#saikavc

[vckiyomi]

“ that’s a very dark and disturbing thought… i’m impressed. ”

​MESSAGE RECEIVED — @saikavc

kiyomi had been learning how to fit into society, being cultural approach and how to adapt to the social norms and ways that people interact. known for her eyes that shows less than an once of life, she had been practicing for some time now on how to function with facial expressions to make others see how she is feeling. being that she is a doll what she feels in the depths of her doesn’t often portray to others that she is talking too, 

there are days when the doll feels a constant pull between freedom and being controlled. her strings yet to be snipped away as her maker always reminds her of the hold he still has on her. a sinister way of showing it being that she would almost shut down immediately upon his control. the aggravation and frustration she feels not to be able to do things completely her way boils within her but doesn’t show to people publicly as she would like. one never knows what she is feeling until it is expressed verbally. 

so, she decides to share her thoughts to someone she can trust. the chemist was another part of her trio of friends she found herself enjoying time with. it didn’t matter what kind of background the two had come from being they were vastly different she felt comfortable to state her inner thoughts of her non-existent freedom to the other because she knew that she would listen. 

it’s with a sigh that she gives with the response she’s gotten. “ yah, lilith i just spoke about my troubles to you and that’s all you can give me. ” she said looking at the female with a deadpan expression. was it because she never really brushed upon the subject of her life and how its going between feeling not fully herself that it was intriguing the female? could dolls really have a life completely for themselves outside the confines of their maker’s hold?

[vcyongtae]

›    NOCTURNE IN D MINOR ft. @saikavc​   .

in the hands of a pianist lies the aptitude to create true art, that which transcends mere beauty and finds vocation in the undoing of tangled heart strings. it is in its crescendos that one’s heart should recite the song of glee, its adagios that should coax a tear into one’s eye, and it is for this very reason that yongtae finds veneration in its craft. it has always been mother’s request for him to dabble in the musical arts, and he is five when he first stares down keys of ivory and ebony, though it is not for lack of trying that he fails to replicate its polished song with his own hands. sure, perhaps he had gotten as far as to correctly follow the crochets and semiquavers pencilled onto white paper, but to inspire emotion requires patience and heart, his teacher explains. alas, it is written in the stars that yongtae should struggle with either concepts from when he is just weaned. so he is demoted to a patron of the musical arts, his love for its craft at the mercy of one’s skilled hands.

what he means to say is this: on days where his strategic distractions fail him, his mind is ferried away to the year 1921. within its many moons holds a whirlwind of gooseflesh and pounding hearts, of tangled sheets and waking to the tresses of midnight hair atop his nose, of steady arms pulling her porcelain waist closer and ever closer still as he breathes in the scent of her, of running too fast but no matter, for it was never quite enough. from it, springs the supercut of his fondest memories and yet, it pours a kind of melancholy with the consistency of blackened tar into the base of his heart. in her auditorium, he is an audience of one waiting with bated breath, and it is here that his fallen lover finds the first note of her delicate song.

and so begins the melody of a man who comes quickly and utterly undone.

in da capo there is pacing, dirty fingers tousling his onyx hair as shaky hands guide a lit cigarette to his welcoming lips. it is a notable effort to disguise the fervour of his emotions in the habits of a smoker, though as usual, as always, he fails. in its crescendo, strong fists slam suddenly against a decorative wall, so hard that his hands turn pink with the promise of bruises. coda, he falls, settling amidst thrawn cigarette butts as he holds his weary head in his palms, wounded and soiled with cigarette ash. a desperate hand reaches for his phone and he dials a familiar number.

“lilith…”

he finds himself before she can reply, and hurls his phone across the marble floor in rage.