Genuine question, but WHY do you think alcohol markers are a scam? I'm interested in hearing your reasoning, seeing as i'm slowly weaning off using them for myself

What I want from markers is consistent color, convenience, and quick application. I like the processes of painting and colored pencils more than markers, so this is specific to what I want from markers in general and don't like about my experience with alcohol markers.

In my experience, the pigment immediately soaks into the page with no real working time. I've tried multiple paper finishes and weights. The colors are sheer, so strokes build up pigment, and my work at least ends up sketchy with obvious nib strokes. Sketchiness is a fun quality, but it's not my goal with my finished pieces.

A lot of artists are able to get clean results from Copic and other alcohol markers, so maybe I'm the odd one out.

Using water-based markers is much more successful for me. The eye sketch was done on watercolor paper with starch sizing (the yellow burst is from a Posca paint pen), and the coloring page was done quickly on crummy coloring book paper.

The Karins didn't fight me like Copics and Prismacolors do. For the sketch, it was extremely easy to blend using water and a brush. The color seems to self-level before it soaks in, reducing strokes in the finished piece. (Sorry for using a Pussy coloring page to illustrate that.)

If you're interested, I could record what it's like to use the Karins or try to color the same drawing using my Copics and Karins. Let me know if you think that would be helpful.

Coffee of the Week

Summary: So watched Mare of Easttown and it’s so good! And Evan peters character is so cute I just had to write something for him!! So in the second episode he said that he gets coffee every morning so I was thinking like what if he goes to the same shop everyday, cause the reader works there and he has a crush on her! But he’s too shy to admit it, but she makes the first move and he’s like a mess

Word Count: 2343

Easttown was a very small knit community, everyone knew everyone, there wasn’t a face you couldn’t recognize. So it created quite the talk when everyone heard that a new detective from out of town was coming down. You worked at the local coffee shop, there were a few others, chain stores, but most people in town preferred the comfort of your locally owned one. You had heard all about this new detective from the high school girls that came in after school. They gushed about how good looking he was, and how charming he was, even some of the older women that came in seemed to be infatuated with him.

You had yet to meet him but he was still on your mind as you drove to your shop. There wasn’t much drama in Easttown so of course a handsome detective piqued your interest. You hadn’t even turned on the lights when you saw someone standing outside the shop peering in. You gave him a curious gaze, he gave you a wide smile, waving at you.

You made your way over to the door and unlocked it, peeking your head out. It was dark out so you couldn’t really make out his features. “Sorry we don’t open until 7.”

“Aw, I was hoping to get a quick coffee before work. I heard this was the best shop in town.” You chucked at his comment.

“Okay come in, I’ll make you one real quick.”

“Really?” He asked excitedly.

“Yeah come in.” You opened the door wider and he stepped through. You made your way back over to the counter and flipped on the lights. “What do you want?”

He looked over your menu, scanning each of the drinks briefly. He glanced over at the chalk board that had coffee of the week scribbled at the top. He nodded his head towards it. “What’s the deal of the week?”

“Nothing yet, I usually come up with something around now but I had a little interruption this morning.” You joked, side eyeing him.

“Sorry.”

“I’m just messing with you.” He smiled at your words. “So what do you wanna drink this morning?” You asked again.

“Surprise me.” You laughed and rolled your eyes. You got to work and made small talk with him in between. “Haven’t seen you around here before.”

“Yeah I’m new, I came down to help Mare out with a case.”

You looked at him over your shoulder giving him a sly smirk. “Ohhh so you’re the devilishly handsome detective everyone’s been gossiping about.”

He blushed at your words, rubbing the nape of his neck in embarrassment. “Well I wouldn’t say that.”

“Oh I would.” You teased as you finished up his drink. “You’re the talk of the town. All the women are raving about you.” You popped the lid on his drink and made your way back over to the counter. You looked him over from head to toe. He was very cute, in his long blue coat, and his perfectly combed hair. “And now that I’ve finally met you I can say that I agree with them.”

He turned into a blushing mess at your words. “I-I well, thank you.” He stuttered out. You handed him his coffee, your fingers brushing against his. He took it with a gracious smile and set down his drink to take out his wallet. “What do I owe you?”

“It’s on the house.”

“No really I-“

“It’s in the house, don’t try and fight me on it you’ll never win.” You said leaning back on the counter arms crossed. He laughed, face crinkling up, dimples showing, you felt yourself turn a little red at the sight.

“Thanks.” He said making his way to the door, he looked at you, silently asking your name.

“I’m (y/n), (y/n (y/l/n).”

“Thank you (y/n).” He said gesturing towards the cup.

“I hope to see you around detective...”

“Colin, Colin Zabel.” He said, mimicking your introduction. You waved at him as he exited your shop. You suddenly had an idea for the coffee of the week. 

The next day Colin was back at exactly the same time. Right when you got to work, before you even turned the lights on, and before you even opened. He watched as you moved around the shop before coming over to unlock the door for him. He smiled at you and you returned it. He looked around the shop while you finished setting up.

It was cute, very old fashioned, it had that hometown feel like everything did in Easttown. There were these watercolor paintings hanging on the walls, of flowers and landscapes. He wondered if you were the one who had painted them. He glanced back at the chalkboard and noticed there was a special written down today. It read Coffee of the Week, The Colin Zabel. He felt his face heat up at reading the name. He cleared his throat and leaned forward on the counter. “You named the coffee of the week after me?”

“Yeah.” You admitted with a soft laugh. “It’s the best selling one so far. All the women and girls that have come in have bought it and absolutely love the way it tastes.”  He blushed even more at your words. But he didn’t read into what you were saying, he figured you named it after him because the coffee you had made for him was so good. It was a regular coffee, with two sugars, a splash of milk, a hazelnut creamer and a load of whip cream. You had even stirred in some honey.

While he was lost in thought you had finished up his drink and placed it in front of him. “Here you go, one Colin Zabel on the house. And a scone!” 

“I can’t-” He tried protesting again. 

“Yes you can.” You smiled warmly at him. “The drink you inspired has been bringing in tons of business lately.” 

Colin took out his wallet anyway and placed a $20 bill into your tip jar. You went to fish it out and hand it back to him but he placed his hand over yours, stopping you. “Please take it.” He shyly smiled at you, gently removing his hand from your own. You sighed and nodded your head. His face broke out in a smile. “See you tomorrow!” 

“I’m guessing you mean before I open?” He just winked at you and left. 

For the rest of the day he was grinning ear to ear. When Mare came in she narrowed her eyes at his cheery demeanor. “What’s got you in such a good mood?” 

“Nothing.” Colin said, trying his best to replace his smile with a serious face. Mare gestured to the coffee that was sitting on the corner of his desk along with his half eaten scone. 

“Is that for me?”

“What?” 

“You said you get coffee every morning and said you’d bring me one today.” Mare said as she dropped the stack of papers she was holding onto her desk. 

Colin grimaced, he had totally forgotten he had promised Mare a coffee today. ‘No sorry, I forgot.” 

Mare sighed. “It’s okay, you can just bring me one tomorrow.”

“Or we can go now.”  

“You already have a coffee, why would we go now?” 

“Cause I said I’d get you one.” He said while smiling, hoping Mare wouldn't see his hidden motive of wanting to see you again. Mare just watched him with narrowed eyes trying to figure out what he was after. “Come on.” Colin grabbed his coat that was hanging on the back chair and picked up the keys, jingling them. “I’ll drive.” 

*******************************************************

“You seem way too eager to be here.” Mare said suspiciously as they parked outside your coffee shop. Colin got out holding the door of your shop open for Mare. She just looked at him. 

“That’s okay I’ll go in first.”

‘You do that.” Mare followed Colin into the shop. It was busy, a stark contrast to the empty place Colin was used to when he came in every morning. You were standing at the counter making orders as your employees shouted them out to you. You finished a couple and called out the names of the people who ordered them, You gave them a sweet smile and looked up to see Mare. 

“Hey Lady Hawk!” She just rolled her eyes, but the small smile on her lips showed that she wasn’t annoyed with you. You made your way around the counter and over to her. “What an honor it is to have you in my humble establishment.”

“Oh shut up.” You laughed at her response. “I always come here.”

You scoffed at her blatant lie. “You never come here. You always make your own coffee.” You raised an eyebrow at her, “So why are you here?”

“He made me come.” Mare said, jutting her thumb back towards Colin. He had been awkwardly standing to the side watching you guys talk. 

“Hey.”

“Hey Colin. What brings you back here?’

“Back here?” Mare said, turning to look at him. “You’ve already been here today?”

“Well yeah.” He admitted, eyes darting between your curious ones and Mare’s judgmental ones. “But I promised you a coffee.” He finished quickly with a smile. 

Mare looked between you two, noticing the way that Colin nervously fiddled with the car keys. “Oh okay I get it.” She said, head slightly nodding. “I’m going to go wait in the car. I’ll take a coffee with two creams and no sugar.” 

“You got it Mare.” He tossed her the keys, she caught them and was half way out the door when she stopped. She turned back to face him. 

“Colin.” 

“Hm?” 

“Just ask her out already.” 

You felt your face heat up, but it was nothing compared to Colin. His whole face was flushed red, as he tried to dismiss Mare’s comment. “I- she, um.” He let out a nervous laugh. “She’s just messing with me. A little joke between colleagues.” 

“Ah okay.” You said with a little giggle. “Good to know. I’ll get Mare’s coffee, do you want anything?” 

“Actually yeah I was actually wondering if you -'' You looked at him with wide eyes, he felt his heart beating out of his chest. At the last second he abandoned ship and decided against asking you out. “If I can get the special of the week. But only if I can pay for it.” You just nodded and got to work making their coffees, in no time they were done. You passed them to him and he gratefully took them.  The entire time he was internally kicking himself.

“So I guess I'll be seeing you tomorrow, unless you plan on coming back again today?”

Colin let out an airy laugh. “Nope. Just the two times today for me.” He said in an embarrassed voice. 

“Gotcha.” 

Colin made his way back to the car and gestured for Mare to unlock the door, he handed her her coffee as he slid back into the driver's seat. ”Why do you have two coffees?” He didn’t answer as he put his seatbelt on. “Did you seriously buy another coffee? You didn't even finish the first one.” 

He sighed, “I know.” 

 “So,” She paused, taking a sip of her coffee. “Did you ask her out?”

“No. I didn’t” He said resting his head down on the steering wheel. “I just panicked and ordered another coffee.” Mare snickered at him. She picked up his coffee cup examining it. 

“Well it looks like they took the first step for you.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“She wrote her number on the cup.” Colin yanked the cup form Mare, sure enough there was your phone number scribbled in sharpie on the side of his cup. His face split in a wide smile. Mare watched him glance back at your number and his phone the entire ride back to the station, as if willing it to ring, even though you didn't even have his number. 

It had been an hour or so since they had gotten back to the station. Mare looked at Colin over the top of her report. “You should call them.” 

“I will.” 

“Oh yeah, like you said you were going to ask them out.” Mare snorted from her desk. 

“I never said I was going to ask them out, you said I should.” Mare just shrugged. 

Colin spent the rest of the work day just staring at your number and going to pick up his phone before deciding against it and looking through more of his work papers. By the end of the day Mare had had enough. She pushed her chair over to his and yanked his phone off his desk. 

“What are you doing?”

“Shhh!” She hushed him and she quickly dialed a number and pressed the phone to her ear, waiting for the ringing to stop. “Hey (Y/n). His eyes widened, he tried to get his phone back from Mare, but she just pushed off his desk and wheeled back to her desk. “Yeah, yeah I’m calling from Colin’s phone.” He quickly stood up and made his way over to her desk, she kept pushing him off as he continued to reach for the phone. “He would like to know if you would like to go out with him this weekend. Mhmmm, hm, sounds good.” Mare covered the phone. “She said yes, you can pick her up at eight Friday night.” 

“Give me that!” 

You did your best to hide your laughter, you could hear them quietly arguing over the phone in hushed whispers. “Hello?” You finally heard Colin’s voice, you figured he had won the phone back from Mare. 

“Hey. So are we on for Friday at eight?”

“Of course.”

“Okay then, see you soon Detective.” 

“Okay bye!” Colin hung up the phone and sat back in his chair, smiling up at the ceiling. Mare glanced over at him, hiding her own small smile. 

“You’re welcome.” He just glared at her and she let out a laugh at his expense.

under the same roof part three: all the time you need

a harry styles rpf part three of six written by annie and aj (marlahey and formerly harryonstage) ratings/warnings: disaster gays, endangered ovaries from dad!harry, women aggressively supporting women notes: enter the rest of harry’s family unit! in case anyone’s curious, annie tells sylvia to give her dad a kiss in vietnamese, to which he responds, good girl. before anyone comes for me, there will be plenty more opportunities for bed-sharing to come. side note: aj always pictured olivia coleman as officer warren.  masterlist | part one | part two | part four (21.12.20)

............................................... • saturday, 5th january 9:18 am • The second time you’re roused from sleep, sunlight illuminates Harry’s room. You lift your head, squinting, but more quickly you recognize where you are.

Harry is nowhere in sight, but a fresh glass of water is within reach on the nightstand, and a cardigan knitted with primary-colored patches lies folded at the foot of the bed. After slipping your arms through the loose sleeves, you take a few gulps of water and make sure to shut his bedroom door quietly on your way out. You hadn’t spent much time in the living room as per Officer Warren’s instructions to avoid the windows, but you can see into it from the hall. And since there’s still no sign of Harry, you take a minute to discreetly look around at the place he and his daughter call home. His flat is obviously larger than yours—he has two bedrooms versus one—but the morning light seems to stretch the space even further, like an open armed welcome. The atmosphere bustles with a little dose of chaos. Two brimming bookshelves span one wall of the living room, and plants line the windowsills. A half-sized Christmas tree stands off in the corner, wrapped in twinkly lights and strings of popcorn. A white fender guitar decorated with various stickers stands with a speaker beside the couch, and records tile the wall behind it: Pink Floyd, Fleetwood Mac, The Stones, The Cars, Hello I’m Dolly.  There is ample evidence that a child lives here, too. The walls are dotted with drawings in watercolor, crayon, and sparkles. You can see pieces of Lego strewn out on the carpet; they must be from that towering box Harry had towed into the lift a week before Christmas. A small smile tugs at your lips as you follow the smell of espresso into the kitchen. You find Harry leaning against the counter looking contemplative, holding aloft a cup of coffee that he seems to have forgotten about. He’s wearing the same shirt he’d slept in, but thrown on a pair of joggers. You bid a quiet, “Good morning.” He inhales sharply as his head whips toward you, his drink sloshing over the edge of his mug slightly. “Jesus, sorry,” he laughs softly, shaking his head at himself. You watch as he wets a dishrag and cleans the small mess. “Not really used to company my age.” “Oh… Sorry.” “S’alright.” His voice is covered in sleep; it almost sounds like he has a cold. “Coffee?” You hum appreciatively. “Love some.” “Were you able to get some sleep?” he asks, pulling a mug from the cabinet. “Enough, yeah.” All you can think about is waking up locked in his embrace, on the still-dark cusp of sunrise. “Thank you for letting me, um…” “Course. Cream?” “That’s great, thanks.” Harry nods over his shoulder towards the bedroom. “It help at all?” How are you supposed to answer that? “The real bed?” he clarifies, like it is at all necessary.  You listen to the spoon clink rhythmically against the ceramic, and settle on “I think so,” as noncommittally as possible. “How did you sleep?” “Very well.” In passing you your mug, Harry catches your eyes for the first time today in a way that feels like not an accident. “More importantly, how are you feeling about everything else?” You shrug, eyes glued to the cream swirling in your coffee. “Better, a little.” “That’s good.” “What about you?” you ask. “You’ve kinda been through the wringer, yourself.” “I’m good, yeah.” Harry pushes up his glasses. “I was thinking—if you don’t mind—I’d like to come with you to the police department this morning.”  “No, no, Harry.” You wave away the offer. “Don’t worry about that.” “No, really. It might make more sense. I saw him in the hall last night, and I was with you in the lift. They might need to ask some questions of both of us.” You consider this a moment. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to.” “I don’t have to,” Harry counters. “I want to. I want you to, y’know… ” he trails off. “I want them to get this guy.” You blink at him. There’s a strange feeling in knowing that Harry has clearly thought about your wellbeing beyond the night that you’ve effectively been trapped in his flat. Regardless, it’s too early for a battle of wills, and he has a point. You slouch against the fridge. “Alright. Well… I still have India’s car so I can drive us,” you concede. A smile lights Harry’s face. Suddenly your stomach rumbles so powerfully and for so long that it interrupts the conversation. You cover a small, mortified laugh with both hands as Harry’s eyebrows raise. “Well,” he begins, exaggerated. “Let’s take care of that… You take the first turn in the bathroom, I’ll fix us some breakfast.” “You sure?” “Go ahead.” He grabs a skillet from the drying rack, turning on one of the burners. “Thank you, Harry.” “It’s no problem.” You wash your face with something you find above the sink and brush your teeth on auto-pilot before considering your bundle of clothes from the night before. Your cardigan lays at the top of the stack. Four of your fingers fit through the gaping hole in its collar, and dirt covers one of the sleeves. You hadn’t forgotten about the shape it was in last night, but you didn’t consider it a problem until now, as you hold it up in front of you by the shoulders, frowning. You try to tame your hair with a purple, sparkly brush to no avail, so you take a quick look around to see if Sylvia has any spare barrettes or pins. Thankfully there’s a single hair tie floating in the bottom of your purse. You shrug back into Harry’s patchwork sweater—oddly comforting in how fully it swallows your shoulders and hands—and slip back out to the kitchen, where Harry plates grilled tomatoes and bacon. “We’re about ready to eat.” Harry turns the stovetop down to a simmer as the toaster pops. “How do you take your eggs?” “Sunny side up, please.”  He salutes you with his spatula, attention already returned to the pan.  “Can I help with anything?” Harry nods to a drawer. “Yeah can you pass us a couple napkins from just there? I’ll be right back,” he rushes, already halfway out of the kitchen. You pull a few paper napkins from their packet as he returns with two chairs that you recognize from his small wicker table. “Blinds are open in the other room, thought it might be best if we just eat in here.” He sets the chairs apart, facing one another. “Now this is living,” you deadpan. Harry laughs lightly as he gestures for you to sit. The two of you get adjusted with your plates on your lap, and your knees almost bump in the small space. “This is great, Harry. Thank you.”  “I’d make you bubble and squeak, too, but we’re fresh out and Sylvia hates beans so we don’t keep them on hand. So technically...” Harry lowers his voice to a whisper. “S’not a full English fry up.” You can only smile around your mouthful, unexpectedly endeared. The rest of breakfast passes in silence. You shouldn’t have slept on an empty stomach; you’re ravenous from skipping a meal last night.  He looks up at you eventually, a touch more serious than before. “Shall we think about heading to the police station soon?”  You dab your mouth with your napkin and nod. Harry stands from his chair and reaches an open hand down to you for your plate. “No, no,” you nudge him away with your elbow. “You cooked, I’ll clean.”  “Let me deal with these. You’re a guest.” “I’m a captive.” “No you’re not! You’re—” He breaks off, hesitating a moment before plunging on with an amused slant to his lips. “You’re my sort-of friend.” Your assumption he hadn’t overheard that comment to your mother last night on the phone was clearly in vain. You press your lips together against any inadvertent reaction. Your head swivels toward him, eyes full of lighthearted reproach. “Look, just let me do the dishes to give myself the illusion that I’m not just a freeloader here. Besides, I’m already ready to go.” "Fine,” he caves disapprovingly. “I’ll get myself sorted and be out in a minute.” “Take your time.” While Harry is preoccupied, you finish slotting the clean plates from breakfast carefully into the drying rack and pull out your phone to message India. Hey, I have a lot to update you on but it’ll be much easier to explain in person. I still have your car and I need it for one thing this morning but I promise I’ll fill the tank ASAP. It’s about the guy that’s been following me. Just know that I’m safe and everything’s okay. I’ll call you when I can. Love you. Send. That’ll have to do for now. Harry returns in jeans and a sweater. It’s still strange to see him so dressed down. “Ready?” he asks. “Yeah. You mind if I wear this to the police station?” you ask, pinching the fabric of his cardigan. You feel the urge to explain yourself—the hole in your sweater, the grime—but Harry’s already shaking his head. “Not at all. Do you maybe want something a little less… loud? I don’t even wear that one out, myself, really.”  You consider the bright cacophony of color like it’s brand new to your eyes. Loud is right. “Yeah, that’s not a terrible idea.”  Harry’s lips twitch. “C’mon then. You’re welcome to pick anything you’d like.” Pick? You nod because you’re worried the surprise is painted on your face. “Okay.” Harry leads you to his bedroom again, and over to the large wooden wardrobe.  He pulls the double doors open and you cannot help yourself from gawking a little. You’re taken by all the exquisite patterns and intricate textures of the suits, but it’s oddly wistful to run your fingertips along all of them hung in a row. You smile privately, a bit removed. “What?” Harry laughs from behind you. “Nothing!” you reply, glancing over your shoulder before saying more softly, “I just recognize some of these.” “Oh, thought you were sizing them up. My mates all take the piss… They say my suits are eccentric.” He rolls his eyes, reciting the insult like he’s quoting their words verbatim. You turn back around to his closet. “I think they look nice—I think you look nice in them.” You take a step back and crane your neck to the shelf of folded sweaters above the hanging rod. The extensive array of muted wool and cotton is a bit overwhelming. You spot the planet sweater he’d worn the first time you saw Sylvia, the oversized yellow one that reminded you of Charlie Brown, the black one with half a red heart and the letters, NY in bold white text… It takes a minute of jogging your memory before you can recall him wearing something more plain. Harry doesn’t own a lot of plain. You still can’t quite reach the shelf up on your tiptoes, but Harry is at your side immediately. “The brown?” He tugs it from the stacks and passes it down. “Yeah, thanks.” You examine the camel colored fabric with tiny flecks of black thread, and run your hand along the smooth purl. “This should do.” You tug the sweater over your head; it’s boxy, your arms aren’t long enough to fit, and it isn’t doing any favors for your shoulders. You have to roll the sleeves up past your wrists before the outfit can half pass as something you purposely wore out of the house. You spin around to face him. “Does it look normal?” Harry’s jaw flexes as he gives you the up-down. You fiddle with one of the sleeves. “Yeah,” Harry says stiffly. “Looks normal.” It’s bizarre walking through the level six hallway; it’s identical to your own, but the last time you’d been here, everything down to the carpet and light fixtures had been tainted by your deafening fear. What’s more is that riding down in the lift with Harry feels entirely different now. You see it all from his perspective, and try to visualize what you look like to him most mornings, standing in the corner with your school bag and a book tucked beneath your arm. The lift picks up a few people on its way down, but by the time it reaches the garage, you and Harry are alone. You catch his eyes in the reflection of the doors a second before they open. He clears his throat. “I know it’s probably… we’ll be fine, but stay close, yeah?” You look up at him and nod. It’s easy to keep to your word. Harry guides you to walk in front of him the entire way as your eyes scan the shadows in between the rows of cars. You’re sure you will never be able to see this garage quite the same way. “It’s the old Volkswagen.” “I see it.” You’re so out of it that you almost try to get in on the passenger side. It’s the kind of slip up that Harry might have teased you about, but he’s quiet and looking around, too. You pull the jacket you’d left on the seat last night into your lap, the two of you strap in, and you cannot pull out into the street fast enough. The mustard yellow envelope in the back seat is an unwelcome passenger, visible in your rearview mirror.  Who else knew about these photos? How many are there that weren’t in your envelope? Are they online somewhere? Would they follow you to law school? Your grip tightens on the steering wheel as you grind your teeth. “Alright?” Harry asks. His voice brings you back down to earth. He’d asked you that question when you pricked your finger on the poppy in your jacket pocket. He’d asked you in his bed on the most terrifying night of your life. And he’s asking you now. You nod. “I will be.” • saturday, 5th january 10:42 am • In the parking lot behind Lavender Hill Police Station, you’ve killed the engine but remain in your seat. Part of you is still reluctant to have Harry come along; keeping your composure in front of the police feels hard enough without the prospect of him being there, too, but maybe that’s the one thing that will get you through this. “Sorry.” You shake your head, suddenly aware of how long you’ve been sitting motionless at the wheel. Harry’s gaze is unperturbed. He watches you push anxiously at the sleeves of his sweater. “Take all the time you need.” It’s the same phrase the initial officer who’d taken your statement all those weeks ago had used. It’s what Officer Warren had said to you on the phone last night, and you’re so tired of hearing it. You don’t want to have as much time as you need to feel calm or steady or normal again. You want your time back. You want to reclaim all those extra seconds spent checking over your shoulder, the minutes lost to changing your routes, and the hours spent staring up at the ceiling when you should have been asleep. Rationally, you know that there will be time to relearn how to walk down the street and feel at ease, and plan that trip to Brighton you and India have been talking about for months. There will be time with Harry that isn’t this… stuck in a cramped space, crushed by the weight of your own fear. You hate the way you felt with him in the lift this morning; you want that back most of all. “Faster we get in there,” you say—half to Harry, half to yourself, “the faster we’ll get to leave.” Harry nods. “C’mon then.” The heather grey of the building is no less intimidating than it was in October, but at least this time you don’t have to pull the heavy glass doors open on your own. Inside, you speak with the woman at reception, who gestures for you to sit in a small waiting area just beyond the desk. People in uniform bustle back and forth. Harry’s leg brushes against yours as you sit. He doesn’t move. Neither do you. You have no sense of how long you sit waiting—this doesn’t feel like a place where it’s appropriate to play Solitaire on your phone. You can feel Harry looking at you periodically, but you don’t glance back until a woman with a familiar voice appears before you. She ushers you to follow with a quick, professional smile. Harry doesn’t quite offer the same, but you’re reassured anyway. “I’m Officer Warren.” She stops at a desk with an empty chair beside it. You take care to shake her hand firmly, introducing yourself with all the confidence you can scrap together. “Are you comfortable sitting here?” “Yes, this is fine.” If either Harry or Officer Warren notice your voice is an octave higher, neither of them make any sign. “Good.” She reaches past you to shake Harry’s hand too. “Harry.” “Nice to meet you both. We can also find a conference room, if you’d like somewhere more private, or if you’d both like to sit.” Harry speaks up when you don’t right away. “I’m fine standing.” He looks exactly as he had in the car—calm and willing to take your lead, so you sit before you can change your mind. Officer Warren smiles again, clearly trying to put you at ease. You wish it was more effective. “Right, well I won’t take up too much of your time. Since I took your statement last night, I’ve already got a copy of the transcript from our conversation over the phone, and you won’t need to go over all of that again.” Your shoulders cave a little in relief. Harry’s fingers hook gently over the top of your chair. “Okay.” “But,” she continues, “there is the matter of how to proceed. What we talked about regarding your flat still stands… it really isn’t safe for you to remain there, especially since the suspect seems to know which one is yours, and we still don’t have a clear idea of where he is now, or how he was able to access the car park in your building in the first place.” “So…” You shake your head, in either confusion or denial. “I can’t even go home?” “I’m afraid not, for the time being.” Her eyes are soft, regretful. “Not if he knows where you live. Not if there’s a chance he could get more photographs, or try to break in again.” Your stomach twists. “Were you able to figure out who he is?” You’re not even sure you want to know. Officer Warren’s mouth pinches apologetically. “Not yet. We have a couple technicians working on the security footage and the photos you’ve turned in, so hopefully we’ll be able to get something from them. The car he was driving had no plates. You haven’t seen any sign of him since we spoke last?” You shake your head, and she glances up at Harry as if to confirm. “Alright, that’s a good sign at least. He knows we’re watching, now. On the other hand, there’s a chance he’ll carry on, but be stealthier about it. Is it possible for you to physically stay inside, completely out of sight for let’s say, a week?” “I mean… where?” “Do you have somewhere else you can stay for the time being? With a friend?” You open your mouth, but the “Yes,” is not your own. You force yourself not to turn back to look at him; Harry’s fingers touch your shoulder again. “Yes, she does. She can stay with me. We live in the same building after all, so it’ll hardly be disruptive.” Officer Warren gives him a long look. You can’t tell if she approves or is displeased with him for speaking for you, but now that the initial shock has worn off, gratitude washes over you. Asking India to stay with her indefinitely would have been out of the question; there’s no way you’re endangering your best friend any more than you already have. You’d be putting her in a position where she couldn’t say no. She has four roommates. She doesn’t even know about the photos yet.  “That works,” you hear yourself say. This will only be for a few days, you reason—it’ll buy you just enough time to find your feet. By then, you can sort out a longer-term place to stay if the police still haven’t found the man. Officer Warren is speaking again, and it takes effort to actively refocus on the conversation. “The objective here is to make it seem as though you’re gone. On holiday. He’ll be keeping an eye on the building, no doubt, so he’ll notice if the car is gone, or your flat is empty. Is there any way you can take your classes remotely?” You find you can barely speak, so you just nod instead.  She leans in a little, her eyes finding yours more carefully. “I know it’s frightening, but you’ve been incredibly strong. This won’t be forever. In the meantime, we can send an officer back with you this afternoon so you can gather a few of your things.” You nod again. “Do you have any questions for me?” You force yourself to say, “No, thank you,” which Harry echoes. Officer Warren nods, almost perfunctorily, and stands. “If you wait here just a minute, I’ll introduce you to the officer who’ll take you back to your flat. You’ll be in an unmarked car, and we can arrange for yours to be retrieved.” “Thank you. I’ll call my friend now,” you say. “Maybe she can… I'll have to ask her to look after my cat. And it’s her car, anyway.” Officer Warren nods, apparently satisfied.  You shake her hand again, though your mind is stuck on this won’t be forever. As you rise from the chair, you feel the gentle pressure of Harry’s hand on the small of your back. When Officer Warren returns with another uniformed policeman, you don’t want to move, but your legs carry you anyway. Harry’s gaze finds the side of your face periodically like a lighthouse beam while you call India from the backseat of the police car. After reassuring her again that you’re fine, you gloss over the details of staying in Harry’s flat. You can tell even in her silence that she’s not going to let you off the hook that easily, so you start rambling about what to do with Chowder before she gets the chance to say something embarrassing while Harry is sitting right there. “Of course I’m taking Chowder,” she says before you get the chance to phrase the question. “Don’t even worry about it. I’ll get in a cab right now. Do you need help packing up?” “Yeah sure, thank you. But what about your car?” “I’ll take the keys from you and get it after. Honestly, it’s fine. It’s not like it’s gonna get stolen from the bloody police station.” It’s a stupid joke but you’re comforted a little anyway. “Okay.” “Be there soon. I love you.” “Love you too.” Harry glances over at you. “Everything okay?” “Yeah.” You smile a little and for the first time in ages, it doesn’t feel forced. “She’s gonna meet us at home and take Chowder for me.” “That’s great.” “I know,” you reply, a little distant. “Harry, thank you for coming with me… It was nice not to have to, y’know, do that alone.” “That’s alright.” His voice is equally gentle. “We’re gonna… They’re gonna find him. And they’re gonna fix this, and then everything’s gonna go back to normal.” You aren’t sure which of you he’s trying to reassure, but Harry meets your eyes and you nod. Back at your building, you meet up with India. “Think I might just pop home, if that’s alright,” Harry says, going in for the sixth-floor button on the keypad. “I told Annie a bit about what’s going on, but I owe her an update.” “Of course.” You look up at him in the reflection of the doors. “We’ll see you down there.” It’s your first time seeing the dent and scratches on the door to your flat in person. You shiver, turn the key, and push the door open.  “Chowder!” you shout as a flash of orange darts through your legs, meowing down the hall. The officer’s hand lands reflexively on his baton as your cat scares all three of you half to death. Once you manage to corral your cat back to your corner of the hallway, you struggle to keep him still in your arms. “Indy, his crate is under my bed—” “Hold off a minute, I’m going to do a quick walkthrough. I’m sure everything’s fine, but wait out here.” The officer leaves the door cracked open behind him. India offers a small, encouraging smile when you flinch at the sound of him announcing himself in your apartment. You stroke between Chowder’s ears; he is heavy and warm in your arms, and his fur sticks uncomfortably to the sweat on your palms. “All clear.” The officer reappears. “Let’s try to be quick about this.” India immediately ducks through the door following him, but you have to take a deep breath before stepping through the threshold. The place looks completely untouched. Had you been expecting company, perhaps you would have thought to clear the dishes from the sink or remove your laundry from the drying rack. After coercing an unusually talkative Chowder into his travel crate, you and India work as a team to stuff as much into your duffel bag as will fit. Shirts, bras, and pants hurtle past your head. “Indy, I’m staying at a neighbor’s for a few days—what on earth am I going to need this for?” You hold up the silk, strappy dress that just landed on your neatly-folded stacks, shooting her a disapproving look. “I’m just grabbing and throwing!” “Well just, y’know… let’s make sure we’re not speeding through this at the expense of packing with a little common sense.” “I’ve got this,” India says, waving down at the open duffel. “Go sort whatever toiletries you need, yeah?” Thankfully you’ve stayed overnight at her place enough times to warrant a travel case of essentials that lives under your bathroom sink. There’s makeup cluttered all over the counter. You stare at it a moment before rolling your eyes at yourself. “We should probably get going.” The officer’s voice from the other room startles you both as India zips up your duffel. “Are you two about ready?”  As you stick your head out of your bedroom, the officer is peeking through the blinds across the street. “Yes,” you reply. “We are.” Overnight bag and Chowder in tow, you clamber back onto the lift. “Did you get your toothbrush?” “Yes.” “Face wash?” “Yes.” “Pillow?” “Indy, you saw me putting it in—” “Towel?” “Yes.” “Phone charger?” “… Shit.” Ding. The officer steps out with you on the sixth floor as you thank him, and bid a quick goodbye once he reassures you to call if you need anything or, of course, if anything happens. India turns to face you next. “He’s this way.” You nod down the hall, and she leads. “It’s right at the end. The one with the wreath.” The doors of the lift close. You don’t want to think about the last time you’d been walking down this corridor and heard that sound from behind you. India moves aside holding Chowder’s crate by the handle, and the shopping bag full of his supplies as you step up to the welcome mat with your things. Harry swings open the door to his apartment after the second knock, immediately taking the duffel bag from off of your shoulder. “Oh, Harry, you don’t have to—” “I got it.” India elbows you in the ribs. Harry turns to carry your bag to Sylvia's room, and when you look behind at her, her eyebrows are raised above an animated smirk. “Don’t,” you whisper through gritted teeth. She raises a hand in defense as Harry returns before reaching out to accept his offered hand. “Hello, I’m India.” “Harry.”  “Pleasure.” He flashes her a warm smile. She nods appreciatively as they shake hands—at you, however, instead of Harry and your cheeks ignite. “Okay great. That’s settled then. Shall we—um… Indy?” You cut in, then turn to her, nodding to the door with I’m going to kill you in your eyes. “Lovely to meet you, Harry!” “Cheers, dear. You as well.” Harry’s attention returns to you for a moment. “I’ll just be…” He gestures vaguely to the kitchen. You step out into the hall with India. Chowder meows from the crate in her arms and she almost drops him. “What,” you hiss, “was that?”  She ignores your tone, then says your name like it’s a plea. “Call me if you need absolutely anything, or text me—no matter what time it is. I’ll drop everything and come straight to you.” “I’m sleeping two floors below where I usually do, Indy, I’m not dying.” “I know, I know… How’s a Skype dinner tomorrow night? I’ll order us a take away.” “Definitely.” You wish you could squeeze her in another tight hug, but Chowder’s crate impedes you. “Thank you.” “Love you, babe.” “Love you too.” She looks unsatisfied. “It’s going to be fine, I promise. Text me when we’re eating, okay?” You begin to walk backward into Harry’s apartment and blow her a kiss. “I will… Bye!” “Please don’t kill my cat!” You lean on the door frame, watching India’s silhouette shrink as she heads back down the hall to the lift with Chowder. You sigh and close the door, but as you turn around, your hand rushes to your chest in a gasp; Harry is standing just behind you, rubbing his face. “So I’ve just rung Annie while you were upstairs… ” He steps aside to give you a clear path through the hallway. “Oh?” “I’m sorry—they’re just coming,” he rushes, sounding a little panicked as you step into Sylvia's room. You set your phone and laptop down with the rest of your things. “They insisted ‘cause they’ve got a spare mattress, and I told them you needed a place to crash for a bit and also that you stayed here last night so… yeah. You don’t have to be here for that. When they come—oh, and they probably have Sylvia, too, if that’s… ” Harry trails off.” “Wait, I’m sorry.” You close your eyes and shake your head. “Annie? You mean—” “Sylvia’s mum, yeah, and um… her fiancé, AJ.” Harry tilts his head down, as if to gauge your reaction. “And they want to give… they have a spare mattress? But you already have a mattress.” “That’s what I said!” Harry gestures wildly. It must have been a lively phone call. “Oh, well that’s… awfully kind of them,” you begin, trying to keep up. “Would it be easier if I wasn’t—” “No.” He’s clearly surprised at his own volume as he cuts you off. Harry literally leans back, hesitating. “I mean… stay. They’d love to meet you. They’re my family and you’re…” His eyes flit back to yours and hang on. “You’re obviously gonna to be staying here a bit, and they drop by all the time so I jus’ don’t wanna overwhelm you, is all.” Suddenly, it’s your turn struggling to look at him. “Well, I—” “H, open the door! This is heavy!” a voice bellows from beyond the front door. Harry’s eyes shut momentarily. “Coming!” he calls. You stand there, in the doorway to Sylvia’s room, stunned at the pace with which this is all unfolding. Harry jogs to the door. You poke your head out as an explosion of noise disrupts what had before been so peaceful. A child’s high-pitched shriek rips through the flat, followed by a long, labored groan from Harry as Sylvia barrels into his arms and he crouches down to lift her. “How’s Daddy’s girl?” he greets. Sylvia simply continues screaming and tries to bend over backward out of his arms. “Hi, Harry.” A striking woman with jet-black hair waltzes in, carrying a large dish of food wrapped in tin foil, seemingly unphased. Harry shifts Sylvia to one arm, bending over to greet her in a side hug and quick kiss to the cheek. “Hi, love.” What appears to be a twin sized mattress with twig legs follows in suit, grunting softly. “Still heavy.” “Right, sorry.” Harry hands Sylvia off to who you assume is Annie as he hurries to take the mattress, revealing a second, much taller woman with sunglasses atop her blonde head of hair. She’s wearing red lipstick and bright suede pumps. “There we go,” she sighs. “I need a fag.” Harry almost takes out a light fixture as he hauls the bed. You press yourself up against the wall as he offers a quick, “S’cuse me,” and passes you to Sylvia's room. The two women look at you as simultaneous smiles light their faces. “Hi!” “Hello!” Sylvia waves at you, too. “Guess this one doesn’t need an introduction,” the dark-haired woman laughs, approaching with a hand extended. You notice that she’s the one wearing the ring. “I’m Annie.” “It’s great to meet you, Harry has spoken so highly of both of you.” You turn to the other woman after introducing yourself. “AJ.” One corner of her mouth quirks up. “It’s a pleasure.” “Thank you so much for the mattress, ” you begin, wringing your hands. “It seems like everyone’s done so much to help me in the past few days… It’s really meant a lot.” AJ tilts her head to look at you with a more meaningful gaze, and Annie steps forward to rest a hand on your forearm. “Harry hasn’t gone into a terrible amount of detail but… we’re so, awfully sorry for what’s happened to you.” She squeezes gently, her fingers in the crook of your elbow. The strange familiarity of the gesture disarms you. “I can’t imagine what you must be going through, and with your family so far away—I just… we heard about what was going on, and that was it. We had to help.” You nod and suddenly have trouble swallowing. There’s just something different about discussing this with women. “Harry’s air mattress,” AJ chips in, sardonic, “belongs in an incinerator.” “Hey!” His voice comes muted from the open door of Sylvia’s bedroom. Now that you’ve seen the both of them together up close, you realize how wrong you were in thinking that Sylvia only took after her father. Annie’s features are evident in her daughter’s deep, brown eyes, her nose, and the high angles of her cheeks.  “Well,” Annie starts, raising her eyebrows at everyone, “we’re obviously feeding you.” You laugh in disbelief. “No you’re not!” “We are!” She smiles as she sets Sylvia down, who weaves through everyone’s legs to her bedroom. “And relax, it’s already cooked so there’s no use in turning it down.” AJ pulls you in for a side hug, which you were grossly unprepared for. “Thank… you.” In your bewilderment, it’s all you can manage to say as Annie removes the tin foil from a full pan’s helping of chicken and vegetables. “Isn’t this supposed to be tomorrow’s roast? The Sunday roast?” Harry appears in the kitchen with Sylvia on his hip. He frowns, poking his head over Annie’s shoulder as she preheats the oven. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she replies. They lock eyes. Something tender passes between them; part of you feels like you should look away. “Annie… ” Harry says, softer now. “You didn’t have to do all this.” She ignores him, setting the timer on the oven as AJ slides a small mountain of tupperware into the fridge. The kettle starts to scream. You hadn’t realized someone started tea. You’re not sure what to do besides stand by the sink and stare. AJ rushes over to fill four steaming mugs, portioning different amounts of cream and honey into each. She turns to the few stray dishes in the sink, beginning to wash. “AJ, stop tha—” “Harry, relax would you?” She whips his leg with a dish towel and he relents. “Why is she staying in my room?” Sylvia pipes up from Harry’s arms. He looks across the kitchen at you, and then down to her. “Well see, bug, Daddy’s got a friend who’s gonna stay here for a little while.” Harry points at you and twists so she has a better view. You wave your fingers at her, and Harry asks Sylvia if she can say your name, but she simply buries her face into his sweater. “Like a slumber party?” “Um—” Harry falters. “Sort of, but not quite.” “It’s a grown-up slumber party?” AJ chokes on her tea. The tips of Harry’s ears go crimson.  “Honey, it’s like when Auntie Kristen comes over to Mummy and Mum’s to stay on holiday,” Annie salvages. Harry’s shoulders visibly relax.  Sylvia tugs at the collar of Harry’s sweater. “How long?” she begs. Your heart falls. “‘M not sure, Vi.” Harry moves some hair from her face as she pouts, then kisses her forehead. “Not forever.” “This’ll be good for you, Harry. You need more friends.” Annie pinches Harry’s side before turning to you with a smirk. “Maybe you can finally start hanging out with people your own age.” You shrug to play along, pursing your lips against a smile. “I mean… ” “Harry doesn’t go out much.” Annie’s comedic whisper fills the room as she carries your tea over to you. “Neither do you!” Harry retorts, frowning playfully over his shoulder, attempting to smack her; she narrowly dodges. “Yeah, just the one time,” AJ deadpans, pointing between them and then nodding to Sylvia. “Jesus Christ,” Harry breathes before they break into laughter. You can’t help but join in. Sylvia’s head swings from parent to parent, smiling in oblivious delight. “Alright, alright,” Annie wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. “Just leave the roast in there until you’re ready to eat. We should get going soon.” “Have you got sheets that fit the bed?” Harry asks, bouncing Sylvia on his hip. “Right!” Annie’s eyes go wide. She turns to AJ, “Darling, you mind popping down to the car to get those?” “Since I already hauled up the mattress, am I allowed to play the gender card?” AJ throws eyes at Harry. “Hands are full,” he replies cheerfully. He holds one of Sylvia’s arms up to wave. “Fine,” she relents, plucking the keys from Annie’s back pocket. “Thank you!” Annie calls after her. AJ simply waves a hand behind her head. “Promise I’ll make it worth your while later!” AJ begins to walk faster. Harry shoots Annie a jokingly scandalized look with a hand covering his gaping mouth. She squints at him and rolls her eyes. He puts Sylvia down, whispering in her ear as he points to the miniature arts and crafts table in the living room.  Sylvia takes a seat on the colorful stool, her tiny features already pinched in concentration as she finds a crayon and begins to draw. Harry crouches at her side, watching her for a moment before kissing the top of her head. He breezes past you before you hear the bathroom door lock shut and now it’s just you and Annie alone together. “I love Harry, but he’s a man and he doesn’t know anything.” You shouldn’t laugh, but you do. “We live ten minutes away. If you need anything at all—anything, I mean it, please call us. Mine and AJ’s mobile numbers are both on the fridge.” “Thank you, Annie.” She hesitates, playing absently with the tag of her tea bag before nodding to the living room. “Let’s sit.” You have a seat on the couch; Annie takes the small leather armchair on the other side of the coffee table. Her eyes are warm. You see a flash of that expression that had passed between her and Harry. “He is a good man.” Annie’s voice is so low, it’s almost a whisper. “One of the best I’ve ever met… You’re in good hands, I promise.” There isn’t a chance for you to respond as the sound of the faucet running in the bathroom interrupts. Harry re-enters the living room, his eyes flitting between yours and Annie’s with a curious look on his face. “Am I interrupting something?” “Course not, lovely. We’re just waiting for AJ with the sheets,” Annie replies. She must be killer at poker. AJ slips through the door with a folded bundle of checkered sheets nearly covering her face. “Miss me?” She perches on the armrest of Annie’s chair upon returning from Syvia’s room, an arm wrapped around her shoulders. You are acutely aware of the warmth of Harry’s leg against yours, suddenly too nervous to shift and potentially draw attention to it. Though you try hard not to, you can practically see the silent conversation happening between the three other adults in the room; if you had to guess, it’s probably about you. You categorically refuse to look at Harry, so you’re left with AJ’s nearly imperceptible eyebrow-raising, and a curl of Annie’s lip that seems to be a question and a confirmation all at once. The three of them are a little… too quiet. “Well we should be off then,” she says, drawing her hands together in a clap. “Someone needs a bath tonight.”  Sylvia hurries over and locks her arms around Harry’s legs. He scoops her up like she weighs absolutely nothing. “C’mon now, angel,” he murmurs, glancing over his daughter’s head to look at you with a vaguely resigned expression. “Gonna see you tomorrow, aren’t I? Gotta be good for your mums.” Harry fixes Sylvia’s wobbling lower lip with a stern look. “Hey, now. What’s this about? S’not any different from Mummy’s normal turn with you, right? You know you’ve got too much love pumpkin, we gotta share ya.” Sylvia mumbles something too soft to make out; Harry ducks his head close. “Tell me?” You don’t catch all the words, except, “stars.” His face crumples a bit. “Oh honey, of course you’ll still have your bedtime stars. They’re not going anywhere. Nobody’s gonna take your stars.” “And that sounds like the beginning of a meltdown,” Annie says, standing quickly and pulling Sylvia from Harry’s arms. “Best be on our way before she tests all our eardrums.” Sylvia momentarily seems like she might reach back for him, but then she looks at you as though by accident, and shrinks back into her mother’s arms. Shame knots in your stomach as the two women head for the door. Sylvia peeks over Annie’s shoulder as AJ slings her purse over her arm with the car keys in hand. You busy yourself clearing the empty mugs of tea in some small attempt to give them privacy. “Come ‘round about six, yeah?” Annie says as AJ waves at you and disappears first out the door. Harry is sliding Sylvia’s arm through the second sleeve of her coat. His and Annie’s teamwork seems fluid and practiced. “Sounds good.” He tugs her tiny knit hat more securely over her curls. “Love you, bug.” “Hôn ba đi, Vi.”  You have no idea what Annie’s just said to Sylvia but Harry leans forward to receive his daughter’s kiss, placing an audible one on her forehead in return.  He says something else to Sylvia that’s not English. That deeply tender look in Annie’s face returns. Harry’s hand falls to her waist and she touches his jaw to place a quick peck at the corner of his mouth. “Call us if you need anything.” She turns back to you. “You too. Our numbers are—” “On the fridge,” you finish with a smile, waving. “Thank you, Annie.” Harry shuts the door behind them and the flat falls silent for the first time in what feels like ages. You hear him laugh once before he turns to you. “Sorry about that.” “No. Harry, I should be the one apologizing. Sylvia’s so upset, I feel awful.” Harry looks from you to the door and back again, shaking his head as he moves towards the kitchen. “Oh no, don’t worry about that. She was mostly tired, is all. Happens all the time.” He pauses before joking, “Sorry you had to hear my really terrible Vietnamese.” You watch as he begins to rifle through the cabinets. “What are you doing?” “I’m sure I left it in here somewhere—aha!” He holds an empty mason jar aloft before grabbing a sharpie and the magnetic pad of Hello Kitty sticky notes from the fridge door. Harry scrawls quickly, the cap of the pen between his teeth, before sticking a note on the glass and holding it up for you to read the big, block letters. APOLOGIES.

June Prompt #1- Belvedere

A POINT OF NO RETURN FLASHBACK

A/N: Oh would you look at that? I’m finally getting around to posting these! This fits into the PoNR timeline somewhere in the second year that Ezra and Clara had together before he left that final time for The Green Moon. It includes my HC for what the Ephrate looks like (loosely inspired by the image of Pismis 24 below!), and I fully enjoyed getting the chance to finally flesh that out. 

Request: “falling asleep in the sun” and “fireflies” from @paracosmenthusiast​ 

WC: 2.7k 

Warning: Ezra is in LOVE. 

That feels amazing. 

Clara took a deep breath in through her nose. Eyes closed as they had been for at least the last hour, she lay on the double wide lounge chair, a sluggish, sunbaked smile curving her lips. Even with the thick, heavily filtered glass shield that enclosed the entire observation deck, the glow from the Ephrate’s brightest star blanketed her skin in a way that felt entirely different from the heat of the Harvest Star on Kamrea.  

Letting out a hum, she rolled onto her left side and shifted closer to Ezra, right arm falling over his torso as she settled into him. His shirt was soft, worn and washed countless times over, and a part of his life for far longer than she had been. The black fabric was faded, but still dark enough to absorb and retain some of the star’s warmth, and it made her smile spread as she pressed her cheek against his chest. She felt the rise and fall of his breathing, and then the arm that had been bent and tucked beneath his head was curling around to corral her more tightly to him.  

Not as good as this though.  

Ezra dipped his chin and turned to drag his lips over her forehead, right hand trailing slowly up her ribs and down her side. “You gettin’ tired, Huckleberry?” 

From the tone of his voice she could tell that he was wearing a smile similar to the one still stuck on her own face, content and unhurried. Clara shook her head slowly, her muffled no cut short by a yawn. She felt a quick burst of air on her shut eyelids as Ezra chuckled, the sound surrounding her and keeping her just as warm as the glow from the celestial bodies they were lying under.   

He kissed her near her hairline again and then both of his hands were settled at her waist. “Now I don’t mean to label you a liar, my Clara-” His. Every time he referred to her as his she felt her breath catch, felt her heart skip and jump before fluttering back into rhythm. I am yours, Ezra. “But right now, I’m not convinced that you are being entirely truthful with me.”

Clara laughed and tilted her face up, finally prying her eyes open to look at him. Staring down at her through his lashes, he brought a hand up to trace his fingers along her brow, snatching a few stray hairs between them and swiping them out of the way. “Hmm, you caught me.” She tried to stave off another yawn by forcing her lips to stay closed, but it broke through regardless, her right hand flying to her mouth to cover it in a force of habit. 

Ezra caught her fingers in one of his large hands and pulled them away to expose the yawn and the smile that was still trying to form around it. Through narrowed eyes, the apples of her cheeks going even more round and rising to make her squint, she watched him lift her captured hand. Using just his index finger, he bent all of hers so that he could press his lips to her knuckles. “We could turn in for the night, if you want.” He released his grip and returned his hand to her waist, but she kept hers where it was, unfolding her fingers to rake them through his beard, the coarse, patchy hair there just as warm as his skin and his shirt. She felt his jaw clench, the muscles pushing against her palm as he swallowed. 

“Mmm, not yet.” Clara slid a little higher up on the lounge so that she could rub the tip of her nose along the misaligned ridge of his before kissing the silvery white scar on the left side of his face. She heard the low, gravelly groan in the back of his throat, his hands pressing flat against her as she pulled back to look him in the eye. “Wanna stay out here a little longer with you.” Sighing, she fit herself against him again, this time high enough so she could rest her ear on his shoulder. “All this light, these stars, this v-” He squeezed her, both arms tightening with gentle pressure as he waited for another yawn to pass. “This view.” She lifted one hand upwards to gesture lazily at the open expanse of space that surrounded them, bringing her eyes up to the dusty purple nebulous clouds swirling and stacking on top of one another, the brilliant orbs of light burning through and around them. “It's… Ezra, it’s…”

I never knew anything like this was even possible. 

“It’s a sight to behold, a real marvel of the universe.” He looked back down at her. “But it would mean nothing to me if I saw it alone, Huckleberry.” 

Clara blinked her heavy eyelids, trying to keep them open and focused on Ezra’s. There was still a hint of a smile lingering in them, lightening their color to sepia. She could always tell what was going on behind them by the shade and the shine. When he was angry or upset they would sharpen fiercely, going almost coal-black like a starless night. Worry and fear caused a watercolor effect, the dark leaching from them as his pupils dilated. Now though, his eyes were shimmering, the innumerable reflections of the twinkling dots on the other side of the glass highlighting each individual thread of color woven in the tapestry of his irises- umber, gold, ochre. They were bright with happiness in spite of how tired she knew that he was, their light only adding to the warmth spreading through her being. 

Kevva, I love this man so much. 

It wasn’t just the incredible view from the observation deck built on top of the Bowsum Conservatory’s lodge that she had previously thought impossible. The way that Clara felt about Ezra blew her mind to pieces whenever she tried to fully understand it. It was strongest when they were together, like they were now, the thing swelling in her chest. But it was still there when they were apart, when he was away for weeks at a time, cycling through his days on a distant moon in a separate system, it was still there, taking up the same amount of space in her heart as it was when he left. And upon his return? The second she was in his arms again she could feel it expanding, pushing beyond its former bounds to reach for any space not already full of the sure, confident, certainty that he brought out in her. 

A low hum vibrated in the back of her throat as she raised her hand up to the shock of platinum blonde at his hairline, brushing through it lightly before her languid fingers slipped down to the helix of his ear. “Not alone, Ezra…” She yawned and didn’t even attempt to stop it as she nestled back down against his shoulder, fingertips still moving over the skin behind his earlobe, wandering into the hair at the nape of his neck. “Never alone…” her voice trailed almost completely off as a thick swath of sleep swept over her, but not before she finished, “never gonna be alone again.” 

--  --  --  --  --  --    

No, we will not.

She was only conscious for a few seconds longer, but Ezra used that time well.  “My Clara, I will be yours until every last one of these stars goes dark.” 

His words hit her ear just as she sunk beneath the warmth of the starlight. He knew the moment that she gave over to the exhaustion she’d been fighting since they left Kamrea, her limbs going slack and her weight settling against his body, grounding him in a way that nothing, no being or entity had ever been able to before. He rested his temple atop her head and spoke   “Until they all go dark, Huckleberry, and then for all eternity after that.”   

He peered out at the supernova sea and the expanse of wild space beyond it, his touch traversing over her hip and up to the hemline of her shirt, fingertips seeking her skin. Though he had traveled to the Ephrate before, it was only in passing. He hadn’t made a point to stop at the Conservatory on Bowsum, the last in a chain of small planetary islands before the Fringe. He had heard what he thought were tall tales about the majesty of the view from fellow floaters as he made his way through the galaxy, but he never thought that they’d be true. 

People have overactive imaginations and exceptionally low standards. I’m sure it would be a let down. 

Those were the excuses he fed himself for not bothering to spend a few hours basking in the sublime, raw beauty he was sharing with Clara now the last time he had been there. Shutting his eyes on the view before him, he focused on the way he could feel the Ephrate’s sun coming off of her. It was like she was the source of heat and light and energy, like the star was soaking in her glory. 

For once I am happy to be found a fool. 

There were plenty of less than intelligent choices in Ezra’s rear view, and most of them had cost him in some way. This one instance however, had paid him a dividend when it allowed his first time appreciating the wonder of this view to be Clara’s first time as well. She had mentioned once or twice that she had always dreamed of making the trip to Bowsum, but that the only vacation or adventure she had ever taken was simply to the Lakelands on the opposite side of Kamrea. So when his last rotation up on The Green had been a fortunate one, garnering him additional time off and a substantial bonus, he knew immediately what to do with it. When the freighter dropped him off on Central for the short transfer back home, he used one of the comm stalls in the shuttle station to call her. 

“Pack a bag, Huckleberry, because as soon I get home I am whisking you away.”   

It was breathtaking, from the moment that the elevator doors parted and a sliver of lavender white light pushed through, but he was unprepared for how her reaction to the sight would stir things in him that the stars never could. He recalled her gasp and the way that his name slipped through the fingers of the hand that wasn’t laced with his as she brought it up to cover her mouth, eyes blinking themselves wider than he’d ever seen them, the stars and the sun glowing in their tawny-golden depths. She mouthed something inaudible as her hand fell away from her face, and Ezra had to tug her out of the open elevator doors before they slid closed again, her feet seemingly stuck in place. By the time he had guided her to the lounge chair that they still occupied, tears streamed silently down her face, and when she turned to him all she could say was his name. 

Ezra sighed as he opened his eyes again to see the way that she fit so perfectly against him and the way that the glimmering lights above them and all around them seemed to exist only to illuminate that fact. It was in that moment that he decided that he wanted to give her everything that he possibly could; everything she needed and dreamed of, all of himself, an entire life filled with moments like this scattered throughout their story. If he could give her moments like this, if he could continue to see that look on her face, he would know what it meant to live a full life, to die a happy man. 

Not for a long, long time though Huckleberry. 

He kissed the concern away from her mind where he knew it would start swirling had he spoken that realization aloud, promising her that he would scratch and claw for every second with her that Kevva deemed to grant him with. As though the mythic deity were there herself, listening to his whispered vows and waiting for him to finish before allowing any interference from the outside world, an attendant from the observation deck made their way towards Ezra and Clara. There was no impropriety to the way that they were tangled, so he knew that they weren’t about to be scolded for a public display, but he’d neglected to notice that all of the other lounge chairs were vacant; that the two of them were the only ones present on the top deck, and it struck him that he had no idea how long that had been the case. 

The attendant cleared her throat as she neared their spot to announce herself, and Ezra sat up as best as he could without disturbing Clara, meeting the young woman’s clear, kind eyes. “Good evening, sir, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask the two of you to head down now, the observation deck is closing for the night.” 

Ezra gave the woman a sheepish grin and a small nod. “Of course, my apologies for prolonging your shift.” He gestured up at the sky, unbelievably bright above their heads. “Easy to forget that it isn’t high-noon up here, and my Huckleberry was enjoying the starshine on her skin.” 

The woman’s smile warmed as she told him that it was alright, that she would begin shutting down the other side of the deck so that he could rouse Clara and see her out and back to their rooms on the other side of the lodge. He thanked her before she turned away, and then he leaned down to press his lips to Clara’s brow, softly speaking her name. It had the opposite effect, only causing her to slink closer to him, and he smiled, dropping another kiss before sliding his arms beneath her legs and around her back. “Alright, have it your way.” 

Rising from the lounge, he tilted her weight into his chest to keep his hold on her secure as he carried her to the elevator and down to the ground floor. When the doors opened again he laughed to himself, the enclosed atrium showing a sky much darker down here and on this side of the building. It really is closing time. He strode through the lobby watching as tiny yellow lights blinked near the dark grass outside, and before his brain could make the connection, he heard Clara mumble his name. “Hmm? What’s that?” 

“Ezra, the stars are moving.” 

Her voice was syrupy and surreal, only half awake, and it made his arms tighten around her with how endearing her sleepy confusion was. “Those are fireflies, Clara,” he told her, using his foot to open the door to the hall that lead to their room. 

“Oh…” she hummed and wound her arms around his neck, pressing her face into his shoulder, making his heart spin in dizzy circles. “And where...are we going?”

He chuckled again, nuzzling the end of his nose into her hair. “We overstayed our welcome upstairs, it’s nighttime now, Huckleberry. I’m taking you to bed.” 

She let out a sigh and then he felt her lips pressed to his throat, his pulse doubling against them. “Thank you, Ezra.” She kissed him again as he reached their door, and he knew that she was thanking him for more than just carrying her from the observation deck. Before he could respond though, she mumbled something else. “Love you…” 

He stooped down to the height of the keypad near the door to enter the code without having to put her down, and he answered her without hesitation. “I love you, my Clara. To the moon and back.” The door lock beeped and it slid open, Ezra stepping through. “Until all the stars go dark.” He carried her over to the bed and laid her down, bending forward to whisper the next words into her ear, even though he knew she was already asleep again. “And forever after that.”

.

.

.

*taken from Merriam-Webster:  Given the origins of the word, belvedere is the ideal term for a building (or part of a building) with a view; it derives from two Italian words, bel, which means "beautiful," and vedere, which means "view." The term has been used in English since the 1570s

Thank you for reading!! If you would like to be added to or removed from the tags for this or any of my stories, please feel free to let me know! :) 

tags:  @something-tofightfor​ @alraedesigns​ @pheedraws​ @shoopidly​ @fific7​ @valkblue​ @a-court-of-feysand-and-elorcan​ @cannedsoupsucks​ @tobealostwanderer​ @paracosmenthusiast​ @gracie7209​ @dihra-vesa​

The question is inevitable. I stop wiping down the ice cream equipment and look up. For the past two years, that’s all anyone’s ever asked me. Now as I sit here, I realize that by this time next year, I’ll be preparing to move. By this time next year, the question “what do you want to study?” will be answered. The thought of growing up and going to college has always been in the back of my mind, but it always seemed far off. Now as my boss asks me the same question I’ve been asked a million times, the answer doesn’t just feel real; it feels tangible.

“I want to hopefully study something in the arts,” I reply. “I’m hoping to study to then get a job as a concept artist for movies and TV shows.”

"Well, you know art can be just a hobby, right?”

***

I’m three years old. I’m sitting at the kitchen table with white printer paper spread out all over the place. Half of the sheets are filled and the other half to go. My tongue sticks out in determined concentration as I finish what feels like my fiftieth self portrait today. I’m still not happy with how the hair looks, but I’m getting better with every one I make.

“You know art can be just a hobby, right?”

***

I’m eight years old. I wait nervously outside the classroom in the aquatic and community center for my first ever real drawing class. I wait until the door opens and file in behind the rest of my peers into the classroom. I find a spot a little further away from everyone else. Once the teacher begins instructing us on how to draw the basic construction of a horse, I immerse myself into the lecture. Soon enough my anxiety melts away as I immerse myself in the drawing. By the end, I’m not quite satisfied with how my horse looks, but I look forward to the next day. There’s still three more days of camp, and I’m ready to get even better tomorrow.

“You know art can be just a hobby, right?”

***

I’m twelve years old. I’m sitting with what feels like my entire body sunken into an overly plush floral print couch. I watch as Mrs. Scalabrino, a family friend, teaches me how to make a magic loop with the yarn and crochet hook. “I’ve been doing it all wrong! Now I finally understand!” Deb hands me the yarn and hook and urges me to try myself.

This time, instead of having the hook slip through and make a tiny slip stitch, I loop the yarn though and then pull through a final time to create a stitch.

“I did it! I was doing it wrong!”

“It looks very good! Keep going and you’ll be making full projects in no time!” I smile at her compliment and keep practicing.

By the end of the afternoon, I have a long rectangle of clumsily made single and double crochet stitches, but I don’t mind. I’m proud of my lumpy, uneven, handmade rectangle.

“You know art can be just a hobby, right?”

***

I’m thirteen years old. It’s my first time at Blue Lake Fine Arts camp, and I’m taking my first pottery class. I’m carefully carrying my freshly reglazed pot to the back room of the pottery studio after fixing it for a second time. The first time it got damaged I had dropped it after molding the structure and the second time someone else bumped into me, messing up the glaze and sgraffito pattern and glazing in multiple places. I stayed after class during my recreation time and painstakingly remolded and fixed the intricate glazing pattern.

At the end of the session art show, I’m called to the front of the crowd of visiting parents and my fellow campers. I’ve just won the Outstanding camper scholarship. My cheeks flush furiously with embarrassment, but inside I’m also elated. Even though the pot wasn’t perfect. I was still proud of it. I worked hard to save and fix the pot twice broken, and for once, that work pays off. I look out and see the faces of everyone who was with me on the journey to complete the piece, and I know that that pot will always be more than a keepsake planter.

“You know art can be just a hobby, right?”

***

I’m fifteen years old. I lay in bed before my first day of high school. I should be worried about my academic classes, and I am. I can’t stop thinking about the homework for my double paced math class and honors biology, and the more advanced reading we’ll do in honors english this year.

I console myself by thinking about the art class that I’m going to take. By chance there was a scheduling conflict with my social studies credit, and there wasn’t a spot to fit it in. I’d have to test out of the class over the summer, but that meant that I could take Art 1 instead. I stay up and wonder what it will be like. Will it be like my art classes in middle school? Will I finally be able to try oil painting? What about ceramics?

I drift off to sleep anxious, but ready to try all new mediums and make more; to be able to create amongst all the chaos that comes with advanced academic studies.

“You know art can be just a hobby, right?”

***

I’m sixteen years old. I’m almost finished with what was supposed to be my sophomore year, but because of the pandemic, quarantine has made the past month of march even more grey and dreary than normal. The trees outside droop with the heaviness of the recent freezing rain and the sky is a somber grey. I stare absentmindedly at my computer screen waiting for my last zoom meeting of the day to end.

I return to my painting once I log off of our AP Art zoom. I glare at the canvas in front of me. I hate this piece. Even the dull grey color palette outside seems more appetizing than the same oranges and blues that I’ve stared at for the past three months. It’s the feeling in the pit of the stomach when you don’t feel particularly welcome and you know something is off. The dynamic is all wrong and you infuriatingly search the faces of the people there for an answer but to no avail.

I sigh and start to reach for my paints to force myself to push through to a solution, but set them down. “There has to be another way to get through this,” I say to myself as I open my sketchbook against my better judgement. After a quick image reference search, My pencil migrates from the jar to the page. I don’t worry about making it perfect. This piece is just for me.

I sketch out the figures of the boy and girl and boy in the photo, their arms intertwined in an embrace and their lips in a gentle kiss. I make sure her thumb just skims the length of his forearm and that his hand is placed just so on her waist. I step back. We’re getting somewhere.

Long since abandoned for my previous acrylic piece, my colored pencils feel slippery and foreign in my hand. I reach for the tan and brown colored pencils to start, but the bright fuschia red catches my eye. I cautiously begin to apply it to the girl’s face and neck area. Perfect. I don’t stop until the shadows crossing the girl’s face are all shades of pink and red and the boys silhouette is coated in deep blues. What next?

My watercolor palette sits just inches from my paints. I open it and observe my options. I water down a bright pink, an ocean blue, and my untouched cake of deep purple watercolor. I haphazardly splash the pink on one side and the blue on the other, applying purple to blend the area where the two seas of paint mix. I remember an old painters trick of using salt to make cool backgrounds, and apply a generous amount. The scissors come out next, and I delicately cut the form of the girl and boy out. I paste it right on the background and let it sit under a book overnight to press.

In the morning, I observe my work. It’s not perfect. The proportions on the girl’s arm are off and I never quite managed to capture the folds on the boy’s shirt, but I smile. I love it. This is my piece. No one told me to make this. I just did. It’s for me.

My abandoned assignment sits waiting on the other side of the table. I look at it again. This time I do see what’s missing. Like I did while I was working with the pencil, I need to add more depth. That’s why I hate it. That’s why it felt flat and boring. I set my new opus aside and reach for the beaten up acrylic brushes and paint tubes.

“You know art can be just a hobby, right?”

***

The computer screen finally loads. I'm exhausted and have just returned from a missions trip to the Dominican Republic, but in my blissful sleep back in my own bed, I'd remembered that AP scores had come out while I was away. The three numbers I've waited for loom in front of me:

AP Spanish Language: 5

AP Language and Composition: 4

AP Studio Art: 4

A four.

I stare in disbelief at the screen. I'd expected a three at best. I rush to tell my parents.

“You know art can be just a hobby, right?”

***

"Yeah, I know," I respond. "But it's so much more than that to me."

» summary:

kazunari miyoshi accidentally finds himself a muse when he stumbled upon [name] [last name] chilling in the park.

» author's note:

happy birthday kazu!

» playlist:

panic! at the disco - when the day met the night

___

“In the middle of summer, all was golden in the sky. All was golden when the day met the night.”

———

When the moon fell in love with the sun, all was golden in the sky.

Kazunari Miyoshi calls himself a UMC, an Ultra-Multi-Creator. He has a lot of passion towards acting, painting and graphic designs yet painting has a special place in his heart.

For that reason, he decided to go to the park for a quick stroll, just looking for inspiration.

It was a clear, sunny afternoon. The birds chirped under the blazing heat radiating off the sun. Kids were playing tag under the summer sky.

It was the perfect blazing, scorching summer he's used to. However, something was amiss.

Kazunari didn't know what to paint.

The soles of his feet were starting to ache from walking around too much.

It was rare to see Kazunari like this, he was clutching a sketch book on his arm, with a few brushes and watercolors on his other hand. His face was adorned with his black-framed glasses he rarely wears.

Kazunari decided to rest his feet for a little while. Sweat dripped down his forehead as the sun's harsh rays bounced off his skin.

He searched the park for a shaded clearing. He loves summer, he really does. It was the overwhelming heat that he didn't.

Finally finding an empty park bench that was shaded by the leaves' shadow, he sighed in content as he placed his materials beside him.

When the sun found the moon, she was drinking tea in the garden. Under the green umbrella trees in the middle of summer.

Kazunari saw slight movement on the corner of his eyes. It was subtle yet it was enough to let him know that someone was there with him.

Sitting on the shade of the vibrant green leaves from the trees, Kazunari saw his muse.

The way sunlight peaked through the gaps of the leaves only to shine on her face, the way she scrolled though her phone whilst sipping her bobba tea.

Kazunari felt a drop in his stomach that made him feel... something. He felt overwhelmed with all of the inspiration she gave him with just a glace.

When the moon found the sun, he looked like he was barely hanging on. But her eyes saved his life in the middle of summer.

[Name] [Last Name] grumbled to herself as she scrolled through her Instablam feed.

Her friends left her alone on the park with only her phone and a bobba tea.

Well, left her alone weren't exactly the right words but that's how she felt. They were off trying the chase an idol for an autograph.

Somehow, something felt weird all of a sudden. It felt like someone was looking at her.

It was a blond guy wearing black glasses that made him look really cute and nerdy. He had art materials resting on the seat beside him.

He looked really cute and all but [Name] noticed that his eyes were cloudy, as if he didn't know what to do. For a lack of better words, he looked lost. Not in a literal way, though.

In the middle of summer, all was golden in the sky. All was golden when the day met the night.

[Name] has to shield her eyes away from the glaring sun.

Was it really the sun or the guy's bright smile?

The cute nerdy looking guy from earlier now had a bright smile etched in his face, his black rimmed glasses resting on the top of his head. He looked more extroverted, friendly and bright.

Under the clear summer skies, he looked and felt like a portable charger. Maybe even an endless energy source. It made [Name] feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside.

So he said, "Would it be alright? If we sat and talked of a little while. If in exchange for your time, I'll give you this smile?"

Was he kidding or is this for real? [Name] couldn't help but ask herself as the guy asked her when he approached her. She also couldn't stop a smile from making its way into her face.

The guy didn't wait for a response as he gathered his art materials in his arms and sat on the grass, right beside [Name].

So she said, "That's okay as long as you can make a promise not to be break my little heart, or leave me all alone in the summer."

[Name replied which prompted a laugh from the guy, which she just learned was named Kazunari.

"Wah!~ [Name]-chan! I don't do summer flings!" he said in a joking manner

Well he was just hanging around, then he fell in love and he didn't know how. But he couldn't get out, just hanging around, then he fell in love.

The way [Name] laughed at his jokes sent a heat wave to his heart and fluttering butterflies in his stomach. The way her laughs sounded like cherubs singing in his ears.

Kazunari wanted one thing, he was afraid [Name] would be weirded out if he asked yet he couldn't dare pass up on this opportunity.

"[Name]-chan, wouldn't it be totes sick if I painted you? Ahaha.." Kazunari said, laughing it off.

[Name] raised her eyebrows at this, bearing a slight blush on her cheeks mixed with her slightly agape expression.

"B-but I'm not even photogenic!" [Name] cried out which made Kazunari chuckle in response.

""Trust me, you look good in every angle, babe." he said! It hasn't even been an hour since our first meeting!" [Name] said with a laugh.

The people gathered at the venue chuckled along with the bride. [Name] could swear she can hear Tsuzuru sigh in the distance at his high school senpai's antics.

"Waaah!~ Don't go exposing me like that, babe! It's lit~rally embarrassing!! On our wedding day too!" Kazunari said as he stole the microphone from [Name] which scored another round of laughter from the guests.

"Sooo~ Ne~ways, It's time for me to present my gift to my wonderful bride!" Kazunari cheered with excitement.

Following Kazunari's queue, Tsuzuru and Misumi rolled in a flat, rectangular thing that was wrapped in gift wrappers.

Kazunari took [Name]'s hand as she stood up from their seat and walked nearer to Kazunari's present.

"No party poppers when I open this?" [Name] asked as a brief flash of... something similar happening flashed on her mind.

"No party poppers when opening this gift." Kazunari confirmed with a chuckle.

[Name] started to open the present by tearing the wrapping paper. Her eyes started to water as she gasped when she realized what it was.

Kazunari's present was a hand painted portrait of the two of them, under the golden skies of that specific summer day.

The picture was painted in several shades, tones and tints of gold. Everything was meticulously painted, down to every detail on [Name]'s phone case and Kazunari's black-rimmed glasses placed on his head.

[Name] felt like her heart was about to explode. In the end, everything really was golden.

All was golden when the day met the night.

“You Don’t Have to be Afraid”

Hawks x Reader

Angst, fluff

Note: just a little oneshot self indulgent fic that I wrote a little while back :>

It was the early afternoon and your boyfriend, Keigo, was at work while you decided to take the day off. You went shopping because you needed to get some groceries and a new sketchbook after filling up your old one. That day you decided to wear your favorite outfit, a white shirt with black three-quarter sleeves tucked into a black suspender skirt. You walk into the store and pick up what you need, grabbing a few unhealthy things to snack on later as well. After spacing out a couple times while mindlessly looking through the isles, you make your final decision on snacks and move to go and pay for your items.

After paying and walking out of the store a sudden gust of wind hits and you feel your skirt lift, then a wave of dread hits you as you quickly hold your skirt down. Your skirt isn’t short, but sometimes your suspenders lift it up a little higher than you’d like it to be. Despite your outfit being modest, the fact you were wearing a skirt still had you self conscious of perverts. You shake off the feeling as best as you can and continue walking towards a small art supplies shop.

As you walk, that feeling is still there, you can’t help but feel as if all eyes are on you. Is your skirt too high? Are people looking? Can they see anything? Are you being a slut? You swallow nervously as your self consciousness mixes with your social anxiety, most of the time Keigo would help you in situations like these but he’s not here. You’re afraid. I still have to do this, it would be even more awkward if I just walk out immediately just to gain courage later and then come back… You tell yourself.

Looking down the isles admiring the expensive colored pencils and alcohol based markers, you eventually make it to the sketchbook section. After looking at a lot of the sketchbooks they had in store, debating whether you should get a different type this time or stick with the same kind of sketchbook, you eventually decide on one, picking up some watercolor paper too. Your nerves are still there so you take time to calm down and look at the different markers again. After deciding not to waste your money on the markers that you’re probably only going to use once, you walk to the counter and pay for your sketchbook and watercolor paper.

Okay, that went alright...I only stuttered a couple times while paying. As you walk out of the store you choose to just go home and wait for Keigo, but just as you turn to start walking you hear a boy, about early highschool age, say something you were always afraid of hearing,”slut.” It was a short interaction, but hearing that made your mind run circles. When you turn around you see him look back around after staring at you. Your tears well up and you start to feel sick, going home as quickly as you can while your toxic thoughts clog your mind. I should just stay home. I should’ve never come out. I shouldn’t wear things like this in public. Everyone was staring. I’m being indecent. I feel like a whore.

You scramble to unlock the door to your apartment as your vision is blurred from the tears, your eyes finding it hard to focus on anything. After going inside you put your bags on the counter and run to your room to change. You change into a pair of sweatpants, and while comfortable, it’s not quite the same as feeling cute in your favorite outfit. You cry some more while listening to music to try and calm down, your breathing out of control and your emotions even more unstable. The toxic thoughts didn’t leave and you eventually lost track of how long you’ve been crying.

An hour later and you’re still sobbing uncontrollably, but you hear your door open. “Dove! I’m home! I got off of work early so we could spend more time-” his words stopped as he heard your heavy breathing. He slowly opens the door to see you curled up into a ball on your shared bed, still hearing your sporadic breathing. “Dove? Are you okay?” he asks as you get out of your ball to hug him, burying your face into his neck. “Shh, just breathe slowly...everything is going to be okay…” as he rubs your back he notices that you’re not in your skirt that you had on this morning, then he realizes what happened.

You had vented to Keigo about how self conscious you were in skirts before, and he understands why you still wear them in public on occasion despite this. He knows that you do it for yourself. To feel nice and cute, and he loved the outfits too and would always encourage you. After comforting you for a bit more you calm down your breathing and he asks you,”You want to explain what happened?”

After taking a deep breath to prepare yourself, you start explaining,”I went out to shop on my own because I needed to pick up a couple things...everything went pretty well until I walked out of the first store and then a gust of wind blew, lifting my skirt a bit.” He just made sounds to assure you that he’s listening as you continued,”That’s when that feeling of dread hit me...I brushed it off just a bit until I made it to the second store, and after looking around I calmed down and eventually paid for my stuff…”

“I’m proud of you for going out on your own…” He told you.

“But when I walked out of the store I was about to walk home when this highschooler-” you pause for a second, bracing yourself,”...called me a slut.” You whisper the last part as your eyes start welling up again. “I- I felt so scared...a- and all that dread...and fear…” your sobs breaking your sentence.

“Shh, it’s all going to be okay…” He hugged you closer and enveloped you with his wings. It was like a world separate from everyone else, a world with just you and your boyfriend. You sobbed a little more and eventually calmed down and you rubbed your eyes. You were incredibly tired after crying for a couple hours straight and you were knocked out after you calmed down.

Once you woke up you rubbed your eyes and looked at the clock, it was about 10pm and you hadn’t eaten anything today. You walk to the kitchen to see Keigo sitting, just looking at his phone. When he saw you his face lit up and said,”Morning, sleepy head” with one of his beautiful smiles that never failed to get you smiling as well.

You smiled back at him and said,”Well, it’s not really morning, but I’m currently starving so I’m just gonna order take out or something real quick.”

“Oh wait- actually uh...I cooked for you” He looked at you with an awkward smile while saying it, which was out of character for your usually confident boyfriend. “I figured since we get takeout all the time...and neither of us can cook...I thought that...I could take a shot at it. I mean, I’m the #2 Pro Hero in Japan, I can follow some instructions.”

You laughed softly as he got some food out of the fridge and started heating it up. “Hm? Two plates? Ah- you haven’t eaten yet!”

“You really thought I was going to take a shot at cooking for the first time and not share it with the love of my life?”

“Well, I mean- It’s 10pm! You must be starving!”

“Well you must be too, so now we can just eat together!” He says as he takes the plate out of the microwave and puts them on the table.

“I know I’m being hypocritical, but you shouldn’t have waited for me...Kei you need to keep your eating schedule normal or else I’m going to worry about you…” You said, showing obvious concern.

“I love that you’re so concerned about me, but really, it’s just one postponed meal, nothing too bad. Plus, being able to share it with you makes me feel better than just getting takeout again while at work.”

“...I suppose it doesn’t hurt, but don’t make it a habit...please.”

“I won’t” He says as he gives you a reassuring smile. “Anyway, eat, you must be starving.”

You pick up a piece with your chopsticks, obviously Keigo made a chicken dish but it was grilled, so it was a nice change from the fried chicken you had twice every week. You plop it into your mouth with some rice as your face lights up. “Wow...Kei, this is delicious!” You say happily.

He starts laughing a little,”Aww your face lit up and it was so cute!”

Your face heats up a little, being easily flustered, Keigo loves complimenting you and teasing you,”Ah- shut up!”

You finish your meal and wash the dishes really quick, as you move to go to the bedroom, Keigo puts a hand on your shoulder. “Actually, you’re probably going to stay up all night since you just took that nap...so how about we have a movie night?”

You turn around and smile at him,”Yeah, let’s do that.”

The two of you grab a variety of pillows and blankets and make the sofa really comfy, you sit close together as Keigo wraps his arm against your waist and you lean into him, a blanket around you both and pillows all around you. He wraps you and him in his wings and you decide to watch all of the How to Train your Dragon movies. You relax and get comfy.

When the movie is about to start, you tell Keigo,”Thanks...I really needed this.”

“Anything for you, Dove”

You cuddled and laughed with him as you watched the movie, even singing “For the Dancing and the Dreaming” with him when the scene came on. Being less of a night owl than you, he fell asleep at the beginning of the third movie. But you were still there in your own private world, a place where you can relax. Where you don’t have to be scared. Where your amazing boyfriend made all the toxic thoughts go away. A place where you don’t have to be afraid.

under 50k larry fic rec

hi! i’m becca and i read...so much fic. these rec lists are an accumulation of fic that i’ve read or reread and extra loved from 2016-now. there’s a wide range of stuff here and i think there’s definitely something for everyone!! i divided them up by length so you can check out all those categories below!

please make sure to read tags and warnings on all these fics!! the only things i think i can guarantee is that these are all larry, there’s no non-con, no age play, no eating disorders, no mentions of bg, they end happy, and they’re mostly aus. oh and they’re all on ao3 and some are locked so you’ll need an account! anyway i hope y’all enjoy!!!

under 5k

under 10k

under 25k

under 100k

100k+

☆ the beginning of everything by thedeathchamber 31k

“How do you take it?” Harry asked, pouring tea into a cup.

“Just a dash of milk, please,” Louis cast a look over the small table, filled to capacity. “They’re very fond of you.”

Harry ducked his head, grinning. “They’re trying to impress you.”

Louis smiled, shaking his head. “Why would they want to do that?” he asked as he took the cup Harry passed to him, their fingers brushing for an instant.

“Empathy,” Harry said under his breath.

--

A Belle Époque AU set (mostly) in Paris in which Harry is a struggling artist, in more ways than one, and Louis is a successful theatre critic and a failed writer, more or less.

☆ to kill the mess we’ve made by misandrogyny 43k

And when he's finally standing, Liam fussing over him, rubbing his hand at the red mark blooming on Harry's forehead, does Harry learn two things:

One, he wasn't actually hit that hard, and Tommo--or Louis, rather--is just as pretty when Harry is staring at him head-on and,

Two, Louis is the Adidas model he's going to be working with on today's photo shoot.

(or: AU where Harry and Louis are both models, and they decide being friends-with-benefits is a great idea. It isn't.)

☆ heart open, bloodstain on my sleeve by silkbombs (mulberrygrey) 36k

“I couldn’t help myself,” Harry admits, one hand coming to rub the back of his neck, “I stared at you for a good while before I finally got the guts to come up to you. You looked so pretty sitting there, with your little ankles and your pencil in your mouth, so enthralling… art in front of art.”

Louis’ not sure what to say, so he just kind of sits there, eyes bugging out as he stares at Harry.

“I mean, like you’re not an object!” Harry rushes out, babbling.

“I just, there’s something about you that’s so captivating, and maybe it’s the way your eyes are like a watercolor painting of the sea, or how delicate your hands look when you draw, but I just wanted to get to know you. It’s not like I pick up random boys at art museums usually, I swear. Not that I’m trying to pick you up! Unless you want to be…God, fuck I’m sorry this is so awkward now. I can go, um, if you want."

--- Or, the one where Harry's the long limbed, gangly, sweetheart who just happens be a high profile art thief who conducts heists for a living and Louis' the loud, pushy art student who just happens to steal his heart.

☆ a king beside you by stylinsoncity 26k

When the aliens invade, the last thing Louis expects is to fall in love.

☆ the boys of summer by afirethatcannotdie 45k

“I mean…we’re gonna have to sneak around anyway, yeah? Like, with that whole rules thing that I guess we’ve decided to ignore. Might make it a little more fun this way.”

AU. In which Louis is a reluctant sports coach, Harry's a fellow counselor who wears tiny yellow shorts, and camp rules say they're forbidden to date.

☆ don’t let the tide come and take me by kiwikero 29k

The aquarium in the lobby has been there as long as Louis can remember, and so has the merman inside. That is, until the day Louis loses his job and decides to set the creature free.

They set off on a road trip to the sea, learning to communicate more and more each day. Their destination is LA, but the closer they get and the more Louis gets to know the merman, the more he dreads having to say goodbye.

Or, the one where Louis decides to set a merman free and ends up finding his own freedom along the way.

☆ introduction to dynamics by juliusschmidt 29k

Louis Tomlinson is the outspoken omega in the 'Introduction to Dynamics' course Harry wishes he didn't have to take. He's nearly certain to present as a beta, after all. Things will be simple for him.

☆ saved tonight by objectlesson 31k

Harry is the world's most persistent seduction-baker, a questionable dog-sitter, and Louis's biggest fan. Louis hasn't written in years, is trying to pass loneliness off as cynicism, and absolutely hates his fans. It's probably destiny.

☆ once upon a dream by objectlesson 27k

“M’not gonna half-ass our fake relationship,” Louis almost snaps, voice sharp with a defensive edge, like Harry wandered too close to a bruise with needy fingers. “Now kiss me again. We’re gonna make every shitty tourist here wish they had stayed in the Midwest. We’re gonna burn Disneyland down with our gay. ”

Harry shuts his eyes and opens his mouth, because he can’t fucking say no to Louis.

--

Or, a fake dating AU where everyone is lying and they happen to be at the Happiest Place on Earth.

☆ rivers ‘til i reach you by embodied 29k

Louis can’t begin to understand how he’s always this close and still can’t manage to make Harry his. He stands up and gets another beer. AU. Louis studies astronomy; Harry studies Louis. They spend their summers on the water and it shouldn't be complicated (spoiler: it is).

☆ life was a song, you came along by rainbowninja167 38k

It's embarrassing how long it takes Louis to recognize his own song. Niall had sung it as a bright, hopeful love song, and that’s honestly how Louis had always assumed it should sound. But this new voice, slow and rough, stripped of any backing instrument, has infused the lyrics with just the tumultuous mix of fear and defiance that Louis can remember so clearly from the night he wrote them. It’s not a comfortable thing, to feel like someone is singing all your secrets back to you.

Louis is a songwriter trapped in a lie that could ruin his best friend's career. Harry owns a record store, distrusts everyone in the music industry on principle, but loves Niall Horan's newest album. A modern retelling of Singin' in the Rain.

☆ learning to eat by photo41 29k

Celebrity chef Louis Tomlinson has a problem. He’s opening his first restaurant in 9 weeks, and he has yet to hire a pastry chef- apparently people think he’s ‘standoffish’ and ‘rude’ and ‘quick to temper’. Whatever. He ends up saddled with an annoying, happy-go lucky rookie who also happens to be obnoxiously good looking. His tv presenter and pop star best friends only add to the drama, and for fucks sake would everyone please stop quoting Julia Child?!

Kitchen AU where Harry helps Louis re-learn how to eat. (METAPHORICALLY)

note: just to clarify this is NOT an eating disorder fic don’t worry

☆ runner on third by kikikryslee 40k

As Harry stood there, the other man turned around, and he knew he was correct in who he thought it was. “Louis?” he asked, still not quite believing it. Louis blinked. “Harry? Wh– what are you doing here?” “I work here,” Harry said. “What are you doing here?” “Um, I’m picking up my brother. The nurse called and said he was sick.” Harry felt like he was going to be sick. “Wait, Ernest is your brother? Since when do you have a brother?” “Since about seven years ago, I guess. Wait, how do you know Ernest?” “I’m his teacher.” “You’re his what?” Louis exclaimed. Harry gulped. This was going to be a long year. --- Or, the AU where Louis and Harry were best friends growing up, but lost touch after Harry moved away. Ten years later, Harry has moved back to town, but he and Louis don't pick up where they left off.

note: there are four fics in this series that total to 60k

☆ roots by cherrystreet 43k

There aren’t many things that make Harry Styles nervous. He’s spent the past couple of years on and off various stages, filled with screaming fans, all chanting his name, loud and adoring. He’s done countless interviews, some even on live, national television, never faltering over his words, answers meticulously planned out, smooth and steady. He’s signed countless autographs, taken just as many photos, and even when he sat in his label’s studio, waiting to see how high up on the charts his single made it, he didn’t feel uneasy or uncomfortable. It’s all been unbelievably fun. No, there aren’t many things that make Harry Styles nervous.

Enter Louis Tomlinson.

☆ once upon a dream by thedeathchamber 33k

Louis is psychic and gets caught in the middle of a murder investigation led by FBI Special Agent Harry Styles.

aka. the Medium/Criminal Minds-inspired AU no one ever asked for.

note: there’s a 24k sequel for this!

☆ the melody you never heard by bananasandboots 30k

It's one last adventure. One last chance to be young and carefree. One final weekend before they take up their internships, their corporate positions, before they enter the real world, fresh out of university. Niall's his best mate. Liam's been there for him since they were lost, little freshmen, trying to find their ways through an overwhelming first year. Harry can't disappoint them, even if it means enduring four days with Louis.

Louis, who he does share a history with, a history he's never told anyone about, not even Niall, a history he hasn't brought up in three years because it's stupid and embarrassing and confusing.

Or, the one where Harry gets roped into a four-day camping trip with the boy who kissed him and never called back.

☆ born to make you happy by objectlesson 26k

Harry makes a quiet vow to himself that he will be the very best girlfriend Louis has ever had, even if he never actually gets to be Louis’s girlfriend.

note: i literally had to take a break and reread this cause i love it so much

☆ close to nowhere by angelichl 35k

“I will kill you in your sleep,” Louis threatened as he quickly stepped out of his jeans.

“I don’t think that would work very well baby, seeing as you talk to dead people all the time.”

“I’ll kill you in your sleep and ignore your ghost. And don’t call me that.”

Louis and Harry are psychics who kind of hate each other. They go to Tennessee to investigate a haunting.

☆ adrenaline by reveries_passions 38k 

“Harry Styles,” Nameless Boy who now has a name says. Louis is too busy having an internal crisis to realize the boy has just introduced himself as Harry Styles. Harry Styles, only son of Des Styles, PhD, Dean of Harvard Medical School. Harry Styles, known by everyone and their grandmother. Harry Styles, star rower. Harry Styles, youngest enrolled student in graduate school at Harvard University. Oh my god, Louis thinks, mortified. I just slept with Harry Styles. As he reaches out tentatively to shake the boy’s hand, another thought hits him. Oh my god. Harry Styles is gay.

~

louis tomlinson, college dropout, up and coming dj, and gay activist, is the notorious owner of exclusive underground gay club, adrenaline.

harry styles, med student by day, partier by night, child prodigy and seemingly heterosexual son of harvard professors, is the youngest and arguably the smartest student at harvard medical school.

or: a one night stand wasn't supposed to become the greatest love story of the 21st century.

☆ bloodsport by tofiveohfive 40k

“You know how our next game is against the Cardinals, right? You remember how vicious those guys can get. I wanted us to come up with some plays, maybe work on a block from the left—”

Louis stops when he hears a chuckle.

He doesn’t think he’s said anything particularly funny, so he turns to Harry, waiting for an explanation.

“‘S funny, ‘s all.” Harry throws his finished bottle somewhere near the other discarded ones. “This is the first time you’re talking to me in eight months, and it’s still about football.”

☆ the haunting of louis tomlinson helloamhere 31k

“I'm not afraid of ghosts,” Louis said.

Every single magnet unstuck itself from the fridge and fell to the floor in a clattering cascade.

“I'm only a little afraid of ghosts,” Louis said.

*** OR: Louis is a plucky Gothic Heroine, Harry is a Mournful Spirit, and Big Country Houses are full of mystery and suspense, as Big Country Houses ever are!

☆ can i not like you for a while? by larryshares 43k

louis tomlinson is awful. harry is just as difficult, and they're both terrible to each other. it makes being in the same acapella group together quite complicated.

☆ delight in masques by kassio 28k

Popstar Louis Tomlinson has been pulling one over on the mortals for years. In the five years since he put on a human illusion and tried out for the X Factor, none of them have realised that he’s one of the Fair Folk – a cat shapeshifter, to be precise – and he’d like to keep it that way.

When he returns to the X Factor as a guest judge, the last thing he expects is for some half-Siren fool to use magic on the judges. Unfortunately, that’s exactly what Harry Styles does. Now Louis has to track down some rogue changeling before he exposes them all. Even worse? Apparently, Harry doesn’t even know what he is.

(An urban fantasy adventure, set in the world of - but not crossing over with - the October Daye book series. No need to be familiar with those books; I just want to give credit where it's due on a lot of the worldbuilding.)

☆ no love like your love by rearviewdreamer 43k

When it comes to saving the world from itself and convincing rich CEOs of environmentally harmful companies to go green, there's nobody better than Harry Styles. That is, until Louis Tomlinson, his ex and former Alpha, is involved.  

note: i love vegan harry styles

☆ for neither never nor ever by fairytalelights 29k

Then Harry looked down. A newspaper was on the steps in front of him, looking new, like it had only just gotten delivered but no one had bothered to carry it inside yet. That, in itself, wasn't unusual. The unusual thing was the headline, Chernobyl - Half a Year Later, and the date in the corner. 5th November 1986. He looked up to stare at the girl in the doorway one last time, before he did the only logical thing his body knew how to do in this situation. He bolted.

or, the one where Harry travels through time and has to come to terms with losing everything he's ever known. Louis might be the only thing that feels real.

☆ worth dying for by whoknows 45k

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Louis says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. In the center of the table, a set of three glossy photos stares up at him, mocking him.

“A security detail is non-negotiable, Louis, you know this,” his mum reminds him, tapping the middle photo with two fingers.

Louis doesn’t look back down at the pictures, gesturing towards them wildly, over-dramatically. “This is not a security detail!” he protests. “This is a lanky college student. In what world do you hire someone like this kid to protect me?”

☆ listen to your heart by lovelarry10 35k

Are you kidding me right now?

I… No? Louis frowned, feeling angry now. It wasn’t fair, he knew that, but at the same time, he couldn’t help his feelings. It felt like this had been brewing for weeks, and this was it. Give it a rest, Harry.

Why are you such a brat? Why can’t you just be happy for me for once?

You think I want to hear about you kissing James? Really, H? There’s things I just don’t need to know, okay? I’m your best mate, not your fucking relationship advisor…

*****

Louis has always been comfortable being Harry’s one and only. When Harry starts to branch out, Louis has a hard time letting him go.

Harry is very lucky to have someone who listens to what he has to say, despite the fact that he’s deaf. He’s finally feeling like he’s coming into himself, but Louis seems bothered by his newfound confidence.

☆ another day gettin’ into trouble by whoknows 26k

Harry’s drunk when the idea occurs to him. He’s also a pop star, so sometimes his drunk ideas turn into actual things instead of just ideas. The clone-a-willy kit is one of them.

In Harry’s defense, when he first thinks about it his intention is just to buy the kit and give it to Louis to make his own dildo with, because that’s what he wants anyway, right? To have a penis filling him up?

Then he realizes that it would be weird if Louis made a copy of his own dick to fuck himself with. It’d be super weird. Louis fucking himself? That’s a weird idea. Harry’s pretty sure Louis wouldn’t like that.

Clearly the only solution here is to use his own dick for the mold.

☆ all the right moves by cherrystreet 32k

This is the third game in a row that Harry has been distracted by the noisy boy in the stands, five rows back.

There’s really no reason that he should feel compelled to stare into the audience as frequently as he is, but he can’t help it. This boy is a nuisance. And he’s loud. Even from basketball court with nine other players running by him, shoes squeaking on the shiny hardwood floor, and thousands of cheering college students, Harry can hear this boy nearly shrieking, his laugh more like a cackle than anything.

It’s seriously obnoxious.

☆ play the odds by alivingfire 26k

Harry and Louis are best friends since childhood who, after a night of drinking, find themselves locked in a bet: first one to kiss the other a thousand times wins. Wins what? They don't know. Glory, Harry supposes. Bragging rights, though those don't do much in this economy. All Harry knows is that this is one bet he can finally win. What he doesn't expect, though, is what happens when he starts kissing his best friend on a daily basis.

Namely, he doesn't expect falling head over heels in love with his best friend.

Now all he has to do is make sure the bet never ends, so he never has to stop kissing Louis.

Kastle in Vermont

home is where the—

[warning: minor character death. sorry, anon! i didn’t know how to not make this at least a little bit angsty.

also, all the thanks to @heidiamalia for being my daredevil/punisher encyclopedia.]

…

She can't remember the last time she stepped foot on this sad patch of grass off of Route 296.

(She can. She does. That's what you do, Karen.)

Matt had tried to come with her. But she still hasn't told him the truth – she's been meaning to, but. The right time has never come up, and she knows that it's just an excuse, but if there was ever a wrong time to tell him, now would certainly qualify.

Hey, Matt. You asked me, once, why I came to New York. My brother's dead because of me, and my dad, who wanted nothing to do with me after, is about to be buried right next to him.

And because she'd refused Matt's company, she couldn't very well let Foggy come either. As much as she'd secretly wanted to cave when he kept on insisting in clumsy but no less heartfelt terms, his baseline level of awkwardness made ten-fold in the face of something like grief.

Something like it, anyway.

"We weren't really close," Karen had insisted, and the truth hidden there cut deeper than it usually did. But like with most types of pain, she'd long since learned to smile as she swallowed it down.

"Oh, honey, I've been there," even Marci had thought to chime in, "but trust me when I say you'll want someone with you, wherever your relationship with your father left off when he died."

Heart attack, the voice had said on the phone. She hadn't recognized the person speaking; a Doctor So-and-So – Leo something, maybe – from Fagan Corners General, he said, and she'd barely been able to hear the rest. Karen had wondered, in her daze, how they'd even known to call her; she'd been dead to the town the moment she left it all those years ago.

For all the diner food that had sustained him over the years, Paxton Page's health had always seemed stubbornly resistant, and maybe this was just another in a long line of fuck you's to Karen for thinking that she still knew him a little.

We'll pick you up at eight, Foggy had texted her the night before. Go ahead and try to argue your way out of this one.

Then, another second later:

And don't worry, we told Matt the funeral isn't until the day after. So, he'll probably catch up just in time for the service to be over.

Karen leaves at six thirty that morning. She'd anticipated Foggy attempting to pull something like this, and so had been careful not to give him the right start time either.

She borrows Ellison's car. He at least knows when to back down, and besides that running the Bulletin doesn't afford him much time off. (She's also quick to remind him that he was the one who fired her; letting her take his car and not coming with her is really the least he could do.)

She drives like she's on autopilot, until the half-crooked WELCOME TO FAGAN CORNERS, VT sign comes into view. The population count probably hasn't been updated since the 80's, but it feels oddly fitting now. Balanced. It takes one to die for another to return.

The local cemetery is one of the first turns, right after Route 296 dumps its cars into the town like run-off into a landfill. Welcome to Fagan Corners, indeed. It's normally impossible to miss, but Karen has to make a last-minute swerve anyway, because her vision has started to blur and swirl, like a watercolor dabbed with too heavy a brush.

She forces her breathing to even before stepping out of the car. There's a long line of them down the street where she's parked; Karen half-wonders if there's more than one service today, until memory walks her hand-in-hand to Kevin's gravestone and she sees the crowd that's gathered there.

She stands at the very edge, her black blending in with everyone else's, and she uses the excuse of an overcast sky to tuck her blonde hair under the hood of her coat.

She'd brought sunglasses too, as if the weather here might have been any less dismal or drizzly than how she's always remembered it. But they would only attract more attention, so they stay firmly clenched in her hand as she gazes down at the brown-choked edges of grass and tries not to think about who else might be there.

The most their family had ever been known for in this town was loss. First her mother, then Kevin in that accident nobody could stop talking about for days – weeks – what felt like forever, afterward. Karen doesn't want to know what they must say about her: the girl heartless enough to leave a grieving father behind.

(I don't want you here, Karen.)

She doesn't have a clear view of the casket from here. She thinks it's because she doesn't want to. She thinks it's because maybe she can't.

There are people she can't bear to see. Chief Cohen is here – must be, somewhere, and she already knows she can never look him in the eye again. And then there are the people at the front of the crowd, those closest to the casket, closest to—

Karen wants to be sick, standing here dwelling on the family she's been replaced with, and not what losing her father might mean to her instead, all those shadowy places where grief and rage and freedom cross paths, and she can't do this. She can't.

She can't.

She can't.

She turns.

And runs right into Frank Castle.

She's absolutely sure, for a moment, that she's just seeing things. There's no plausible explanation for him being there. No way he would've known to come, no reason she can think of that he'd have even wanted to, and yet—

"Frank?" Her voice cracks, falling apart at the end, and she can't help but think, So this is what hope can do to a person.

"Karen," he says, low and rough and one hundred percent Frank, and no, she couldn't dream up something this real if she tried.

She takes an unsteady step forward.

Maybe she stumbles. Maybe he's only trying to catch her. Either way, his arms are suddenly encircling her body, pulling her against him as the tears she'd been fighting finally break free.

She can count on one hand the number of times he has willingly touched her first. The shock of it now isn't any less dulled by the reason why she's here, shaky and sobbing into his shoulder while he makes soft shushing noises and sways their bodies together.

It only makes her cry harder.

"Hey. Hey. C'mere." Frank's wrapping his hand around the back of her neck, gently squeezing there, and it makes her feel fragile and strong all at once. Like she's worth being soft with, like this pain that she's feeling isn't somehow all her own damn fault.

Her hood has slipped back from her face, and his cheek is resting against the bare skin of her temple when he speaks again. Calm and unwavering, just like every other time he's been there to look out for her.

"You want to stay?"

She's making a scene, and that's the last thing she'd meant to do here.

Karen shakes her head.

He adjusts his grip around her shoulders, leading her back toward the row of parked cars. The ground is damp with morning dew, and her heels sink into the dirt more than once, making her stumble and nearly take him down with her.

"Sorry," she says, but Frank only moves his hand to her waist, arm pressing into the small of her back. It's a simple but comforting gesture, and such a departure from the last time they'd seen one another (I don't want to, I don't want to, and God when will people stop saying that to her?).

She wants to be angry with him. It would be the easier thing to do. But he's here now, and that means something to her.

She thinks it might mean something to him too.

"How are you here?" Karen asks him, after a moment of quiet. They've reached the sidewalk and kept on going, taking their time in slow, measured steps. She's half-expected him to let go of her waist, so she shouldn't feel that dull ache in her chest when he does, but then he's reaching for her hand instead.

She loses her breath for a moment.

When she can, she says, "Was it Foggy?"

"Was already on my way here when he called," Frank tells her, and doesn't elaborate any further than that.

Karen shakes her head, trying to understand what this is all supposed to mean. "So…"

Frank clears his throat and says, "Wasn't sure you'd want to see me again."

He says it in such a way to leave her with the distinct impression that if she hadn't turned and seen him there when she did, she might never have known he'd come at all.

"I wasn't either," she answers honestly, and he hangs his head with a nod. Her hand tightens around his. "But it means a lot to me that you're here, Frank."

It means everything, she wants to say, but she doesn't think he's ready for that either.

The farther they've gone from the burial site, the more she succumbs to a slow-numbing exhaustion, the kind that only grieving for something can bring, and that – that feels wrong to her too, somehow. That she could make a choice to feel nothing at all.

She pauses, half-turned back toward the direction they'd came, and Frank squeezes her hand to let her know that he's right there with her, wherever she decides to go next.

Karen takes a step forward, and has to brace herself for a second, like she's reached the top of a very steep hill, and too-sudden a movement might send her careening without another chance to come back.

Frank seems to have fully anticipated her struggle, moving in to embrace her again before she's even aware that she's crumbling.

"I got you," he murmurs, over and over. "I got you, Karen. I got you."

"It's—" she swipes at her eyes, blowing out a frustrated breath that seems to shake through her entire body. "It was, um. It was complicated, with my dad."

"I get that," Frank says simply. He reaches up to thumb the tears from her cheek, and her eyes flutter shut for a moment, his palm sliding down to the curve of her throat before dropping away. "You could tell me about it sometime."

"Yeah, I'd like that," she tells him. "I'd like that a lot, actually."

He laces their fingers back together. She leads this time, taking him back toward the way out of this place, back toward Route 296, and for the first time she lets herself wonder – lets herself hope – that there could be an after for her too.

"Wait, is that yours?" Karen asks as she spots the red Honda minivan parked behind Ellison's car. "Is it an upgrade from your murder van?"

"Friend lent it to me," says Frank, in an utterly serious tone.

"So you didn't steal it?" she wonders, still just the slightest bit dubious.

The smirk that Frank gives her is soft, almost playful. "No, ma'am, I didn't steal it."

"You'll have to tell me about this friend of yours sometime," says Karen with a sidelong glance, and he looks away with a full-forming smile this time.

"Funny story," he tells her. "You might've been the one to introduce us."

She tilts her head, considering, and decides he won't have a choice but to tell her more later.

They end up veering left past their cars, up a small knoll and into the trees. There's a bench up ahead, partially hidden away, and they settle down there, still joined at the hand. She hasn't known peace like this with Frank before – the kind that doesn't need to start with a war – and maybe it's selfish but she's in no hurry to let any of this go.

"Nelson said he was coming," Frank mentions after a while. He speaks carefully, like he's been waiting for this, and still isn't sure it's the right way to say it. "I'm betting that Murdock'll be showing up with him."

"Okay," says Karen.

He pauses, then adds, "If you want, I can, uh. Stay with you until they're here, or—" he swallows and rocks forward a little, gaze shifting over the ground, "—longer. If that's what you want."

She reaches with her free hand, holding his in both of hers now. It's softer than she would have expected, smooth-skinned and warm, everything is so warm when he looks up at her again. "I choose longer, Frank."

"Okay," he says, voice rasping slightly.

He's angling closer, and she leans into him with sigh, resting her head against his shoulder. His other hand comes around to brush back her hair, and then he's kissing her forehead as she closes her eyes, and breathes.

[ao3.]

A Monster Trap

Happy Halloween! :D I hadn't originally planned on making a piece specifically for Halloween, or at least nothing more so than my Spoopy Kitty I did back in September. But one night a few nights ago, I was feeling artistically inclined but with no solid/good ideas to run with. After scrolling through some photos on my phone I'd taken or saved specifically for inspiration, I came across one I'd taken about a year ago, of a Halloween decoration one of my friends got from Michaels. A pretty gnarly plastic Venus Flytrap that I think very few of us would be eager to encounter if it was real and alive. That night I was just having a really hard time trying to draw much of anything--the want to make art was there, but evidently, something integral to the process was not, or was just very very off--so I struggled through a few preliminary sketches before managing to tackle one that I felt was half-decent. Still, but the time I got that far, it was late and I was tired, so I let the sketches rest for the night. I came back to them later, naturally. I'd had plans to draw this thing for so long and I had finally sort-of started; maybe something could be salvaged and turned into a final piece. Fortunately, upon coming back to it something had shifted back into place and I had a much easier time finishing up the sketch and decided what to do and where to take it afterward. Recently, I acquired some 400 series watercolor paper by Strathmore, which has seemed to be a little divisive among watercolor artists I watch/follow. Some use it as their standard, go-to watercolor paper, others say it's eh, okay but not great or their first choice and others swear it off entirely because it's not 100% cotton. I don't think I've ever seen one specific paper have so many wildly differing opinions among upper-tier artists. This is largely why I wanted to get some; I wanted to see what it was like for myself. And in general, I've been trying out different walks of watercolor paper to see what the best buying option for me is. I'm not going to do a super in-depth review like you might expect when I come home with some new pencils or markers or whatever, as I don't feel like I have enough knowledge of paper to do that, but I am here to tell you that I liked the paper just fine. In a way, I think it lands somewhere between the 100% cotton paper that I've tried (Canson L'Aquarelle Heritage) and the Canson XL that's usually "artists' first watercolor paper" because it's so accessible and cheap. It doesn't behave quite like the cotton paper--the paint dries a little more quickly and flows a bit differently--but I think it's close enough for my taste that it'll work just fine when I run out of my current cotton stash and am too frugal to spend $20+ on some more. (My current stash consists of lucky clearance finds that were like $5 each, for reference.) That is coming from someone that isn't a professional at watercolor and hasn't grown attached to using 100% cotton paper, though. So maybe take my thoughts with a grain of salt, depending on your situation? This was also my first time since I was a very small child in using a Micron pen (I don't know why I had one in my possession to use back then; I didn't even know what it was at the time, I just remember that distinct beige barrel and the various markings on the outside of the pen that define it as what it is). Hard to believe, right? Microns are such an artist staple! I've just had other options in my possession that work just fine for me before. But the same day I picked up the watercolor paper, I had coupons to use and decided to pick one up and finally try them out. And no complaints there; it didn't move at all once I started in with the water and paint, which is all I could really ask for. The real test is going to be seeing how it resists smudging with alcohol markers, but that's for another day.   Anyway. Point is, I chose to try out that paper for the first time here since I didn't think what I wanted to do with this piece would be a good fit for alcohol markers and I didn't feel like investing the time it would take to do it in colored pencils, either. I wanted something that was looser and quicker, which led me to watercolor. Well, sort of. Watercolor can be quick for me depending on what I'm doing. For certain projects, it's more time and hassle than I'm willing to put up with. And it also depends on which paints I'm reaching for too. This time I decided to revisit my Viviva watercolor sheets since I haven't used them much lately but by their very nature, they're one of the quick'n'easiest sets I have. I used them for the entirety of the plant/creature, including his pot. The colors aren't quite as they are in my reference photo, but I knew that wouldn't be the case going in. The colors might also be a little funky/shaded strangely because I didn't feel like dragging out a mixing palette, so I just used the colors straight off the sheets and any mixing was done on-the-fly. And by fly I mean paper. Which created some interesting things inside the mouth that I rather like.  The hardest part was getting the red on the leaves without the colors turning to mud, but even that turned out pretty alright. And after that, the plan was to be done. But it felt...empty. It needed more. Once I gave it some thought, I picked out a black, gray, and a metallic (though that part doesn't show up on the scan) pale spring green color in my Faber Castell Gelatos and scribbled in a few places in the background, then uses my watercolor brush to spread the color around and blend things together a little. Then I went back and forth on that process for a bit to get it all just right. I went with the gelatos because I wanted the flat, bright colors of my plant monster thing to still stand out, but I didn't think the soft look of adding some PanPastel in the background would suit the tone here.  Additionally, this was a test of new watercolor paper, and I thought using the water-soluble gelatos for some texture might be a good way to push its limits a little more. And yet even after that, it was still missing something. I'm not sure where the idea came from, but eventually, it came upon me to do a faux-blood-splatter, primarily stemming from the bottom right corner. For this, I ended up using one of my Jane Davenport Mermaid Markers, since I tried an Inktense pencil and it wasn't doing much of anything, and I didn't feel like dragging out a more involved form of watercolor to do it. It took some patience and trial and error (and a paper mask so I wouldn't get any on Mr. Flytrap), but I did manage to get pretty much what I wanted out of it in the end. And...I guess that's pretty much the end of the story of my monstrous venus flytrap  (Which is where the title came from; he's one monster of a venus flytrap!) He's not terribly complicated, but I like him. And it's something a little less conventional for a Halloween piece, which makes me happy.   My plans for today/tonight so far don't go beyond posting this and dropping by Krispy Kreme (because tonight if you go in-costume you get a free donut), but that's more than I had planned for last year, so I'll take it. Do you guys have anything fun planned for All Hallows this Eve? ____ Artwork © me, MysticSparkleWings ____ Where to find me & my artwork: My Website | Commission Info + Prices | Ko-Fi | dA Print Shop | RedBubble |   Twitter | Tumblr | Instagram

☕ (Cori)

@darthvoldemaul

I’m not sure if this counts as much of a memory, really, because not a lot happens. One person stays asleep during the main bit of it so… No one’s calling it eventful, okay? 

But it still means something to me. 

You’ll need a lot of background information first, though, so get comfy. See, Liv had invited me to stay with her for part of the summer holiday. It took some doing, making that happen. My mother doesn’t exactly approve of her children spending time outside of school (or inside it, for that matter) with anyone who isn’t from the twenty-eight. So I cashed in on a favor from Khepri Shafiq. 

Strictly speaking, what Khepri actually owed me was money from an old bet, but I offered to consider us even so long as she’d provide this one alibi. The great thing about Shafiq – besides being a bit of a reckless gambler when she’s thrown back a few too many firewhiskeys – is that my parents cannot stand her parents. And probably vice versa, honestly. My mum and dad will be respectful of them at large gatherings of the families but, as a safe general rule, they will not contact them directly if it is in any way avoidable. Dad thinks Gamal Shafiq is a prattling bore and Mum resents the fact that Shadya Shafiq always catches on to the latest trends and fashions well before she does. They can be a petty bunch, the Selwyns. Take it from one who knows. Personally, I’ve always found the Shafiqs among the more tolerable families in my own’s social circle. Fortunately for me, the feeling was mutual for Khepri (either that or she was just grateful to hang on to the bag of galleons I’d won fair and square), and she agreed to let me say I was visiting her for a while in the summer. It probably didn’t hurt that Khepri’s in Ravenclaw, like Liv. What do you know? House loyalty’s good for something outside of Hogwarts, after all. Anyway, suffice to say, my parents were more than happy to send their greetings and love through me. They trusted that I’d pass along the message to the Shafiqs and spare them the need to send any correspondence owls. Ergo, no inexplicable inquiries would find their way into Gamal’s or Shadya’s hands, nor would my parents be waiting on any letters from them detailing our holiday activities. It was the perfect solution. 

I arrived at the Eldlunds’ feeling rather proud of myself, if you must know. Outsmarting my parents just heightened the excitement of what already promised to be the best part of the summer months. Liv had spent our time apart planning, I could tell, even though she kept the written itinerary out of my sight so that each new adventure could be a surprise. Truth be told, she could have left everything to happenstance and I’d still have seen so many new things. A lot of items in her house alone were complete novelties to me. 

I was poking around her room on that first day and saw a funny little folded box on a shelf. It was pretty easy to open up, but I couldn’t for the life of me guess what purpose it could possibly serve. It had a dark glass circle right in the middle that made me think of those peepholes in the front doors of houses, and there was a long indented ridge at the bottom. I turned the box from side to side in my hands but my grip slipped on this little red button jutting off it. The next thing I knew, it made this godawful whirring noise and spat out a blank square. Liv came into the room just in time to hear me swear creatively and nearly drop the blasted thing on the floor. She made a quick save and caught the box before it could crash to the ground. As she returned the contraption to the shelf, Liv told me its name, and I remember thinking it sounded cold. Polarvoid. No, that doesn’t look right. I’ve added an extra letter or something. Ah, to hell with it, the point is that it was a kind of camera. 

“Is that why it spits out a white picture?” I asked. “It just shows empty space near the ice caps every time?“ 

Liv got a chuckle out of that one. She explained that the blankness of the image was temporary. Liv pulled the square free from the camera and shook it a few times, then placed it down on her desk. I must have still looked pretty skeptical, because she urged me to watch closely and even offered a chair so I could observe with my face right over the photograph. 

Shadows started forming on the square. Colors were unfolding across the white the way that flowers open in springtime. I started to recognize pieces of furniture and decorations from Liv’s room, but they were blurry in contrast to the oval dominating the center of the image. It was my face, caught in an unfortunate just-shat-myself expression. “Lovely,” I grumbled, but that didn’t stop me from staying completely still until every detail of that picture had filled into place. Liv wanted to know what I thought of it. “I’d like them better if they moved so we didn’t have that face immortalized for all eternity, but I suppose they do have the benefit of coming back to you much faster.”

That little incident must’ve given Liv an idea because, the very next morning, she took me out and bought me a gift: a disposable muggle camera. She told me I could use it to remember our visit. Which I did, and I made quite a tourist of myself. The land near her house really is beautiful – flowers, clear water, and so much green. Liv and her mother were very patient with me. Neither one ever barked for me to stop falling behind or tried to stop me from going off in my own direction as we wandered. That wasn’t their way and, although it was nice, it took me time to get used to it. There was so much freedom, not just to explore but also to express. I never felt like conversations were censored at their dinner table or like the real messages had to be hidden somewhere between the lines. They were so open. And happy. I’d never experienced a family meal with real laughter like that, not the forced polite kind at social functions where people are just trying to stay in each other’s good graces. 

The Eldlunds are quite artsy as well. Liv let me try my hand at a little painting. It seemed like it could all go wrong so quickly, and I ended up starting with a single dot on the canvas. Liv had to quite literally take my hand in hers and coax my arm into that first full brushstroke. I loosened up a little more after that and got a bit carried away. Flecks of paint were in my hair and on my hands. At one point, when Liv leaned round to see how my work was coming along, I darted my brush out on impulse and touched it to the tip of her nose. Her mum said it made her look like a reindeer. That struck me as odd since I’m pretty sure reindeer have brown or white fur, not red. Maybe it’s a muggle thing. Either way, it was pretty funny to watch how Liv’s nose twitched a little until she was able to clean the paint off her skin. As for the painting itself, well… let’s call the finished product abstract and let me save face, shall we? 

The one Liv painted of me about a week later was much better (no surprise). She saw me sitting at the window, snacking on a green apple, and asked if she could have me pose for a while. Since that basically required me to stay comfy and keep eating, I was more than happy to oblige. I know that I clearly am no expert at art. It’s questionable if I should ever be allowed to be near a brush or paints again but, even so, I feel like I can fairly say that Liv really knows her stuff. Watercolors seem so difficult to me. Difficult to keep from running, difficult to control the details, difficult not to make your painting one big dripping mess. But Liv does it. Over and over again. And she makes it look easy. When she really got to work on that portrait, I think she became more relaxed than I was. I started overthinking everything. Would I mess up the light and shadows if I readjusted my legs? Should I eat more slowly so she had a chance to get the apple right before I chewed too close to the core? Did I need to keep my head angled the same way? Meanwhile, from what I could see in my peripheral vision, Liv was perfectly at ease. She had checked out and was well and truly “in the zone.” I could feel the weight of her eyes on me, but it wasn’t in a judgmental or critical way, simply studying. It gave me gooseflesh, but I resisted the urge to rub my arms and clear it away. When she’d finished working, I was finally allowed to leave the window and see the end result. I could hardly form the words to tell her how well she’d done. If it weren’t for the fact that the girl in the painting was wearing my outfit and holding the same snack, I’d have argued it wasn’t me at all. Not to say that it didn’t look like me – it did, remarkably so – but she’d made me look… well, a lot of things, really. Thoughtful. Serene. Beautiful. Variations of “that’s really good” felt horribly inadequate, but I could only seem to stammer rewordings of that same sentiment while I stared at this other version of myself who seemed to have it all together much more than I did.

Liv also introduced me to her taste in music. We played so many songs during my stay there. If we were in her room during the daytime, there was music of some sort playing even if it was just softly in the background. A lot of wizard bands reference wizarding world things more than is strictly necessary (have you heard anything by the Weird Sisters?), so it was a little odd at first not to hear the artists comparing themselves to magical creatures or characters from our folklore, but I liked it. Liv wanted me to be able to take some of it with me even after I went back home. She started compiling a mix tape and gave me a device I could use to play it. I’d have to hide the player in my trunk, but it’d hardly be the first thing I’d concealed from my watchful mother. 

I suppose that brings us to the specific memory I’ve been meaning to tell you this whole time. It was somewhere in the middle of my visit with the Eldlunds and, in an extremely rare occurrence, I woke up before Liv one morning. The house was quiet and still; I was pretty sure her mum wasn’t awake yet, either. So I leaned over the side of her bed and scooped up the player with the mix tape already inside. I slid the earpieces into place and pushed the button on the top. The songs Liv had put together for me were so peaceful and relaxing. They were the perfect thing to keep me company in the pale, early morning light with no one else stirring but me. I sat upright with a pillow propped behind my back and looked lazily around the room. My hand started playing with something soft and smooth beneath my fingertips, letting it run across my knuckles and slip through my grasp before picking it up again. I think I was three songs in before I realized that I’d been absentmindedly playing with Liv’s hair. I froze and sort of held my breath. I tried to make sure she was still fully asleep since I was pretty sure that’d be an odd thing to wake and find me doing. Liv didn’t show any signs of consciousness. She rolled over, and that brought her body right up against mine. If it’s possible, I think I moved even less then. I held my arms up, away from her, and just stared down at her face. No, the features were too smooth; she wasn’t faking being deep in her dreams. The sudden closeness was completely innocent and unintentional. Still, I swear on my best crystal phials that I could feel my heart beating in the back of my throat. Prickles of sweat broke out across my forehead. 

That’s when I knew I was in trouble. 

I didn’t want to let myself call it what it was, not yet, but I knew that what I was feeling for Liv went beyond the bounds of the friendship we’d established. 

My arms were starting to get tired by this point. One I was safely able to lower to my side, but the other was directly above Liv. I knew I was going to have to put it down, to allow my skin to touch hers and rest behind her back. But actually doing so felt like a more pleasant version of having your limb wake up after the circulation was cut off from it. I had these tingles from shoulder to wrist. I had to keep consciously telling my lungs to inhale and exhale. 

Oh, this was bad. Bad, bad, bad. 

And yet I couldn’t ignore the heat from her, seeping through my pyjamas, or the way the ends of her hair tickled the crook of my elbow. My hand was shaking the whole time, but I let myself rub my thumb just once across her back, between the shoulder blades. It was a very quick gesture, but it made me choke on my own pulse again. 

Later, when Liv started to stir a little and murmur drowsily, I panicked and tried to rearrange our position. I put my arm behind my head and let the other fall past the edge of the mattress, shutting my eyes and trying to look sprawled out in unconsciousness. I guess it worked. Liv made no remark or sudden movement, except to gently take off my headphones and stop the tape player, presumably so I wouldn’t get tangled in the cord. Her hand grazed my shirt as she lifted the player off my torso, and it took everything in me to keep my face completely relaxed. Then she leaned over me to place the whole thing on her nightstand. It’s a good thing she wasn’t looking down at me because the clench in my jaw must’ve been visible as I focused on keeping my breathing even. She settled back into place and tried to wake me with a soft shake of my arm. I pretended to peek out from behind my eyelids for the first time and smiled at her. The smile she gave back to me made my stomach pull a Wronski Feint.

There’s not much else to tell about that day. Everything was pretty normal after that, and I was trying to be normal as well. I can’t say I didn’t embarrass myself once or twice along the way. There were a few clumsy mishaps: tripping, running into things, dropping stuff. Thankfully, since I tended to let Liv lead the way because she knew where we were going, she didn’t see all of it.

I did do one more thing. Just for myself, just to remember. I was pretty sure I would want it later, and I was right about that. I took a picture with Liv in it while she wasn’t looking at me. I wanted one to keep of her just existing, just relaxing and being herself. I’ll admit, the reason behind it was partly for my collection of photographs from the visit but also partly because of what I was starting to feel. It ended up being a good thing that I took the picture, though. I needed it more than I knew. The following year at school, when things were falling apart, I still had that image to look at and her mix tape to listen to while we weren’t together. It probably wasn’t the healthiest way of dealing with the fact that I was too afraid to go public and she was seeing someone else, but it was all I really had. 

Well, this took a sad turn at the end, didn’t it? It got better after that, I swear. Slytherins aren’t known for swallowing their pride quickly, but I did eventually get my shit together and override that built-in lean toward self-preservation. And you know what? I’d deal with all of it again – the pain, the complete nonsense from some of the people around us (my family included), the loneliness, the fear, everything – because it was worth it. Liv was infinitely worth it. If I had to survive the misery to be happy, I’m fine with calling that a fair trade.

The Fishbone and the Firelily (Part 18)

The sky was painted a watercolor grey, accented by slivery-blue bolts of light that sent pangs of longing through Azula’s soul. She studied the jagged lines as they fractured the sky, dissipating with a series of ground-rumbling bangs. Even from such a distance the storm was powerful.

 “Alright everyone breaktime’s over, we need to picking things up a little.” Sokka rushed them to gather their belongings. His focus never wavering from the gathering storm-dark. “I’m hoping that we’ll be in Hira’a before the storm gets bad.”

 Katara nodded in agreement, “if we work fast enough, I think that we’ll be able to make it.” The expression she wore lacked the confidence in her voice conveyed, her closeness to Aang only solidified this.

 “I hear that storms here get pretty wild.” Suki bit her lip. With this, Toph began shoving her things into her pack haphazardly. The Kyoshi warrior stooped down to help her shove the rest of her stuff in.

 The only person who didn’t seem bothered was Azula. The woman held her pack to her chest, observing the sky as she waited for everyone else to depart. The wind stirred her hair, it was already picking up some. By the time Sokka informed her that they were on their way, several fat raindrops had already splattered across her arms. She slipped Muzuko into her pocket and trailed alongside Sokka. The group as a whole agreed, without vocalization, that discussion wasn’t needed—each person falling into  their own silent focus. The group was as oblivious to her thoughts as Azula was to theirs. The princess herself had thoughts mostly pertaining to how thankful she was that the last few days had been generous to her; kind enough to allow her to recover in full. By the present, she had all, if not, most of her strength back and she was going to need it if the incoming storm was as intense as they all predicted. Another raindrop or two smacked her on the neck. The horizon was taking on a bruised purple shade, with it a gloom befell the jungle. Serving to punctuate the dimness, much of the jungle white noise died away. Sokka pressed in closer to her. She could smell it on the wind, the beginnings of the storm.

 It was starting to drizzle. A soft mist crawled at their feet, twisting around their ankles like some yearning phantom. Azula waded through it in a wistful sort of haze, momentarily lost within a daydream of home. She saw no real danger to keep her attention so she let her mind wander. Every now and again she would be pulled from her dream by a roll of thunder. After the first few clasps of it, Azula found that she could hear nothing at all. Save for a low croak from Muzuko, the other animals seemed to have burrowed away. Without realizing it, the group seemed to huddle together. Sokka’s arm constantly brushed hers as they moved forward. Various splinters of lightning illuminated the world around them. Sokka didn’t miss the sense of longing in her eyes, that grew with each flash. Every single strike seemed to be a reminder of what she’d lost. Sokka brushed his finger tips over hers.

  Just a little past noon, even Muzuko had grown eerily quiet. He was sensing something dismal in the air a certain danger that would come with the clouds. It was only with the toad-squirrel’s unease, that Azula started to feel rather off-put. Everyone seemed to be feeding off of the negative energy the person next to them emitted. Unbeknownst to her, Azula—for a while anyhow—had been the one they looked at to alleviate some of the alarm. With her weariness added to the mix, the nervous energy went unchecked. The sky opened up and wept upon them in full fury. Muzuko took the initiative to tuck himself back into Azula’s pocket. She squinted against the rain.

 “We’re not gonna make it back like this.” Aang hollered over the wind.

 “We’ll find a place to wait it out.” Sokka answered with just as much volume. Though not exactly invited, he came to loop his arm around Azula’s.

 “We should have been looking for shelter before it got like this.” Katara grumbled.

 “I was looking.” Azula replied. “The best I saw was a large boulder, hardly a good shelter.”

 “Whoa!” Suki shouted, her foot had found a slick layer of sludge. The girl fell back at once and would have landed face-up in the mud had Azula not reclaimed her agile reflexes. Suki took a moment to compose herself before offering the princess a hasty thank you.

 “Can’t Toph make us a shelter?” Azula asked.

 “I can try.” Toph replied. “I don’t know how sturdy it will be.” She slammed her foot on the ground four times over, coaxing a slab of rock up from the ground with each blow. From the side of one of the rocks, she crafted a roof. The makeshift shelter held for a fair amount of time. The earth below them was shaking profoundly with the thunder, each tiny shift rendered Toph’s stones less stable. The earthbender gave it her best to keep up with the cracks forming and the direction each slab was drifting in. Katara clung tight to Aang. It might have held had it not taken an almost direct shot of lightning. Sokka was taken aback once again by the yearning in Azula’s eyes. For it, he held her tighter fearing deep down, that she would actually reach for the bolt.

 “It’s not going to hold.” Toph confirmed. She toppled the structure herself, deciding that the more control they had, the better.

 As the rainfall grew thicker, the fog grew denser. Sighting an adequate place to ride the storm out became that much more difficult. The rain was pelting the group with such ferocity Azula had to wonder if their were balls of hail in the mix. She found herself drenched and miserable, she stole a quick peek into her pocket and established that Mazuko was just as despondent as she. “You see a place for us to stay?” Sokka asked.

 “Why do I always have to do everything!?” She snapped.

 Sokka flinched and hurried to come up with a good thing to cool her sudden outburst. “Because you’re the smartest and most observant of us.”

 “I’m not in the mood for your ass kissing right now, Sokka.”

 He lifted his arms. “Alright, sorry.” For a moment she thought that he would sulk off and leave her to her lonesome—the notion had definitely crossed his mind. But the look on her face urged him to stay. She wouldn’t fess up, and she wouldn’t apologize but he sensed that she hadn’t intended on going off on him. “This is an aggravating situation.”

 “Yes.” Azula agreed. She was apparently in the mood for company, but not for words. He was pleased to realize that he was starting to catch onto her moods.

 “Hey!” Suki called. “I think that’s a cave.”

 “Oh, please let it be a cave.” Katara replied.

 With a renewed sense of energy, the group hastened their pace. They came to a place where the ground opened up. “Now all we need is a fire.” Aang declared, sapping even more joy out of Azula. He took it upon himself to fill in for her. She apprehended that her karma for chiding Sokka was instantaneous. Once more, she felt utterly useless—she couldn’t save their makeshift shelter, she couldn’t find them one to take its place, and she couldn’t even provide one with light. They filed in one by one leaving her as the only one refusing to enter the tunnel. “What are you waiting for?” Sokka asked, “it’s awful out there.”

 “I’m not going in there.” Azula vowed, from her tone he knew that, that was the end of it. “I’ve had it with caves and tunnels and rocks. I’ll take my chance with the storm.” As if to reiterate, she seated herself. She took Muzuko from her pocket. “Don’t lose him.”

 “Azula.”

 She thrusted the toad-squirrel at him, “don’t lose him.” She repeated.

 “Is there anything I can do to get you to come into this cave?” He asked.

 “No.”

 He took the critter from her hand and sat at the mouth of the cave until Katara beckoned him to come deeper within. He supposed he should look around. The cave itself was certainly less of a cave and more like a burrow of sorts. There was a hole at the back of the tunnel, he suspected that was where the cave would truly begin. From a distance he watched Azula linger outside with the rain tumbling off of her in rivers. She was shivering, drenched, the very picture of forlornness. Yet she refused to budge, however reckless it was, he had to admire her perseverance. Splashes of mud from their hustle to get to the shelter dotted her face, mostly the right side. It was running with the droplets of water down to her neck. Even from where he stood, he could see her trembling.

 Suki wandered towards the mouth of the tunnel. “It’s really warm in here.” She noted. “Aang has a fire going, we’re gonna roast some leechy nuts.”

 Azula took the statements passively.

 “Sokka’s worried.” She added.

 Azula crossed her arms.

 “We don’t want you to hurt yourself out there.” Suki tried again. “You just got over a fever, do you want a cold to take its place?”

 Still the princess didn’t budge.

 “Alright fine.” Suki looked back at Sokka. He was stroking the toad-squirrel with the demeanor of a kicked puppy. Maybe if he hadn’t looked so pitiful Suki would have left the former firebender to her own self-destructive inclinations. But his concern was contagious so she found herself trooping out of the cave and dragging a vigorously protesting princess into the tunnel.

 “You have a lot of nerve, handling me that way.” Azula spat.

 “Just trying to help.” Suki replied.

 The group was becoming increasingly brave around her, and Azula didn’t quite know how to take it. Just how much intimidation had she lost? She was sure that she hadn’t shown that much vulnerability in front of them. It had to be her lack of fire, she decided. “Do you think I can’t fight back?”

 “I don’t think you want to.” Sokka replied. “If there wasn’t at least one part of you that wanted to join us, I doubt Suki would have gotten you in here.”

 “Come sit down.” Katara patted the ground next to her.

 “The leechy nuts are almost done.” Aang added.

 The fury was subsiding. It was trust, she comprehended, they were comfortable with her. She drew close to the fire, feeling at once that the vibe of this cave was rather cozy. She still didn’t know how to handle the conclusion she had just come to. She was still shivering when she finally sat down. Aang dropped a couple of toasted lychee nuts into her palm.

 “Here.” Sokka presented.

 “What’s this?” Azula asked.

 “You haven’t worn it in a while.”

 She unfolded the cloth to find Sokka’s hoodie. It was as damp as everything else but the extra layer of cloth would do her some good so she pulled it over her head. In the form of a toad-squirrel in her hair, the princess received a surprise when she flicked the hood up. She didn’t bother to move Muzuko, she was probably warm up there.

 It became increasingly obvious that they would not be in Hira’a by days end. There was no point in complaining so Toph figured it would be a prime time for another round of spooky stories. Azula groaned inwardly, swearing to kick the ass of anyone who made her think of Hogoseki. By the end of it she had to admit that she was having a good time. A time that became even better when the flames were fading into little more than a soft glow. A time at which the others had grown quiet and Sokka tossed his blanket over his body and Azula’s. The tunnel floor wasn’t the picture of luxury nor comfort, but Sokka made it so. Her back was to the Water Tribesman but she could feel him toying with her hair and sometime later felt a kiss on the back of her neck. The sound of the passing storm eased the turmoil in her mind—the very turmoil that it had created in the first place.

 Just when she thought that she was the only one left awake, Suki spoke up. “You know I’m glad you came in here with us. Believe it or not, I was worried about you too.”

 “You were?”

 Suki laughed, “just a little.”

How to Make a Watercolor Brush in Adobe Illustrator

What You'll Be Creating

Always wondered how to make a watercolor brush in Illustrator, but never knew exactly where to start?

Although the software already comes with a default set of watercolor brushes, you can always build your own Illustrator brushes using three simple methods that I'm going to present in the following tutorial.

The ability to create your own vector brushes can easily make your work stand out, taking a common design idea and making it your own.

See how easy it is to take an ordinary paint brush such as the Bristle Brush, and turn it into a tool that you can use for drawing and shading in Illustrator.

So, if you want to learn how to make a brush in Illustrator, follow me as I'm going to show you how easy it is.

1. How to Use the Default Watercolor Brushes Found within Adobe Illustrator

By default, Adobe Illustrator comes with its own pack of watercolor brushes, which can be accessed from within the Brushes panel.

Step 1

Bring up the Brushes panel, and then click on the Brush Libraries Menu located in the bottom-left corner, and navigate to Artistic > Artistic_Watercolor.

Step 2

A new window should pop up, giving you the option of choosing from 12 different available brushes.

Step 3

To use any of the watercolor brushes, simply select it and then grab the Paintbrush Tool (B) and draw as you would normally do, using either the mouse or a graphics tablet.

Step 4

You can easily adjust the brush’s color by changing its Stroke value as you would do with any other shape.

Step 5

You can also adjust the thickness of a brush or brush stroke by increasing or decreasing its Stroke’s Weight, depending on what you’re trying to achieve.

2. How to Create Your Own Custom Watercolor Brushes

Although the included brushes are there, they're a little basic. What if you wanted to create one of your own—one that would be a little bit more attractive, let’s say?

Well, you can, and I’m going to show you three different methods of doing so.

2.1. How to Create a Custom Watercolor Brush Using the Bristle Brush

According to Adobe, a Bristle Brush allows you to create “natural and fluid brush strokes that simulate the effects of painting with real brushes and media such as watercolor”.

By default, Illustrator comes with its own set of bristle brushes, which you can easily access by opening up the Brushes panel, and then clicking on the Brush Libraries Menu.

A new dropdown list will appear, giving you eight predefined brush categories, the fourth one being Bristle Brush.

Once you open up the Bristle Brush Library, a new window will appear giving you a total of 14 different assets that you can choose from, each one producing a completely different result.

But what if we wanted to create our own custom bristle brush? Well, you can actually create your very own brush from scratch, as we are going to see in the following moments.

Step 1

Start by opening up the Brushes panel again, and then simply clicking on the New Brush button found in the bottom-right corner.

Step 2

A new window prompt will appear, asking you what type of brush you want to create. We’re going to make sure we select Bristle Brush and then click on OK.

Step 3

As soon as you hit OK, Illustrator will bring up the Bristle Brush Options window, where you’ll be able to give your new brush a custom name and then fine tune its different settings. For now, let’s name it so that we can easily identify it later on.

Step 4 

If we move down, we’ll see an option called Shape, which lets us choose from ten different brush head types, giving us a quick preview so that we know what to expect.

For this current example, I’m going to go with a Round Point one, but feel free to try something different if you feel like experimenting on your own.

Step 5

We then have Size, which as the name suggests allows us to control the width or diameter of our brush. Personally, I’m going to set it to 6 mm, which should make it easier to see what the other options do.

Quick tip: if you take a close look above the current option, you’ll notice that you have a little preview window, which will show you exactly how your settings will affect the final brush, so make sure you keep a close eye on it once you start fine tuning it.

Step 6

Moving on down, we have Bristle Length, which lets us adjust the distance between the bristle’s tip and the point where it meets the handle.

By definition, a bristle is a short, stiff coarse hair of filament from certain animals, usually pigs, used for making brushes. That being said, any setting that has the word “bristle” within its label will actually control features of the brush’s hair segments.

When adjusting the length of the bristle, you need to know that the greater the length is, the denser and wider the brush will end up being.

I’m going to increase the default value to 120%, which will give me a slightly greater length.

Step 7

Next, we have Bristle Density, which controls the number of bristles found within the brush’s tip and is calculated based on the brush Size and Bristle Length.

I’m going to go with a value of 20%, which will give me that nice transparent overlapping that watercolor paints are known for.

Step 8

We then have Bristle Thickness, which as the name suggests controls the thickness of the brush’s composing bristles.

For our current example, I’m going to set the thickness to 20%, but feel free to go higher if you want to.

Step 9

The fifth option is Paint Opacity, and it controls the opacity level of the paint, which can vary from translucent to fully opaque.

Since I want the paint to be relatively subtle, I’m going to lower the default value to 64%.

Step 10

Finally, we have Stiffness, which controls the rigidity of the bristles. The lower the value you end up using, the more flexible the bristles will become, which will affect how the traced paint ends up looking.

Since I want the brush to look and feel more flexible, I’m going to use a value of just 24%.

3. How to Use the Custom Watercolor Bristle Brush

So we’ve just finished creating our custom watercolor bristle brush, but how do we actually put it to use now?

Step 1

To use the brush, all you have to do is select it from within the Brushes panel, and then start drawing using the Paintbrush Tool (B).

Now, personally I’m not much of a painter myself, but if you add a graphics tablet and some patience to the mix, you can quickly take it up a level once you get used to how it handles.

Step 2

You can easily adjust the color of the brush or brush strokes by simply selecting them and then changing their Stroke color as you would normally do.

Step 3

You can also adjust the thickness of the brush strokes, by opening up the Stroke panel and then simply lowering or increasing them depending on what you’re trying to achieve.

Step 4

If you need to, you can always adjust the bristle brush by double-clicking on it from within the Brushes panel, and then simply carrying out the desired adjustments using the live preview, which will update all your brush strokes once you hit OK.

4. How to Create a Custom Watercolor Brush Using a Scanned Image

This second method of creating a watercolor brush is a little more elaborate, since we’ll be combining real-life, traditional painting methods with digital ones.

That being said, you’ll need the following resources in order to get started:

watercolor paints

watercolor paper

some paint brushes

a cup of water

an image scanner or phone camera

Step 1

Start by putting a little bit of water on your paper using a clean brush. Then, quickly add some color, letting it spread as you drive the brush through the water. Give it a couple of goes, and once you feel you’ve got an interesting result, move on to the next step.

Step 2

Using either an image scanner or your phone’s camera, transfer the image to your computer, and then isolate the brush stroke segments using Photoshop or any other image editing tool that you have at hand.

Take your time, making sure to remove the white background, and then save it using a file format that supports transparency. Depending on the method used to import the brush strokes, you can also adjust the resulting image by playing with its exposure level, brightness, etc.

Step 3

Next, we’re going to isolate each of the brush stroke segments and then save them as their own transparent image file. Once you’re done, go back into Illustrator and create a new document (Control-N), and then place the desired image inside it by going to File > Place, or by using the Shift-Control-P keyboard shortcut.

Step 4

Once we’ve placed the file within Illustrator, we need to rasterize it by heading over to Object > Rasterize, making sure to set the Background to Transparent from within the pop-up window.

Step 5

Next, we’re going to want to considerably resize the rasterized image so that we can turn it into a proper digital brush.

Step 6

All we have to do now is open up the Brushes panel, and with the image selected, simply click on the New Brush button.

Step 7

A new pop-up window should instantly appear, giving you a list of five different types of brushes that you can create. Make sure you select Art Brush and then hit OK.

Step 8

A new Art Brush Options prompt will appear, allowing you to adjust some of its settings, including its name. All you have to do now is choose a Direction for your brush, and after you’ve made sure that the Stretch to Fit Stroke Length and Adjust corners and folds to prevent overlaps options are checked, simply click on OK.

How to Use the Custom Watercolor Scanned Brush

So we’ve gone through the process of taking a real-life brush stroke and turning it into a digital brush, but how do we go about using it?

Well, it’s really simple. Just select it from within the Brushes panel and the use the Paintbrush Tool (B) to draw the desired brush strokes.

Unfortunately, since we’re using an image, we can’t change the colors of the brush. On the other hand, if we need to change some of other settings like its Direction, you can easily do that by double-clicking on it from within the Brushes panel and carrying them out from within the Art Brush Options window prompt.

5. How to Create a Custom Watercolor Brush Using the Image Trace Function

The third and last method is probably my favorite one since it gives us total control over our brush, as we are going to see in the following moments.

Step 1

As we did with the previous method, start by placing an image of the desired brush stroke in Illustrator and then quickly scaling it down to something smaller, making sure to Rasterize it afterwards (Object > Rasterize > Background > Transparent).

Step 2

Open up the Image Trace window (Window > Image Trace), and then set the Preset to High Fidelity Photo, making sure to lower the number of Colors, since depending on your scanned brush stroke, it can greatly affect your computer’s performance, due to the high number of Paths and Anchors that the software will end up producing.

If you really want to, you can expand the Advanced settings, where you have a few more options that allow you to control the number of Paths and Curves and the amount of Noise, but personally I’m just going to leave them as they are for this example.

Step 3

Once you’re ready, all you have to do is click on the Expand button found within the interface’s top bar, which will convert our image into a plethora of paths.

Step 4

Next, we need to remove all the white space surrounding our brush, by first clicking on the white space found inside the resulting trace’s bounding box, and then going to Select > Same > Fill Color and immediately pressing Delete.

Step 5

At this point, we can open up the Brushes panel and create a new brush, making sure to set its type to Art Brush.

Step 6

As soon as you hit OK, the Art Brush Options window prompt will appear. Here we’ll want to give the brush a custom name, and then change its Colorization Method to Tints and Shades so that we can change its color later on.

Leave the Key Color as the default, making sure that the Stretch to Fit Stroke Length and Adjust corners and folds to prevent overlaps options are checked. Then simply click on OK.

6. How to Use the Image Traced Watercolor Brush

At this point, you might be wondering why we created a second brush using a scanned image. Well, if the second method didn’t offer us any versatility when it came to editing the color of our brush, this third one fixes the problem, opening up a world of possibilities.

Step 1

To use the brush, you first have to set a color for your Stroke, and then simply follow the same process as before, where you select it from within the Brushes panel and then use the Paintbrush Tool (B) to draw the desired brush strokes.

Step 2

If you want to, you can easily change the color of the brush by giving its Stroke a new value, which will always produce an interesting effect, as you can see. Note that not all colors will work perfectly, so play around with them until you find those that do.

Expand Your Brush Library

Want to build a larger library brush, but don’t quite have the time to make your own?

Well, if that’s the case, GraphicRiver can be a great solution, since it offers a large selection of vector watercolor brushes such as these ones.

Watercolor Vector Art Brushes for Illustrator

This is a collection of 11 hand-made watercolor Art Brushes only for Adobe Illustrator. Great for creating realistic watercolor texture, pattern, or background elements for your design. Just choose the brush and draw. You can change a color, opacity and brush size that gives you endless possibilities for creativity!

Watercolor Vector Art Brushes for Illustrator by GraphicRiver

Watercolor Design Kit

The kit features 33 Watercolor Styles, 50+ Watercolor Brushes, and 20+ Watercolor Blobs (vector) in ASL, ABR and AI file formats.

Watercolor Design Kit by GraphicRiver

Watercolor Brushes and Textures

This is a set of hand-made watercolor brushes and textures in vector format. The main folder contains .Ai and .EPS files. Just drop the desired brush into the Brush panel and create your design.

Watercolor Brushes and Textures by GraphicRiver

Vector Watercolor Brushes

This is a set of hand-made watercolor brushes in vector format. Included files: AI (CS5), EPS (10 version), JPEG.

Vector Watercolor Brushes by GraphicRiver

120 Watercolor Vector Brush Set

This set includes 120 clean watercolor vector art brushes for Adobe Illustrator. These brushes were created by hand from actual watercolor paintings. Download them now and use these brushes in your designs to get that awesome watercolor feeling.

120 Watercolor Brushes by GraphicRiver

Great Job!

So there you have it: three completely different methods of creating your own watercolor brushes that you can use in any future projects.

As always, I hope you had fun working on the project and most importantly managed to learn something new and useful in the process. That being said, if you have any questions, feel free to post them within the comments section and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can!

Expand Your Adobe Illustrator Skills!

Just started out using Adobe Illustrator, but haven't quite gotten the hang of it? Well, I've taken the time to put together this little list which should keep you going for the following days!

10 Illustrator Tools Every Designer Should Be Using

In this article, we’re going to talk about the top ten most useful tools in Adobe Illustrator. Whether you’re into icon design, illustrations or any other...

Andrei Stefan

14 Mar 2016

Graphic Design

Different Image File Types and Formats

From file type to file format, we're going to explore the meaning of these notions and learn what are the most common images that are used right now.

Andrei Stefan

15 Nov 2018

Graphic Design

How to Create Different Vector Textures Using Adobe Illustrator

Creating interesting textures can sometimes be a difficult and annoying task, especially if you don’t know exactly where to start. In this tutorial, you'll...

Andrei Stefan

28 May 2018

Textures

Illustrator in 60 Seconds: How to Create a Custom Stipple Brush

Always wanted to create your very own Stipple brush, but never knew exactly how? Well, if that's the case you should watch this video since it will show you...

Andrei Stefan

04 Jun 2018

Illustrator Brushes

How to Create a Confetti Brush in Adobe Illustrator

Who else loves brushes in Adobe Illustrator? They're fun to create and play with. As part of "Love Week", I'm going to show you how to create a wedding...

Sharon Milne

25 Jan 2017

Brushes

How to Vector Hair With Brushes in Adobe Illustrator

In this tutorial I'm going to show you how to create one set of brushes (four individual brushes) and then how to create a free flowing, detailed hair style...

Sharon Milne

06 Jun 2017

Illustrator Brushes

Illustrator in 60 Seconds: How to Install and Use a Custom Brush Set

Custom Brushes are one of Illustrator's most attractive features, but sometimes the process of adding them can prove to be a difficult task, especially if...

Andrei Stefan

16 Nov 2016

Illustrator Brushes

How to Create a Soft, Furry Kitten in Adobe Illustrator

It's your resident crazy cat lady / vector fanatic here, with another tutorial which features a feline. This time around, I'm going to show you the...

Sharon Milne

09 May 2017

Animals

from Envato Tuts+ Design & Illustration http://bit.ly/2RPAxMD via http://www.webmasterforum.ws/rankwyz-discount-code-2015-coupons/

The Fault in My Code: Ch. 7

You can read chapter 7 on Ao3 Here

Chapter 7: Two Baby Blues

           Freddie Lounds was waiting outside for him when he descended the steps. He knew because a camera was shoved unceremoniously in his face, the flash blinding him for several seconds.

           “Will Graham, out of retirement in order to catch a killer,” she said, lowering her camera. In the bright light of the day, he knew she’d used the flash in order to disorient him, give herself a few moments to try and get control of the situation. She had two stunning, matching baby blues that were wide-eyed, like she'd miss something if she blinked. He pushed past her and kept walking, pawing at his pocket for his phone to call Beverly and have her look up references to a Great Red Dragon. His skin still tingled from the close proximity to Lecter, and he resisted the urge to touch fingers to his lips.

           “I won’t talk to you, Freddie,” he snapped.

           “It must be bad for Crawford to hunt you down and ask for help, huh? They even have you going after another one for insight.” She kept pace, and he lengthened his stride, glancing up to the fat, puffy clouds that witnessed his struggles with silent mockery.

           “Lounds, you’re a lying sack of shit, and your newspaper is trash,” he said, and his voice spiked, jumped.

           “Is this the first killer they’ve had you profile since-”

           “Lounds.” Will rounded on her and glared, from her paisley tights to her plaid skirt and her hideous chiffon shirt. “Get out of my face.”

           “Just one conversation,” she urged him, unheeding of the way his hands curled to fists. “Come on, let me get the first story out there, and we can tell them whatever it is you want the public to know.”

           “I want them to know you’re a two-bit hack that couldn’t cut it at a real job, so you fell into shit editorials writing bad advertising for miracle cream until they let you get a small spread on the back page because you had a penchant for lying. Then, desperate to catch a break, you snuck into the hospital I was staying at, and you took a fucking photo of me in a hospital bed while I was sleeping so that you could get the scoop on the case to up sales. You gonna tell them that, Freddie? Huh?”

           Freddie stared at him, and the wind tousled her hair, the scent of Suave Watermelon shampoo strong. Her baby blue eyes widened, then narrowed. She had a way of pursing her lips like she was a fox, nose turned to the scent. She laughed, a gentle huff of breath and she tilted her head, tucking a strand behind her ear.

           “You haven’t changed a bit,” she said, pocketing her camera. It wasn’t a compliment. “I’ll see you around.”

           “The hell you will,” he growled, and he stowed away in his car once she was gone, gripping the steering wheel tightly in an effort to ground himself and calm down.

           He hated Freddie Lounds –an understatement. After Garrett Jacob Hobbs, his stint in a psychiatric hospital had been kept quiet, respected. Not for Freddie. She’d climbed the fence, picked the lock to a side door, and found her way into his room where he slept, photos of his gaunt face and the scar along his neck in stark relief to the gloom. Tattler had boasted record sales after that spread, and Freddie Lounds went from back page, six inch column to front page work.

           That was after she’d snuck into his hospital room to get a good photo of his colostomy bag and stomach scar, courtesy of Garrett Jacob Hobbs. She had a penchant for unwanted flash photography.

           He called Jack for the distraction, and to relay news. Jack picked up on the first ring.

           “It’s not Budge, but we brought Budge in,” he said by way of greeting.

           “Freddie Lounds is –what?”

           “I went with a couple of Baltimore cops to question the bastard, and when I stepped outside to take a call, I came back to one of them dead on the floor, and the basement door open. Found the other officer dead, and Budge tried to get me with some violin wire.”

           Will chewed on his bottom lip, mouth working. Outside, he watched a man smoking on the bench, and the couple beside him resented it. Their misery and refusal to speak up ruminated in the smoke overhead. All three of them were troubled with unsaid words. So was he, but at least he had a car as a barrier.

           “I was only gone three hours,” he told Jack quietly.

           “Three is enough,” Jack replied.

           “You okay?”

           “He didn’t get me,” Jack assured him. “He’s missing an ear now, though.”

           “A true punishment for a musician.”

           “There’s human remains here, but it’s all intestines, and not just from two people. We’ve got him in custody and we’ve got fingerprints, saliva, you name it. He’s killed people, but he’s not the one. Looks like he was making strings out of human remains. Katz called it cat gut strings.”

           “Rather than kill a cat, he harvested from man,” Will said.

           “Well, we’ve got him and a whole basement full of enough to lock him up good.” Jack would have sounded triumphant if he didn’t sound so tired. Two dead cops for one living killer. A bad trade, no matter who was concerned.

           “He’s not the one,” Will echoed, and he drummed fingers on the steering wheel. “But he is one.”

           “Good eye, Will. You found a killer without even really looking.”

           “I only looked because he sounded like a killer,” Will said. “He had the knack for it, in Lecter’s notes.”

           “Either way, next stop is tracking down Francis Dolarhyde. Bastard better behave a bit better.”

           “About the dragon; can you have someone look into historical references to a red dragon? I have something that I think I can use.”

           “Lecter give you a –what’d you call it? A bone?”

           “Of a sort,” Will said distractedly. He turned the car over and pulled away, heading towards the hotel. He left behind the smoker and the unhappy couple, although he couldn’t leave behind Lounds’ words and her knowing sneer. He took those with him to wrestle with later. “He’s transforming, Jack. He’s not killing, he’s becoming.”

           “Becoming what?”

           “The Red Dragon.”

-

           He sent a message to Jack to forgo someone finding the ties to different red dragons because a quick search on google gave him exactly what he needed:

           The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed in Sun

           William Blake was the artist, and Will stared at the photos online for a long time, something funny twisting and constricting in his chest. He chewed on the pen cap he’d absconded with from the FBI. He thought of Freddie and slopped coffee all over the saucer by his laptop, flickers of angry embers occasionally lighting up at the thought of her smug, unruffled face.

           “And there appeared a great wonder in heaven; a woman clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet, and upon her head a crown of twelve stars: and she being with child cried, travailing in birth, and pained to be delivered. And there appeared another wonder in heaven; and behold a great red dragon, having seven heads and ten horns, and seven crowns upon his heads. And his tail drew the third part of the stars of heaven, and did cast them to the earth: and the dragon stood before the woman which was ready to be delivered, for to devour her child as soon as it was born,” he murmured. He blew on the coffee, took a sip, and grimaced; he’d added too many coffee grounds. Some got through the filter and stuck to his tongue.

           Soul Stealer probably didn’t like his name written like that in the news, seeing as how he saw himself as the Great Red Dragon instead. Rather, that he was Becoming the Great Red Dragon.

           He needed to see it in person. He needed to walk in Soul Stealer’s shoes, see what he first saw that made him think as he did. Another quick search showed that one of the watercolors was held at the Brooklyn Museum of Art, while two were in DC and another in Pennsylvania.

           He called Jack to make sure they’d let him in to see it privately, then paced in the room, rocking from heel to toe when he reached the wall before turning and pacing back. He considered calling Molly, but after his close brush with Lecter earlier in the day, he felt that it was best if he didn’t. She didn’t deserve that. What had he told Beverly? It was a choice to choose the soulmate? What a load of shit. That, or he was weak.

           Better yet, he was weak. If Saul left Beverly, it was because he was an ass hole. If Will kept lying to Molly, it as because he was an ass hole. Fair was fair. There was no one better at self deprecation than Will Graham.

           He lay in bed for a long time, staring at the ceiling and thinking about the woman clothed in sun. He wondered if Soul Stealer thought that the women he ‘changed’ were being elevated to a place in heaven much like that, or if in his Becoming, they were being stolen away to hell.

-

           Brooklyn Museum of Art boasted a glorious fan of stairs where people liked to pose for wedding photos, homecoming photos, and apparently soulmate bonding photos. The last was made painfully obvious when just inside the doors, satin streamers lined floor to ceiling with ‘One Hundred Years of Souls’ emblazoned along their fronts. At the desk, a cheery receptionist greeted him with two baby blues, one of them two shades lighter than the other.

           “Are you here for One Hundred Years of Souls?” she asked happily. Just behind her, a tour guide was herding a small group of couples across the rich marbled floor, each one paired off with their matching eyes, and mouths wide with anticipation. He grimaced at the display, making money off of chemical pairings. It was about as sickening as Valentine’s Day to him, taking something that was, at best, a cringe-inducing attempt at romance and mass marketing it for the sake of profit.

           “I’m Dr. Will Graham,” he said, forcing himself to look away from the group, “and I’m here to see-”

           “Oh, right, right; I have a note here for you. Let me just-” she rolled about behind the desk, gathering a pamphlet and a visitor’s pass up in a neat bundle, passing it back to him. “There we are. Mr. Wessler will see you downstairs.”

           “Thank you.”

           “If you have time after, Dr. Graham, you should really see the exhibit. It just launched last week, and it’s amazing. They even study soulmate violence depicted in the art, and it’s just…wow. Wow. Donna Smith’s work from the 60’s is featured, and so is the Burning Times for soulmates in Europe. It's just...wow.”

           “Wow,” Will echoed.

           It was cooler going into the basement, and if Mr. Wessler was a fan of One Hundred Years of Souls, he said nothing about it. For that, Will was glad. When the door dinged and opened to a room of muted colors and low lights, he stepped out and looked around for the director that told Jack they’d discuss the artwork with him.

           The back of his neck prickled at the silence. Uneasily, he walked around the corner to rows upon rows of tables, but there was no director; just a measly binder laid out with a bare page.

           Will stared down at the bare page, the notation at the bottom boasting The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed in Sun, William Blake, watercolors. There was no watercolor there, though; it was a blank page with a dour light on it, and when there was the distinct sound of a body hitting the floor, he turned and ran to the elevator, pulse spasming.

           He never reached it.

           Strong, capable hands lifted Will and launched him back, sending him flying into one of the tables where he flipped and fell to the other side on his hands and knees, wheezing out a breath. He had the disorienting feeling of being lifted by the back of his jacket, and he was thrown again, slamming into the pole in the center of the room, cracking the back of his head against it. It felt much like an egg cracking against the crown of his skull –a warm pain oozed and slithered down his neck and spine, dots dancing before his eyes. When the spots cleared, the visage of a man stuttered towards him, first to one side, then another. Out of the corner of his eye, Will dazedly noted the security guard slumped to the floor.

           “Who-” he managed to slur, but the man’s hands were around his neck, squeezing. In his entire life, Will Graham had only been choked once before, much against his will. It’d been unpleasant then, and when thumbs dug into his windpipe, he decided that it was just as unpleasant now. He gasped in a short breath and swung his arms around, letting momentum slam his forearms into the man’s elbows, releasing his throat. He didn’t hesitate, rearing forward and head-butting him, a snarl of anger rippling past his lips.

           At the sound and the assault, the man stumbled back, surprised. He had short, cropped blonde hair, and two dazed brown eyes blinked wildly, panicked. Cornered. An animal that didn’t know where to go. When Will’s watering eyes fell to the barely noticeable cleft pallet, blood trickling at the corner of his lip, the man bolted, racing towards the elevator. When the ringing in Will’s ears faded, he followed, elbows pumping and breath ripping from him. He had the dragon.

           He slammed into the elevator as it closed, and he rolled with the force of his momentum, making his way to the stairs and climbing them, every inch of him screaming to go, go, go, that there wasn’t time to pause, wasn’t time to think, because Soul Stealer was right there and he’d taken the fucking painting with him.

           When he reached the top, he kicked the door open and raced towards the elevator. His heart stopped, stuttered, then started again. The elevator sat wide open, and the man was nowhere in sight.

           “Sir? Is everything okay?” The front desk woman hurried over to him, concerned, and she reached to his collar, wiping at it. Fingers came away red, and he stared down at her hand, stained with his failure.

           “Call the police,” he demanded hoarsely, fat fingers fumbling for his phone. “Tell them the Soul Stealer was here.”

-

           One Hundred Years of Souls was closed for the day, and Jack Crawford had the place on lockdown. The receptionist hadn’t recalled the man running from the elevators, but enough cameras were there to give them a good shot of just how he’d gotten away. He’d come out of the elevator, calm, then booked through the crowd the moment he was outside, using shoulders as ways to propel himself far ahead of Will. He’d had the unfortunate advantage of not having his head knocked in with a dizzying effect. They did get his spit, though; they also got his blood.

           Will sat at the back of an ambulance, letting them get a good look at his head for the umpteenth time. It was a flesh wound, but it was tender to the touch, and he resisted the urge to snap and grumble as they cleaned the blood out of his hair.

           “I really urge you to go and get a scan,” the paramedic said.

           “It’s fine,” Will retorted.

           “He was here,” Jack ground out, ignoring the exasperated glance the paramedic sent his way. “He was here, and he got away.”

           His pacing made Will want to pace. His toe tapped in time with Jack’s about-faces as he said, “He ate the picture.”

           “He ate it?”

           “Wessler was only out for a minute, but he got the footage pulled up before you got here. He knocked out the director, Mrs. Stunpike, and he ate the painting.”

           “I wonder how much that dinner cost?” Beverly asked. She hovered in front of Will, dabbing at the place on his head that’d made contact with the killer’s mouth. When he realized that it was wet from spit and a bit of blood, having gotten a good crack at him, he left it well enough alone until she could get her hands on it. Once they confirmed the DNA match, the only thing left would be to catch the bastard.

           “Enough that he didn’t leave a tip,” Zeller quipped.

           “The tip was not to get in his way when he’s trying to make a getaway,” Price said brightly. A pause. “Sorry, Graham.”

           “Did you look up Dolarhyde?” Will asked, ignoring Price.

           “See, now that’s the problem,” Beverly began, and Jack swore under his breath. He walked back over to Will and planted his hands on his hips. Will peeked up at his subtly mismatched eyes expectantly, then focused on the grey by his temple.

           “He was dead,” Jack said curtly.

           “Dead.” Will rolled his bottom lip in, wet it, and shook his head. The words didn’t sit right. Dead was too easy a failure. People like Soul Stealer didn’t just die. Dying was easy. Dying was the easy way out. He resisted the urge to rub the aching scar tissue to the side of his neck.

           “Dead, deceased in a fire a year or so ago. We found his wife, Reba, and she said he had some kind of psychotic break, shot himself in the head, and burnt the house down with her in it.”

           “No,” Will said, and he shook his head.

           “Well, yes, then we looked up his photo to confirm, and you know what we saw, Will?”

           Ah, there it was. When the paramedic left him with a pain killer and a bandaged head, he rolled the plastic bottle about in his hands and nodded, already knowing.

           “You saw the man that ate the painting.”

           “We saw the man that ate the painting,” Jack affirmed. His lips sucked in tight, like he’d tasted a bad lemon. “He faked his death.”

           “The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed in Sun is a revelations reference,” Beverly said, and Will bobbed his head, agreeing with that too.

           “He should have referenced Lazarus instead,” Price joked.

           “I wonder why he didn’t take her eyes,” said Will thoughtfully. After a thought, it dawned on him. “A one-sided soulmate?”

           “She’s blind, so we’d have to run tests to tell,” Beverly said. “Even with a soulmate connection, a blind eye doesn’t change color.”

           “She’d have known he was alive if it was a full connection. We should test it to see if she’s helping him at all.” Even saying it, though, it didn’t sit right with Will. He took a long gulp of water, crushing the plastic in his hand as he did. He capped it and let it keep a distorted, crumpled shape and sloshed the water around idly. “He loves her.”

           “Bad way of showing it,” Jack snapped.

           “Good way of showing it,” Will disagreed. “He thought they were meant to be, but he didn’t feel her. He connected to her, but his tasteless thoughts didn’t resonate in her. He knew she was too good, so he left to save her from him. That’s why he longed for a soulmate, even though he was listed as having a soulmate.”

           “You know that just by getting smacked around by him?” Zeller wondered.

           “He went to Lecter for therapy for a short while. He wanted a connection, and he wondered what it’d take for someone to see him the way he wanted to be seen. Great. Powerful. Capable.” Will cast Zeller a dark look. His head hurt too damn bad for him to have to explain himself. “He’s got a cleft pallet and he’s been presumed dead for a few years.”

           “So he’s going to be hard to find,” Jack mused. “He knows how to hide. Why’d he eat the painting?”

           “Maybe to take its power?” Beverly suggested. “Some people believe ingesting something you long for will bring it to you. Power, intelligence, perseverance…”

           “He’s pumping himself up for the next attack,” Will said. “I don’t know if he’s going to last the month until he strikes again.” As an afterthought, “He’ll look me up to see who he was throwing around down there. He’ll know we’re close.”

           “I want to know how you were able to time that so well, Will,” Jack said. “I’m trying to keep you out of the frontlines, and somehow you find your way back in all over again. You’re a psychiatrist, not an FBI agent.”

           “It’s a flesh wound,” Will assured him. The throbbing in his skull disagreed, but he didn’t want to worry anyone. He thought about Molly fussing over it, cotton swab mopping up the worst of it. She’d try and ice it, and he’d complain about the cold.

           Reba would have probably done the same for Francis Dolarhyde. In the end, he left because he loved her. Maybe he was a better man than Will. Dolarhyde would leave for love, Beverly would stay for love, and Will wasn’t quite sure what the hell he was going to do.

           “He’s not Francis Dolarhyde anymore,” Will realized after a moment, drumming fingers on the water bottle. “He killed him in the house as it burned down. In his head, he’s the Red Dragon now.”

           “If this is giving you flashbacks to-”

           “It’s fine,” he snapped, and he stood up from the ambulance, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He’d let the paramedic recycle the bottle rather than he waste it in a rubbish bin. In his guts, a kernel of concern flickered distractingly, and he gritted his teeth. Hannibal had felt his wound as it happened, felt the pain as though it were his own. Good. “I’m going to drive back to Baltimore. Now that we know who it is, I think Lecter will open up a bit more.”

           “I think you should take the rest of the day off,” Jack said, and Will brushed past him, shaking his head.

           “Red Dragon doesn’t sleep, neither do I,” he said.

-

          "You feeling okay, Dr. Graham?" Matthew asked when he arrived at the BSHCI. Will nodded, fumbling with his keys and stuffing them into his jacket. Another round of painkillers and water left his head a minor nuisance rather than a true pain.

           "Peachy."

           Matthew Brown nodded, leading him down the steps towards maximum, his eyes shifting to the side every now and again to note the bandage on his head. Will felt his concern like a bristle brush on a sunburn. "You look like you should be in a hospital."

           "After this, I'll probably head to one," Will lied. He'd probably go to the hotel, in truth. Rage a little. Try not to drink. Maybe call Molly. Maybe not.

           "You do that," Matthew urged, and he waved the security guard to open the doors. "We wouldn't want anything to happen to you, if you don't mind my saying so."

           Will minded him saying so, but he wouldn't say that. Matthew was only speaking out of concern, and a polite concern as that.

           Lecter was pretending to nap when Will sat down in the chair, and he took that time to take a breath. The pain killers took most of the throbbing ache away, but standing left him feeling dizzy, woozy. He hadn’t been handled like that in a long time, and he didn’t like how slow he’d been to react. The last time he’d gotten physical with a psychopath, he’d been far more limber.

           “You should have your brain scanned to ensure that everything is alright,” Lecter drawled, eyes closed. His hands were clasped behind his head, legs crossed at the ankles. It was a casual, comfortable state, and the suddenness of his voice made Will jump slightly, looking up from the table leg that he’d been focusing on rather than the feeling of Red Dragon throwing him across a table.

           “It’s fine.”

           “Who handled you so roughly, Will?”

           “You know exactly who,” he snapped, rubbing his eye. He looked from Lecter’s elegant repose to the drawings on the wall.

           “The Great Red Dragon,” Lecter murmured, and he sat up, turning on the cot to face the wall rather than look at Will. Will watched his hands grip the edge of the bed, tight. “You saw him, then.”

           “He saw me first.”

           “Do you know what he’s referencing when he calls himself that?” Lecter looked at him, the edges of his lips curled ever-so-slightly.

           “It was a three hour drive there, and a three hour drive back from Blake’s artwork” Will said, ignoring the expression of subtle delight. “Three hours back, and I thought to myself, ‘that timing was too good. Somehow, he knew I’d be there, and Soul Stealer tried to be there first, before me. To size me up. To eat me.’”

           “Does it still hurt?” Lecter wondered.

           “Then I thought, ‘I bet Dr. Lecter found a way to warn him, and he wanted to see what I’d do when I saw him face-to-face.’”

           “And what did you do?”

           “I thought, ‘he set me up to potentially get killed.’”

           “Did you look into his eyes and see your own reflected back?” Lecter stood and crossed to the bars, head cocked to the side.

           “I wondered, ‘why in the hell would he do that?’” Will ignored him, biting his thumb idly as he stared at the hip of his jumpsuit. “Then I thought, ‘because he wanted to see what would happen. He was curious.’”

           “Are you very angry with me, Will?” Hannibal asked kindly.

           “…No,” Will admitted. “But I’d been wondering about us before; I thought about Molly, and I thought about her forgiving me for being connected to you. She would because she’s better than me.”

           “That lends itself the thought that perhaps that’s why you’re not soulmates,” said Hannibal gravely.

           “Yeah,” Will agreed, nodding. He looked to the slip-on shoes Hannibal wore because no one was stupid enough to give him Velcro, what with the plastic tabs. “Yeah, she’s better than me. But I thought, maybe I can make the soulmate connection work because separation is cruel and unusual punishment in some states, and I didn’t want to give you a leg up in the justice system. I visit regularly, and it keeps things calm. I thought, maybe this will work.

           “I don’t think I care much about that anymore. Baltimore doesn’t have the Cruel and Unusual Punishment Clause that most other states have for soulmates whose partner refuses to visit them in prison. It was overturned four years ago.”

           Will spoke with a flat, toneless voice, like he’d recited the words several times until the sting fell out of them. Somehow, the lack of emotion was more fitting, since he saw the subtle ways that it took effect on Hannibal’s face. His lips thinned, compressed tightly. The fine lines near his eyes deepened, the expression stiffening. It wasn’t Jack Crawford’s puckered face at the thought of Soul Stealer getting away, but it was the exact reaction Will had been hoping for as he drove back from Brooklyn, white-knuckled as he gripped the steering wheel and took deep, calming breaths.

           “You plan on catching your killer and returning to your Molly as a white knight?” Hannibal asked, a dark expression crossing his face.

           “I plan on going back to Molly and leaving you behind,” Will said amiably.

           “A dangerous threat, Will,” Hannibal warned him.

           “See, I was thinking about you, and you’re right, Hannibal. We have a lot in common.” Clearly. Will gritted his teeth. “The difference between you and me is our willingness to commit violence.”

           “Do you think you’re above that curiosity, dear Will?” Hannibal asked lightly. The tone didn’t match the expression on his face. When Will shifted in his chair, his predatory eyes tracked the movement.

           “No, not at all. I’m curious to see just how my absence affects you. I’m curious what you’ll do.”

           “Don’t you fear how I’ll find a way to hurt you again?”

           “No.” Will shrugged. “You knew I’d come here. You knew, so you endured feeling my pain because you’d see me and be reassured. Soulmate connections receive emotional comfort in a variety of ways: auditory, visually, and tactilely mainly. Any of these have the capacity to release endorphins, and that’s how you could handle the feeling of the back of your head cracking against concrete.

           “What happens when I don’t come back, though? As wonderful as the feeling of endorphins released can be, there are other chemicals released when the feeling of pain is not eased through any of those three senses. Just like endorphins can cause pleasure, the chemical imbalance of serotonin, dopamine, and epinephrine are just as potent.”

           “You think you’re going to give me anxiety if I hurt you at a distance?” Hannibal’s lip curled derisively.

           “No, I know that. Simple science.” Will shrugged, drumming his fingers along his leg. “You think, ‘I’ll get used to it’. But unlike endorphins, which create a rush that you crave as it abates, the imbalance that causes the anxiety doesn’t abate. Time doesn’t take away the sting. If anything, it grows.”

           “Then what is our difference in our willingness to commit violence, dear Will?”

           “I’ve had to reconcile myself with the feeling I get in hurting people, my ability to understand and commit violence,” Will said, standing up. He walked over to the bars, just far enough away that if Lecter reached, he couldn’t get a hold of him. “I know the dark parts of myself, which is why I don’t want anyone else digging around in my mind.”

           “And?”

           “I’ve come to the understanding that doing something bad to bad people feels really, really good,” Will whispered to him. “While you see the world as a slaughterhouse, I see people like you, and I relish in just how good it’d be to hurt you.”

           Silence. In the distance between them, something curled and twisted, unpleasant but wonderful in of itself. Will looked up to Lecter’s mismatched eyes, and he grinned, a snarling, nasty expression that made his eyes narrow wolfishly. Hannibal looked a breath away from throwing himself against the bars to haul Will close. He looked a breath away from eating him. He looked a breath away from fucking him.

           Will moved, and he was right against the bars, hand reaching to grasp Hannibal’s chin tightly, tugging him closer. Hannibal didn’t fight the motion, and there was a small thread of surprise when he instead took a deliberate step to Will, allowing him to grip his face so roughly, so unkindly. His eyes flashed with something akin to pleasure.

           “You’re so sly, but so am I,” Will murmured, taunting. “Don't mistake my kindness up to this point as weakness. Don’t ever fuck with me like that again, Hannibal.” His thumb dragged against Hannibal’s bottom lip roughly, fingers curling along the stubble of his jaw. “Like I said before: I’d kill myself if it meant you suffered.”

           “In this moment, I find you at your most beautiful,” Hannibal murmured, and he nipped the tip of his finger, almost hard enough to break skin. If Will didn’t know any better, he’d have called it flirtatious, playful. “I wonder how Molly would see you.”

           Will didn’t answer, leaving the statement suspended in the air like the clouds of smoke he’d watched the man puff away at the day before, the discontent ruminating and spreading. The difference was, when the heavy door slammed shut behind him, the poison stayed on the other side of the door.

           More or less.

My name is Alisha B. Whitman and I’ve lived most of my life in the beautiful, but very rainy Oregon (follow me on Instagram and Facebook!). Lots complain about the rain, but without it, we’d never enjoy the incredibly lush greenery that I so love to paint. In fact, my favorite paint color is Da Vinci’s leaf green – it looks just like light shining through newly-grown leaves. True, it’s nearly neon but I like my colors bright!

That’s probably partially because a professor once criticized “you North Americans are scared of bold colors and are only comfortable with your grays.” I guess I took that as a challenge.

I got my degree in Art Education and love teaching, but when I was pregnant with my second child, a friend challenged me to submit a portfolio to a gallery and I began to get serious again about creating art. I got hooked. I now have five young kids and paint every chance I get (usually at night when they’re asleep) to stay sane. 

I used to paint a lot of European cityscapes but the slowness of getting the architecture right drove me crazy. They sold really well, but they just weren’t relevant to my life. Hopefully someday I’ll get the chance to travel but for the time being my inspiration comes from closer to home. Now I mostly paint landscapes and when the weather is good we spend lots of time outdoors hiking and mountain biking, where I take countless pictures to bring back to my home studio.

Everybody gets a little tired of mom stopping the group to snap another picture but I get so inspired by the natural beauty of towering mountains, rivers and streams, and billowing clouds and I just want to remember everything so I can paint it all! Flowers are another weakness. Luckily my mother-in-law is a master gardener so whenever we visit I can take picture after picture in her awesome garden. Thank goodness you no longer have to develop film to look at your pictures! I’d be so broke! 

Honestly, I started with watercolor because it was more kid-friendly since it dries faster and is non-toxic. But every time I’ve tried to switch to acrylics or anything else to be a “more serious painter,” I’ve become frustrated that other paints don’t do some of the work for me like watercolors do! The best painting advice I ever received was to “let watercolors be watercolors.” That was hard for me at first because as a first child, I was a bit of a perfectionist. Letting go of that and realizing that mistakes are often at least as beautiful and often more interesting than technical perfections really opened up my eyes.

Now I do at least half of my mixing on the paper, although that somehow doesn’t keep my palette from always being a ridiculous mess. I do a lot of wet-into-wet painting but only wet an area at a time so that I can maintain a little control. For example, when painting a flower, I’ll wet down only one petal, load my brush with lots of pigment, and let it flow. My paintings tend to be very bright and I try to get as much of that color strength as I can the first time through an area so that I don’t smooth it out too much with my brush strokes and risk losing the freshness.

Partially because I’m not patient, I then leave a little strip of white (so that my colors in the next petal won’t bleed back into the first), wet down the next area and play some more. Sometimes, I smooth those out later but if they fit, they stay and you can see a lot of those white strips in my paintings. I’m often asked but no, I don’t mask the lines. That would take way too long. I just slowly drag my flat brush a millimeter or so away from the previous section, which sounds riskier than it is! Sometimes the colors bleed into the wrong place and if it’s a disaster, a quick paper towel blot saves the day but more often, it’s not the end of the world. Or even of the painting. 

As mentioned, I use Da Vinci watercolors. They’re a bit cheaper than some of the bigger brands but are still wonderfully vivid. I’ve started painting sometimes on Ampersand Aquabord instead of paper because the paints don’t soak into the surface but just stay on top in all of their glorious, well, brightness.

The only problem is that the colors don’t spread as well as they do on paper but you can almost completely remove any color you don’t like and don’t have to frame it behind glass. Pluses and minuses. One way or the other though, painting for me really isn’t optional. I have to make time for it or I get grumpy and start to feel a bit like a claustrophobic in a crammed elevator. I think it fills a real need to create and communicate and hopefully adds a little beauty to the world at the same time. 

Alisha B. Whitman Website Instagram Facebook YouTube 

GUEST DOODLEWASH: Painting Bright by Alisha B. Whitman #WorldWatercolorGroup #doodlewash My name is Alisha B. Whitman and I've lived most of my life in the beautiful, but very rainy Oregon (follow me on…