Personal Message
Description
kim yugyeom
The boy made of pins and metal.
❝ His hands tremor with the weight of a faultline,
His tone, as soft as the Californian wind, and with each waking moment, he sees that the greatest disability of all,
Is the inability to see that each person is more.❞
His tone, as soft as the Californian wind, and with each waking moment, he sees that the greatest disability of all,
Is the inability to see that each person is more.❞
ooc
please read!
Hello! 'Castadiva' here! You can call me 'Min', or you can call me by any one of my three characters! I prefer 3rd, and in the chatroom, I usually delve into first, just for the convenience of things. Don't be afraid to hit me up! I work, so sometimes I'm not always here, and I have my own personal problems, so I'll randomly disappear, but fear not! I will never lie to you to make you feel better, if there are any problems, it'll be stated clean, cut, and polite! I don't bite, so just hit me up! If you have any questions relating to admin needs, feel free to pm any of my characters!
Volatile, passionate, exciting, romantic, and devoted, a man with a heart as wholesome as a Christmas dinner. Cherubic good looks, and a smile that curls with chatoyant grace, he is a boy that rings true to the nickname, 'luv' ( read: love ). Traits such as naivety, and shy demeanor's, cover the truth behind him, like a diaphanous curtain of stability. A wild child, at heart, with hands that could once create a marvel of art across the tapestry of a person's taste, deft fingers that would pluck songs for families, and towns-persons alike, but now left with hands that could do no more than grip a simple, plastic bottle. The wild is still there, just hidden between the thorns, and the vines, hidden behind the pins, the needles, concealed, by the shy, the unsure, the uncertain.
17
november
scorpio
❝ Disabled ❞
☰
21 years old
☰
unemployed
☰
taken
☰
sapiOual
☰
" breathe"
►
kim heechul
+
Chapter I:
A scholar, and a social butterfly, with fingers adorned with many rings from many high school dalliances, and wrists bangled with proper friendship announcements. He was an adoration among the school populace; gamboling from hall to hall, from lot to mall, to afterschool activities that consist of portraits of persons he looked up to, and persons that were nevertheless made up in her head. His mother loved him, father, too, when he was present. A small family that moved from town to town, migrating from Beijing to Seoul, and bringing him to him final status among him peers.
Chapter II:
College years were lackluster. Boyfriends wittling down to one, or two, here and there, never for more than two months, tops. It wasn't that they were distasteful - they were sweet, funny, kind, but there was nothing there. There wasn't much that he had to look for in their future, nor did he see anything in his. He dropped out before he even reached the ripe age of nineteen, and followed his dreams of an apprenticeship. Something about creating a mark on someone was devilishly appealing. His own signature, on their skin, forever. He had found her calling. Around this time, social media started, and the opportunities flew in aplenty. His need for a bundle of money was high, and his body was at the peak of its beauty. Supple flesh covered in lace, a famous face plastered across the instagram world. Bringing in money, and brand deals, by just showing his shoulder, and a garnish of taste. Coquettish bats of the eye, a few smeared lips here, and there, and his beauty was known. Paid out. Perfect. His first tattoo was something that he often forgets, one that rests just above his tailbone. An intricate design that one would probably find in the 25 cent gumball machines that are scattered around every grocery store. His second, more meaningful. A pretty butterfly, right under the swell of his chest, at the middle of his midsection.
He didn't know that the third would come not too long after the grand opening of his shop.
Chapter III:
His tattoo shop, 'Your Crimson Ink', was a two story shop. Piercings up top, tattoos below. A black and grey aesthetic, with a rather soothing atmosphere. None of that would matter in the coming months. On October 14th, two years ago, would be the day that marks two anniversaries.
That night, his phone lit up, with a call from his mother, that his father was in the hospital. With rain drizzling along the window, and fog covering the hilly scenery, he whipped into traffic and sped towards the hospital that was a city away. Safety was out the window, which was his downfall, not knowing that his father was going to live, or when he would pass, just needing to see him one last time. Talk to him, one more time. The car that clips in front of him, even if he had the green light, the right away, was the car that damned his life. All he remembers, before blacking out, was shards of glass ripping into his hands, her arms, and his legs crushed under the weight of the steering wheel being pressed down. His car flipped, multiple times, according to the news, and his body was mangled.
That night, in the same hospital, two of the same kin laid next to a heart monitor: one, drifting to the flatline, and one, balancing on the lifeline.
He never said goodbye to his father, only was able to witness his grave marking months after, in a wheelchair. His fingers and hands encased, with needles pressing into his skin, stimulating the nerves that had once been 'dead'. Even then, that was a short affair. Fleeting, as he was brought back to the hospital. A year, an entire year, and he was released, but the world knew a story that wasn't true. The world knew the story of a man, who had apparently drove so reckless, that he had 'caused a crash' that killed each person in the minivan that had ran the red light.
Hounded by press, his face, strewn across the front page, until his mother finally came to his aid. Bringing her son, whose limbs were stained mulberry, whose lips could only tremble in fear of retaliation, brought the footage of that night to the judge's eyes. All charges were dropped, his name cleared legally of any emotional damage done, and a counter suing that would help his for his years to come.
Now unemployed, two years in total later, Yugyeom lives a rather quaint life. In his hole in the wall cottage, by himself, going to physical therapy, and getting financial aide from the government. Life could be worse, but he sees himself as fine, as better. He knows he is more than the scars on her hands, knows she is more than the whispers of those petty eyes that still remember him. He is Kim Yugyeom, and even though his head is held up against the wall, at least it is held up.
A scholar, and a social butterfly, with fingers adorned with many rings from many high school dalliances, and wrists bangled with proper friendship announcements. He was an adoration among the school populace; gamboling from hall to hall, from lot to mall, to afterschool activities that consist of portraits of persons he looked up to, and persons that were nevertheless made up in her head. His mother loved him, father, too, when he was present. A small family that moved from town to town, migrating from Beijing to Seoul, and bringing him to him final status among him peers.
Chapter II:
College years were lackluster. Boyfriends wittling down to one, or two, here and there, never for more than two months, tops. It wasn't that they were distasteful - they were sweet, funny, kind, but there was nothing there. There wasn't much that he had to look for in their future, nor did he see anything in his. He dropped out before he even reached the ripe age of nineteen, and followed his dreams of an apprenticeship. Something about creating a mark on someone was devilishly appealing. His own signature, on their skin, forever. He had found her calling. Around this time, social media started, and the opportunities flew in aplenty. His need for a bundle of money was high, and his body was at the peak of its beauty. Supple flesh covered in lace, a famous face plastered across the instagram world. Bringing in money, and brand deals, by just showing his shoulder, and a garnish of taste. Coquettish bats of the eye, a few smeared lips here, and there, and his beauty was known. Paid out. Perfect. His first tattoo was something that he often forgets, one that rests just above his tailbone. An intricate design that one would probably find in the 25 cent gumball machines that are scattered around every grocery store. His second, more meaningful. A pretty butterfly, right under the swell of his chest, at the middle of his midsection.
He didn't know that the third would come not too long after the grand opening of his shop.
Chapter III:
His tattoo shop, 'Your Crimson Ink', was a two story shop. Piercings up top, tattoos below. A black and grey aesthetic, with a rather soothing atmosphere. None of that would matter in the coming months. On October 14th, two years ago, would be the day that marks two anniversaries.
That night, his phone lit up, with a call from his mother, that his father was in the hospital. With rain drizzling along the window, and fog covering the hilly scenery, he whipped into traffic and sped towards the hospital that was a city away. Safety was out the window, which was his downfall, not knowing that his father was going to live, or when he would pass, just needing to see him one last time. Talk to him, one more time. The car that clips in front of him, even if he had the green light, the right away, was the car that damned his life. All he remembers, before blacking out, was shards of glass ripping into his hands, her arms, and his legs crushed under the weight of the steering wheel being pressed down. His car flipped, multiple times, according to the news, and his body was mangled.
That night, in the same hospital, two of the same kin laid next to a heart monitor: one, drifting to the flatline, and one, balancing on the lifeline.
He never said goodbye to his father, only was able to witness his grave marking months after, in a wheelchair. His fingers and hands encased, with needles pressing into his skin, stimulating the nerves that had once been 'dead'. Even then, that was a short affair. Fleeting, as he was brought back to the hospital. A year, an entire year, and he was released, but the world knew a story that wasn't true. The world knew the story of a man, who had apparently drove so reckless, that he had 'caused a crash' that killed each person in the minivan that had ran the red light.
Hounded by press, his face, strewn across the front page, until his mother finally came to his aid. Bringing her son, whose limbs were stained mulberry, whose lips could only tremble in fear of retaliation, brought the footage of that night to the judge's eyes. All charges were dropped, his name cleared legally of any emotional damage done, and a counter suing that would help his for his years to come.
Now unemployed, two years in total later, Yugyeom lives a rather quaint life. In his hole in the wall cottage, by himself, going to physical therapy, and getting financial aide from the government. Life could be worse, but he sees himself as fine, as better. He knows he is more than the scars on her hands, knows she is more than the whispers of those petty eyes that still remember him. He is Kim Yugyeom, and even though his head is held up against the wall, at least it is held up.