On hiatus • Do not repost my art without permission • Side blog: @rivvd-reblogs • Female, she/her • 29 years old • Artist • One piece, Jujutsu Kaisen, OC’s and more • Some 18+ content • open for commissions
Hello my fellow Tumblr humans. Thank you for visiting my page! I like to reblog things, but I also want to post my own artworks. So why not do both. I created a masterlist so you have easy access to my artworks. I hope you enjoy it!
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It is I. It's been a while since I posted something here. It's the start of the new year, hopefully my days will be filled with more creativity, inspiration and time. Today was such a day, and I sketched something hehe. Hope you like it!
It's been a while, but I'm still drawing. Not fan art this time but those days will come back again. I was working on a huge project and I finally finished it. So, for the Stranger Things fans: Here's a little Steve for ya :)
Hi guys! As you may have noticed, I haven’t been really active these last weeks/months. It’s been pretty busy lately and I don’t have much time to draw. Don’t worry, I’m okay but there’s a lot going on in my life at the moment :) So I decided to go ‘on hiatus’ as of today.
Feel free to talk to me or ask me stuff. I’ll still be online, but I probably won’t be posting art for a while.
Story Time: Get a load of what happened to me at Starbucks today.
There’s a running joke among people who know me personally that I unwittingly go out in public with a sign on my forehead stating “I Am Non-Threatening. Come Talk To Me.” Because if there’s a chance a bizarre conversation with a total stranger is going to happen, I’m typically the person it happens to.
Some context: I have been pretty darn sick this week. (It’s not Coronavirus, don’t worry.) Since the work in my queue for my day job is comprised entirely of audio narration right now, and I currently sound like a waterlogged Demi Moore, I haven’t been able to work these last couple of days. As a result, I’ve been using my down time to knock out as much of Manu’s redesign as possible. Today, to ensure I didn’t spend the day languishing in sinus misery, I medicated the crap out of myself and took Manu to the Starbucks down the block from my son’s day care.
I hit the bathroom, then picked an empty table, but as soon as I sat down with my venti Comfort Tea and started tweaking the inks on my iPad, I felt the eyes of the man next to me looking over my shoulder.
When I looked up, he had his phone out. “I’m sorry,” he said (in a thick accent I couldn’t place geographically), “I don’t want to disturb. I notice you art. You are artist!”
I tried to smile. “Yes, I’m... Well, I’m trying to be,” I croaked.
He leaned in, like he was sharing a secret.
“I am artist, too.”
He stuck out his hand.
I gently took it, grateful for the bathroom trip I just took in which I washed the scourge off of my fingers.
“Can I?” he asked, holding his phone up.
“Take a picture? Uh... sure,” I said. It’s not like he would be able to steal Manu out from under me or anything, I figured. The panel I was tweaking was magnified out to Guam.
“I am artist. Architect and Designer,” he clarified while he steadied his phone over my iPad. “I am Ilker. What is your name?”
“I’m Venessa” I said, trying to be polite. This, I thought warily, is precisely how I get myself into trouble. I’m too damn nice.
“You know, I come to America twenty years ago from Turkey...”
I put down my stylus. This was going to be a while.
“I like Turkey,” he explained. “I like the country and I like the people. But I am artist. I am not... religious man.”
I nodded.
“I told my wife I was going to go to America and she said, “what are you going to do? You don’t have job! You don’t have money! No Visa!” And I said, “I am artist and architect. I will paint and sell my paintings.
“So I come to America alone. To New York City. I sit outside, and I paint. And people, they liked my paintings. They bought them. This one for $30, that one for $50.
“One day, a man comes over to me and he say, “I like your painting. I see you are also architect.” And he gives me his number and asks me to go to meeting at his office. Because he wants to offer me a job. He starts to talk about a building contract.
“I tell him I don’t know anything about contracts. I have no Visa. I am not American citizen. But he says, “That’s okay. I will take care of everything. You will have nothing to worry about.” And this man, he gave me a job. $173,000 a year. And my wife, he gave her a job too. She was project assistant. I bring her and my two daughters over from Turkey.”
“Wow,” I said, not fully believing the veracity of what sounded like a full-on immigration fairy tale.
“Here,” said Ilker, unlocking his phone and opening up his Facebook app. “I show you my work.” He paused and looked up at me. “I am interrupting. You don’t mind?”
At this point, I was invested. I had to see. Because whatever he was about to show me would either prove or disprove this yarn he was spinning. “Please,” I said, gesturing for him to go ahead.
He opened his photos and my jaw dropped. His work... was UNREAL.
“This is building I designed on Madison Ave.... And this one in Chelsea...”
Holy crap. I had just been to Chelsea with my sister last month on a trip to see a broadway show. I had crossed the intersection of the building he was, at this moment, telling me he designed.
He flipped through more buildings. These, he’d designed in Washington, DC. In Bethesda. In Arlington. All beautiful, streamlined, modern structures I had visited and parked my car in front of. He told me he did much of his concept work freehand. That he worked exclusively in natural media. His preferred media was pen, ink, watercolors, and chalks.
Between photos of his wife and daughters, he went on to show me photos from the RUSSIAN EXHIBITION OF HIS ARCHITECTURE ARTWORK.
Y’all, I was stunned. I couldn’t believe the talent I was sitting next to. Scattered among these gloriously rendered images of some of the most beautiful building concepts I’d ever seen were paintings of scenes in Central Park, the National Mall, and nudes from a life-drawing session he attends from time to time.
When he was done flipping through his phone, he looked at me and smiled. “I hope you don’t mind that I interrupt you. I show you all this because what you are doing is very good. And you should be encouraged. To draw is to make beauty.”
I nodded, a lump in my throat. “Thank you,” I managed. “Your work is astonishing. I don’t even know what to say. What is your name again?”
He held out his hand once more. “Ilker Kocahan,” he said. “I am getting more coffee. Can I get you one?”
I looked at my still-full venti cup. “No thank you. But here, please take my card.”
He held my dinky business card like I’d handed him a treasure and thanked me.
Then Ilker got his coffee, and left the coffee shop.
At some point in his ramblings he talked about America as a place of dreams. How he credits this country with helping him rise to the top of his field where he is now able to sell his paintings for $800-$1000 a piece now that he’s retired. My heart ached to hear him talk about that, knowing how our leadership’s positions on immigrants have taken such a dark and horrifying turn.
Imagine the buildings and museums and public places that would never have been if a business man in the park hadn’t lifted up a Turkish painter who spoke little English.
And now that painter was paying it forward on me.
I still feel pretty darn sick. I’ve still got body aches and a nose that has taken the rest of my face hostage.
But today was a really good day. And I just wanted to share it with you in case you are looking for reasons to keep drawing/painting/dancing/writing. It all counts and it is all good.
If you would like to see Ilker Kocohan’s work, please click here.
Ilker Kocahan holds a bachelor’s degree in Industrial Design with a minor in architecture from the University of Marmara, Faculty of Fine A
UPDATE TO THIS STORY! I would have posted this sooner, but quarantine has had the unexpected effect of zapping all my alone-time...
As luck would have it, I saw Ilker one last time before my area received the mandate to start social distancing. I came into the Starbucks to work on the “Simon Is On the Ground” comic while waiting to pick up my kid from day care, and there he was, happily chatting with the Starbucks manager, who gifted him with a Starbucks hat while I ordered my tea.
A week had passed since our first meeting, so I wasn’t sure he’d recognize me. Lo and behold, as I turned the corner, I caught his eye, and he waved at me. This time, I asked if I might sit with him, and he warmly offered the seat beside him.
While I settled in, he told me that his project was being delayed and that he was going to leave the area and fly home before COVID-19 could make it impossible to travel. The hat was for his wife, whose only understanding of Starbucks was that Ilker really liked the coffee.
As one might expect, we immediately fell into another conversation about art, except this time, I eagerly abandoned my work to hear him talk.
And friends, did I ever get a master class.
He pulled up a painting on his phone which he’d sold for $800. It was a life drawing in ink and watercolor of a woman in a demure gesture, barely detailed and colored in but for her rose-tinted lips and the shadow cast across her neck. He said he felt sad that he’d sold it because he really loved how it came out.
“This is no detailed like yours,” he said, comparing his painting to my panel of Simon and Baz. “Mine is simple. But in a few strokes, I can capture the life of the lady.”
He took his napkin, turned it over, and pulled a pen out of his chest pocket. “Look there,” he said, pointing to a man sitting a few tables away. He began to scribble away on the napkin, lines and lines and more lines. “You see,” he murmured as he ran his pen over the napkin, “I can, with speed, capture the man. I don’t have hours to ask him to sit. I must let go of the planning.”
In seconds, the man across the room took shape on the napkin in a series of confident if also messy lines. It was incredible to watch.
I could instantly see what he meant. He had not produced a photorealistic version of this person on the napkin. But he had captured the man’s essence. The aura of a real person sitting contemplatively with his coffee while reading the Washington Post. I could feel the life of the drawing radiate from the paper.
(When he was done, to my horror, he crumpled up the napkin.)
I shyly mentioned that I’ve been working hard on my own gesture drawing, but had a long way to go, so he asked to see my sketchbook.
I mean... is there even a word in the English language to describe the combination of dread and embarrassment that precedes showing an art master your crap-ass sketchbook that no one sees but you? I didn’t know what to do with myself as he sat there and flipped through the pages.
Eventually, he nodded approvingly and said, “Okay! Is good. But this is sketchbook like every other.” He gestured at the page. “Where are you?”
I was lost for how to respond, but lucky for me, he’s a talkative guy seemingly incapable of awkward silences.
“The world needs to see you in the lines,” he explained. “Someone can look at my work and know, ‘that painting is from Ilker Kocahan.’ You need to draw more and more so that when people look at your drawings, they will know: this work is Venessa’s work.” Then he shrugged and said, “And who knows. I will maybe see you in two years at this Starbucks, and by then, your drawings will be truly yours.”
I’ve shared this story with some close friends who took mild offense on my behalf at his observations, but I really think it took sitting there watching him draw to understand exactly what he was talking about.
Ilker Kocahan has no imposter syndrome. He is supremely confident in every possible way where his art is concerned. The lines that flowed from his pen were fueled by his soul, not his brain. I didn’t think artists like him existed anymore until I was sitting there looking over his shoulder while he scribbled a man into existence, like it was nothing. When I asked if he plots out the perspective on his building sketches in advance, he shook his head no and doodled this on my cake pop wrapper while he rambled on about the components he likes to include in his architecture concepts:
(Don’t worry. I kept it.)
So when he talked about “finding me” in my sketches, I really think he could sense—by the light scratch of the pencil, the trace evidence on the paper of my erasing and failed attempts—my own lack of confidence, my second guessing and self-doubt. My desire to be as good as other artists instead of my desire to express myself.
And in that sense, everything he was saying about my sketchbook was correct. He urged me to get off the iPad as often as possible. To sketch with ink, which is riskier because you can’t erase it, and in that way, give myself no choice but to commit to the lines.
The conversation turned to lighter things after that. He’s apparently an extremely talented basketball player who loves hanging out with his wife and kids. His daughters are both designers. He thinks quirky viral videos are the best thing about the internet. (I agreed.) He’s weak for New York pizza.
Eventually, he bought me a refill for my tea and asked if I would meet him again in a couple of days so he could talk to me about my artwork and help me with my sketching. He even added me as a Facebook friend. When I left the Starbucks to pick up Colin, I was so excited and overwhelmed and grateful to the universe for bringing me into his acquaintance, I texted everyone in my family about it.
But as fate would have it, that night, the local government released its mandate regarding social distancing. He’s likely in Belarus right now with his wife.
I won’t lie and say I’m not devastated that I lost the chance to be his student for an afternoon. But the impression these coffee shop chats left on me was profound. I think about it all the time. For one who struggles with feeling like the artist version of Pinocchio waiting around for permission to be a real boy, it makes all the difference in the world to linger in the huge, unstoppable energy of someone who lives without an inner critic.
I hope I get to see him again after the quarantine is over. I’d love to see if I can fulfill Ilker’s prophecy and meet back at that Starbucks in two years with a different sketchbook in tow. One that I can hand over knowing without doubt or trepidation that anyone looking for me in the work need look no further than the bold stroke of my hand.
[UPDATE:] I am absolutely gobsmacked and grateful at the way this post has resonated with so many folks on Tumblr, artists and otherwise. Some have asked whether Ilker and I have kept in touch, and yes, we have! He occasionally messages pictures of building designs he’s working on or happy family photos (which I assume he’s sending en masse to his friends list) and I basically gush in return. I’ll also occasionally drop a line to check in; he knows I’m still working on my inking and sketch work. He remains so very encouraging and kind. He wishes me “happy art days.”
That said, you can imagine how my heart sank when last night he sent a message out to his Facebook friends letting us know he contracted Coronavirus and has been hospitalized. He’s been ill for two weeks now.
I asked for his consent to share this with friends in case it could inspire some good vibes, and he agreed. If you felt moved by his wisdom and kindness in the above posts and feel inclined to send a healing thought his way today, I would be grateful. While I believe his constitution is strong thanks to his being so active, this virus doesn’t discriminate, and the world needs humans like Ilker Kocahan right now. (Or at least, I do.)
Thanks, and I promise to report back with any news. ❤️
As promised, I have an update on Ilker’s condition!
I am happy to report that he is back home from the hospital as of this week and reportedly feeling better. He said he feels extremely lucky and credited his healthy/happy lifestyle for his resilience via text message. I quote:
“No smoking No Drunk Basketball Good food Family life enjoying And happy character”
While he was in the hospital he generously texted me photos of little notes he’d scrawled on paper napkins of his vitals (temperature, blood pressure, blood O2 levels) since I had asked him to keep me posted. Of all the notes he sent, this one was the most interesting, as it shows they’ve been making patients sleep in a prone position with some kind of ventilation over the face, presumably to leverage gravity in opening up the lungs?
Anyway, I’m so grateful to everyone who sent well wishes and look forward to passing along those kind messages to him after this. Thank you, thank you for those good vibes. ❤️
I hope that if and when I ever come down with something scary like COVID, I can handle it with as much grace as this guy right here:
I genuinely never thought I’d write this update. I was almost positive Ilker and I would never meet at that Starbucks again—that the universe had swept this one beautiful encounter into my life only to send a pandemic to sweep it back out again—but to my utter shock and astonishment this morning, I got a text message at 7:45 AM:
“In USA now. Same Starbucks. Same chair now.”
And y’all, I got my shit together. Tossed my sketchbooks into my canvas bag, herded the kids into the car to bring them to school, then jetted over to that Starbucks with burning eyes and a lump in my throat. As soon as I saw him, he recognized me instantly (even with my mask on) and gave me an enormous heart-exploding hug. “Venessa! Is so wonderful to see you!” he said at the same time as I said, “Ilker, my friend! I can’t believe it!”, and he put his arm around my shoulder and quickly led me to the counter so he could order me my usual cup of tea.
We only had a little more than a half an hour to chat before he had to go to work—a new architecture project here in DC—during which he told me all the things he’s been up to these last couple of years: the sketching classes he taught in Belarus, the Russian exhibition of his artwork (which included a printed translation of THIS VERY TUMBLR POST), his battle against, not one, but two bouts of COVID, and ultimately, the evacuation of his family after Russia’s attack on Ukraine. And as is his way, he spoke of every challenge he and his family have faced together with gratitude for his health, his resilience, and for the small blessings that enabled him to make his way back to the States. I told him how much I appreciated his attitude toward life’s ups and downs because I’ve been learning to count my blessings as well, in large part because he told me to—via text when I was struggling to stay psychologically afloat in the thick of pandemic parenting: “You have health. You have family You have home and food. All will be well my good friend.”
He then brought up my art. And guess what? I SHOWED HIM MY SKETCH BOOK.
It wasn’t as full as I’d hoped it would be by the time I saw him again, and I sheepishly shared how hard it was to maintain a good sketching practice during quarantine when it seemed I was working from dawn until past midnight thanks to the day job, proctoring Zoom school for the small man, homeschooling the smaller man, and freelance work. But I had done my best, managing to fill up at least 2/3 of it in addition to the finished work I posted to social media.
Now, we’ve followed each other on Instagram and Facebook since that second meeting two years ago, and while we DM’d on a regular basis and he left the occasional comment on my work, I was never quite sure how much of my finished work he’d seen (or even had time to see given he was still working and teaching abroad). But as he flipped through my book (nearly every sketch rendered in ink) he said, “Is very good! I watch you art change! You grow so much! I am so proud!”
When I tell you I could have burst into a rainbow confetti of heart-eye emojis.
Speaking of rainbows: very gently did he ask about the subject matter of my work, which folks who follow my social media accounts know as being mostly representative of LGBTQ+/BIPOC relationships. With trepidation, I told him that I, myself, was a queer BIPOC artist, and that drawing these relationships was a way to validate and love myself, to validate the diverse love of other marginalized groups, and hopefully paint a world into being where such individuals feel seen, comforted, represented, and protected. He nodded along as I explained this, and ultimately put me at ease when he said, “I am man who love woman. But I do not judge on who is gay, who is not gay. Everyone is welcome. As artist, I care about the lines!”
We returned to talking about family and work after that. I got to spill some secrets about projects I’ve been working on, and he told me he’s still playing basketball. He said he’s 67 but never wants to retire. He told me his daughters are now scattered and nearly made me cry when he said, “I have daughter in Istanbul, I have daughter in New York, and now”—he pointed to me—“I have daughter in DC.” When it was time for him to get back to his office, he asked me to see if I could find a local sketching club where we can sign up for figure drawing sessions, and we scheduled a date on the calendar for us to meet back at the Starbucks to draw.
And I suppose there’s no better way to conclude this little Tumblr saga than by saying there’s no true conclusion. It’s like this little miracle showed up in my life at exactly the time I most needed to practice trusting in my ability to grow and adapt, to stay soft during adversity, hold space for new relationships, and above all, embrace where I am in my creative journey. I’m so grateful to have made this connection and to share the wisdom it’s given me with all of you.
Don’t forget: The world needs to see you in the lines.
You have to be one of the first people I made friends with here and I love our chats so much. Thank you for setting me up with Kees, you can be at our wedding. You are lovely and talented and your art always makes my day <3 happy birthday please enjoy! @rivvd-art
Ace x GN Reader
SFW
Word Count: 1,657
Marco was staring out the window idly, watching the clouds drift by in the beautiful blue sky, a smile playing on his lips as he let out a little hum, enjoying the moment of peace. Fresh coffee was poured and waiting for him as he enjoyed a moment to himself.
The door slamming open and hitting the wall had been the rude awakening the phoenix hadn’t needed nor wanted. The man jumped in his seat, letting out a started cry, almost falling back in his seat as his eyes met those of the noisy crew member. Marco tutted and gripped his desk in mild annoyance.
“Yes, Ace?”
Ace was panting, out of breath, his hands on his knees as he took a moment to regain his composure. Marco guessed he’d run the entire length of the Moby judging on how frazzled the other commander was. Ace took a breath and changed his posture, bowing his head and apologising to Marco for the rude outburst.
“It’s fine, honestly, what do you need? I’m very busy yoi.” Marco prompted and watched Ace straighten himself up and stared at him, eyebrow raised.
Ace gave the doctor a sceptical look, it had honestly looked like the zoan was daydreaming again. He pushed that thought aside as he walked across the floor, his heavy boots making clunking sounds before Ace pulled out the chair, and sat on it, leaning on Marco’s desk and his hands already grabbing at things to fidget with.
“It’s their birthday today and-“Ace started, interrupted by Marco.
“And you forgot?”
“What? No! I’ve had a gift for weeks remember that one island I went to and came back with the animal bites?” he saw Marco nod, a signal to carry on his story. “I just forgot about the cake… and I think Thatch is busy today..”
“Why don’t you make it yourself then yoi?” Marco asked with growing irritability in his tone as he tilted his head and examined the fidgeting form of Ace as he pulled and picked at a blank piece of paper.
“I have no idea how too..”
“You can read right? there’s plenty of books.. give it a shot, you never know what you can do until you put your mind to it”
Ace mulled that over, tapping his fingers on the desk, tap, tap, tap and it was slowly driving Marco to be irritated with his friend. He reached over and placed his hand over Ace’s ceasing the noise, a smile on his lips and a look in his half-lidded eyes that meant to be read as a warning.
“Yeah, your right, I’ll give it a go. Thanks, Marco!”
--
As soon as the chef found out it was Marco who put Ace up to turning his kitchen into a mess of eggshells, goop and flour he was done for. Ace was looking at the open cookbook, this was his third attempt to create a cake. Flour smeared across his forehead as he narrowed his eyes at the pages. It had to be something he was doing in this process because it just wasn’t baking in the oven correctly.
He sighed and rubbed his batter-stained hands down on his black shorts, leaving white smears across the dark fabric. The commander looked a state, cake mix over his face, some in his hair, all down his shorts, it seemed every inch of him not covered by the apron had gotten mess on it.
Ace turned the page and poked his tongue out in concentration, mixing the gloop in the bowl and nodding to himself. The sun outside was starting to sink, he knew he would be chased out of the kitchen for the dinner rush at any moment.
“I don’t trust this oven..” he grumbled knowing this would be his final attempt at making the cake.
So, he did what any reasonable fire user would do. He sat down on the floor, the cake tins in both hands as he warmed himself up, raising his temperature and watching both sides of the cake cook. They rested on his heated-up thighs as hot hands hovered above them making sure they were completely cooked.
It was boring and he had felt himself nodding off more than once, but he still somehow managed it, baking them to perfection, he could have cried with how pleased he was at how this had turned out. The smell that emanated from the baked goods pleased the man’s nose as he sighed, you were going to love this, he was sure of it.
Getting back up he started to work on how to decorate it, this process was less than neat and tidy, the cake was smeared in lumpy icing, your favourite colour. He’d tried to write across the top HAPPY BIRTHDAY but Ace’s handwriting might have been lovely on paper, but he was no master of the icing bag.
HAPRY BRTHDDY was good enough, he was still proud of himself.
--
You had wanted to spend your birthday with Ace, he’d just been hard to locate. Marco had given you short curt answers when you’d asked him, everyone else just seemed to change the subject and you had the suspicion that your boyfriend must have been up to something for your birthday.
He wasn’t subtle but you had to admit he’d done well to avoid you until now.
You’d retired to the room you shared with Ace, it was dark as you opened the door, you were sure you’d left a lantern on to avoid walking into a dark room. You prepared yourself to trip over the mess you’d left in the form of clothes strewn across the floor.
For the second time today, Ace scared the living shit out of someone he cared about. You screamed when a roar of fire lit up the room and you saw the grinning freckled face of your boyfriend as he used his pointer finger to light up the candles along the cake.
Your heart was still beating faster than you’d have liked as you started to try to calm yourself down, making yourself recognise the blaze of fire was your blaze of fire. Ace looked a little sheepish when you’d fixed him a look after you’d pulled yourself together.
“I didn’t mean to startle you; I seem to have a habit of that today.” He said with a chuckle as he walked over with the cake.
You peered at the baked good with the messy decorations and realised he’d made this for you, you could have cried with how touched the gesture had made you and knowing how capable Ace was in the kitchen with anything that wasn’t BBQ. You could feel tears brimming in your eyes and he must have seen when the flames of the candles reflected on the unshed shimmers.
“Oh, come on, it doesn’t look that bad does it?” Ace asked, half-joking.
“It looks amazing, thank you so much, Firefly.” He relaxed; you could see the tension in his shoulders dissipate as he smiled brighter.
The way his freckled cheeks and dark eyes looked in the light of the birthday candles was a gift in itself. He smiled warmer than any fire he could produce. You laughed a little when he started to sing to you, the familiar tune of Happy Birthday.
“Make a wish!” he sing songed and held the cake closer to you.
You did as he wanted, you blew out the candles, sending the room into darkness before Ace handed you the cake, making sure you had a good grip before he turned on the big lantern you kept on the desk.
“This looks good Ace, thank you so much.”
“I hope it tastes better than it looks.” He commented and took the cake back from you, setting it on the table where he’d already had the forethought to bring forks and plates for you both.
“What did you wish for?” He asked, cutting the cake into two very large chunks, handing you a plate and fork.
“I can’t tell you that, that’s not how wishes work.” You playfully rolled your eyes at the commander as he shrugged his shoulders.
“I wished for this cake not to kill us.” He mumbled as he stuck his fork into the cake, taking a bite, his face pulled into a look of disgust, bracing himself for the taste.
But it didn’t taste bad, his face lightened up when he closed his mouth and he nodded proudly, you took a bite and soon joined him in the silent nodding of enjoyment. He swallowed first and sighed.
“I did good, this was pretty nice right?”
“You did wonderfully, I love this, thank you.” You leaned over and kissed his cheek, he was glad for the sepia tones that flooded the room, hoping they hid the blush on his cheeks.
“That’s not all I got you,” Ace dug around in his pockets and pulled out a box, so nicely wrapped with paper and a ribbon.
Ace was full of surprises today, wasn’t he? You pulled off the bow and opened the lid, eyes widened when you saw what it was. “Ace.. this..”
“I knew you wanted one… and well.. I made it a little more personal…”
He took out the bracelet, with white and red stripes like his own but there was a charm dangling from it. A little glass bottle, so small and delicate with a rolled-up scrap of paper.
“Part of my vivre card, so even when we are on missions, we can still feel connected.” He said, his eyes not meeting yours, feeling bashful.
“Do you like it?”
“I love this Ace, thank you so much, I love you.” You let him slide on the bracelet before you threw your arms around him, kissing his cheek.
“Happy birthday.” He said softly, holding you back, nuzzling his face into your hair, feeling so loved and complete at this moment.
And I didn't draw something to celebrate it haha. But I drew this from memory a couple of days ago and I'm kinda proud of it. So. Whoop again. Just imagine the tear to be a happy tear 😅
Hi all! I've got something to share. I finally decided to do commissions 👏🏼 More and more people asked if I would do commissions, so I yielded and here I am. No I'm kidding. Doing commissions was always on the back of my mind but the timing didn't feel right back then. BUT NO MORE.
CONGRATS ON 300 FOLLOWERS SO EXCITING!!! If I managed to squeeze into the slots could I please get either Marco or Sabo in D2? Thanks so much!! ;w;
I'M SORRY I TOOK SO LONG 😱 He's finally ready. I choose Sabo because I already drew Marco. He kinda looks like a prince in my drawing haha 👑 I hope you like him :3
Yes it's me. I haven't been abducted by extraterrestrial life yet. But I am taking things a little slower. There are 2 people still waiting for my '300 followers' sketch. Don't worry I haven't forgotten about you :) But I needed some 'me-time'. So I started drawing muscles again. Because... That soothes me? Let's just say its for scientific purposes 🤓 So... here's a little sneak peek hehe. For science!
Unfortunately all slots for my 300 followers event are taken. But I might open it again if I can find some free time 🙂 But for now, this event is closed.
