All the greats died at lakes.

They let their water sweep away their souls.

They let the tide pull them out to rest.

All the greats died at lakes ' edge.

Last few seconds passed away in peace.

w/ k.gh

g/ slice of life, fluff, romance

w.count/ 307

a.n/ [romantics era team]: we hope it’s up to your expectations!

t.w/ none

Geonhak let out a noise of contentment, his spine tingled with pleasure and he involuntarily shivered at the feeling. He shifts around and buries his face against your chest, half of his weight on top of you. An unspoken wish of ‘don’t stop playing with my hair’ is apparent. You chuckle at his actions, melting into the mattress further.

You’re exhausted, the day hasn’t been kind to you and the heat beats down on your back. Yet when you touch the cold handle of your apartment door, you know a dear visitor is already making himself at home. The air conditioning unit is running at its lowest temperature and curtains drawn to shut out the harsh summer lights. Geonhak is already curled up in your bed under the blanket. Even when lull out, he recognises your presence immediately. He drowsily calls for you, voice deep and slightly raspy, your name pleasantly rolls off his tongue. You drop your bag, shoulder sighing in relief, and finally, finally getting to bed. The scent of the sun is still on your skin.

The cheap night light is projecting a blue galaxy on the ceiling. If you’re being honest, it feels like you are at the bottom of the pool instead. It’s still calming nonetheless. You could feel your legs numbing, the itchy feeling that makes you want to fight sleep but you can’t, Geonhak’s weight on you is too comforting. His nose nuzzles your neck and your fingers find his golden locks again, slightly damaged yet still soft. The more he relaxes on top of you, the more you sink deeper into the bed, tiredness seeping out. It wouldn’t be long until either of you falls asleep.

w/ s.mg

g/ slice of life

w.count/ 605

a.n/ [romantics era team]:we hope it’s up to your expectations!

t.w/ none

Mingi steps into the bus and he hears the beep of the scanner reading his transport card through the music playing in his ears. Life is loud. The synapses in his nervous system work unceasingly, sending information to his brain. It’s fascinating how he could compute the material of the bus seat is akin to corduroy, he doesn’t know the exact name of the fabric, and the armrests are plastic. He feels the tremors of the engine to the tip of his hair. Every bounce of the uneven road jostles him. He takes out his AirPods, little kidney beans he calls them, fingers curling into a fist, the vibrations of music tickles his palm. Do other people notice that? Can they feel what he feels? The vibration of music and the speaker could be felt on the phone screen under his thumb on days he plays his favourite tunes without the little kidney beans. Life is a sensory overload.

The bus intercom buzzes, the bus driver announces the next stop, nobody presses the stop button. Mingi sinks deeper into his seat, at the back bus and tuck away in the right corner, it’ll be some time until he reaches his destination. Meanwhile, he could people watch, a favourite pastime when he’s outside.

What book the girl sitting by the door is reading? What is unfolding on the pages and between the lines that make her legs shake? He couldn’t read the title from his position but he catches a glimpse of the heart coloured cover. There’s a salaryman two seats down from him on the left side of the bus. What is he doing out on a Sunday? How is he liking the job? He seems nervous with how he folds his hands together, fingers linking and unlinking, and the way he rubs his palms on his dress pants. Maybe an interview or a wedding? Mingi hopes he’s not going to crash it if it’s a wedding. How about the bus driver? Is he married? How did he get this job? Does he ever wonder to get a better occupation or is he content with his life? Mingi glances over to the salaryman, he couldn’t do such work. The corporate life and routine is not something he wants to do. He’s not one to settle for the second-best but he knows not all could be so privileged.

The bus shudders to a stop, an elderly couple steps into the vehicle. He watches the girl close her book and helps the couple to their seat. Mingi smiles, how sweet of her. When the bus moves again, he sees the establishment he intends to visit in the distance. He presses the stop button when the driver announces the next stop. Passing the green traffic light, Mingi pockets the little kidney beans, he can't afford to lose them again. He stands up and makes his way to the front when the bus slows down. The scanner beeps and he thanked the driver. It has become a habit after he read one of the spooky writing prompts on Instagram.

w/ j.yh ft. s.mg

g/ slice of life, friendship

w.count/ 700

a.n/ [romantics era team]: we hope it’s up to your expectations!

a.n2/ @barsformars, aiming for that soft feels.

t.w/ mentions of alcohol

The party was great, albeit a biased opinion but it was great. Yunho was not the kind to hold back when it came to his best friend. He gathered their closest friends and had dinner at the place of childhood nostalgia then finished it off at a club.

He still felt the buzzing of alcohol in his bloodstreams, they were not going to go away anytime soon, mixing drinks was not a good idea but it was alright once in a while. Yunho only added fuel to the fire when his friend danced on top of the table. He was grateful they were regulars there and the workers knew them by names, at the same time he didn’t quite care if the employees didn’t know them either. One or two shot glasses were definitely shattered on the floor but all in good memory. He would have to print some polaroids to share tomorrow, no, later today or tomorrow, it’s already dawn.

The smooth gliding of the black taxi almost sent him to sleep if not for the weight that dropped on his shoulder to keep him awake. Golden beige locks tickled his jaw and the soft snores mocked him. His best friend tanked out the moment Yunho manoeuvred him into the vehicle. Hopefully, the lift maintenance was done because he wouldn’t be able to climb the stairs with his wobbly legs and an extra deadweight. His friend had to be the same size as him if not a centimetre shy. “Mingi-ah, wake up, we’re here,” Yunho jostled the gentle giant beside him. No such luck, he only received an incoherent mumble in response.

It took Yunho five minutes to get Mingi out of the car, five minutes of struggles including smacking his head against the roof of the taxi and unceremoniously holding his friend like a teddy bear whilst paying the driver. Embarrassing but he forgot the feeling as fast as he felt them. The lift maintenance notice was taken down and Yunho let out a noise of joy as he eagerly pressed the up arrow. He was not going to let Mingi live it down, the fellow giant clung to him like a baby and Yunho spent whatever strength he had left to somehow carry him this far.

Eight strides. Eight strides until Yunho could punch in the codes to his apartment. Eight strides turned out to be a lot more, Mingi’s feet dragged as he manhandled the passed out boy to lean against him comfortably. Lady Luck was simultaneously with him and not with him. Life was with him. The struggles and trivial happiness. Yunho never rejoiced as much as now when he reached the front of his door, missing the lock pad and entering the wrong numbers twice before the light switched blue and the beep of unlocking security cheered with him.

Home smelled like vanilla and sandalwood, the residual scent of Mingi’s new candle burned yesterday, it cocooned Yunho in a welcoming embrace. He kicked off his shoes before stumbling straight onto the floor, an expletive escaped him and his arm immediately curled around his friend’s head to break the fall. Mingi didn’t budge from the clumsy mishap whilst Yunho let out a pained groan, his elbow took the brunt. He never understood why that specific part of the elbow was called ‘funny bone.’ It wasn’t funny at all.

w/ p.sh

g/ slice of life, friendship

w.count/ 529

a.n/ [romantics era team]: we hope it is up to your expectations!

t.w/ none

Seonghwa doesn’t know much about tea. What he does know is his mum makes a mean cup. He’s feeling down? Lavender tea to unwind. Scorching Korean summer? Iced lemon tea. Can’t sleep? Have a chamomile tea. That’s exactly what he’s having right now or going to have soon. The dim kitchen light beams down on him, the sole person awake in the dorm. The bubbling of boiling water and the click of the automatic kettle gently lull him out of his reverie. The night is still as he drops a tea bag into the green mug, their kitchenware and cutlery never match like the ones he has back home but he finds it charming.

Yeosang’s stainless bowl and cooking chopsticks are on the drying rack, the portable stove Mingi used needs to be cleaned and their cupboard is still scarce of plates and bowls. Why do they need both two portable stoves when there’s a perfectly working tabletop stove is incomprehensible in his head. They order food more than they cook. There are two microwaves in addition to the oven they don’t use. A lone coffee machine and its bowl of coffee capsules were the only things gracing the sparse counter space. The flowers that used to be in the vase are long wilted and gone, decomposing somewhere in the country.

He pours the hot water into his, everyone’s, mug. The steeping tea bag releases its rich golden colour, not that Seonghwa could see it’s true hue because of the green ceramic. He envelops the mug between his hands, leeching the heat into his cold palms, the air conditioning unit has been running non-stop to combat the humid heat. They are halfway into the monsoon season. His slipper clad feet pad into the living room, curtains drawn open already when he went out from his room, Hongjoong is still in the studio. He might as well stay up and wait for his roommate. The road is still lively, the city never really goes to sleep. Seonghwa takes a sip of his tea, face scrunching when the hot beverage scalds his tongue, soft noises of pain escape him. He reaches for the remote and watches whatever drama is airing late at night, lowering the volume just above audibility, he doesn't want the kids to wake up and lets his tea rest on the coffee table for a bit.

It must have been a while, sometimes he lost track of time as he waited for his friend. The golden shade of the chamomile tea has turned murky, he forgot about it, the wife scolding her husband on the TV takes his attention, much like how his mum scolds his dad. He finishes the cold tea, the concentrated chamomile brew hits his taste buds, it’s not bad but he should stop letting the bag sit in beyond its recommended brewing time. His mum always tells him the same. The beeping sound of unlocking security catches him off guard, the mug almost slips from his hold.

w/ c.bc + reader

g/ fluff

w.count/ 205

a.n/ [romantics era team]: we hope it’s up to your expectations!

t.w/ none

To My

Apple of my eyes

The object of my affection

Byungchan groans and lets his head strike against the desk, his pen tumbling to the floor. How does one write a letter? Why is it so difficult? Every line progresses from bland to cringe and that is merely the greeting. He doesn’t know what to put in the actual letter yet. The words in his head formed faster than his hand could keep up.

Love letters aren't his forte. He should have said it to you straightforwardly but no, he just had to love the courtship, the thrill of the chase. He wants to linger in your mind. Thus his current predicament. Why couldn’t he simply leave a carton of milk on your desk? That would still boggle your mind. Choi Byungchan, you’re stupid!

w/ c.s

g/ slice of life

w.count/ 458

a.n/ [romantics era team]: we hope it is up to your expectations! @by-moonflower

t.w/ none

How did he get here? San keeps his eyes closed, the sun is right above him. How long has he been here? The soft grass under him and the scent of greenery filling his senses. The tacky heat clings to his skin, sweat pools on the back of his neck. He wants to jerk his leg at the tickling of ants using his ankle as a bridge to cross the other side of the field. Occasionally, the gentle fluttering of butterfly wings comes close to caress his face. He is pretty sure there’s a butterfly resting on his brow, San tries not to twitch his face but he couldn’t help the upward curling motion of his lips. This is contentment.

San twists and untwists a blade of grass around his fingers, he does it often enough with varying pressure that it snaps, the butterfly on his brow soars into the air in surprise. The blade of grass slips down between his fingers and San opens his eyes, the sun is farther away from his sight than he had expected. He manages to catch a glimpse of blue wings from the corner of his eyes before it flits off from his sight. He lifts his hand and a yellow flower greets him. Dandelion. His smile brightens. Such an underrated and common flower yet all of its parts useful, his favourite. San wonders how many people know the symbolisms and usages behind the flower.

Dandelion -surviving through difficulties- life is simultaneously tenacious and fragile. Some would tell him he reads too much into them. Maybe he did, there’s a stack of flora books on his nightstand but then again maybe he didn’t. He likes indulging in trivial happiness. A little magical realism in the otherwise mundane world. San reaches for another dandelion and another, his fingers deftly weaves the flowers together, it comes naturally to him. Shame he is alone, he would love to have someone else wear his creation.

w/ l.kh

g/ mutual pining

w.count/ 942

a.n/ [romantics era team]: we hope it is up to your expectations! we will add ‘keep reading’ cut later.

t.w/ none, a few curses but that’s it

You never know what to expect from Keonhee. He keeps you on your toes every day. Today is not an exception. You truly wonder what is running on his mind when a series of texts late at night or early in the morning, depending on who’s talking, almost vibrates your phone off the bed.

[keon hee-hee 01:09]

hey you up?

answer me

hello

youre not dead right?

aww cmon!

lets go!

im bored!

im outside your door

‘Outside your door,’ he said? You kick off the blanket, sock feet sliding around the smooth flooring as you rush past the living room. The obnoxious knocking on your door reaches your ear, “Hurry up!” If he wakes up the entire floor, you’re going to die of embarrassment. Most of the residents are the elderly and you don’t want a talking from them, no matter how gentle, some of them gruff, they are.

You open the slightly creaky brown metal door, Keonhee flinches mid-knock. Before he could utter another word, you pull him inside by his sleeve, hissing harshly, “Are you trying to wake up all the grams and gramps?” You pinch his arm. He yelps and rubs the abused area with a whine, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to.” A moment goes by and a burst of barely veiled laughter rumbles in his throat, he takes his time to actually look at you. “You’re so cute! Like a little bear!” He pats your head and you smack his hand. “Oww! Little bear is angry!” He is way too fond of you. “What do you want, Keonhee?”

A grin appears on his face. Heavens, he’s handsome, the way his lips slope upward and the way the bags under his eyes add so much character to his face. The boyish charm appears to taunt you whenever he decides to make you question your sanity. No, you definitely do not have feelings for Lee Keonhee. The reasonable part of your brain snides, you’re in denial. “Let’s go out!” Your heart hammers against your ribcage. He doesn’t mean what you think the phrase means, does he? Keonhee tilts his head, “The playground?” Ah, shit. Of course, it’s the playground. This is why you shouldn’t jump to conclusions, there’s a nasty emotion brewing in your chest. Hurt. You nod silently, blindly reaching for whatever jacket is hanging on the rack and slipping on the beat-up white sneakers. It’s no longer white, it’s just dirty.

He has that wistful smile on his face and he crouches down in the cramped entrance. You shuffle back a little, giving him some room for movement not wanting him to smack the small of his back against the sharp edge of the mail slot. Occasionally, he makes you wonder why he likes your small apartment so much. Small but a precious home, it’s all you can afford. “Stay still,” he reaches for your foot, no, your shoelace. The dirty strings loop around his fingers. You like Keonhee’s hands, they’re big and warm, his fingers delicately slender and long. You will never tell him that, he won’t live it down. “There!” A loop around his finger and a little pull, a perfect bow rest atop of your shoe. It’s always the left side.

Keonhee doesn’t judge people by their appearance. He doesn’t care if you are out in public with your green and red plaid pyjamas that makes you look like Paddington Bear and nor does he care that your windbreaker clashes horribly with said pyjamas. He has a habit of linking his arm with yours and whines when you let go. He would pout with a, “You’re so cold,” then proceed to annoy you with a barrage of cute acts until you relented and let him link his arm again. You hear his excited gasp and drags you into a jog, the swings are empty.

It truly has been a while since you sit in the swings. The chains suspending the seat left a sharp iron scent on your hands. You and Keonhee have to cross your legs and tuck it under the seat, Keonhee letting his legs spear into the air. Both of you are too tall for the children’s swings set. By routine you know, a convenience store sojourn will follow after the two of you get your fill of childhood nostalgia. Sound waves of words resonate into space. You could listen to Keonhee talks all day but at night, there’s mellowness and grittiness in the words he speaks. He glances at you, wondering if you’re listening and finding your attention fixed on him. You didn’t expect him to catch you in your infatuation.

There’s so much adoration in his eyes when he meets your gaze, sparkling like the city lights in the distance. You could feel the flip-flop of butterfly wings in your stomach, the way your heart constricts almost painfully and the words diminish from your tongue. Ah. You’re done for. Keonhee doesn’t say anything as he stands, arms winding around you loosely, pulling you off the creaky swings. He keeps you close yet willing to let you escape at the same time. Damn him for making you feel this way. Damn him for understanding that you might not be ready. Damn shoelace for always untying itself. You curl your hands on his sides, the fabric of his t-shirt bunching under your grips. The previously perfect tied ribbon resting atop of your shoe is untied again, mocking you for your feelings. You lean your forehead against his chest, he lets you hide, his hold tightening a touch and chin resting on the crown of your head.