leather over the shoulder bag

Impasto | Chapter One

Author’s Note: @your-miss-right I thank blame you entirely for this inspiration, as well as this post that started it all. Professor Namjoon, everyone. Not sure how many parts yet. Tagging @jinhyong, @park-jimeme who wish to be so.

Genre: Fluff 

→ two




  1. the process or technique of laying on paint or pigment thickly so that it stands out from a surface, to convey high emotion.
  2. a technique of painting unabashedly proud to be textured, existing to show off brush and palette knife marks

Black coffee in one hand and a new leather bag slung over his shoulder, Namjoon’s patent shoes clicked upon the cement pavement as he walked; the blissful autumn morning sun shined upon his skin, basking him in a wonderful warmth. For all intents and purposes, today was beautiful, and nothing could possibly go wrong.

But the nerves that were going haywire inside his brain said otherwise.

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Marauders Muggle AU. James is a painter while Lily is a writer, and they both live next to each other.

The first time James saw her, she had her head burried over her book. Frankenstein’s Monster, the cover read. She had a brown-leather bag slung over her shoulder as she slowly ascended the stairs, taking one step at a time without taking her eyes off her book as she made her way to her flat. The whole time, James was two steps behind her, worried that she might missed one and would end up rolling down the stairs. She had the brightest shade of red hair, her pale skin was free of freckles, unlike most redheads he knew. She was tall, probably just a few inches shorter than James himself, which was saying a lot. James knew that it was rude for him to keep staring at her, especially when he caught his eyes flying to her bum a couple of times (“Bad, Prongs!” he scolded himself in his head, sounding emarkably similar like his annoying best friend Sirius.). But, as cliche as it sounded, there was something about this girl that glued James’ eyes on her.

And he wasn’t wholly talking about the fact that she was gorgeous enough to be a model.

James spent the next few weeks wondering about that girl. He knew that she lived right next to his flat, and after awhile, he found out that her name was Lily when her friends were coming over and James heard one of them called her by her name. But other than that, he knew nothing about her. Curiousity was a bitch and he always hated it. It annoyed him greatly because when it hit him, it would make him incapable of doing anything until his curiousity was satisfied. That was why James had been a little bit moody. He couldn’t get her out of his mind, even when he busied himself painting a couple paintings for his next exhibition. He always loved to paint because it was the only way he knew how to express himself. Being the son of the sophisticated and aristocratic Fleamont and Euphemia Potter, James had obligations to do, and one of them was to put on a show that he was the happiest person in the world. Painting was the only way he could be honest about himself, and it pissed him greatly that because of this Lily, he couldn’t even do the one thing he loved the most.

His curiousity turned to dislike. But it wasn’t enough to kick her out of his mind.

At twenty seven, James had a master’s degree on Art and had sold a few of his paintings. He also gave lessons to little kids in this school not far from where he lived. Both jobs paid enough for him to live freely without depending on parents’ money. He joined this club for young painters like himself, and made a few friends. But his very best friend was Sirius Black, who had been his friends since they were both still in high school, both with dreams of becoming the next Picasso or Monet. So far, his parents were accepting the way he lived his life, almost supportive even. But he knew that soon, enough would be enough. They would want him to stop painting altogether and start to take over the family business. That was for later though, and James was going to make the most of what he had now.

“Hello?” a voice called as a knock came against his door. “Anyone home?”

“One moment,” James called back, wiping his stained hands on the towel beside him. In front of him, was a canvas filled with various shades of red. He had no idea what he was working on, but he just knew he had to make it. Sometimes art was like that to him. He’d be colouring his canvas with whatever colours that came to mind before he could figure out what exactly he wanted to draw.

It was raining like crazy outside, thunderstorms and all, and that was probably why he was painting. He loved to paint when it rain because in an ironic sense of way, he actually felt calmer when the sky was upset and raining down the world furiously. When thunder clapped, James began to make his way to his door, realising a little too late that he was minus a shirt. Clothes were restrictive, and when he was painting, he liked to be as his free as he could. He considered to put on a shirt first before he accepted anyone, but then the thought flew out of his mind when the knocking came again, this time sounding a bit more urgent. Whoever it was on the other side of the door, they needed him to come soon. They needed his help. So, without further delay, James wrapped his hand on the door knob, turned it around, and pulled it opened.

And came face to face with Lily
It was him.

The same guy who taught Art at the school she was teaching. The same guy who became the favourite of all her female co-workers. The same guy who she couldn’t take her mind off when she saw him knelt down in front of little Hermione Granger, her favourite student, who was too brilliant for her own good that it reminded Lily of herself, and explained to her that art had no precise logic and all she had to do was to let herself feel. When Lily saw how he handled perfectionist Hermione with ease, that was when he started invading her thoughts night and day. Lily loved all of her students, and she always thought highly of everyone who treated them real good. Especially when it came to Hermione, who could be quite handful with her questions. So, obviously, the guy had secured himself a special place in Lily’s heart.

And it turned out he lived right next door.

“Hi,” he said softly, those beautiful hazel eyes were deep and expressive. He had a red smudge of paint under his eyes, right bellow the rim of his glasses. “Lily, right?”

“Yes,” Lily said, a little breathless when she noticed all he had was track pants. There were stains of paint all over it, and on his beautiful artist’s hands too. “I’m Lily, Lily Evans.”

“I’m James Potter. Can I help you with anything?” He stepped back and wordlessly allowed Lily in, where she found his modest flat was filled with beautiful paintings. Lily wasn’t an artist, she was a writer, if there was anything about her, but she could tell a good painting when she saw one.

James had a lot of them.

“Lily?” James voice cut her thoughts short. Immediately, she was reminded of why she had come knocking on his door. Now that she was there, standing in the middle of his flat, with his paintings littering all over the place while the storm kept on going, Lily felt stupid.

Stupid and embarrassed.

(“Freak!” her sister’s voice from fifteen years ago rang in her ears, as if Petunia just yelled at her fifteen minutes ago.)

“I’m sorry if I bother your. It’s…nothing, I actually. I- I should probably leave,” Lily stammered and started to backtrack toward the door. She jumped a little when she felt James’s hand wrapped around her wrist.

“Are you okay?” James asked, still in that soft tone, his eyes shone with concern. His eyes ran all over her figure, glancing at something before it went back to her. “Were you…were you afraid of the thunder?”

Lily froze. He knew. This guy, whom she properly knew just minutes ago, knew of her greatest fear. Memories of that day, when her sister angrily called her that word because Petunia was jealous Lily got a scholarship in English literature in Cambridge, came rushing back to her. It was storming hard when Lily told Petunia about it, and as soon as she saw the look on her big sister’s face, she knew she made a mistake. Petunia always wanted to go to college, but she wasn’t smart enough and her parents couldn’t afford it. She said that it was a great thing that Lily would be leaving because then, she would be free of the burden of taking care of Lily; the freak perfectionist Lily Evans who scared away boys because she was too busy studying. Thunderstorm always brought back the memories, about how the love her sister had for her disappeared that night without trace. That when their mother died because of cancer, followed closely by their father who was too miserable to live alone without his wife, Lily was practically all alone in this world.

As she slid down onto the floor, too overwhelmed with her emotions, Lily barely registered the fact that James had sunk down beside her. She didn’t even realise that she had been crying until she felt James’ hand on her face, gently wiping her tears with a clean paper-towel. It stopped her crying almost instantly, and she found herself looking into his eyes deeply, her jade-green into his hazel-brown. She had been told many times that she had beautiful eyes. But now that she was looking James’ eyes, she’d beg to differ. His eyes were exquisite; they had various colours Lily almost felt like she were looking into a painting. She wasn’t sure who started it first when suddenly, she felt like the air was so thick and James was so bloody closer than before - which Lily thought was impossible, considering the fact their noses were almost touching already.

“You’re very beautiful, Lily Evans…” James whispered softly as he leaned closer, and closer.

And closer…

Shane didn’t like days like today.  For someone who thrived on control, the days where her anxiety was not at all soothed by her regimen of potions left her feeling wildly out of sorts.  It was during those times that she fled from people, finding refuge at her favorite tree out on the grounds and climbing it with practiced grace.  She straddled one of the large, wide branches, her long legs dangling in the air while her back rested against the trunk, and pulled her sketch pad and charcoals from the worn leather messenger bag slung over her shoulder.

The blonde arranged herself comfortably, letting the dozens of faces she came across on a daily basis wander across her mind’s eye to be recalled in perfect detail.  Settling on one, her hand began to move across the page, the charcoal smudging along her fingers as the lines slowly took the shape of eyes, the bridge of a nose, the cupid’s bow of lips.  So engrossed was she that she didn’t notice that the very subject of her drawing was approaching until they stopped just below her place of refuge and she caught the edge of a figure out of the corner of her eye.  Her blue-grey irises shifted away from the page to settle on the person looking up at her, brows furrowed in consternation.  “D-did you need something?”


(Note: this either takes place before Wave 2, or in a completely separate verse from it. Indicate which, if you’d be so kind.)

There’s a school of thought that some people are inherently predators and others are prey. While the veracity of this claim cannot be established, if it is true, Asterope Glass is clearly prey. A pale skinny woman (girl? She’s likely in her late teens, likely) in clothes too large for her, she walks alone through town, all her worldly possessions in a leather bag slung over her back. Her shoulders are hunched, and her gaze darts nervously left and right. The sounds of a dog barking or a door slamming make her jump, and she avoids eye contact with anyone.

It’s hard to say what she resembles more: a child sneaking out past curfew, a refugee lost in a land where they don’t speak the language, or simply a kicked puppy. She stays to one side of the road, her steps mincing and careful (though the non-casual observer might note a bit of a limp).

Of course, if she’s prey, she’s bound to draw the attention of predators. A tall man with a blonde beard and a nose that’s been broken and healed crooked at least twice is following her down the street, waiting for an opportunity to pounce.

She hasn’t realized it yet, though.