#Yagami Taichi | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ozoraslegend · 2 days ago

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An Idol AU for our 9Digi-Protagonists~! Warning: maybe OOC. Please enjoy~

The city air, thick with the exhaust of evening traffic and the lingering aroma of street food, clung to Yagami Taichi like a second skin. He navigated the bustling sidewalks with an easy rhythm, headphones clamped over his ears, pumping out a high-energy rock anthem that vibrated through his bones. The driving beat matched his purposeful stride, a tangible manifestation of the restless energy that always seemed to simmer just beneath his cool exterior. His personal scent, a blend of refreshing peppermint, the deep richness of dark chocolate, and the grounding stability of cedarwood, trailed faintly behind him, cutting through the urban miasma. He wasn't looking for anything in particular, just walking, thinking, letting the music carry him.

He rounded a corner into a slightly less crowded plaza, where a makeshift stage stood bathed in the harsh glare of portable floodlights. On it, three figures moved with earnest, if slightly unpolished, energy, their voices straining to be heard over a tinny backing track. An idol group, small-time by the looks of the sparse, mostly indifferent audience. Taichi paused, pulling one headphone cup slightly away. Normally, this wasn't his scene. Yet, something about their sheer, unadulterated effort, the way they poured everything into reaching the handful of onlookers, struck a chord. It wasn't the performance itself, which was objectively mediocre, but the intent. The raw desire to connect, to uplift.

A thought, unbidden and sharp, pierced through the music still echoing in his other ear: They need more fire. It wasn't arrogance, exactly, but a leader's assessment, a quick-thinking evaluation of potential. He watched a moment longer, his gaze analytical. They lacked presence, confidence, that spark that could ignite a crowd. He, Taichi Yagami, had that spark. He lived and breathed it. The familiar surge of wanting to jump in, to take charge, welled up. What's the big problem here? he thought, a smirk playing on his lips. They just need someone to show them how it's done. The scent of peppermint sharpened around him, a precursor to action.

After the short set concluded to scattered applause, Taichi approached the tired-looking man packing up equipment at the side of the stage. He bypassed pleasantries, his usual directness taking over. "You need help," he stated, not unkindly, but with undeniable confidence. "Your guys have heart, but no punch. You need someone who can actually command attention." The man, startled, looked Taichi up and down. Taichi just grinned, radiating an easygoing certainty that was hard to dismiss. The dark chocolate note in his scent seemed to pulse with latent energy. "What if I told you I could bring that?"

The news spread through Taichi's network – mostly via Agumon, who thought the whole idea was hilarious but loyally supportive – and inevitably reached Motomiya Daisuke. "Idol? Taichi-senpai? No way!" Daisuke initially scoffed, the scent of burnt bacon momentarily flaring around him in disbelief as he slurped ramen at his usual haunt. But beneath the bluster, insecurity gnawed. Taichi-senpai, his idol, doing something so… flashy? He had to see it. He needed to understand. Mostly, he needed to be involved.

Daisuke crashed one of Taichi’s initial ‘consultation’ sessions, which had somehow morphed into Taichi demonstrating moves with more charisma than the original group combined. Daisuke burst in, loud and indignant, ready to challenge the absurdity of it all. "Senpai! What is this? This isn't like you!"

Taichi just laughed, that easygoing, slightly teasing laugh. "Relax, Daisuke. Just checking out a new battlefield. Needs a strategy, right?" He gestured towards the others. "Think you could keep up?"

The challenge, combined with the desperate need for Taichi's approval, was too much for Daisuke to resist. He stumbled through a few steps of the simple choreography, tripping over his own feet, face flushed red. His usual scent of cloying honey intensified with exertion and embarrassment, mingling awkwardly with the burnt bacon of his flustered state. Yet, there was an undeniable, puppy-like earnestness in his movements. Taichi saw it, that raw, emotional drive. "Not bad, kohai," Taichi conceded, the cedarwood in his scent softening slightly. "Needs work, though. A lot of work." Daisuke preened, despite the qualifier, the tender maple syrup aspect of his scent momentarily surfacing – a flicker of simple, validated joy.

Finding others wasn't a systematic recruitment drive; it was more like a series of chaotic collisions orchestrated by chance and Taichi’s expanding, somewhat impulsive, vision.

Matsuda Takato was discovered sketching furiously in a notebook at a small cafe, Guilmon (somehow smuggled inside) peeking out from his bag. A talent scout associated with the small agency Taichi had informally attached himself to noticed the gentle intensity in his eyes, the way his fingers moved with quiet dedication. Takato, initially bewildered and overwhelmed by the offer, clutched his sketchbook like a shield. The air around him smelled softly of viscous vanilla and the comforting scent of the fresh bread Guilmon was undoubtedly dreaming of. He was soft-spoken, easily flustered, his thoughts racing with imaginative scenarios – him on a stage? Impossible. Yet, the idea of creating something, of bringing characters and emotions to life, resonated with the part of him that poured feelings into fanart and fanfiction. The spicy cinnamon undertone in his scent pulsed with a hesitant curiosity. He agreed, mostly out of politeness and an inability to firmly say no, propelled by a quiet desire to step into a story larger than his own.

Kanbara Takuya literally ran into Taichi during a pursuit through city alleys – Takuya chasing some minor troublemakers, Taichi taking a shortcut. The ensuing confusion, a tangle of limbs and indignant shouts, ended with Takuya impressed by Taichi's quick reflexes and Taichi recognizing Takuya's raw, untamed energy. "You move well," Taichi commented, dusting himself off. "Ever thought about channeling that energy into something… louder?" Takuya, hotheaded and always up for a challenge, grinned recklessly. The air crackled around him, smelling intensely of vibrating campfire and smoky coal. "Louder? Like what? Blowing stuff up?" His thoughts were already racing ahead, imagining explosions of sound and light. The spicy barbecue sauce note flared as he readily agreed, seeing it as another adventure, another way to prove his fiery spirit.

Daimon Masaru was encountered challenging a street performer who used amplified drum beats, claiming the performer lacked "fighting spirit." Masaru, loud, confrontational, and radiating an almost palpable aura of warm meatballs and sharp brown sugar, easily overpowered the performer's rhythm with sheer vocal force and fist-pounding enthusiasm. Taichi, drawn by the commotion, saw not just arrogance, but raw, unadulterated power and a strange sense of honor. He stepped in, not to fight, but with a different kind of challenge. "Think you can handle a real stage, street fighter? Put that power where people can actually feel it?" Masaru scoffed, the scent of amber rising defensively. "Stage? That's for weaklings!" But the idea of a new kind of fight, a contest of presence and energy, appealed to his confrontational nature. He joined, mainly to prove he could dominate any arena, his mind already framing it as a battle to be won.

Kudou Taiki was helping organize a local community event when Taichi’s fledgling group was booked for a small, unpaid slot. Taiki, effortlessly coordinating volunteers, smoothing over logistical hiccups, and radiating a calm, capable energy that smelled subtly of clean flour and sweet, tropical pineapple, observed their chaotic rehearsal with a strategist's eye. He saw the potential, the individual strengths, but also the disorganization. He approached Taichi afterward, not with criticism, but with helpful suggestions, his green apple undertone adding a crisp freshness to his aura. "You have great energy," Taiki offered kindly, "but a little coordination could amplify your impact. Have you considered…?" Taiki's inherent desire to help, to unite, and his natural leadership skills made him an obvious asset. He didn't seek the spotlight, but the idea of helping this disparate group find harmony, of creating something positive together, aligned perfectly with his optimistic nature. He agreed to help manage and strategize, inevitably getting drawn into the performance aspect himself.

Akashi Tagiru, predictably, showed up because Taiki was involved. Hearing that his 'rival' senpai was part of some new, cool group, Tagiru couldn't stand the thought of being left out or surpassed. He burst into a practice session like a small, over-caffeinated whirlwind, demanding to be included, boasting about his own untapped potential. His scent was a hyperactive mix of new cupcakes and zesty orange, spiked with the sharp, electric smell of ozone from his sheer, unrestrained energy. "Taiki-san! Whatever you're doing, I can do it better! Just watch!" He immediately tried to copy a complex move Takuya was practicing, stumbled, and nearly crashed into Masaru, who just shoved him away good-naturedly. Tagiru's ambition was naked, his desire to be the 'superstar' palpable. He wasn't easily deterred, his mind already racing with ways to steal the show. He was in, whether they officially agreed or not.

Shinkai Haru was perhaps the most unexpected addition. He attended an early street performance with Gatchmon (discreetly providing search results on the group's minimal online presence). Haru observed the chaotic energy, the clashing personalities, the raw potential, with the quiet intensity of someone deeply engrossed in a compelling story. He felt like a side character watching protagonists assemble. His gentle aura, smelling of plain yogurt, old paper, and comforting lavender, was almost lost in the louder scents of the others. Yet, the manager, the same weary man Taichi had first approached, saw something in Haru's focused gaze – an intelligence, a sensitivity. He needed someone grounded, someone perhaps to handle lyrics or calmer arrangements. Haru, when approached, was hesitant. Him? A performer? It felt like stepping out of the narrative margins. But the pull of the story, the chance to be part of something unfolding, was stronger than his meekness. He agreed, his mind framing it as research, as observing the main characters up close.

Amanokawa Hiro joined last. He knew Taiki casually and had heard about the group through him. His dependable nature meant people often relied on him, and Taiki, sensing the group needed a stabilizing influence, perhaps someone to manage their burgeoning online presence or simply act as a mediator, asked Hiro if he'd consider helping out. Hiro, ever inquisitive and unable to refuse a request, agreed to observe. He watched their practices with a calm, introspective demeanor, Gammamon perched on his shoulder occasionally trying to take a bite out of a microphone stand. Hiro's scent, a balanced blend of soothing green tea, calming almond, and the subtle strength of white chocolate, provided a counterpoint to the group's general chaos. He saw the potential, the friction, the burgeoning camaraderie. His analytical mind started processing the group dynamics, the musical possibilities. He didn't push himself forward, but his quiet competence and willingness to help soon made him indispensable, both practically and emotionally.

Their shared practice space, a converted warehouse loft smelling perpetually of old dust, sweat, and a bewildering fusion of nine distinct personal scents, became the crucible where 'DigiDestined Dynamics' (a working title met with groans from everyone except Daisuke, who loved it) was forged.

Dance practice was controlled chaos. Takuya, fueled by adrenaline-pumping tracks blasting from a portable speaker (often overriding Taiki's carefully curated motivational playlist), moved with explosive power but zero grace, his campfire and smoky coal scent filling the air with fiery energy. Masaru matched his intensity, treating choreography like a sparring match, his amber and meatball aroma thick with competitive zeal. They often bumped into each other, sparking arguments that fizzled out as quickly as they ignited. Taichi, naturally athletic, picked up routines quickly, guiding the others with a confidence that sometimes tipped into impatience, his peppermint scent sharp and directive. "Not like that, Daisuke! Loosen up! Takato, stop looking at your feet!"

Daisuke, desperate to keep up with Taichi, poured his heart into every move, his honey and maple syrup scent intensifying with effort, punctuated by whiffs of burnt bacon when he messed up spectacularly. He needed constant validation, a "Good job, Daisuke!" from Taichi sending him into overdrive. Takato, surrounded by louder personalities, often seemed overwhelmed. He moved with hesitant precision, his vanilla and cinnamon scent soft, almost retreating. He’d often drift towards the back, finding solace near Haru, who meticulously followed instructions, his yogurt and lavender aura a small pocket of calm focus. Hiro, methodical and dependable, learned steadily, his green tea and almond scent grounding, often subtly helping Takato or mediating minor disputes with quiet words. Taiki, a natural athlete, mastered steps quickly, using his strategic mind to break down complex routines and patiently help the struggling members, his pineapple and green apple scent bright and encouraging. Tagiru, however, was a wildcard, constantly adding flashy, unscripted moves, trying to pull focus, his cupcake and orange scent buzzing with look-at-me energy, the ozone note spiking whenever he attempted something particularly risky.

Vocal lessons were a different kind of pandemonium. Taichi’s powerful rock vocals clashed with Takato’s gentle J-pop melodies. Masaru’s raw, punk-infused shouts drowned out Haru’s introspective ballads. Takuya’s energetic yelling often went off-key, while Daisuke belted out optimistic anime themes with more enthusiasm than technique. Taiki’s clear, uplifting voice aimed for harmony, Hiro’s versatile tones tried to bridge the gaps, and Tagiru just wanted the loudest, catchiest parts. The vocal coach, a woman with nerves of steel and an endless supply of throat-soothing tea (its herbal scent mingling with the metallic tang of microphones), often looked ready to tear her hair out. Yet, moments of unexpected harmony emerged. Taichi’s anthems gained depth with Taiki’s strategic harmonies. Takato’s sensitive phrasing found a counterpoint in Hiro’s melodic lines. Even Takuya and Masaru’s raw power could be thrilling when channeled correctly. The air would fill with a complex blend: Taichi's dark chocolate richness, Daisuke's sticky sweetness, Takato's warm bread comfort, Takuya's smoky edge, Masaru's sugary sharpness, Taiki's tropical brightness, Tagiru's zesty punch, Haru's creamy mildness, and Hiro's nutty warmth.

Living together, in hastily arranged dorm-style rooms above the practice space, magnified their eccentricities. Mornings were heralded by the smell of Masaru attempting to cook something hearty (often resulting in the faint odor of scorched pans mixing with his meatball scent), Daisuke loudly demanding ramen for breakfast (burnt bacon and honey swirling), and Takato quietly making toast (soft bread and vanilla). Arguments were frequent, usually sparked by Takuya’s mischievous pranks (campfire smoke mingling with the target's annoyed scent), Masaru breaking something electronic ("I barely touched it!"), or Tagiru bragging non-stop (ozone levels rising).

Taichi often played mediator, his cedarwood scent trying to project calm, though his teasing sometimes backfired, failing to register Takato’s sensitivity or Daisuke’s need for genuine reassurance. Taiki would attempt organized chore schedules, which Masaru ignored, Takuya subverted, and Tagiru conveniently forgot. Hiro often picked up the slack quietly, his green tea aura a calming presence amidst the clutter. Quiet corners existed: Haru reading, surrounded by the scent of old paper and lavender; Takato sketching, the faint cinnamon spice intensifying with concentration; Hiro researching Digimon lore or perhaps idol group marketing strategies, his almond scent focused. Evenings might find Daisuke sharing earbuds blasting J-pop with a reluctant Takato, Taichi planning their next 'big break' on his laptop, Takuya skateboarding recklessly down the hallway, or Masaru challenging anyone to arm-wrestling. It was loud, messy, often irritating, but undeniably alive. The combined scents, once a cacophony, began to settle into a familiar, if still chaotic, background hum – the scent of their shared, unfolding story.

Their first official gig was at a small, dingy club known for showcasing fledgling bands. Backstage was a cramped, suffocating space thick with the smell of stale beer, dust, and cheap air freshener fighting a losing battle. Nerves frayed the air, translating into a volatile olfactory mix.

Daisuke fidgeted, straightening his slightly-too-tight jacket for the tenth time, the burnt bacon scent overwhelming the honey. "Are you sure about this, Taichi-senpai? There are people out there! Real people!" Taichi clapped him on the shoulder, a little too hard, his peppermint scent sharp with forced confidence. "Relax! What's the big deal? We just go out there and rock." But even his cedarwood undertone felt a bit brittle. He felt the pressure, the weight of responsibility. Takato looked pale, clutching his chest, his vanilla scent barely perceptible. Guilmon, hidden nearby, probably sensed his distress. "I... I don't know if I can..." Takuya bounced on the balls of his feet, practically vibrating. "Let's go! Let's go! Time to burn it up!" His campfire scent filled the small space, making it feel even hotter. Masaru cracked his knuckles, grinning fiercely. "Finally! Time for a real fight!" Amber and brown sugar radiated off him in waves. Taiki reviewed their setlist on a tablet, flicking his goggles habitually. "Okay, remember the formation changes after the first chorus. Tagiru, stick to the choreography." His pineapple scent was a small note of attempted order. Tagiru scoffed, adjusting his own unnecessarily flashy accessory. "My moves are way better! They'll love it!" Ozone and orange fizzed around him. Haru stood silently, observing everyone, his lavender and yogurt scent a quiet anchor. He felt like he was watching the prologue to a dramatic chapter. Hiro calmly checked everyone's microphones, offering quiet words of encouragement, his green tea and almond aroma soothing frayed nerves where it could reach.

They stumbled onto the stage, blinded by surprisingly bright lights. The audience was small but expectant. The first notes hit – an upbeat, rocky intro Taichi had composed. Taichi launched forward, microphone in hand, pouring energy into the opening lines. Takuya and Masaru flanked him, moving with raw power. Daisuke, propelled by nervous energy, managed the first few steps. Takato sang his softer lines with surprising clarity, though his eyes were wide with panic. Taiki and Hiro provided solid backup vocals and steady movements. Haru stayed slightly back, focused.

Then Tagiru saw his chance. During a brief instrumental break meant for a synchronized group pose, he launched into an unplanned series of flips, aiming for center stage. He miscalculated, landing heavily near Takato, who yelped and stumbled backward, eyes welling up. Takuya, seeing the gap, instinctively tried to fill it with an aggressive, non-choreographed solo, nearly colliding with Masaru, who just laughed heartily into his mic, finding the chaos amusing.

The carefully planned performance dissolved into semi-organized mayhem. Taichi gritted his teeth, his dark chocolate scent laced with frustration, trying to pull them back together with sheer force of will. Hiro subtly shifted positions, covering Takato's retreat, his almond scent a point of stability. Daisuke, seeing Takato’s distress, abandoned his own spot for a moment during a formation change, giving Takato an encouraging thumbs-up, a waft of maple syrup briefly cutting through the burnt bacon of his own anxiety.

Somehow, they finished the set. The applause was hesitant, confused, but also appreciative of the sheer, unfiltered energy. Backstage, the recriminations began. "Tagiru! What was that?" Taiki demanded, his usual calm replaced by frustration, the green apple scent sharp. "It looked awesome!" Tagiru insisted, ozone crackling defensively. "You almost took out Takato!" Takuya added, smoky coal swirling. "He needs to toughen up!" Masaru boomed, amber flaring. Takato just looked miserable, the faint smell of cinnamon barely there. Taichi sighed, running a hand through his hair, the cedarwood scent heavy with stress. "Okay, okay! Enough! It was messy. First time, right? We learn."

But beneath the chaos, something else lingered. The shared adrenaline, the feeling of having faced the lights together, the raw, unfiltered expression – it created a strange bond. The lingering scent in the cramped room wasn't just sweat and failure; it was a complex, volatile mix of peppermint resolve, honeyed apology, vanilla vulnerability, campfire frustration, amber amusement, pineapple strategy, orange defiance, lavender observation, and green tea steadiness. It was the scent of their beginning. Their messy, loud, utterly chaotic beginning.

(Takato was still upset, and that meaned the other eight had to bear with the spicy cinnamon scent for TWO WEEKS. Tagiru received much, much glances thanks to that.)

Waiting for your opinion on this!~

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