i've remade this blog and updated the muse list!
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@sidraeaaaaaaa
i've remade this blog and updated the muse list!
i've remade this blog and updated the muse list!
oh i missed him
1st year akaashi
clearing up this blog for my whole sanity is great it’s wonderful it’s like taking a breath of fresh air im tweaking the muse list a little bit but uhhhh i deleted my last starter call so heres one :) except u can specify but also what if i spun a wheel and let fate pick us something
kageyama and haru + the prodigy title and the effects it had on them being in opposition to them. tobio holding on to and eventually losing it only over his own dire need for perfection and to uphold how other people view him and his talent, which led to an ostracization by his teammates and eventually himself, to put himself back on a lower level with a team whose talents don’t match up with each other quite yet and haru’s disdain for the title and disdain for his talent being looked at more than it is, an attempt to cut himself away from others whose sole outlook is for competition when his isn’t and still being dragged into his talent being in the spotlight and wishing for something different, something less than that.
that social disconnect both of them share, from different sides— being surrounded by people who want different things and think different things in the beginning. i’m thinking about that.
do you have a dream job?
10. PRODIGY / 15. GENIUS / 20. ORDINARY.
# 𝗦𝗜𝗗𝗥𝗔𝗘 . AN EXAMINATION OF IDENTITY━━ ( the self-imposition of mundanity, the desire for routine, and the weight of the impending future. ) primarily focused on NANASE HARUKA and AKAASHI KEIJI. low activity sports animanga multi-muse.
i can do only what i can do, NOTHING MORE.
CARRD. other blog here.
HERE’S YOUR SCENERY: it’s raining; a drizzle, the pattern that fills up every other particle of space in his backyard, the type that barely speaks, a comfort with thunder in the distance. haru ( and you? ) sitting upon the back porch. the air doesn’t bite, spring is merciful with a slight pinch of cold. it warrants a heavy blanket around shoulders, ( “ it’s a quilt, “ he remarks, “ my grandmother made it. “ to anyone that listens. )
a mug, grasped between a tight hold, makes up for the warmth the world lacks. he sips, he swallows. lemon and honey, it’s good for colds. ( he doesn’t have one, you don’t have one. he likes the taste on the back of his tongue, reminds him of childhood, reminds him of familiarity, ) there’s a symphony of sounds around; the weight of the leaves under the rain, puddles form like small lakes, scamper of strays looking for shelter. ( “ don’t you feel safe? doesn’t the world feel small? “ ) you should take a breath, the same shape as him, smell earth and peace all at the same time.
i think it’s so fun to be in the akaashi household. it’s so lively, it’s so lived in. the entirety of keiji’s childhood and juvenility is on the walls, with photographs of him squished between his parents, cheeks pinched at the age of three, volleyball team pictures with him smothered under bokuto’s and konoha’s arms. there’s his parents on dates, at their wedding, holding him chubby-cheeked and half asleep as a toddler.
there’s something always with sound, the television dramas, the radio crooning static, the distant chatter of his mother talking whatever friend is in on the phone with her, or whatever friend is welcomed into the akaashi home of keiji’s as if they live there, the gruff tone of his father recounting his day, or playfully arguing with his mother.
the house is tidy and cluttered the same: throw pillows and blankets, hastily folded from the last time someone fell asleep on the couch, keiji’s school books shuffled under his mother’s magazines, slippers and coats and shoes straightened by the door. there’s never a dirty dish in the sink, there’s always an overflowing flower vase somewhere, spilling cosmos over its edges. there’s a large black cat roaming, fuku, plump, fat, named for his mother’s good luck charm, always scratched under the chin before she leaves the house: nicknamed big guy from his father as he stretches him in the morning, always sleeping on keiji’s discarded sweaters or the open window sill.
his parents’ bedroom doors are always shut, the guest bedroom always clean for the next one, keiji’s bedroom door always ajar. (1)
(1. in it, a disorganized organization: he knows where his favorite pens are despite the clutter surrounding his desk, where his most used, loved books are despite his shelves being shoved with botany books, literary analysis novels, manga and poetry and nonfiction playing neighbors. a jacket from a friend the last time they were there on his desk chair, a note scribbled from someone as a reminder on his math homework, his bed made meticulously, his window partially opened with his mother’s flower bed underneath.)
and you! you’re in the same space, your favorite snacks in the cupboard, an extra plate pulled out at dinner, his father asking you about your hobbies, his mother patting your cheek upon arrival. your hands, sunk low into dish water as you listen to keiji chatter aimlessly about today’s events. your homework in his room, your spare toothbrush and towel and clothes in places where they should be.
it’s familiar, it’s so lived in.
bokuto’s hand is large, bold against the skin of sousuke’s back, smacked against it with a manner of a boy scarcely aware of his own strength,. (and sousuke’s grimace doesn’t exist if it isn’t seen in the same fashion, held back beneath the grit of his teeth, blanketed under only by the scowl he gifts @disrupht not long afterwards), “ what do you want? ” his statement is rhetorical, ineloquent in its uncivil articulation. there’s a wave of unrest, fidgety and uncomfortable, in the crevices of his joints, to the spaces between his fingers, whenever a member, particularly that of the fukurodani loudmouths, is near him.
there’s rarely a moment of peace, always occasions of too much person-to-person contact, that leaves sousuke buzzing with unpleasant energy, transferred from vitality he doesn’t want to be around— “ get on with it, practice starts soon, i don’t wanna be here yapping. ”
oh. thinking about a haru that uses nonverbal communication above all, (actually im always thinking about this), but thinking about a haru that doodles on the margin of your homework, or uses sticky notes to tell you he left dinner for you in the fridge, who leaves some reminders for you shoved in the pages of the book you’re reading or passing notes back and forth during studying, who doesn’t speak in places where he feels comfortable not doing so but using other means to communicate, a tiny carved keychain of your favorite cartoon mascot clipped to your bag somehow, silly drawings on notepads near his front door for you to see when you get there, like i’m not here at the moment. but its still an invitation to make yourself at home.