything in my life has been about brute force, Bobby. Cut me some slack."

"That's exactly why you need this," he said, stepping closer to adjust your stance. "Relax your shoulders. You're tenser than a cat in a room full of cucumbers."

From the porch, Dean's voice carried across the yard: "She's got a point there!" He was lounging in one of Bobby's rickety chairs, nursing a beer and looking more relaxed than you'd seen him in months. The tension that usually lived in his shoulders had melted away, and for once, he looked his age instead of carrying the weight of the world. Sam sat beside him, actually reading a book that wasn't about monsters or mythology—some thick paperback novel he'd picked up at a gas station. His long legs were stretched out, and he had that peaceful expression he only got when he was truly relaxed.

"You know," you called over to them, "you two look almost human when you're not covered in monster guts."

"Speak for yourself," Dean shot back. "You've got grease on your face from helping Bobby with the truck earlier."

You wiped at your cheek self-consciously, which only made Bobby chuckle. "Leave her be. Kid's got more mechanical sense than both of you combined."

"That's because she actually listens to instructions," Sam said without looking up from his book. "Revolutionary concept."

"Hey!" Dean protested. "I listen to instructions!"

"You listen to instructions, then immediately do the opposite because you think you know better," you corrected, earning a snort of laughter from Bobby.

"You boys shut it unless you're gonna come help," Bobby called back, then turned to you with a conspiratorial grin. "Though between you and me, neither of them could hit the broad side of a barn when they were your age."

"I heard that, old man!" Dean protested, but his smile took any sting out of it.

Bobby winked at you. "Dean was maybe twelve when John dropped them off for a few weeks. Kid was so determined to impress me, he spent half the day trying to fix my truck without asking. Nearly blew up the engine."

"Did not!" Dean's voice cracked slightly on the denial, making you giggle.

"Oh, it gets better," Bobby continued, positioning himself a few feet away with a softball. "Found him under the hood, covered head to toe in oil, with about six different tools scattered around. Asked him what he was doing, and he looks at me with this serious expression and says, 'I'm making it better, Bobby. Dad says I'm good with cars.'"

"I was good with cars!" Dean called out.

"Kid, you were good with taking cars apart. Putting them back together was a whole different story." Bobby's eyes twinkled with the memory. "Took me three hours to fix what he'd 'improved' in twenty minutes."

You were already laughing, imagining a twelve-year-old Dean with his stubborn determination and helpful intentions. "What about Sam?"

"Oh, Sam," Bobby said, tossing the ball gently underhand. "Now Sam was a different kind of trouble. Keep your eye on the ball, sweetheart. Don't swing at everything."

You watched it arc toward you, and for once, you didn't think about the weight of the world on your shoulders or the monsters lurking in the shadows. You just focused on the small, simple act of trying to hit a ball with a stick. You swung and missed, the bat whooshing through empty air.

"Better," Bobby nodded approvingly. "You didn't try to murder it that time. Now, about Sam—kid was about ten, and he gets it in his head that he's gonna cook dinner for everyone. Real domestic type, that one. Spent three hours making what he called 'gourmet mac and cheese.'"

"Please tell me you have pictures," you said, settling into your batting stance again.

"Bobby, don't you dare—" Sam started, but he was already grinning, clearly knowing where this was going.

"Kid used every pot I owned and somehow managed to burn water. I still don't know how you burn water, but Sammy found a way." Bobby wound up for another pitch. "But that's not even the best part. He'd gotten it in his head that regular mac and cheese wasn't good enough. No, he was gonna make it fancy. Added all kinds of spices he found in my cabinet."

"Oh no," you said, starting to laugh before you'd even heard the rest of the story.

"Paprika, garlic powder, onion salt, and—get this—cinnamon. Because apparently, in ten-year-old Sam's mind, cinnamon made everything gourmet."

"It was an accident!" Sam protested, but he was laughing too. "I grabbed the wrong container!"

"Three tablespoons of cinnamon, kid. Three. That ain't an accident, that's a crime against food."

"The mac and cheese story isn't finished," you said, getting back into position. "What happened next?"

"Oh, well, your brother Sam—the picture of responsibility—he gets so flustered trying to fix his 'gourmet' disaster that he trips over his own feet carrying the pot to the sink. Burned mac and cheese everywhere. Ceiling, walls, floor. Looked like a cheese bomb went off in my kitchen."

Sam groaned dramatically. "I was ten and was tall for my age!" He called out defensively. "I wasn't used to my legs yet!"

"Kid was like a baby giraffe," Bobby said, winding up for another pitch. "All legs and no coordination. And Dean—instead of helping clean up—decides this is the perfect time to teach his little brother how to 'properly' clean a kitchen."

"Someone had to take charge," Dean said, but there was fondness in his voice.

"Starts barking orders like a drill sergeant," Bobby continued. "'Sam, you missed a spot! Sam, that's not how you hold a sponge! Sam, you're doing it wrong!' Meanwhile, he's just standing there with his arms crossed, supervising."

"I was providing guidance!" Dean protested.

"You were being a bossy little know-it-all," Bobby corrected. "And the whole time, the kitchen still looked like a war zone, and I'm standing there thinking, 'John Winchester, what exactly are you teaching these boys?'"

You kept your eye on the ball this time, swinging with more control. The bat connected with a satisfying thunk, sending the ball bouncing across the yard. Not far, but contact nonetheless.

This swing was better—the ball sailed in a nice arc before landing near the old Chevelle Bobby had been working on. You felt a little surge of pride at the improvement.

"Did you ever tell Dad about the kitchen incident?" you asked.

Bobby's expression softened slightly. "Nah. John had enough to worry about. Besides, boys being boys is nothing to be ashamed of. They were trying to help, in their own way."

"Even if we were disasters," Sam said, joining the conversation from the porch steps.

"Especially because you were disasters," Bobby said warmly. "Means you cared enough to try. That's more than a lot of kids can say."

You lined up for another pitch, thinking about what Bobby had said. The idea of your brothers as children, trying so hard to be helpful and grown-up, made your heart ache a little. They'd never really gotten to be kids, not really.

"This is what family does," Bobby said simply gesturing to the worn out baseball. "They teach each other things. They embarrass each other with stories. They spend time together doing absolutely nothing important."

"I like doing nothing important," you said, surprising yourself with the admission.

"Good," Sam said, settling down on the grass nearby. "Because we're planning to do a lot more nothing important while we're here."

"Tomorrow, Bobby promised to teach me how to make his famous chili," you said. "Fair warning—I might be worse at cooking than Sam was."

"Impossible," Dean said immediately. "I've seen you make coffee that could strip paint."

"That was one time!"

"Three times," Sam corrected. "But who's counting?"

"I am," Bobby said. "And I'm hiding my good coffee while you're learning to cook."

"Not bad for a Winchester," Sam said.

"What's that supposed to mean?" you shot back, but you were grinning.

"Means we're more of a 'fighting supernatural evil' family than a 'recreational sports' family," Sam said, closing his book and walking over. "But Bobby's got the patience of a saint."

"Someone had to teach you boys how to be kids," Bobby said quietly, and something in his tone made you look at him more closely. His eyes were soft, watching Sam ruffle your hair as Dean joined the group.

"Our turn," Dean announced, grabbing the bat from your hands. "Time to show the rookie how it's really done."

"This should be good," Bobby muttered, but he was smiling.

What followed was possibly the worst display of athletic ability you'd ever witnessed. Dean's first swing was so aggressive he spun himself around completely. Sam's approach was overly analytical, and he kept adjusting his stance so much that he never actually swung at all. You found yourself laughing so hard you had to sit down on the grass.

"You're all terrible at this," you gasped between giggles.

"We're hunters, not athletes," Dean said defensively, but he was laughing too.

"Speak for yourself," Sam said, finally taking a swing and missing entirely. "I played soccer in high school."

"For two weeks," Dean corrected.

"It was a month!"

"Before you quit to focus on your studies," you and Dean said in unison, then looked at each other in surprise.

"See?" Bobby said, settling down on the grass beside you. "Family."

The word hung in the air for a moment, warm and solid and real. You looked around at the three men who'd become your world—Bobby, gruff and caring, teaching you something just because he wanted to; Sam, brilliant and kind, always trying to make everything better; and Dean, protective and loyal, who'd follow you into hell and back.

"Yeah," you said softly. "Family."

Inside Bobby's house, the photo albums turned out to be a treasure trove of embarrassing Winchester moments. Bobby had apparently been documenting their visits for years, and he had no mercy when it came to sharing the evidence.

"Oh my God," you wheezed, looking at a picture of a teenage Dean with what could only be described as a tragic attempt at a mustache. "What is happening on your face?"

"I was trying to look older!" Dean protested, but he was turning red.

"You looked like you glued a caterpillar to your lip," Sam said, leaning over your shoulder to get a better look.

"At least I didn't go through a goth phase," Dean shot back.

"I was exploring different forms of self-expression!"

"You wore eyeliner for six months!"

"It was cool and it was very historically accurate!"

"Here's a good one," Bobby said, flipping to another page. The photo showed a young Sam, maybe thirteen, standing proudly next to what appeared to be a science fair project. His hair was longer than you'd ever seen it, and he was wearing a tie with his T-shirt.

"You were so cute!" you said, and Sam's cheeks went pink.

"That project won first place," he said with dignity.

"What was it?" you asked.

"A comprehensive analysis of electromagnetic field fluctuations in relation to suspected paranormal activity," Sam said, as if this were perfectly normal.

"You were thirteen," Dean said. "Normal kids make volcanoes."

"Volcanoes are so pedestrian," Sam said, then paused. "Although, looking back, I'm not sure how I explained my research sources to the judges."

"You probably scared them into giving you first place," Bobby said fondly.

The evening continued like that, with Bobby sharing photo after photo and story after story. There was Dean at sixteen, trying to teach Sam how to drive and looking like he was about to have a heart attack. Sam at fourteen, solemnly reading a book that was bigger than his head while sitting in Bobby's kitchen. Both boys at various ages, always looking a little too serious, a little too grown-up for their years.

"You know what I notice?" you said, studying a photo of the boys helping Bobby work on a car. "You both look so..."

"Devastatingly handsome?" Dean suggested.

"Responsible," you finished. "Like you were trying to be adults even when you were kids."

"Had to be," Sam said quietly, and some of the lightness went out of the room.

"Well," Bobby said, closing the album, "that's what makes this even better. You boys finally get to be kids for a few days."

"We're not kids anymore, Bobby," Dean said, but there was something almost wistful in his voice.

"Says who? You're in my house, eating my food, and I just watched you spend twenty minutes trying to hit a softball. Far as I'm concerned, you're all still kids."

"Even me?" you asked.

"Especially you," Bobby said warmly. "You never got to be a kid at all. About time you learned what you missed."

Later that night, after Dean had fallen asleep on the couch and Sam had retreated to his room with another book, you found yourself on the porch with Bobby. The evening was cool and quiet, with only the sound of crickets and the distant hum of the highway.

"Thank you," you said again, because it felt important to say it.

"For what now?"

"For letting me be part of this. For teaching me something just because you wanted to."

Bobby was quiet for a long moment, rocking gently in his chair. "Kid, you don't thank family for loving you. That's just what we do."

"I know, but—"

"No buts," Bobby said firmly. "You're a Winchester, and Winchesters belong here. Always have, always will. This is your home as much as it's theirs."

You felt tears prick at your eyes, but they weren't sad tears. They were the kind of tears that came from being overwhelmed by how much you were loved.

"Besides," Bobby continued, "who else is gonna help me keep those two knuckleheads in line?"

"Good point," you said, wiping at your eyes.

"And tomorrow, we're working on your pitching," Bobby said. "Fair warning—I might actually be tougher on you than I was today."

"Bring it on," you said, and meant it.

As you sat there in the comfortable silence, you realized that maybe this was what happiness felt like. Not the absence of problems or danger, but the presence of people who loved you enough to teach you how to hit a baseball just because you'd never learned. People who wanted to share their embarrassing childhood stories and patient teaching and quiet evenings on the porch.

[newmoonclan]

Moon 0

Nightstar names the clan NewmoonClan

The clan finds its new home

The clan is now open for asks

[eohippuu]

more....cars

[nespolkei]

I drew this creature again

[sheetzking]

waiting for the next volume is making me feel very crazy anyways

[toothpaste-for-the-skin]

Another Clangen cat

She was originally named Shellchill or something but I renamed her Shellfire after my friend who was watching me play in vc

This cat is chill I hope she doesn’t die

[iwakuraz]

comic I made last night :O

[1singulargrape]

Sukuna and his daughter

I think he'd love having a cat. I can see him carrying her everywhere with him

[happistar]

:3

he does look like it, doesn't he

[pepperingsteaks]

havent drawn jian wen and dahlia in a bit,

technically i still haven't they aren't usually furries

[kittycatred]

Hey, fish heals cats in Minecraft. (*spawns a few cod, both of raw and cooked variety in front of Red*) Does this do anything?

mrow !!!!

[makigorogoro]

i miss them soooo much i miss them so much guys :(

[fenzs-strikes-again]

[catrat8d]

blaze in kirigiri’s clothes because they are both purple and my favorites

(i used this pose as reference)

[monstersholygrail]

oh to be a mouse hybrid toyed with by a cat hybrid who just wants to see you squirm in every way

Ooh when the Cat Hybrid’s owners told him they were getting him a new little friend, you, a Mouse Hybrid were by far the last thing he was expecting.

He wanted another cat to mess with, to play with… to mate with. But he couldn’t stop himself from noticing your plump round form scurrying about the house or the constant skittish look in your eye as you surveyed your new home. Perhaps you would do.

From that day on he would terrorize you mercilessly. Chasing you around the around the house when your owners were gone, saying he was gonna devour you when he finally got his claws into you. Backing you into corners just to see the delicious terror in your eyes. Plopping his large form right on top of you so that you couldn’t escape him even as you scrambled desperately to get away.

It was never ending and as much as you wanted to say you hated it, it felt far too good. The Cat hybrid severely underestimated you, forgetting you too were a hybrid with all the same perks. You could smell his desire in the air every time he chased you. And you had grown addicted to the scent. To feel so wanted and yearned for, especially during the chase, nothing else could compare.

He would only ever mess with you when he felt like it so you figured you might need to give him a little push. Using yourself as bait you use your owners creaky stairs to your advantage. As soon as the first step creaks, the Cat hybrid’s head snaps up from where he’s perched. His eyes meet your wide ones for only a moment before you’re bolting down the stairs.

As soon as you hear the pounding of paws behind you, you smirk wickedly knowing your plan had worked. Cute little squeaks leave your mouth as you run throughout the house, narrowly trying to avoid being caught. He should’ve realized how much you like this. You’re much faster than him after all.

After rounding the next corner you wait a moment for him to catch up. Seeing a flash of fur and then you’re off. The Cat Hybrid pauses for a moment as he realizes what you had just done. What you’ve actually been doing this entire time.

Adrenaline pumps through his veins as he chases you at lightning speed. He’s catching up to you in no time and by the look of genuine alarm in your eye he knows this wasn’t a trick. Instead of his usual antics he pounces on you, sending you both tumbling to the floor.

“You messin’ with me, little mouse?” He growls in your ear, his body pinning you to the hard wood floor. You don’t even bother to squirm, your heart beating out of your chest as you stare up at him.

Before you can even blink he’s shoving his hand down your pants and swiping his fingers through your folds, your slick drenching them with how aroused you are. He chuckles lowly, rumbling purrs vibrating into your chest and straight to your core.

“So this has been a game to you, huh? A bit of foreplay before I inevitably snap and fuck you dumb.”

You find you can’t even answer, panting breaths escaping you as you rock with his hand that’s slowly rubbing against all the right places. He devilishly smiles and pushes two fingers deep inside you, causing your hips to jolt as you cry out.

“Well, sweetheart, you’ve done it. I’ve snapped,” he says with a menacing snarl as he pumps his fingers roughly against your walls, his claws just barely scraping them and setting your nerves on fire.

You try and be as good as you can, staying perfectly still for him as he fucks you with his fingers, but your small reaction only seems to infuriate him further. He picks up pace, licking and nipping at your throat until you too break and your moans echo throughout the empty house. A secret smirk plays on lips.

That is until the Cat Hybrid plays a trick of his own. Pumping his fingers inside you, drawing you closer and closer till you’re just about to fall off that edge when he suddenly stops and withdraws. You whine, squirming now as you begin to beg for more.

“I see through you now, sweet prey. You won’t be winning this one.”

You only start to realize your mistake as he starts fucking you with his cock, the large length stretching you so good. The natural curve hitting the soft spot inside you perfectly. Then he starts doing to you exactly what he did with his fingers. Bringing you up to the edge and then pulling you right back.

He’s as merciless as he is when terrorizing you and in a way he’s doing just that but in a whole new way that drives you more insane than the chasing ever did. Eventually you’re a sobbing mess, your tears and your arousal forming two separate puddles on the floor with how in need you are right now as he starts up again.

You jump as the sudden sensation of his wet nose nuzzling into your neck, his purrs even louder now. You immediately cling to him, meeting his thrusts and trying to chase your growing orgasm before it’s taken away again.

“Do you think you’ve earned the right to cum for me now?” The Cat Hybrid asks and you whine, nodding rapidly.

You feel his grin against your skin before he pulls out and starts slamming his cock deep inside your cunt. His intent clear before he even says a word. But when he does it’s like music to your ears.

“I agree. Cum for me, mate.”

This time as you get closer and closer to the finish, he doesn’t stop. Instead, his hands slips down and rubs tight circles into your clit. Your orgasm breaks through almost instantly and you scream as you milk his cock for all it’s worth, sending him right into ecstasy with you.

But the sound of the car door doesn’t leave either of you much time to bask in pleasure coursing through you. Luckily the Cat hybrid takes the lead, maneuvering you both as he curls around you, keeping you stuffed full of his cock but hiding any of the evidence. You’re too weak to do anything but shift into how he molds you. Making it appear as if you two are asleep and cuddling in the hall.

“Aw, look at them. Finally getting along,” you hear your owners say who are none the wiser to what’s really going on.

Cat Hybrid bf rocks his hips, snapping them back inside you quietly and forcing a squeak from your throat. He chuckles under his breath and nuzzles into you, not planning on moving away from you for hours. Wondering how many more orgasms he can rip from your tight pussy.

[viaxslz]

⭔﹐⌗ ATTENTION ﹕ᶻz﹒

享受 ! .°. ݁₊ 𐙚 gn!reader, cw: established relationship, post argument, making up, cold shoulders, pet names, oh take me back to this era 😭😭, not proofread :P

CHAN

You’ve been giving Chan the cold shoulder for hours after your argument. arms crossed, death glare loaded, and air pods in even though they’re not playing anything. Chan knows he's in trouble. You’re not even acknowledging the dog pics he sent you. The dog pics. That’s when he knows it’s serious. Cue Chan pacing back and forth in the living room like a sitcom dad. He's googling "how to apologize to your emotionally intelligent but terrifyingly stubborn significant other who might actually kill you with their eyes." No real help. He decides to go with the classic Chan combo: guilt + dramatic flair + ✨stupid charm✨. Next thing you know, he’s dramatically fake-sniffling outside your door with a Bluetooth speaker playing “Apologize” by OneRepublic at full volume. “Baby… it’s too late to apolo—oh wait, no, it’s NOT too late! That’s why I’m here!” You crack the door open just to glare, and that’s when he shoves a plate of perfectly microwaved dino nuggets into your hands like it’s a peace treaty. “I made these with love. And regret. Mostly regret. But also love.” You’re still silent. So he pulls out his final weapon: a handwritten letter addressed to “The Love of My Life (Who Could Annihilate Me With One Look).” It’s full of sappy lines like “Your silence hurts more than leg day” and “You’re my favorite notification and also includes a stick figure drawing of you kicking his butt, labeled “Me if I ever mess up again.” You finally snort, trying to stay mad but failing. He gasps. “Was that a laugh? Did you just—was that forgiveness I heard in your nose?” You: “That was me trying not to choke on a nugget, actually.” Chan grins like he just won an Oscar. “I’ll take it.” And before you know it, you’re in his arms, still pretending you’re annoyed, while he whispers sweet apologies into your ear and asks if you want to co-parent a puppy someday because, you know, trust rebuilding.

LEE KNOW

Minho isn’t the type to beg for forgiveness. At least, that’s what he tells himself. In reality, he’s been sulking in the kitchen for an hour, dramatically peeling oranges like they personally offended him because someone (you) won’t talk to him after your argument. He’s not even sure who was right anymore. Probably you. But admitting that out loud would break his cool, and that’s illegal in Minho Land. Instead, he starts making increasingly loud commentary to his cats. “Soonyoung, do you think I was being unreasonable? Hmm? No? Exactly. At least someone understands me.” You’re in the next room, scrolling on your phone, clearly ignoring him. He walks by casually and accidentally drops a photo of you two on the floor. “Oops,” he says way too loudly. “Didn’t mean to drop this beautiful memory we shared when we were still talking to each other like normal, emotionally stable people.” Still nothing. You don’t even blink. That’s when he resorts to phase two: petty bribery. He slides a plate of your favorite snack across the table toward you without saying a word. There’s a sticky note on it that says: “I’m still mad but I miss you more. Don’t let the cat eat this.” You glance at it, unimpressed. So he ups the ante and sends you a meme one of himself, edited to look like he’s crying in a corner with the caption: “Me after realizing I can’t win a fight against my insanely hot and emotionally intelligent partner.” Finally, you let out a laugh, and he looks up from across the room like a cat that’s pretending it doesn’t care but has been watching you the whole time. “Oh, so you do still love me,” he smirks, leaning against the counter. You: “I still haven’t forgiven you.” Minho: “That’s okay. I forgive me for both of us.” You roll your eyes and throw a pillow at him. He catches it, kisses it dramatically, and says, “Tell your representative we accept the terms.” Later, he lets Dori sit in your lap while he curls up next to you, whispering, “I hate fighting with you. Let’s not do that again. Unless you’re into angry make-ups. In which case, I’m very available.”

CHANGBIN

Changbin messed up. He knows it. You know it. The neighbors probably know it because you haven’t responded to a single thing he’s said in two hours and he’s been dramatically sighing every five minutes like someone just told him protein shakes were banned. He starts pacing the apartment like he’s mentally preparing for a final boss fight. Even his muscles look tense. He mutters to himself like a stressed-out drama lead. "Okay Changbin, you’ve survived leg day, you’ve survived Jihoon’s cooking, you can survive this." He tries casual tactics first. Walks by you holding a gallon of water like he’s not suffering. Drops a casual “sup” in the most broken voice ever. You don’t even blink. So he levels up: Operation Cute & Desperate. You hear rustling in the bedroom. Fifteen minutes later, he walks out in your hoodie, the one that’s comically tight on him and a headband with little bear ears. His arms are crossed. His face is dead serious. “I’m here to apologize,” he says, voice an octave higher. “As your oversized emotional support bear.” You blink. He waddles closer, overly dramatic. “I’ve been thinking about my actions. While lifting. And crying. Slightly. Okay maybe a lot. But my point is look into these bear ears and tell me you don’t miss me.” You burst out laughing. He grins like he just benched 300 pounds of forgiveness. But he’s not done. He dramatically pulls out a tiny tub of ice cream from behind his back like it’s an engagement ring. “I come bearing peace offerings and high-calorie emotional healing. If this doesn’t work, I’ll let you pick the next gym playlist. Even if it’s… ballads.” You, narrowing your eyes: “Even the sad ones with rain sound effects?” He winces. “Even those.” You pull him into a hug, bear ears squishing slightly, and he lets out a victorious sigh.

HYUNJIN

The argument was dumb. Like, really dumb. Something about the dishes and his suspicious ability to avoid them like they’re cursed. But now you’re not talking to him, and Hyunjin is spiraling. He’s lying facedown on the floor like a Victorian man fainting in a corset. Felix: “Dude, are you okay?” Hyunjin, muffled into the carpet: “No. My soulmate hates me and the world has lost color.” He tries texting you, but you left him on read. Tragic. So he gets creative. You walk into the living room and freeze. There’s a handwritten note taped to the wall that says: “In this house, i love and respect the queen (you). Even when she is intimidating and scary and not talking to me.” Below it: a trail of rose petals… leading to the kitchen… where you find Hyunjin in an apron, holding a vacuum cleaner in one hand and a spatula in the other like some kind of domestic apology warrior. “I have vacuumed. I have cooked. I have suffered.” You stare at him. He drops the spatula. “Do I get forgiveness points if I say you’re prettier when you’re mad?” You squint. “No.” He gasps. “How dare. I’m literally groveling. Do you know how much I hate crumbs on my socks? I vacuumed for you. That’s love.” You try to keep a straight face, but he’s got that kicked puppy look and there’s flour in his hair. It’s… kind of adorable. “I’m still mad.” He nods solemnly, walks over, and holds up a crayon drawing of the two of you holding hands, labeled: “Me + The Love of My Life (please forgive me I am weak without you)” You burst out laughing, finally giving in. He beams like he just won an award. Hyunjin, hugging you tightly: “I’ll do dishes every day this week.” You: “And next week.” Hyunjin: “Let’s not push it.”

HAN

Han is not handling this well. You're ignoring him and he’s been pacing the room like a raccoon on Red Bull. The argument was over something stupid (probably him forgetting to text you back because he was distracted by a pigeon outside), but now you’re giving him the silent treatment and he’s one sad meme away from spiraling. He sends you a voice note titled “Please Listen or I Will Cry in Public” You open it. It’s just him saying “hi” in 27 different accents, followed by a long sigh and then: “I miss you. Also, I stubbed my toe and I feel like that’s karma.” Still no response. So he launches Operation Desperate But Make It Stupid™. You walk into the kitchen to find a post-it note stuck to your favorite snack: “This snack is yours. So is my heart. Please take both.” Then there’s another note on the fridge: “If this is where the cold stuff goes, why are you being so cold to me :(((((” Another one on the toilet: “I flushed my pride. Let me back in your heart.” You’re trying not to laugh, but it’s becoming physically impossible. Then you hear him yell from the living room: “BABY PLEASE I CAN’T WORK UNDER THESE CONDITIONS. I TRIED TO WRITE LYRICS AND THEY TURNED INTO A SAD POEM ABOUT YOUR LEFT EYEBROW.” You peek your head out and he’s sitting dramatically on the floor with a ukulele he can’t play, strumming random strings while freestyle rapping an apology. “I was dumb and now I’m numb, You’re my queen and I’m your crumb, Forgive me please, or I’ll become…A worm.” You: “…A worm?” Jisung: “An unlovable worm.” You finally burst out laughing. He scrambles to his feet like he just got a Grammy and hugs you tight, not letting go. “I’m sorry. I was dumb. I always mess things up but I don’t wanna mess us up. You mean too much to me, even more than ramen. That’s serious.” You: “Even more than convenience store ramen at 3am?” He gasps. “Don’t make me say it again. It hurts.”

FELIX

You’re mad. And Felix? He’s a walking apology wrapped in sunshine and panic. He’s been following you around the apartment at a five-foot distance like a sad Roomba. Every time you turn, he freezes like he’s been caught committing a crime. He tries whispering your name dramatically like a telenovela character. “Y/N… Y/N, please… don’t do this. Not like this. Don’t ghost me while we’re still in the same house. It’s emotional terrorism.” You ignore him. So he leaves and comes back wearing the most ridiculous outfit known to mankind: your fuzzy pink robe, heart-shaped sunglasses, and a single oven mitt. “Look,” he says, dead serious. “This is what losing your affection did to me. I have no sense of fashion. No sense of self. I tried to toast bread but forgot to plug in the toaster.” You raise an eyebrow. So he ups the ante. Grabs your plushie and gently makes it “walk” toward you with a high-pitched voice. “Hi! I’m Mr. Snuggles and I think you should forgive Lixie because he’s really sorry and his freckles are crying.” You cover your face trying not to laugh. “Help what???” Then he puts the plushie down, sighs deeply, and finally drops the crack for a second. “I know I hurt your feelings. I didn’t mean to. I’d never do anything to make you feel ignored or unimportant, but I messed up. So… I’ll keep making a fool of myself until you smile again.” You glance up, and he’s got his arms wide open like a dramatic K-drama confession, still in your robe. You: “You look like a chaotic sleepover aunt.” Him, with the brightest grin: “But am I your forgiven chaotic sleepover aunt?” You sigh, walk over, and hug him. He melts immediately, nearly collapsing with relief. “I’ll be better,” he murmurs into your shoulder. “I promise. Even if I have to learn how to use the toaster properly.”

SEUNGMIN

The argument was small but loud. And now you’ve gone full cold shoulder. No eye contact. No banter. No sarcastic jabs. Nothing. For Seungmin, that’s worse than death. At first, he tries to out-ignore you out of pure spite. He walks past you dramatically sipping water like he’s never been hydrated a day in his life. Slams the cup down. Sighs. Doesn’t look at you. Repeats. Then he escalates. You walk into the kitchen and the fridge has a post-it that says: “This is where cold things go. Just like your heart apparently.” You spot your favorite snack on the counter. The packaging is untouched… but there’s another note: “I was going to eat this out of petty revenge, but I remembered I’m a good person. Unlike some people.” You almost laugh. Almost. Later, you hear him muttering while gaming: “Wow, teammates who actually listen… must be nice…” You finally lose it and throw a pillow at him. He catches it midair like a smug little gremlin and smirks. “So you can still see me. Thought I turned invisible.” You: “You’re so dramatic.” Seungmin, fake offended: “I haven’t even started yet.” Then he softens. Just a little. Barely. “I don’t like fighting with you. And I definitely don’t like not talking to you. I’m still mad, but I miss you more.” He walks over, hands in pockets, and says it without looking directly at you. “I’m sorry for being a jerk. I’m working on it. Please don’t stay mad too long, okay?” You stare at him. He stares at the floor. “…Also I may or may not have named your pillow Kevin and cried into him last night.” You: “You WHAT—” Seungmin: “Shhh. Kevin and I are going through a lot.”

JEONGIN

Jeongin, immediately after the argument: “I don’t care. I’m not apologizing. I was RIGHT.” Jeongin, 20 minutes later, whispering to Hyunjin: “She’s not looking at me. Should I fake an injury?” Hyunjin: “What kind?” Jeongin: “Emotional.” Cue Operation Unbothered (but obviously very bothered). He starts acting extra around the house. Slams drawers. Loudly types on his phone with the keyboard click sounds on. Walks past you with exaggerated sighs and occasional mutters like: “Guess I’ll just go be emotionally damaged… ALONE.” You stay silent. Now it’s desperation hour. He walks in wearing a crown made from a cereal box, holding a mop like a sword. “I have returned from the Kingdom of Regret. I bring apologies and emotional growth.” You blink. He bows deeply, knocking the crown off his head. “Your silence wounds me, fair lady. I shall now sing of my sorrow.” You: “Jeongin, don’t—” Too late. He whips out his phone, plays the most dramatic instrumental music he can find, and starts fake-sobbing like he’s in a historical drama. “Forgive me, for I was young and foolish—AND STUPID. MOSTLY STUPID.” You’re cackling at this point, and he breaks character instantly, grinning like he just won the lottery. “AH, SHE SMILES. I AM REDEEMED.” You: “You’re so annoying.” Him, smug: “But… forgiven?” You roll your eyes, tug him into a hug, and he melts instantly, still holding the mop. “Next time,” you mumble, “just say sorry like a normal person.” He grins into your shoulder. “Where’s the drama in that?”

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