#*threads

[agmaknae-a]

I think…people bullying taejoon for someone he has a crush on is so funny bc he gets so angry and I like to piss him off

[rosaliehalerps]

for: @mizukagexx​ who: fi-lo 😌 what: a first meeting at some rando house party/hang out/kick back

Finnegan already needed a break from the loud music and the raucous mostly drunk people at the party. She had felt too old for this since the moment she walked in, but she had also routinely gotten that feeling since she was a teen. She had long since accepted it was just her, and nothing to do with her age. As it was, she decided to slip out the back of the living room to the patio, get a moment of fresh air, maybe some quiet. Or at least, slightly quieter. She had already slid the door shut behind her when she realized someone else was out there, lounging on the furniture with complete ease. “Oh,” she said, her surprise obviously on her face. “I didn’t think anyone would be out here. Don’t suppose you’d mind if I joined you, would you?” 

[feyminho]

how i met your mother.

@feyxsiwoo

Minho doesn’t have a lot of experience with parents. He thinks back to his mother and is delivered to the mouth of a dark place. A swarm of bad memories waits there. There was the mother of his previous partner, too - the true matriarch of the estate and their lives. She was worse than his own. Her hands, her eyes, everything about her was cold and cruel.

So he doesn’t know what to expect when he meets Siwoo’s mother. He cares for her in a way Minho cannot hope to understand. The way his lips curl into a smile when talking about her, or how his eyebrows twitch with worry. He only wants to see her happy and healthy. Likewise, she dots on him, worrying that he’s vulnerable to the world without a familiar. This bond between mother and son, it’s kinder than he imagined. He doesn’t even have the wherewithal to feel envy.

They’re sitting on the train, side by side, and Minho studies Siwoo’s profile. His face is characteristically masculine, yet at the side, all of his angles soften. He thinks hard; what is it like to be Siwoo, to have someone watch over him and love him? His heart warms, becomes tender and gooey like hot pudding. He scoots over and nudges him with a sharp elbow.

“Look, I even brought crystals with me. The good kind!” he says, opening his palm to show off a polished clear quartz. He can feel the magic beneath the smooth surface, humming, waiting for someone to reach in and pull out its power - someone stronger than him. His own flesh and blood is too weak without the ethereal bond only a witch can give him. It’s something he doesn’t necessarily want, but knows he needs. 

The clear quartz he picked has few clouds inside, making for a foggy bottom but a perfectly transparent point. When light passes through it, it breaks into ribbons of bright color. One of the good things about experiencing the bond between a familiar and a witch, then breaking it, is that he knows a damn good crystal when he sees one. “Do you think she’ll like it? I also bought chocolates for her, in my bag” he says, worried and biting his lip. Siwoo’s not his witch, but they’ll pretend today to make his mom happy, even if it means lying. 

[feyminho]

london fog.

@arafey

continued from here

Usually his shifts at the tea bar are filled with conversation, tea puns and lively debates about green versus black versus oolong. Today, the sky is overcast, the regulars are gone, and he works alone. His manager locked himself in the backroom, back hunched as he did, what Minho imagines, could only be important managerial things. So he organizes the glass jars filled with tea leaves twice, dusts the for-sale local art on the walls thrice, and fidgets with the strings of his matcha green apron until finally, another customer!

He chirps a greeting and takes her order, filling it while classical music hums in the background. The woman takes a phone call, and this in itself wasn’t unusual, but her expression quickly deflates, as if the phone itself siphoned away all energy. Minho tries not to eavesdrop on what is clearly a bad personal call, and focuses. He boils the water to the designated temperature, then checks it with a thermometer to be certain - lest he worsen her day with burnt tea.

Minho measures the tea leaves. dumps them in a ceramic pot, and carefully pours the hot water over the mixture. Slowly, as to encourage a full, complete flavor. He put everything into making that single brew, so that when she took the first sip, all her worries would melt away. She’d taste the natural smokiness, inhale the soothing aromatics, and hopefully, lean back with a sigh of relief. He smiles to himself, imagining this, and approaches the customer with her completed order. 

It’s obvious that she’s still upset. He thinks of something he heard once, wisdom from an elderly woman, the same one who helped him learn how to rent an apartment. How to make money. How to blend into human society. 

“Life can’t ever be all bad or all good. Eventually things have to come back to the middle.”

He says it with confidence, but that’s decimated by the woman’s scowl. Her pretty face becomes wolfish, like she might snap at him and take a huge bite. Instinctively, he puts his hands up, as if lifting a shield.

“Sorry! I shouldn’t have said anything,” he says, heart beating faster in his chest and his cheeks burning with the heat of embarrassment. “Sorry, you just looked, well, like you could use some cheering up” he looks away from her, sinking into the realization that he made another social transgression. Sometimes those ended badly, like when people threw drinks at him, even if he was only trying to help. Almost proactively, he pushes the tea towards her, then steps back, shrinking away to put more distance between them. 

He looks at his shoes. Black, the non-slip kind. “Um,” he begins, looking at her again, but not meeting her eyes. “Enjoy your tea. Sorry for bothering you - um, again.”

[feyminho]

bloody justice.

@feyjaeyong

His legs strain as he kicks off the concrete roof. He hurls himself off the side, into the dark crevice of an alleyway, and falls three stories down.

Minho transforms in-and-out of his human body. He’s a boy jumping off a ramyun factory, then he’s a city bird, and a boy again. He touches down on the wet cement but misses his footing, and goes careening into bags of garbage head first. It’s soft, sticky, but luckily not leaking liquid death. This happens more often than he’d like to admit.

Fear pangs in his chest. His heart is speeding, and he can’t feel anything other than the hot blood rushing through his veins and the bite of the wind. Minho stands and looks ups, looking for that villainous face that chased after him. Jaeyong. His arch nemesis - maybe. When he takes a step forward, pain bites at his ankles. 

This type of action was, is, unusual for him. Comic books and movies made it look so easy to be a superhero. Like having a supernatural quirk delivered destiny to its host, making them a hero or a villain, and the rest fell into place. It was natural for them. In real life, he twisted his ankle and landed in literal garbage.

But he, sometimes, could dip in and save someone. When he flew high in the sky, he could watch the entire city. When a werewolf, a witch, or a hunter chased down an innocent to kill, he could be there. Like earlier, hardly ten minutes ago, when he helped a young vampire slip away while he dealt with Jaeyong.

Minho curls his hands around his face, and uses all the air left in his chest. “Catch me now, eviler doer!” He yells, grinning into it.

[feyminho]

let me in.

@feydonghan​

He never meant to mooch or take advantage of another person’s good will. Sometimes, these things just happen. Seeds were for the real birds. But bread, bread he couldn’t resist. 

Minho, covered in dark feathers, sits on a particular windowsill. He looks through the glass, searching for a boy. A kind boy with a honey-like voice and a heart of solid gold. A boy that will feed a weird bird like himself, not with moldy scraps but with fine bits of sweet bread. His tiny pigeon heart beat fast, his stomach ached. Flying consumes an insane amount energy, and this is his favorite pitstop in the middle of the city: Donghan’s house.

It wasn’t that weird, right? 

He pecks at the window, he ruffles his feathers, then sighs low and long with disappointment. All morning, while he was fluttering between skyscrapers, he looked forward to seeing Donghan and munching on rich carbohydrates. Their friendship, if you could call it that, was an accident. Minho bought him coffee one day and later, in his avian form, met him again in the park as he fed the furry denizens of Seoul. At the time, he thought this meant they were even - coffee for bread, and the deal would be done.

It wasn’t. Donghan’s generosity was too convenient, the stories he’d tell him over bread crumbs too interesting. So every few days, he’d come here. Minho hit the window again with his beak, waited for a beat, and continued tapping away. Hungry, impatient, hoping that he didn’t arrive at an empty house, he began headbanging against the glass. Come on, Donghannie, let me in!

[feyminho]

supernatural disco.

@feyxuilan​

Somewhere, in a Gangnam penthouse, psychedelic colors swam against a deceptively human crowd.

The people here spun in circles to disco and traded smiles with the clinking of champagne glasses. The woman of this house commanded immortal wealth. She’s a vampire but lived like she was due to die tomorrow. Supernatural parties were one of her favorite pastimes, and why he was stuck on a couch between a werewolf couple, acting as a mediator to drunken drama. 

“You were gone on the full moon again!”

“You’re my wife - not my watcher!”

Minho sipped his beer as they bickered. Their knees pressed into his sides, dog-like breath hot on his face. People danced around them, laughing and kissing and, sometimes, disappearing. He sunk lower into the plush black velvet and wondered how to join the happy people. Everyone dressed in retro styles, the mismatch of 70s, 80s, and 90s made a sea of polka dots and bright, aggressive color. His acid wash jean jacket scratched his sensitive skin. Then, he saw her.

He squinted before he jumped up, pushed himself away from the couple, and called a name across the dance floor. “Xuilannie!” Minho shimmied past the dancers and made it to the other side disheveled, barely able to keep his beer from spilling. “Hey, it’s good to see you again!” He started, and realized, in a beat of stunned silence, the implication of her being here. Xuilan is human, right? Maybe not.

Minho smiled. pushing away assumptions. Sure, she might have been paid to show up as a human juice box, but what did that matter? Still, he couldn’t stop himself from asking. “What are you doing here? Do you know the madam?” Minho asked, referring to their bloodthirsty host.