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AI art "BloodyBoy" featuring #Femboy and #1 Junge

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BloodyBoy

#Femboy #1 Junge

Veröffentlicht: Nov 6, 2026

OverNoob

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1boy, solo, adult male, feminine appearance, soft features, androgynous pretty face, white hair, short hair, bob cut, blunt bangs, grey eyes, cheeky grin, open mouth, teeth visible, one eyebrow raised, looking at viewer, blood on cheek, bloodstain on face, sitting, sitting on throne, large throne, blood-splattered throne, axe embedded in throne, arrows embedded in throne, arrow in throne, legs crossed, loosely crossed legs, thigh gap, bulge, crotch bulge, visible bulge through shorts, clothing, white shirt, partially unbuttoned shirt, open shirt, bare chest visible, black coat, coat draped over shoulders, coat over shoulders, bare shoulders, black shorts, black tights, sheer tights, thigh-high stockings, black stockings, tall boots, black gothic boots, heeled boots, blood on shirt, bloodstain on clothes, head rest, head resting on hand, elbow on armrest, hand on hilt, sword, blood-stained sword, leaning on sword, bloodied crown, crown, damaged crown, gash in crown, crown hanging from boot, crown on boot toe, sword stuck in floor, sword in ground, corpse, armoured corpse, dead body, armored figure, fallen knight, steps, vast throne room, throne room, stone hall, columns, tattered banners, torn flag, blood spatter, many corpses in background, dark fantasy, from below, dutch angle, low angle, foreshortening, wide shot The camera sits low at the foot of the dais, tilted a few degrees off level, looking up: the throne towers toward the top of the frame, its backrest and finials rising out of shot, and the figure on it is seen from below at a slight foreshortening, his boots nearest the lens, his face far up the diagonal. He is the only living body in the hall. He sits deep in the throne with his weight sunk into the right hip, his right ankle crossed over his left knee so that the left boot hangs free and outward toward the viewer, the legs loosely crossed with a clear open gap between the thighs; the thin sheer black tights stretch taut across that gap and the closed black shorts hold a distinct, noticeable bulge across it, plainly readable in silhouette against the pale cloth beneath. His left arm is braced along the armrest, elbow planted on the cold stone, wrist loose, cheek and temple pressed down into the heel of that hand so the soft jaw compresses and the white bob shifts sideways, blunt bangs parting over his brow. His right arm drops down and out, the palm wrapped around the pommel of an upright sword whose crossguard is filmed with dried blood, the point bitten into the dais stone; his forearm stays straight because the sword, not the arm, carries his lean. The bloodied crown hangs from the toe of his raised left boot: the gold band is hooked over the pointed toe and the steel-tipped heel of the boot, tilted, and a deep wedge-shaped gash from a blade bites through its front arc, the cut edges bright and furred where the metal sheared. Blood on his cheek is a half-dried smear of rust-red running from the cheekbone toward the jaw, flaking at the edges; more of it has soaked in dark irregular islands along the white shirt, which hangs open down the sternum in a long V, buttons torn and one cuff hanging loose at the wrist. The black wool coat is only draped across his shoulders, empty sleeves swinging free over the armrests behind him, its collar standing up beside his throat. Below the shorts, sheer black tights sheathe the crossing leg; the black thigh-high stockings begin mid-thigh with their bands visible through the tights, and the tall gothic boots rise to the knee in layered black leather with straps and a high heel, the left one dangling. On the steps below, a sword is driven upright into the stone floor and left there, and beside it a corpse in plate armour lies on its side across the lower step: one gauntlet splayed open, the helm turned to face the dais, the armour dented and pooled dark beneath it. More armoured dead lie scattered far back across the flagstones in simplified dark masses, their plate catching stray gleams. The hall opens behind the throne into enormous depth: stone columns marching away, tattered banners hanging from the high ribs and shredded into ribbons at their lower ends, each torn banner swaying slightly though the air is still. Light comes from high windows out of frame at the upper left, cold blue-grey, raking down across the hall so it catches the top of the white bob, the leading edge of his cheekbone, the raised lip of the boot and the crown's hooked band, while the lower hall and the far corners sit in deep shadow; his cast shadow falls to the right along the dais and the dead man's armour throws a long thin shadow across the step. The palette is locked to white, black, cold grey stone and the brown-red of dried blood, with only the crown's dull gold admitted. Blood on the throne's armrest has run and dried in the crevices around the embedded axe head and the shafts of three arrows jutting from the backrest at different angles, and where the loose cuff of the shirt hangs, it has soaked up a stain that ends in a clean tide line an inch above the hem — quiet, theatrical menace.

BloodyBoy

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