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myso9288#0

AI art by myso9288#0 on PixAI. Made with Tsubaki.3 Flash.

m9

myso9288#0

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character: alisa_mikhailovna_kujou 1girl, solo, long silver hair, ahoge, grey_hair, white_hair, blue_eyes, hair_between_eyes, crossed_bangs, medium_breasts, skinny, black and white satin sports bra, black and white skin-tight shorts, sponsor logos on clothing, sitting on bench, cowboy shot, close-up, from side, looking at viewer, looking back, bruised, blood, bloody, sweaty, dizzy, tired but happy, half-closed eyes, light smile, open mouth, heavy_breathing, blush, seductive_smile, locker room, old dirty locker room, realistic, photorealistic, sitting, arm support, leaning back, motion_lines, spoken_heart, dark ambient light, A photorealistic cowboy shot seen from the side, camera just above hip height so the lens rides the line of the bench and the figure is caught in near-profile. She sits at the left half of the frame on a slatted wooden bench whose varnish has worn to bare grey wood in the middle, her hips angled slightly toward the viewer while her shoulders stay turned in profile, spine slumped back against the locker bank behind her, one arm braced on the bench on the near side taking her weight, the other hand resting loose over her own knee, knuckles slack. Her face is turned over her near shoulder toward the camera so she looks directly at the viewer: half-lidded blue eyes seeing the lens a beat late, a faint closed-lip smile tipping into an open-mouthed breath, damp hair stuck to one cheek, the whole head held at the slight list of a person whose balance has not come back yet. Silver hair is damp at the temples and at the nape, several strands working loose from the long fall behind her shoulders and one curl plastered across her collarbone. The satin sports bra and matching skin-tight shorts are black with white contrast piping and white side panels, the satin taking a soft sheen where the shoulder and ribs catch the light, the fabric creased at the waistband where she has been sitting, and printed sponsor logos running along the hip panel and under the shoulder strap, small and cleanly legible as graphic marks rather than sentences. The shorts are cut high and tight enough to read the swell of her hip and the taut curve of her ass against the bench slats, the near thigh pressed flat and spreading slightly on the seat. Bruises sit where a fighter's would: a purple-green bloom over the near shoulder and bicep, a shadow across one rib, a darkening patch on the outside of the thigh. Blood has dried in a thin brown streak from one nostril down past her lip to the corner of her jaw, a smaller cut at her cheekbone, and a red smear wiped across the back of the near hand and along the white side panel of the shorts where she has clearly touched it. The room is an old locker room, not a clean one: grey-green steel lockers pitted and scratched behind her, paint flaking from the doors and one hanging open on a broken hinge, a floor of small hexagonal tiles with dark grout and a puddle-stain pooling under the bench, a low wooden bench-end and a forgotten towel heaped in the near foreground corner out of focus. Everything above and behind is cold and empty. The only light is a single caged bulb high on the left, its cone falling across the top of her head, her near shoulder, the shine of the satin and the wet skin at her throat; her right side falls away into deep shadow and the far aisle of lockers goes black. The bulb's glow is warm amber against the room's cold grey-green, with the white panels of her kit the brightest note in the frame and the blood the only saturated red. One piece of physics holds it: the puddle beneath the bench carries her reflection, darker and blurrier than she is, and the near edge of the bench legs break the reflection into ripples where the water has settled unevenly. Grime, fingerprints on the locker handles and a fine dust on every horizontal surface keep the realism dirty rather than glossy. A small hand-drawn heart sits alone in a tiny speech bubble beside her cheek. Exhausted, filthy, sated.
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Original Prompt
alya kujou with silver hair, medium breasts,, ,beautiful satin black and white sport bra black and white skin tight shorts close-up, with sponsors,, horny,, , ,from side, shes dizzy,, ,skinny,medium breasts,cowboy shot, , look tired but happy, , ,sitting on bench,, realistic, bruised,,bloody,,,,realistic, old and dirty locke rroom,,looking at viewer, sexy ass,realistic,
Mode
flash
Size
768 x 1280
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AI artwork
m9
character: alisa_mikhailovna_kujou 1girl, solo, long silver hair, ahoge, grey_hair, white_hair, blue_eyes, hair_between_eyes, crossed_bangs, medium_breasts, skinny, black and white satin sports bra, black and white skin-tight shorts, sponsor logos on clothing, sitting on bench, cowboy shot, close-up, from side, looking at viewer, looking back, bruised, blood, bloody, sweaty, dizzy, tired but happy, half-closed eyes, light smile, open mouth, heavy_breathing, blush, seductive_smile, locker room, old dirty locker room, realistic, photorealistic, sitting, arm support, leaning back, motion_lines, spoken_heart, dark ambient light, A photorealistic cowboy shot seen from the side, camera just above hip height so the lens rides the line of the bench and the figure is caught in near-profile. She sits at the left half of the frame on a slatted wooden bench whose varnish has worn to bare grey wood in the middle, her hips angled slightly toward the viewer while her shoulders stay turned in profile, spine slumped back against the locker bank behind her, one arm braced on the bench on the near side taking her weight, the other hand resting loose over her own knee, knuckles slack. Her face is turned over her near shoulder toward the camera so she looks directly at the viewer: half-lidded blue eyes seeing the lens a beat late, a faint closed-lip smile tipping into an open-mouthed breath, damp hair stuck to one cheek, the whole head held at the slight list of a person whose balance has not come back yet. Silver hair is damp at the temples and at the nape, several strands working loose from the long fall behind her shoulders and one curl plastered across her collarbone. The satin sports bra and matching skin-tight shorts are black with white contrast piping and white side panels, the satin taking a soft sheen where the shoulder and ribs catch the light, the fabric creased at the waistband where she has been sitting, and printed sponsor logos running along the hip panel and under the shoulder strap, small and cleanly legible as graphic marks rather than sentences. The shorts are cut high and tight enough to read the swell of her hip and the taut curve of her ass against the bench slats, the near thigh pressed flat and spreading slightly on the seat. Bruises sit where a fighter's would: a purple-green bloom over the near shoulder and bicep, a shadow across one rib, a darkening patch on the outside of the thigh. Blood has dried in a thin brown streak from one nostril down past her lip to the corner of her jaw, a smaller cut at her cheekbone, and a red smear wiped across the back of the near hand and along the white side panel of the shorts where she has clearly touched it. The room is an old locker room, not a clean one: grey-green steel lockers pitted and scratched behind her, paint flaking from the doors and one hanging open on a broken hinge, a floor of small hexagonal tiles with dark grout and a puddle-stain pooling under the bench, a low wooden bench-end and a forgotten towel heaped in the near foreground corner out of focus. Everything above and behind is cold and empty. The only light is a single caged bulb high on the left, its cone falling across the top of her head, her near shoulder, the shine of the satin and the wet skin at her throat; her right side falls away into deep shadow and the far aisle of lockers goes black. The bulb's glow is warm amber against the room's cold grey-green, with the white panels of her kit the brightest note in the frame and the blood the only saturated red. One piece of physics holds it: the puddle beneath the bench carries her reflection, darker and blurrier than she is, and the near edge of the bench legs break the reflection into ripples where the water has settled unevenly. Grime, fingerprints on the locker handles and a fine dust on every horizontal surface keep the realism dirty rather than glossy. A small hand-drawn heart sits alone in a tiny speech bubble beside her cheek. Exhausted, filthy, sated.
myso9288#0
AI artwork
m9
character: alisa_mikhailovna_kujou 1girl, solo, long silver hair, ahoge, grey_hair, white_hair, blue_eyes, hair_between_eyes, crossed_bangs, medium_breasts, skinny, black and white satin sports bra, black and white skin-tight shorts, sponsor logos on clothing, sitting on bench, cowboy shot, close-up, from side, looking at viewer, looking back, bruised, blood, bloody, sweaty, dizzy, tired but happy, half-closed eyes, light smile, open mouth, heavy_breathing, blush, seductive_smile, locker room, old dirty locker room, realistic, photorealistic, sitting, arm support, leaning back, motion_lines, spoken_heart, dark ambient light, A photorealistic cowboy shot seen from the side, camera just above hip height so the lens rides the line of the bench and the figure is caught in near-profile. She sits at the left half of the frame on a slatted wooden bench whose varnish has worn to bare grey wood in the middle, her hips angled slightly toward the viewer while her shoulders stay turned in profile, spine slumped back against the locker bank behind her, one arm braced on the bench on the near side taking her weight, the other hand resting loose over her own knee, knuckles slack. Her face is turned over her near shoulder toward the camera so she looks directly at the viewer: half-lidded blue eyes seeing the lens a beat late, a faint closed-lip smile tipping into an open-mouthed breath, damp hair stuck to one cheek, the whole head held at the slight list of a person whose balance has not come back yet. Silver hair is damp at the temples and at the nape, several strands working loose from the long fall behind her shoulders and one curl plastered across her collarbone. The satin sports bra and matching skin-tight shorts are black with white contrast piping and white side panels, the satin taking a soft sheen where the shoulder and ribs catch the light, the fabric creased at the waistband where she has been sitting, and printed sponsor logos running along the hip panel and under the shoulder strap, small and cleanly legible as graphic marks rather than sentences. The shorts are cut high and tight enough to read the swell of her hip and the taut curve of her ass against the bench slats, the near thigh pressed flat and spreading slightly on the seat. Bruises sit where a fighter's would: a purple-green bloom over the near shoulder and bicep, a shadow across one rib, a darkening patch on the outside of the thigh. Blood has dried in a thin brown streak from one nostril down past her lip to the corner of her jaw, a smaller cut at her cheekbone, and a red smear wiped across the back of the near hand and along the white side panel of the shorts where she has clearly touched it. The room is an old locker room, not a clean one: grey-green steel lockers pitted and scratched behind her, paint flaking from the doors and one hanging open on a broken hinge, a floor of small hexagonal tiles with dark grout and a puddle-stain pooling under the bench, a low wooden bench-end and a forgotten towel heaped in the near foreground corner out of focus. Everything above and behind is cold and empty. The only light is a single caged bulb high on the left, its cone falling across the top of her head, her near shoulder, the shine of the satin and the wet skin at her throat; her right side falls away into deep shadow and the far aisle of lockers goes black. The bulb's glow is warm amber against the room's cold grey-green, with the white panels of her kit the brightest note in the frame and the blood the only saturated red. One piece of physics holds it: the puddle beneath the bench carries her reflection, darker and blurrier than she is, and the near edge of the bench legs break the reflection into ripples where the water has settled unevenly. Grime, fingerprints on the locker handles and a fine dust on every horizontal surface keep the realism dirty rather than glossy. A small hand-drawn heart sits alone in a tiny speech bubble beside her cheek. Exhausted, filthy, sated.
myso9288#0
AI artwork
m9
character: alisa_mikhailovna_kujou 1girl, solo, long silver hair, ahoge, grey_hair, white_hair, blue_eyes, hair_between_eyes, crossed_bangs, medium_breasts, skinny, black and white satin sports bra, black and white skin-tight shorts, sponsor logos on clothing, sitting on bench, cowboy shot, close-up, from side, looking at viewer, looking back, bruised, blood, bloody, sweaty, dizzy, tired but happy, half-closed eyes, light smile, open mouth, heavy_breathing, blush, seductive_smile, locker room, old dirty locker room, realistic, photorealistic, sitting, arm support, leaning back, motion_lines, spoken_heart, dark ambient light, A photorealistic cowboy shot seen from the side, camera just above hip height so the lens rides the line of the bench and the figure is caught in near-profile. She sits at the left half of the frame on a slatted wooden bench whose varnish has worn to bare grey wood in the middle, her hips angled slightly toward the viewer while her shoulders stay turned in profile, spine slumped back against the locker bank behind her, one arm braced on the bench on the near side taking her weight, the other hand resting loose over her own knee, knuckles slack. Her face is turned over her near shoulder toward the camera so she looks directly at the viewer: half-lidded blue eyes seeing the lens a beat late, a faint closed-lip smile tipping into an open-mouthed breath, damp hair stuck to one cheek, the whole head held at the slight list of a person whose balance has not come back yet. Silver hair is damp at the temples and at the nape, several strands working loose from the long fall behind her shoulders and one curl plastered across her collarbone. The satin sports bra and matching skin-tight shorts are black with white contrast piping and white side panels, the satin taking a soft sheen where the shoulder and ribs catch the light, the fabric creased at the waistband where she has been sitting, and printed sponsor logos running along the hip panel and under the shoulder strap, small and cleanly legible as graphic marks rather than sentences. The shorts are cut high and tight enough to read the swell of her hip and the taut curve of her ass against the bench slats, the near thigh pressed flat and spreading slightly on the seat. Bruises sit where a fighter's would: a purple-green bloom over the near shoulder and bicep, a shadow across one rib, a darkening patch on the outside of the thigh. Blood has dried in a thin brown streak from one nostril down past her lip to the corner of her jaw, a smaller cut at her cheekbone, and a red smear wiped across the back of the near hand and along the white side panel of the shorts where she has clearly touched it. The room is an old locker room, not a clean one: grey-green steel lockers pitted and scratched behind her, paint flaking from the doors and one hanging open on a broken hinge, a floor of small hexagonal tiles with dark grout and a puddle-stain pooling under the bench, a low wooden bench-end and a forgotten towel heaped in the near foreground corner out of focus. Everything above and behind is cold and empty. The only light is a single caged bulb high on the left, its cone falling across the top of her head, her near shoulder, the shine of the satin and the wet skin at her throat; her right side falls away into deep shadow and the far aisle of lockers goes black. The bulb's glow is warm amber against the room's cold grey-green, with the white panels of her kit the brightest note in the frame and the blood the only saturated red. One piece of physics holds it: the puddle beneath the bench carries her reflection, darker and blurrier than she is, and the near edge of the bench legs break the reflection into ripples where the water has settled unevenly. Grime, fingerprints on the locker handles and a fine dust on every horizontal surface keep the realism dirty rather than glossy. A small hand-drawn heart sits alone in a tiny speech bubble beside her cheek. Exhausted, filthy, sated.
myso9288#0
AI artwork
m9
character: alisa_mikhailovna_kujou 1girl, solo, alisa_mikhailovna_kujou, silver hair, long hair, ahoge, crossed bangs, hair between eyes, grey eyes, black eyeliner, smeared eyeliner, medium breasts, skinny, slender, bruised skin, bruise on cheek, bruise on shoulder, bloody, blood on face, blood trickling from split lip, dried blood, sweaty skin, sweat, satin black and white sports bra, black and white skin-tight shorts, sponsor logos on clothing, logo print, cowboy shot, close-up, from front, only upper body visible, upper body, dizzy, half-closed eyes, unfocused eyes, lidded eyes, horny, flushed face, blush, open mouth, panting, smiling, lopsided grin, teeth, head tilt, leaning against lockers, arm support, hand on own hip, dirty old locker room, metal lockers, peeling paint, grime, dim light, looking at viewer, high-fidelity, photorealistic lighting, The camera sits in front of her at chest height and slightly below her chin line, a tight horizontal close-up that cuts off just under her ribs so only her upper body fills the frame; her left shoulder is turned a half-step back toward the lockers, her right hip cocked forward to take her weight on the right leg, her right hand braced flat on a dented locker door beside her hip while her left forearm crosses low and her fingers hook loosely on the waistband of the shorts. Her head tips to her right and lolls a little on the neck. Fresh bruising blooms purple over her right cheekbone and the point of her left shoulder: the satin straps have slid up and the right strap has slipped off the shoulder, and a dark smear of blood runs from one nostril over her upper lip to the corner of her mouth, with a thin cut at the lip corner welling red as it dries. Her silver hair hangs in loose, sweat-clumped strands and the ahoge droops; one strand is stuck flat across her bruised cheek. Her black eyeliner has bled slightly at the outer corners of her lidded, unfocused eyes, which look straight at the viewer with a hazy, swimming want beneath the spun dizziness, and her lips are parted in a lopsided grin, one corner pulled higher, a sliver of teeth showing and her tongue wetting the broken lip. The black satin sports bra and its white side panels wrap her medium chest tightly, sweat darkening the black fabric in a V at the sternum, thin white piping tracing the edges and a sponsor wordmark printed across the left band, and the black and white skin-tight shorts ride high on her waist, their black side panels carrying two further sponsor logos. Behind her, a dirty old locker room recedes: rows of chipped grey-green metal lockers with peeling paint and rust bleeding through the worn spots, a bench edge barely visible at the bottom corners, floor grit and a discarded towel out of focus. A single caged bulb overhead throws hard light down from the top left, catching the sweat and the lip blood as wet highlights, plating a cold sheen on the locker doors, and leaving the right side of her face and the locker room's depth in deep shadow. The palette is grey-green lockers, cold steel, silver hair, bone-white panels and deep black fabric, with blood red and the purple of bruises as the only warm notes. Battered and feverish.
myso9288#0

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4#Puella Magi Madoka Magica#Kaname Madoka#Puella Magi Madoka Magica
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