scribble scribble ^^
bow chicka wow wow

oh hai there ^^ here you may find some SHINee scenarios :3

MVP. All the way. Every day. Forever. (Sometimes you simply cannot resist the Flaming Charisma though :O)



Messages from @tracesofsun are from moi :)

reqs closed for now because i said so :)

renegadexjin said: "Some little girls grow up wanting ponies; I always wanted to be a widow." HOLLA. jk jk. (HI HI HI DON'T MIND ME I'M JUST HUNGRY AND SLEEPY HI)

*chokes* *spits out water i wasn’t drinking* christ. XD XD

Anonymous said: Could you do a reader x taemin one where tae and you have been tryin for a baby for a while after getting married and then after a few months you find out you are preggo and everybody gets really happy and everything? :)

So cute I already started writing it and didn’t reply to this oopsies ahhhhh suffering secondhand embarrassment for characters because too cuuuuuuute and too embarrassing *><*~ 

Thank you to new followers *bows* much thanking.

Seashell is a shade of white. I am mentioning this because sentence five don’t want no one bein like ‘whyd u paint seashells on the ceiling’. I am ill and gross *aura becomes filled with self-pity and snot* Three? Three parts? Probs?

Crime crime crime~ Mentions of blood bc criiiime~ Oh wow I don’t even think there’s swearing. It’s a trade off. Blood for swearing.

*

Little girls the whole world ‘round have dreams.

Some of them dream about secret tree houses and warm campfires. Some of them dream about their future careers, where saving a life will be all in a day’s work. A few dream about all the right answers for their spelling test tomorrow morning.

It’s a cold hard fact that you’re not anyone’s little girl, not anymore. As you stare up at the crack on your otherwise perfect seashell ceiling, you dream about a promotion.

It is a pretty big crack running from one side of the room to the other. You should probably do something about it before belongings from the tenant who lives above you start falling through. That’s what you’ve been telling yourself for the past year.

You stare up at the crack, knowing you’re not going to do anything about it apart from ignore it, and run through some procedures in your head.  Don’t panic, raise your left arm, put your body weight on your right foot, turn and give the bastard a good whack. How to file report after dull dull report.

It may not be the life, but it’s a life, and you’ll take what you can get in this cruel world.

*

“I have a new assignment for you.”

The case report for the Dochong Street Murders is only three quarters finished, but you save and minimize the document as two shadows fall over you and a thick cream file falls beside your mouse.

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i was readin this book and it had- you know what this will seem too irrelavant because the rest of that sentence was about jewish people i’m actually just going to stop because i was never going to justify mentioning it in the following sentence even though i can sort of justify it sort of. i am so sorry if you’re reading this please just move on down ;_;

*

How do you know that your soul mate isn’t waiting for you at 1am in the city’s biggest McDonald’s with only a bus pass and an open mind in their hands? You don’t. But the chances are that they’re not and you should check all other places first. McDonald’s at 1am is surely the end of the road.

i like a boy, you text one of your closest friends (your phone doesn’t AutoCorrect anything to a capital letter). The best friend that you have when you’re at university. You don’t tell him about the crushes you have when you’re together. Not anymore, anyway. Because, inevitably, he will take your love life into his own hands and try some crazy shit like locking the two of you in an cupboard filled with nothing but lined paper for an hour. Needless to say, that relationship didn’t make it out of the cupboard. Its presence was never felt in the cupboard. The relationship flew out through the tiny window eight feet up in the cupboard, never to be seen again. Silence drifted in to take its place.

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i just. rain. rain is good. drabbbleeeeee

*

Screaming. Yelling at the top of your lungs. When the traffic is at capital city level and the wind is harsh and the rain, the rain hammers down like tiny pistons, hardly anybody takes notice of the girl screeching on the bridge.

"Are you alright?" he asks, ten decibels lower.

Sometimes, you scream because all that emotion has to go somewhere. Keeping in it the pit of your stomach does you no good. There is no satisfaction. No gain.

Other times, you scream because there is not enough emotion. You want to feel your voice ripping through your throat, for the half-satisfying croaky tone you get afterwards. You like to sing with this voice, the pain makes it better. You like to throw around words of self-pity with this voice.

"I’M FINE!"

He was there when you stormed onto the bridge with your mac-in-a-pack (unpacked) sticking to your skin because it was cheap and wasn’t even on sale when you got it at the camping shop. He was there, you saw him, but you failed to notice him.

"You don’t sound fine!"

He is not dressed for the weather at all. He is sitting with his legs through the bars of the bridge. He is dressed like he’s expecting the sun to come out from behind the clouds, the ashy rain clouds that are hurtling the drops down almost hard enough to hurt. He is dressed like he’s expecting a fucking rainbow-

Today, you are screaming because you are angry at everything at once. Especially at-

You scream at him. You aim your noise directly at him, wanting to strike him with the sheer power of volume, wanting just a scratch on the surface of this picture of serenity. 

A car driver slams their hand down on their horn as they pass. He only wipes at the rain in his eyes. He is the type of boy to never give in. Even though he must be freezing and he looks like a wet dog, you would rather be him.

"You’re angry at yourself again! I can tell!"

Your grip on the bars slackens.

He stands. You look out across the empty river.

His thin arm wraps around your shoulder; he pulls you into himself. It is grossly uncomfortable. The shirt that your cheek is pressed to is wet. His hand presses your wet jacket into your arm more, the water trickles down your arm. And yet.

"Thank you. Taemin."

It is not scratchy and raw, like you wanted. Nothing is the way that you wanted. Nothing is the way he wanted either. 

(Being with him is a reasonable alternative.)

*

my whole being has changed so much i used to hate showing emotion and now i just feel like i’m REALLY ANGRY ALL THE TIME but then i’m calm BUT THEN I’M ANGRY i’m fine :D

Anonymous said: you updated!!!!! yayayayaayy~

yis yis i did yayayayaay i managed to make it back here :D

sobbin I’m not even two days later than I said I’d be that’s your imagination.

*

How many declarations of love have you got in the past week?”

Three.”

Three! And you’re still adamant that you’re not popular! I wish I had as many admirers as you.” You stare at the nails on your right hand. The misshapen blobs of sparkly blue in the middle of all but one of them are taunting you, laughing at your lack of nail polish remover. “It would do wonders for my self esteem.” You chip away at the old nail polish with your other hand out of boredom.

Taemin thinks you should stop talking so naively. Being confessed to (on average) on a biweekly basis (that’s twice a week, not once every two weeks) can really take a toll on a person who can’t even scrape up the belief in himself to confess to the person they like.

He looks in the dirty school mirror after patting his face dry with cheap hand towels. What he sees is a face that seems to meet all the beauty requirements in today’s society. In all likelihood, the length and width of his face satisfy the golden ratio too.

"Taemin, what’s taking so long?" you ask through the door of the boys’ bathroom. You don’t like to linger around here usually, what reason could you possibly have to do so, but Taemin suddenly walked in while you were in the middle of a conversation. The smell isn’t that bad in comparison to some days (in particular you’re referring to the Janitor absence of ‘12, a horrifying experience to behold).

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…Oops? :3

*

There are three stages of creepiness. Stage 1 is where you stare at them whenever you happen to be in their vicinity; from across the room, through the window of the cafe you’re having lunch in, not through their bedroom window. Stage 2 is when you lie in wait for them at places they frequent, or where you think they may turn up next.

"I thought I might find you here."

You’re only here because Hana wanted to go to the park again. You certainly did not bribe her into changing her Monday schedule with promises of fresh sushi and arcade trips (her mother doesn’t let her go, she doesn’t want her hanging around the would be gamblers of her generation).

When you go to her apartment she’s still having her Monday morning bubble bath, so you waited in the lounge alone, staring out of the floor to ceiling windows over the city. It’s about a billion degrees hotter than it was two days ago. The air looks wavy outside the window.

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Anonymous said: i really like your writing! is there somewhere i can find more or is it just here?

thank yoooouuuuu~ just here. i swear down. unless you’re talking about that fanfiction i wrote when i was 13 WE DO NOT SPEAK OF IT

(not even gone again just being slow oops)