Realistic - Blog Posts

Portrait study that I did some time ago on printer paper the reference is from Pinterest

I love drawings portraits so much my favorite thing to draw is facial features and shadows on the skin and my least favorite part is the hair :/

Also happy new year everyone I hope that 2025 will be better than 2024 :3

I recently drew this maneki neko cat that I bought on a cat fair it was so hard , it took me 2 failed attempts to finally get it right but here it is ✨ btw if this is your first time seeing a post from me I don’t only draw realistically I also do stylized drawings and even cute cartoons so if you might be interested check it out

Cherries. Realistic digital Procreate painting. They are from the little cherry tree in our garden. My husband protected the blossoms in spring with a thermal blanket from a first aid kit and candles, because we had snow and the nights were too cold.

Open red tulip blossom. I love the intense colors. The shape reminds me on a beautiful teacup...

https://www.aikla-using-colors.com/post/red-tulip-blossom

Aikla_using_colors

Red tulip blossom

Red tulip blossom. Digital painting.

Bnuuy

Hand-painted wooden cutout. :)

A piece of personal art in between commissions. Sorry for not posting more! I will when I can.

Пиковый король

The Edit:

The Art:

Вару и Зонтик

Obito Uchiha

Got inspired by an artist here and decided to try a more realistic style.

A realistic drawing of me!💗🎀💅

I was watching analog horror while drawing this…I will probably get nightmares tonight

Sometimes it's like

there is a realist

and a romantic

who fight inside

Medusa's soul

and

a lion's heart

“Do what you must, And your friends will adjust.” - Robert Brault

This is a ”realistc” scorbunny in my imagination

Look that face. He is a little bunny

comment if you like it, and which pokemon should i draw!

27.05.24

[Exams 3/4]

The last exam was terrible, the exam writer was lazy (repeating questions, using questions on the mock, asking lots of questions about a tiny part of the syllabus, etc,) it really knocked by confidence and uspet me. I think I should have done better, and don't see the exam as a true reflection of what I can achieve. In all honesty, after the exam I went back to my dorm and cried- out of both upset and frustration. I hope that despite the poor creation of the test, I have done enough to get the grades I need. I have one test left, and I'm definitely burnt out. Everything got on top of me all at once, I miss my family and my sister has recently had a baby, but I haven't met him due to being in exams. Not being around family during such a momentous occasion has made me feel bad about moving away, and about my plans to move even further for the next academic year.

Not being able to see my nephew is a huge sacrifice to me, so to go through that only to sit in an unfair exam was the straw that broke the camel's back. After my last exam, I will be going out clubbing (not something I'm particuarly excited for right now, but I know it will help my social life), then all I want to do is go home to meet the newest member of my family.

(no pictures)

I’m finally updating again! Here’s a self portrait I did for my illustration class last semester~ I feel like this is pretty appropriate for mermay

I recently had to take some photos of my classwork, so now I’m able to share them with you! Expect some more in the coming weeks. This is from a year ago when I took figure drawing.

18x24 inches, graphite

Geto Suguru acts all cool, but if a cat rubs against his leg, he’s done for.

Geto Suguru carries himself with a kind of effortless grace, the kind that makes people watch him when he walks into a room. He is refined, deliberate—every movement measured, every word placed with precision.

Even next to Gojo’s blinding presence, Suguru stands out.

He is composed. Poised. Untouchable.

At least, that’s what he wants people to believe.

-----

You find out the truth by accident.

It is late, and the two of you are walking back from a mission, your uniforms still stained with dirt and exhaustion. Tokyo hums around you—neon signs flickering, traffic rolling past in waves of sound.

And then, out of the shadows, a cat appears.

Small. Scrappy. Orange

It rubs against Suguru’s leg with the kind of shameless affection only a cat can muster.

And he—he, the ever-composed, the ever-serene—freezes.

For a second, just a fraction of one, you see his carefully constructed persona crack.

His eyes widen. His breath catches.

And then, in the softest voice you have ever heard from him, he says:

“Oh no.”

-----

You do not expect what happens next.

You expect him to shake it off, to maintain his image of effortless control.

But instead—

Instead, he crouches down, tentative, as if in a trance. The cat, delighted by its new victim, purrs loudly and presses itself against his hand.

Suguru, the second-in-command of the strongest duo of Jujutsu sorcerers, lets out a breath like he’s been punched.

You stare.

“Are you—”

He looks up at you, eyes wide, as if you’ve caught him in something scandalous.

“Shut up.”

You don’t.

Because Suguru Geto, the epitome of cool, is now fully on the ground, scratching behind a stray cat’s ears like it’s the most important mission he’s ever been given.

-----

“You like cats.”

“I tolerate them.”

“You literally melted back there.”

Suguru exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s not—” He pauses, searching for a way to maintain his dignity. Fails. “They’re just… very soft.”

You watch him, amusement curling at the edges of your mouth.

“Soft?”

He looks away. “Yeah.”

You tilt your head, studying him. The way his hands, so often used for violence, had moved so gently through the cat’s fur. The way his entire body had relaxed in a way it rarely did.

And suddenly, you realize—

It’s not just about the cat.

It’s about what the cat represents.

Something small. Something vulnerable. Something that asks for nothing except warmth.

Suguru has spent his life being strong. Being in control. Being the protector.

But here, in this tiny moment, with a stray cat rubbing against his legs—

Here, he lets himself be soft.

-----

You expect him to forget about the cat.

He doesn’t.

The next time you pass that alley, he slows his steps, scanning the shadows. When the cat appears again, he sighs—long-suffering, dramatic, resigned.

“Guess I should feed it,” he mutters.

You smirk. “Tolerate them, huh?”

He ignores you, already kneeling, already reaching into his bag for the remains of his lunch. The cat, as if sensing his weakness, immediately begins twining around his arms.

You watch as he lets it. As his fingers curl absently into its fur, as his expression softens into something unbearably gentle.

You watch and wonder—

How many times has he wanted to be taken care of like this?

How many times has he wanted to be something small and loved?

-----

It doesn’t last.

Nothing ever does.

One night, weeks later, you find him standing in the alley alone, his hands empty. His shoulders are set in that careful way that means he is holding something back.

“The cat’s gone,” he says, and his voice is neutral. Too neutral.

You don’t know what happened. You don’t ask.

But the way his fingers twitch at his sides—the way he stares at the empty ground where something small and warm used to be tells you enough.

For the first time in a long time, you see something raw flicker through him.

A reminder that Suguru Geto does not get to keep soft things.

Not in this world.

-----

He never mentions the cat again.

But sometimes, when you pass pet stores, you catch his eyes drifting. Sometimes, when you sit together in silence, his fingers will tap idly against his knee—like he is remembering the feeling of fur beneath them.

And one night, long after everything has shattered, when you see him again across enemy lines, you wonder—

Does he still stop for stray cats?

Or did he learn, in the end, that love is never enough to keep something safe?

You do not ask.

And he does not say.

But when he walks away, his hands curl—just for a second—as if holding something that is no longer there.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

So, fun fact (not so fun actually)—

this fic was actually inspired by a stray cat I used to see near my coaching center. it wasn’t mine or anything, but it was just… there.

A little Orange-Brown thing that had somehow become part of my daily routine. I had even mentally named it Kaju (because obviously, I was never going to not name a cat I saw every day lol).

Sometimes, if I had extra money, I’d buy a packet of biscuits (ParleG) and toss a few her way. Other times, I’d just look at it like we had an understanding. It was easy, unspoken. Just a thing that existed.

And then, one day, she wasn’t there.

At first, I figured she’d just wandered off somewhere, maybe found a new spot, doing something a cat would. But a few days later, I found out she’d been hit by a car. By mistake, of course. Just one of those things that happen.

And look—I wasn’t devastated. It’s not like I’d expected her to stay forever. But still… it sucked. The street felt different after that, like some tiny piece of it had been removed without warning. It’s funny how you don’t realize you’ve grown fond of something until it’s just gone.

Maybe that’s why I wrote this. My boi Suguru feels like the kind of person who lets himself care, even when he knows better. Even when he knows things don’t last.

---

Anyway, what about you guys? Ever had something like that happen? A small, unspoken attachment that disappeared before you even realized how much you liked it? Feel free to share—I’d love to hear if we’ve got some common circumstances. 🎀

✨ Bye and take care, hopefully you all have a good day ✨

—The Strongest Sweet Tooth—

Gojo Satoru believes in a lot of things.

He believes in power—his own, mostly, because there’s no one else on his level.

He believes in choices—the ones that shape people, the ones he never really got to make.

He believes in change—though he’s never quite sure if he’s the one causing it or just watching from the sidelines.

And above all, he believes in sweets.

Not just as food, but as a philosophy. A worldview. A moral compass.

"Everything you need to know about a person," he tells you one afternoon, legs stretched across your lap, "can be determined by how they rank their desserts."

You raise an eyebrow. "You have an actual ranking system, don’t you?"

"Of course I do!" He looks almost offended that you’d doubt it. "Do you think I just eat sweets randomly, like some kind of amateur?"

You do think that. Because Gojo has never exactly struck you as the kind of man who puts deep thought into anything besides fighting and annoying people.

But the way he says it—the sheer conviction—makes you pause.

Because he isn’t joking.

Not even a little.

Satoru’s Official, Undisputed, Completely Scientific Ranking of Sweets is as follows:

S-Tier (Divine, Transcendent, Life-Changing):

Anything made with yuzu. "The perfect balance of tart and sweet," he sighs, as if discussing fine art.

Hokkaido milk soft-serve. "The texture, the purity—it’s poetry in frozen form."

Mochi. But only when it’s fresh, hand-made, and "the exact right level of squishy."

A-Tier (Excellent, but Not Godly):

Dark chocolate. "Because I have class, obviously."

Honey-drizzled pancakes. "Good enough to die for, but I’d prefer to live and eat more."

Dorayaki. "Childhood nostalgia and deliciousness? Unbeatable combo."

B-Tier (Enjoyable, But Flawed):

Pocky. "Overrated, but respectable."

Strawberry shortcake. "Soft, fluffy, sweet—but lacks the complexity of superior desserts."

Dango. "A little too dense sometimes, but still solid."

C-Tier (Edible, But Only If There’s Nothing Else):

Cotton candy. "Pure sugar, no depth."

White chocolate. "A coward’s chocolate."

Anything overly artificial. "If it doesn’t melt on my tongue like a love confession, I don’t want it."

F-Tier (Crimes Against Humanity):

Licorice. "If you like this, I don’t trust you."

That one brand of cheap convenience store cakes that always taste vaguely of regret.

"Diet" versions of anything. "Why even bother?"

-----

"You thought about this," you say, stunned.

Satoru nods sagely, like a monk revealing the secrets of the universe. "Of course. You can tell everything about a society by its desserts."

You snort. "Enlighten me, then, Oh wise one."

"Gladly," he grins.

And then he launches into a full-blown dissertation on the philosophy of sweets.

How dark chocolate is for people who like complexity, who appreciate depth, who understand that sweetness is best when paired with bitterness.

How mochi is the ultimate symbol of comfort—soft, nostalgic, always better when shared.

How artificial sweets are like artificial people, all flash and no substance, messing into nothing the moment you try to hold onto them.

He talks, and talks, and talks—gesturing wildly, hands moving as if he’s sculpting his thoughts into the air.

And you watch.

Because for all his ridiculousness, there’s something fascinating about him when he’s like this.

So alive.

So present.

So real.

People forget, sometimes, that Gojo Satoru isn’t just a force of nature, isn’t just a god wrapped in human skin.

He’s a person.

A person who finds meaning in small, silly things.

A person who cares—even if it’s about something as absurd as a ranking system for sweets.

And isn’t that what makes him human?

-----

Of course, the problem with having such a strong opinion on sweets is that Satoru will fight to the death over it.

Metaphorically. (Mostly.)

The first time you mention liking white chocolate, he gasps so dramatically you think he might actually pass out.

"Are you saying," he demands, "that you willingly consume LIES?"

"It’s not that bad—"

"It’s sugar pretending to be chocolate! A fraud! A scam!"

You roll your eyes. "Oh please, mister ‘pocky is respectable.’"

"Pocky is respectable," he says solemnly. "It is an experience. A ritual. A sacred bond between snackers."

You don’t even know what that means.

And yet, an hour later, you find yourself in a heated debate over whether yuzu or matcha is the superior flavor.

(For the record, you argue for matcha. He calls you a heretic. You tell him to go to hell. He tells you they don’t serve sweets there, so he’s not interested.)

-----

It’s stupid.

It’s so stupid.

But it’s also… something else.

Something warm.

Something easy.

Something that makes your chest ache in a way you don’t fully understand.

Because for all his strength, for all his burdens, Gojo Satoru is still this.

Still a man who will fight over desserts like it’s a matter of national importance.

Still a man who will wax poetic about the spiritual significance of mochi.

Still a man who will argue for hours, just to make you smile, just to keep the conversation going, just to have something—anything—that isn’t war, or loss, or the weight of being him.

And somehow, impossibly, you are the one he’s chosen to do this with.

Not the world.

Not the students.

Not the endless cycle of duty and expectation.

Just you.

Over something as ridiculous as sweets.

And isn’t that, in its own strange way, the most intimate thing of all?

-----

At the end of the day, it’s not really about the ranking system.

(Not really.)

It’s about the fact that Satoru chooses to care about something so small, so human, so pointless and beautiful.

Because if he can care about this, if he can make room in his world for something as silly as a favorite flavor, then maybe—just maybe—he can make room for other things, too.

For laughter.

For lightness.

For the quiet, simple joy of being here, being alive, being with you.

And that—more than any ranking, more than any argument, more than any philosophy—

is what really matters.

-----

The Strongest Man and His War with Sleep :

Sleep is a mercy he cannot afford.

Gojo Satoru has never been good at resting.

It’s not just about the nightmares—the ones that creep in like thieves, whispering names of the dead in his ears. It’s not just about the fear—that if he lets go, if he closes his eyes for too long, the world will crumble without him watching.

No, it’s deeper than that.

Sleep is vulnerability. And vulnerability is something the strongest man alive is not allowed.

So he doesn’t sleep. Not properly. Not often.

Instead, he runs himself ragged, burns his energy down to the wick, pretends exhaustion is something that only happens to other people. He hides behind laughter, behind endless motion, behind the overwhelming force of his own presence.

Because to stop—to be still—means to listen to his own thoughts.

And there is nothing more terrifying than that.

-----

You notice it, of course.

The way he’s always moving, always talking, always shifting from one thing to the next like silence might swallow him whole. The way he rubs at his temples when he thinks no one is looking. The way he leans against doorframes just a little too long, like standing upright is a battle he’s barely winning.

"You don’t sleep, do you?" you ask one night, watching him sprawl out on your couch like he owns it.

He grins, too wide, too easy. "Who needs sleep when you’ve got these?" He gestures vaguely at his eyes, like the sheer force of his existence makes him immune to basic human needs.

You roll your eyes. "That’s not how bodies work, Satoru."

He shrugs, lazy, dramatic. "Maybe yours."

You don’t press the issue. Not yet.

But you see the way his hands still for a fraction of a second. The way his smile flickers, just briefly, like a neon sign struggling to stay lit.

And you know.

You know that beneath all that brightness, beneath the godlike arrogance and the infuriating charm, there is a man running on borrowed time.

A man who is tired.

-----

When Gojo does sleep, it’s not gentle.

It’s not peaceful, like in movies, where lovers rest entangled in soft sheets and morning light. It’s not slow and dreamy, where sleep comes like a lover’s touch, warm and welcome.

No.

When Gojo Satoru sleeps, it’s like something in him collapses.

Like a puppet with cut strings. Like a body giving out after carrying too much for too long.

It doesn’t happen often—not really. But when it does, it’s as if his body is making up for years of neglect in one go. He sleeps like the dead.

No amount of shaking, nudging, or even yelling will wake him. You’ve tried. Once, you even held a mirror under his nose to make sure he was still breathing.

(He was. But it was unnerving, seeing him so still.)

-----

"You should go to bed," you tell him one night, watching as he leans against the counter, eyes half-lidded.

He smirks. "What, you worried about me?"

You don’t bother answering. Instead, you grab his wrist, tugging him toward the bedroom.

"I don’t need—"

"Shut up, Satoru."

Surprisingly, he does.

He lets you drag him, lets you push him onto the bed, lets you pull the covers over him like he’s something fragile, something worth protecting.

And when you card your fingers through his hair—slow, soothing, like a lullaby made of touch—he doesn’t protest.

His breath evens out. His body melts against the mattress. And before you can even make a joke about it, he’s gone.

Fast asleep.

Completely, utterly, unmovable.

-----

Gojo Satoru, the strongest man alive, is impossible to wake up.

You learn this the hard way.

You try shaking him—nothing.

You try calling his name—still nothing.

You even flick his forehead, the way he does to others—but he doesn’t so much as twitch.

It’s honestly a little terrifying.

It’s like he trusts you enough to completely let go.

Like, in this moment, in this space, he believes—just for a little while—that he is safe.

And that realization sits heavy in your chest.

Because Gojo Satoru is not a man who allows himself to feel safe.

Not with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Not with the ghosts of the past clawing at his heels.

Not with the knowledge that the moment he closes his eyes, something else might be taken from him.

But here, now, with you—he sleeps.

And that means something.

-----

In the morning, when he finally stirs, stretching like a cat in the sun, he blinks at you blearily.

"You let me sleep," he murmurs, voice thick with something you don’t quite recognize.

You hum, tracing lazy patterns on his wrist. "You needed it."

A pause.

Then, a quiet chuckle. "You didn’t try to wake me, did you?"

You don’t answer.

Because if you admit how hard you tried—how impossible it was—you might have to admit what that means.

Might have to admit that Gojo Satoru, for all his power, is still just a person.

A person who gets tired.

A person who needs rest.

A person who, in the end, just wants to lay down his burdens—if only for a little while.

And somehow, impossibly, he’s chosen to do that with you.

So instead, you smirk, flicking his forehead in revenge.

"Don’t get used to it, Satoru."

His laughter is bright, easy, filling the room like morning light.

But when he pulls you close again, burying his face in your shoulder, you think—maybe, just maybe—he already has.

-----

One who can read your words & understands true meaning of each. Such person has the right to read your life like an "Author".

I'd stand in the shadows of your heart and tell you I'm not afraid of your dark.

— Andrea Gibson

'Where there is formality, there's No Reality. "

Bad News :

You're growing & it's Uncomfortable..

Good News :

It's uncomfortable, but You're Growing... !

#Eyes Show the #STRENGTH of #SOUL

#Sometimes your eyes Talk more than your Lip Says