themorninglark | VDay Lockers 2021

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VDay Lockers 2021

This is a masterpost for my 2021 vday locker fills!

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You are the first of the Furies. You sprang from the spilled blood of a mutilated god, your wings still dripping when you unfurled them under a red sky. Your head turned upward, your mouth open to swallow a bladeful of breath. People have called you eumenides. Kindly ones. You are not your sister Alecto. Your anger is a subtler weapon.

You are not angry that he keeps trying to leave. As if the prince ever had any idea what was good for him. All the riches of his father’s realm in his grasp, and he is determined to flaunt his reckless brilliance in the form of gilded pedestals and bone drapery, and rain gemstones upon wretched shades who know no better. The first time he bests you, you take your whip back into the House and look for Dusa. You stay far, far away from the Styx.

You are not angry that he gave you six bottles of contraband. It gives you pleasure to throw the first one against your wall, watch the stains paint your room a brilliant orange, let the glass glitter cold and bright. You dream of honey.

You are not angry that all your things in his room are exactly where you left them.

You are not angry that he has forced you to work with your sisters again. Alecto kisses Tisiphone on both cheeks and then pinches her on the arm, so lovingly the bruise doesn’t fade for a week. You have nothing to say to them. You take up your place at the front, and you feel them burning at your back, and no one sees the look on your face.

You are not angry. You are the first of the Furies, and you save your rage for better things. If he never grows up enough to understand that, it’s his loss.

aaaaaaaaaaa this is SO lovely!!! Thank you so much for writing this, your words, as always, are absolutely gorgeous.

after falling off the face of a glittering, lonely planet, after you hijacked that asteroid and rode all the way to the end of dawn, chasing the tail of a star that danced in your dreams, after all of that—

Halfway between the bus terminal and another staircase to nowhere, Ramuda flings himself on Gentaro’s arm and asks, what is he writing now, is it the same thing he was writing the day before, and when will he be finished, when will he ever be finished? So Gentaro tells him lies, of course. He tells him he is writing fling posse’s guide to space, the galaxy and the entire universe. He tells him he has been writing it since they boarded the first train out of Shibuya. The night before, Dice’s numbers came up all sixes and Ramuda had sparklers in both hands, one yellow and one pink. An afterimage, seared on the backs of Gentaro’s eyelids. Ramuda with one foot on the edge of a building, in bloom all upside down against Shibuya’s fickle sweetness. Ramuda, whirling round to face them, arms outstretched.

you will find yourself back to back with your friends, and you will open your mouth, and say their names.

Their journey has to end someday, says Gentaro, so he will finish it, and the day he does, he will bind the book in white satin ribbons and make it disappear somewhere in the city. Explorers from another world will find it ten thousand years later, a curious artifact for them to puzzle out. An amusing thought, for sure.

Ramuda buries his head in Gentaro’s shoulder and says, he is terribly boring, travel guides are boring because they’re full of spoilers—

hey, Dice calls, from where he stands by a window. The glass is all smudgy and covered with dust, but it’s enough to let the moonlight in. Enough for Dice to grin like he's drinking it all up, and say, look, it’s snowing, and Ramuda springs to his feet and runs over, and stands on his tiptoes to stare into the luminous sky.

you will keep moving, forward, forward, forward.

Gentaro smiles, and picks up his pen again.

Edited 2021-03-21 14:57 (UTC)

LAAAAARK catch the sight of me crying into my sleeves...!!! this was beautiful, thank you so much for writing this black journey (!!!) snippet and FLING POSSE.... RAMUGEN......the image of ramuda with sparklers seared in gentaro's mind, the whimsical lie about the travel guide, the Stella references...fling posse back to back to back at the end of everything, together despite it all
...moving FORWARD!!! ;____; thank you so much lark, I treasure this fic so so much <333

The record shop is never open during the day. Juto can’t remember the first time he noticed it, on his regular beat down San-Chome; later, when he asks Samatoki about it, Samatoki shrugs and says, like he knows anything about music, the hell?

Pink in the night, and not the sweet kind. Juto only goes in because it smells like expensive cigarettes. He only picks up that one vinyl record because the deep blue sleeve is electric against all the grey and sepia, and when the woman with the tattoo asks if he wants to listen to it, he only says yes because he doesn’t even have a record player at home.

If the man with the red gloves on the cover of this record looks just like him, she says nothing about it. Nothing, either, when he comes back, and comes back again. If this is a mirror, it’s a dirty one, and Juto doesn’t care to clean it; if his lips could be that shade of blood cherry gloss, if his mouth could curve smooth as a whip, if he could turn his hands upward, just like that, and cup that chin and leave no prints behind—

One time, he asks the woman with the tattoo who this 45 Rabbit is, and she laughs and laughs and says, you deserve each other. As she walks away muttering to herself, all Juto can catch is something about men being imbeciles in every world.

It was only a matter of time. Alone in his apartment, Juto takes off one glove, then the other, and hangs them next to his bed. Presses his naked fingers to the hollow of his neck, tilts his head back. There is a voice in his throat and it is his and not his. There is a voice in his throat and it is sinew and smoke and sirens at 2 AM. The man on the vinyl sleeve smiles at him. Juto swallows, and opens his mouth.

Wei Wuxian’s leaning way out over the prow, staring at his own reflection like he’s never seen it before. Like they never snuck out to play on a stolen boat, like they never drifted too far, too fast, too young, like the lake itself and all its lotuses had never caught ablaze. It still hasn’t stopped, the burning. So Jiang Cheng doesn’t look.

This much will sear itself, whether he likes it or not, upon his memory: the sweep of a red and black sleeve trailing into the water. The shadows that darken the space between them, as the clouds roil overhead and turn the sunset a fierce shade of bruising. The shape of a man who is not his brother.

Jiang Cheng, he calls, facing the horizon. Jiang Cheng, I think it’s going to rain.

Not his brother, and yet, there is no one left in the world who calls him by his name. Only this man, in a body an inch too short and a smile like a phoenix on fire. Ashes and sparks, sparks and ashes.

If he’d help Jiang Cheng to row, they’d be back before the rain started. But fleeing from an oncoming storm has never been Wei Wuxian’s style, in his last life or this one. Even as night begins to fall, he’s still looking away from home. No. No longer home. I wish you’d stay. Every time, Jiang Cheng thinks of saying it, and he never does. He has not grown so selfless as to lie with impunity.

The day the lake burned. His parents’ death anniversary. A scorching, a rebirth, everything that broke them down and brought them here today. Would he give up this life now, for a dream where none of it ever happened; would he look into that water and reach his hand out to the ghosts? Is that why he cannot bring himself to face the flames?

No, he does not wish Wei Wuxian would stay. What he does wish—

Wei Wuxian turns back at last, eyes bright. Do you think there’ll be soup, he asks, when we get back?

Yes, says Jiang Cheng. Yes, there will.

2
He can dance, and that’s the last thing Ramuda will cherish of Ichiro at eighteen: eyes like a live wire, hands so warm they’re spoiling for a fight. But tonight, at least, there is no battle. Only victory, only Ichiro pulling Ramuda right off his feet and twirling him round Jakurai’s kitchen, and even Samatoki is smiling. And Ramuda laughs, and laughs, and throws his arms round Ichiro, and remembers weightlessness.

5
He still calls. After everything, he still calls: for favours, for news from the neighbourhood, for old times’ sake. Nostalgia is a dirty, dirty word, a candy wrapper crumpled up and forgotten. Crinkling like static. Even when he presses his hands to his ears and squeezes his eyes shut, it only gets louder. So Ramuda picks up the phone, and after everything, Ichiro still always answers too.

4
He is Ramuda’s favourite model. Tall, and not as stupid tall as stupid Jakurai; broad-shouldered, but not in Dice’s slouchy way. All of Ramuda’s clothes look good on him. But he is also so very fidgety, and today he’s tapping some kind of beat against his thigh, shifting his weight as Ramuda scolds him, again and again, hold still, Ichiro! He rips his fabric from end to end so that the sound is very colourful, and then he drapes Ichiro in pink and declares that they match. Ichiro laughs. I look so weird, but you’re not a half-bad designer, Ramuda. Ramuda pouts and looks away. Who do you think you’re talking to, he huffs, and grabs his camera, and Ichiro holds still, at last, long enough for Ramuda to capture this memory.

3
Samatoki makes him want to be bad, and Jakurai makes him feel like like he has always been bad, but Ichiro makes him want to be good and that is the worst feeling of all, that’s the one thing Ramuda can’t stand, absolutely can’t stand. He doesn’t want to see his face. He tears a jelly donut into tiny pieces so that the jam makes his fingers sticky all over, and he eats it all up, crumb by crumb, in front of a mirror so he can watch the raspberry pink stain his tongue, and then he goes to do what he has to.

1
His knuckles are bloodied, and he’s got a tear in the collar of his hoodie and teeth that are hungry. What a pack of savages he’s rounded up, thinks Ramuda, at first; these dull humans who all want to do what’s right, whose hearts are selfish and guarded, but then Yamada Ichiro looks right at him, and smiles, and Ramuda sees him.

(hello this is winny)

LARK I AM A YELL i am here to be incoherent and also coherent hopefully

i love all the different flavors you've written of the ways ramuda sees ichiro, ranging from the straightforward to the conflicted. there's something so torn about the line about ichiro making ramuda want to be good—almost like ramuda doesn't know if it's even a thought he can allow himself, like what he's been doing (which he knows is bad in human eyes) is all he knows but is also what he's convinced himself is all he can have like an adverse reaction to the concept of being human.

and yet, for all of ramuda's self-ministrations that he's different from the silly humans, he's seen and wants to be seen by one, and that ichiro still wants him as he is, even after the dirty dawg ended. i find it particularly interesting that ramuda's feelings about ichiro become MORE conflicted the longer he knows ichiro—that in being with ichiro, ramuda wants something that he can't put a name to, or perhaps doesn't want to put a name to. that he can drape ichiro in pink fabric and pretend they match, but it's ramuda who has to eat pink and be reminded of the gulf that exists. it's like ichiro makes ramuda aware—of how different they are, yes, but also of what it might mean to find likenesses and connection nevertheless and to even want those things at all. it's like ichiro makes ramuda feel alive C':

i hope i made sense, i loved this tons and will go lie on the floor and think about it some more. thank you for writing this for me, lark! <3

APRIL 2, 2018. Miya Osamu in a black T-shirt, standing under a banner that reads “ONIGIRI MIYA: THREE YEARS! Thank you for your support!”. He leans casually against his open door, arms crossed, cap perched at an angle. His gaze is fixed somewhere beyond the camera. There’s the tiniest hint of a curve on the corner of his mouth. Photo by: Suna Rintarou.

The rumours are true: Miya Atsumu is a consummate professional. He speaks about volleyball with genuine passion, and once he gets going about his latest game, or what he’s working on right now, the conversation flows non-stop. But when we ask him what he’s most looking forward to about returning to Japan, he sits up straight and says without hesitation, that onigiri my brother owes me for losing our last bet. What bet was that, we ask? He grins and says: well, that’s personal, but let’s just say Osamu’s really dumb about some things that are really obvious to anyone who’s known him since high school—

In any case, he plans to challenge his brother to make him an onigiri that’s off menu and exclusive, using some kind of ingredient from London. He asks if we have suggestions. We offer a Greggs sausage roll. At this point, teammate Suna Rintarou happens to pass by, and Miya Atsumu raises his voice. What do you think, Suna? Suna Rintarou, without missing a beat, replies: there’s no way Osamu will fail.

(Spike! Magazine UK, December 2019)

AUGUST 15, 2021. Suna Rintarou in Team Japan red, exiting a stadium in Tokyo with his sports bag slung round his shoulders. In one hand, he holds a bottle of Pocari Sweat. The back of his other hand is resting against his face, wiping the sweat off. He’s looking away like he hasn’t seen the camera. From this angle, this distance, the summer sun throws his features into sharp relief. Photo by: Miya Osamu.

WHAT ADVICE DO YOU HAVE FOR YOUNG ASPIRING SPORTSMEN?

SUNA: This is a difficult question. I think most people would say something like, keep working hard. Or, believe in yourself and your dream. But for me, what I really want to say is, it’s really important to surround yourself with people who believe in you too. Sometimes, you’ll feel like you just don’t have the energy to go on. But if there’s someone who trusts in you, you’ll figure out a way.

(Olympics Special: Get to Know Team Japan, Sporting Life Monthly, Japan, June 2021)

NOVEMBER 10, 2012. Inarizaki High School Cultural Festival. Miya Osamu, wearing an apron, squeezing chocolate sauce from a bottle onto a plate of waffles. There is a smudge of batter on his cheek. Next to him, Suna Rintarou leans over with a finger outstretched, about to swipe it off. They’re looking at each other, mid-laugh. Photo by: Miya Atsumu.

“Oh, is the camera rolling already? Okay, um, irrashaimase. My name is Miya Osamu, the owner of Onigiri Miya. Today on Memories from my Hometown, I’m going to introduce you to places that are special to me here in Amagasaki! And the first place is where I went to school: Inarizaki High School. Some of you might know that Inarizaki is a volleyball powerhouse. We won the Spring High in my third year, when my brother was captain. But I had many other good memories here, aside from volleyball… one of my first and happiest cooking experiences was during the cultural festival when my class ran a waffle stall. You could even say that if that hadn’t happened, I might not be where I am today…”

Miya Osamu pauses under a sakura tree. He rests one hand against the trunk, then looks up, past the pink canopy overhead, towards a classroom on the second floor. A smile spreads across his face. The camera lingers on it, framing the moment in warm spring light.

(Memories from my Hometown: Hyogo Prefecture, Fuji TV, April 2024)

Edited 2021-03-14 07:39 (UTC)

LLLLLLAAAAAAAARRRRRRRKKKKKK _:(´ཀ`」 ∠):

You already know that I read this on the train but re-reading it just then got me RIGHT IN THE PANCREAS ONCE MORE, I'M [SLAMS MY FACE ON MY KEYBOAROAEIHFSGRDFJ]
Everything about this was so gentle, friendly, and comfortable, with really great and fun subtlety in the SunaOsa part of it, a WINK-WINK-NUDGE-NUDGE mischief because to viewers of the photos and readers of the articles, there are so many stories they don't know about regarding at THE COURTSHIP OF ONE SUNA RINTAROU AND MIYA OSAMU (and collateral damage in the form of one Miya Atsumu). It made me think of comfortable afternoons spent with good company aaaaaaaa :'D

Also I grinned so hard at the off-menu onigiri using a sausage roll aSLKGFDJH ~~I've also been craving sausage rolls all evening THANX~~
And Suna's "there’s no way Osamu will fail" just fits so nicely with his "what I really want to say is, it’s really important to surround yourself with people who believe in you too" aaaaaaAAAAAAAAA

I love SunaOsa so much. I love how you write them so much. Thank you for taking the time to write them for me ♡♡♡;;;wwwwwww;;;♡♡♡

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VDay Lockers 2021

for kii // megzag exes // things you're not angry about

Re: for kii // megzag exes // things you're not angry about

for mandy // fling posse, into a black, black journey

Re: for mandy // fling posse, into a black, black journey

for kukkii // juto, in another universe

for van // chengxian, in the rain

for winny // ichiramu // five things about yamada ichiro

Re: for winny // ichiramu // five things about yamada ichiro

for san // sunaosa // three photographs & three media clippings

Re: for san // sunaosa // three photographs & three media clippings