I painted a Doberman named Wicked in watercolors!
Want a pet portrait done? My commissions are open!
I figured out a new technique with my watercolor brushes to make more realistic short/fine hairs. I am absolutely in love with this painting, I think it may be my best so far.
About my process:
So usually I’d use a cut up acrylic brush to get an uneven/jagged texture that creates strokes resembling when used to paint. This is great with long haired animals if they have flowing hair. With short haired dogs it doesn’t work as well because of the hundreds (thousands?) of tiny little strokes required to get the texture right. This time I used an actual watercolor brush (a smaller round brush) and would flick any excess water off so it was mostly dry (but with pigment) and splayed out kind of wildly (more or less depending on how sparse or heavy/dark I needed the hair to be in each area) I primarily used a Windsor & Newton Series-7 size 3 (finest sable). The paper is 9x12. Adjust your brush sizing accordingly. I used a white gel pen for corrections. Often it’s too bright for a particular area on a darker dog so I’ll often rub it in with my fingers to soften the contrast!
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Hi darling I hope you’re well! I have this really noticeable scar on my forehead (much like Harry Potter’s) from me being clumsy as a kid and it’s really been bothering me lately and making me self conscious along with other things and I was wondering if you’d just do something where Sirius is being comforting after a rough week of insecurities. No worries if not😊 Thanks love!
Hi sweetheart, I'm good thanks! Thank you for requesting <3
modern au
Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 845 words
You’re washing your face, and every pass of your fingers over the divot in your forehead feels like a physical pain. Which is silly, because the scar hasn’t hurt for years.
It’s been a part of your face for so long that usually you hardly remember it. You look past it, the same way your eyes don’t see your nose because it’s always there. Lately, though, you can’t stop yourself from perceiving it constantly. You find yourself trying to cover it with makeup, tilting your head in conversation in attempt to hide it with your hair, staring into the mirror with a freakish intensity. It’s inescapable.
You force yourself to tear your gaze from the blemish now, turning from the mirror towards where Sirius is waiting for you in bed.
He sets down his phone at your approach, spreading his arms extravagantly. “Come here, my darling.”
You go to them with a sharp ache in your chest, curling up against his side.
There’s a pause and then Sirius hums, confusion teetering on the edge of concern. “What, not even a little laugh?”
“You’re not very funny,” you tease halfheartedly.
“You’re not usually a very particular audience.”
He slides his palm on top of yours where it rests on the mattress. You intertwine your fingers with his. “Sorry,” you sigh. “Long week. I’m glad tomorrow’s Saturday.”
You want to languish in your pajamas for the entire weekend. Tune into some mindless show and leave this prickling discomfort behind until you have to go back to work on Monday.
Sirius brings your joined hands to your stomach, sliding them under your top familiarly. You try not to shiver. Sirius’ hands are always cold. You’d asked once if he thought he might be anemic, but he’d only given you a dry look and a jab from one of his insanely sharp elbows.
He kisses the soft skin below your ear. “You gonna tell me about it, or do you enjoy keeping me in suspense?”
“I do,” you say, grinning when he nips at your earlobe admonishingly. You do want to tell him, you find. “No, it’s just my scar. It’s been bothering me lately.”
Sirius' thumb strokes over your navel, already warmer from your skin. “Bothering you how?”
“Just bothering me.” You’re glad you’re facing away from him. You’re not sure you could take the intensity of his stare as you divulge your insecurities. “I don’t know, for some reason I all of a sudden feel kind of self-conscious about it. It’s not like it’s tiny or inconspicuous or anything.”
He hums in silent understanding. For few moments the only sound is his thumb sighing over your skin. “Whenever I notice your scar,” he says, “it makes me think of how you told me you got it.”
You make a quiet scoffing sound. You’d fallen after climbing too high in an old tree by your house when you were little. The branch had broken right out from under you, and you’d fallen all the way into the road, tearing a big gash in your head on the way down. Luckily there’d been no cars coming towards you, but your mom had nearly had a heart attack and it had made for a late night in A&E.
Sirius’ hand moves up to your shoulder, pushing down so that you’re lying on your back. You try not to squirm under his gaze, knowing your scar has to be stark and shining in the moonlight coming in from your window. He traces the line with a slender finger.
“It’s a cute story,” he says, and you can find no teasing spark in his watercolor eyes. “It’s fun to imagine little you, trying to get as high up as you could.”
“Before I took a dive onto a roadway,” you add dryly. He mirrors your grin.
“Technicalities. The scar’s adorable, because you were being adorable while you got it.”
You feel your smile fade. “I think you’re the only one who thinks that, babe,” you say, trying to maintain some lightness in your tone. You’re not sure if you quite manage it. “I’m pretty sure to everyone else it’s just ugly.”
“Whoa, excuse me.” Sirius frowns, taking your face firmly in hand. “Nothing about you could ever be ugly. That’s scientifically impossible. It defies the laws of nature. What goes up must come down, beer is homophobic, and you,” he kisses you, warm and pillowy soft, “are a fucking stunner. Every bit of you.”
You kiss him back, smiling. “You’re such a flirt.”
“Do you want me to prove it?” He quirks a brow. “Give me a minute to look at you, sweet thing, and I’ll get hard right now.”
You gag, to his delight, and Sirius rolls on top of you, pinning your hips with his. “Fucking,” he plants a kiss on your jaw, “talk about my girlfriend like that,” he lands one on your lips, “one more time.”
He works his way up your face, smooching your flushed skin until you’re spit-slick and cackling. He does your scar last.
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