Japanese!Actress Anon Meme!

[jactressanon]

J!ACTRESS ANON MEME!!!

You know how there are so many different JE!fic anon memes out there? Well, what about their leading ladies? They deserve as much fic love as the boys do. Which is where this comes in!

Request in the comments! Anon is on, IP logging is off.

Who I Want: (Girl or girls or girl/girl or girl/boy or whatever related to the

Comments

[anonymous]

He is Ohno-senpai. Sleepy, soft-cheeked Ohno-senpai with half-lidded eyes and stumpy legs and a yawn that consumes his entire face. It's silly how her heart skips a beat every time she passes him in the hallways; he is always surrounded by his friends and peers even though it doesn't seem like he's ever paying attention to any of them. His mind is always several thousand miles away, somewhere in the skies and the spaces in-between the stars.

The only time he ever wakes up--ever seems remotely alive--is when he paints. His eyes are no less half-lidded, but they are focused, mouth pursed and rounded, fingers precise, the paintbrush a natural extension of his arm. He swipes and mixes and dips with ease, and canvas after canvas is filled with vibrant landscapes of rolling hills, a sea of never-ending sun, caricatures of every single member of the art club. This he paints as a mural on the wall just outside the school, the wall claimed by the senior members of the club as a last farewell present to the rest of the members. The only senior members of the club, however, are Ohno and Domoto Koichi, and the club unanimously decides that Koichi is not allowed within a five-foot radius of the wall until Ohno is done.

Still, it doesn't mean Satomi can't watch, and so, every day after school, she sits on the concrete in front of him in her favorite pair of painting overalls with her head in her hands and her bag in her lap. Sometimes she brings drinks and, after hours of intense painting, Ohno will finally break free from his frenetic painting and down the entire can, crushing in in his hands and throwing it carelessly into the nearby garbage can. He misses every time, but doesn't notice, is back to painting and won't stop until his hands and clothes and face are all covered in paint. Meanwhile, Satomi will pick up the can and place it quickly in the trash, careful not to miss a second of the way his back arches to reach the top of the wall, the lines of his arms and the never-ending stream of color and magic flowing from his fingertips.

One day he takes a break longer than usual, sits with his knee almost touching hers, the empty can of tea resting in the grass in front of him.

"What are you thinking of?" Satomi asks, although she doesn't expect an answer.

He glances at her, with those so very far-away eyes, tilts his head to the side and stares and stares until she reaches up self-consciously, wondering if there is something on her face.

His hand shoots out, holding her wrist before she can even squeak, and with his other hand slips the glasses off the bridge of her nose and places it gently on the ground next to them. And then he's leaning forward and the blood rushes to her face and her mind shorts out and she shuts her eyes.

There is just the gentlest rustle of fabric against fabric, the warmth of his body against hers, and then--seconds and minutes of eternal nothing.

"Ishihara-san, can you open your eyes now?" She snaps them open, mortified. "Your eyes are the perfect shade of brown."

To her credit, she waits until he finishes mixing his paint on the pallete behind her, before she runs, picks up her bag and runs and runs as fast as she can in her canvas shoes and paint splotched overalls.