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Justin

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character: takarada_rikka, nakano_miku 2girls, takarada rikka, nakano miku, split screen, from in front, upper body, cowboy shot, fists up, boxing gloves, red boxing gloves, blue boxing gloves, sports bra, red and black sports bra, blue and black sports bra, buruma, midriff, navel, messy ponytail, black hair, long hair, blue eyes, brown hair, hair between eyes, sweat, bruise, bruise on cheek, bandage on cheek, bloody lip, beaten up, determined, gritted teeth, smirk, looking at viewer, old boxing ring, frayed ropes, dusty canvas, old pub, crowd, cheering, throwing money, dollar bills, warm lighting, sexy, best quality, depth of field, dramatic angle, slight dutch angle, foreshortening A straight-on front view sliced by a hard vertical seam down the exact middle of the frame: a split-screen diptych, each half a separate camera on one of the two fighters, both cropped at the ribs so only the upper body shows. On the left panel stands the black-haired girl, seen from the front with her fists raised high, forearms coiled in front of her chin in a tight guard. Her glossy black hair is yanked into a messy ponytail that sits high and slightly off-centre, loose strands stuck flat across her sweaty temple, the tail splaying out behind her left shoulder. She wears a red and black sports bra — the red panel wrapping her chest, black straps over the shoulders and a black band under the bust — and matching black buruma shorts whose waistband just enters the bottom of the crop. Chunky red boxing gloves, worn and scuffed, are up at her jaw level; her rear hand is closer to the lens, knuckles foreshortened large, the front glove tucked smaller near her cheek. She is beaten up: a fresh purple bruise under her right eye, a split lower lip, a plaster taped across one cheekbone, sweat beading at her collarbone and running in a thin line down her sternum. On the right panel stands the brown-haired girl, the same front-facing crop at the ribs, her own guard up but angled a little wider, elbows flared, one glove higher than the other. Her long brown hair is wrestled into a messy ponytail with a fringe of bangs hanging between her eyes; the tail is thicker and messier than the other's, escaping at the nape. She wears a blue and black sports bra — deep blue across the chest with black straps and a black under-band — and black buruma shorts cropping at the same line. Her boxing gloves are heavy navy-blue leather, one of them scratched white with use. Her damage is visible too: a swelling over her left brow, a smear of dried blood at the corner of her mouth, a taped knuckle showing above the glove cuff. Both faces read ready rather than frightened: the left fighter's brows are drawn low over narrowed blue eyes, her mouth set in a tight determined line; the right fighter wears a lopsided, bloodied smirk with her teeth showing, eyes wide and locked forward, chin lowered behind her gloves. Both look straight into the lens, as if the viewer is the opponent standing across the ring. The setting is the same arena mirrored in both halves: an old and dirty boxing ring, the canvas scuffed grey-green with old stains, the ring ropes frayed and sagging, a dented turnbuckle at the frame edge on each side. Behind them the old pub interior glows — dark wooden bar shelves, chipped tiles, warm amber wall lamps that pool a honey-coloured light across the fighters' shoulders and the ropes. A jostling crowd presses in at the bottom of each panel, blurred by shallow depth of field: open mouths cheering, raised fists, and a shower of crumpled banknotes thrown into the air, caught mid-flight at different heights on each side, a few bills landing flat on the canvas apron. The paper money hangs and tumbles, catching the warm rim light along each folded edge. Lighting is warm and low, coming from the pub lamps behind and slightly above, wrapping the shoulders and the tops of the gloves in an amber rim, leaving soft shadow under the jaws and inside the guard. Palette is restricted to the two bras' colours — red and black on one side, blue and black on the other — against a shared background of honey, amber and old brown wood, so the split reads as two temperaments in one arena. A single detail of physics: the sweat on both fighters' skin catches the warm light only along upward-facing curves, drying dull in the hollows of the collarbones. Gritty, charged, and effortlessly sexy.
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オリジナルプロンプト
nakano miku, takarada rikka both wear sports bra with special designs and burumas matching their bras boxing gloves , old and dirty boxing ring,both are at the center of the ring,split screen, both look ready and beaten up,old pub,crowd cheering and throwing cash,,,sexy,best quality, only upper body,both have their fists up,rikka wears a red and black sports bra and miku wears a blue and black one,warm lighting,both wear messy ponytails,from infront
モード
flash
縦横比
1824 x 1104
プロンプト自動変換

利用したモデルとLoRA

ほかの類似作品

続きを読む
AI artwork
j
character: takarada_rikka, nakano_miku 2girls, takarada rikka, nakano miku, split screen, from in front, upper body, cowboy shot, fists up, boxing gloves, red boxing gloves, blue boxing gloves, sports bra, red and black sports bra, blue and black sports bra, buruma, midriff, navel, messy ponytail, black hair, long hair, blue eyes, brown hair, hair between eyes, sweat, bruise, bruise on cheek, bandage on cheek, bloody lip, beaten up, determined, gritted teeth, smirk, looking at viewer, old boxing ring, frayed ropes, dusty canvas, old pub, crowd, cheering, throwing money, dollar bills, warm lighting, sexy, best quality, depth of field, dramatic angle, slight dutch angle, foreshortening A straight-on front view sliced by a hard vertical seam down the exact middle of the frame: a split-screen diptych, each half a separate camera on one of the two fighters, both cropped at the ribs so only the upper body shows. On the left panel stands the black-haired girl, seen from the front with her fists raised high, forearms coiled in front of her chin in a tight guard. Her glossy black hair is yanked into a messy ponytail that sits high and slightly off-centre, loose strands stuck flat across her sweaty temple, the tail splaying out behind her left shoulder. She wears a red and black sports bra — the red panel wrapping her chest, black straps over the shoulders and a black band under the bust — and matching black buruma shorts whose waistband just enters the bottom of the crop. Chunky red boxing gloves, worn and scuffed, are up at her jaw level; her rear hand is closer to the lens, knuckles foreshortened large, the front glove tucked smaller near her cheek. She is beaten up: a fresh purple bruise under her right eye, a split lower lip, a plaster taped across one cheekbone, sweat beading at her collarbone and running in a thin line down her sternum. On the right panel stands the brown-haired girl, the same front-facing crop at the ribs, her own guard up but angled a little wider, elbows flared, one glove higher than the other. Her long brown hair is wrestled into a messy ponytail with a fringe of bangs hanging between her eyes; the tail is thicker and messier than the other's, escaping at the nape. She wears a blue and black sports bra — deep blue across the chest with black straps and a black under-band — and black buruma shorts cropping at the same line. Her boxing gloves are heavy navy-blue leather, one of them scratched white with use. Her damage is visible too: a swelling over her left brow, a smear of dried blood at the corner of her mouth, a taped knuckle showing above the glove cuff. Both faces read ready rather than frightened: the left fighter's brows are drawn low over narrowed blue eyes, her mouth set in a tight determined line; the right fighter wears a lopsided, bloodied smirk with her teeth showing, eyes wide and locked forward, chin lowered behind her gloves. Both look straight into the lens, as if the viewer is the opponent standing across the ring. The setting is the same arena mirrored in both halves: an old and dirty boxing ring, the canvas scuffed grey-green with old stains, the ring ropes frayed and sagging, a dented turnbuckle at the frame edge on each side. Behind them the old pub interior glows — dark wooden bar shelves, chipped tiles, warm amber wall lamps that pool a honey-coloured light across the fighters' shoulders and the ropes. A jostling crowd presses in at the bottom of each panel, blurred by shallow depth of field: open mouths cheering, raised fists, and a shower of crumpled banknotes thrown into the air, caught mid-flight at different heights on each side, a few bills landing flat on the canvas apron. The paper money hangs and tumbles, catching the warm rim light along each folded edge. Lighting is warm and low, coming from the pub lamps behind and slightly above, wrapping the shoulders and the tops of the gloves in an amber rim, leaving soft shadow under the jaws and inside the guard. Palette is restricted to the two bras' colours — red and black on one side, blue and black on the other — against a shared background of honey, amber and old brown wood, so the split reads as two temperaments in one arena. A single detail of physics: the sweat on both fighters' skin catches the warm light only along upward-facing curves, drying dull in the hollows of the collarbones. Gritty, charged, and effortlessly sexy.
Justin
AI artwork
j
character: takarada_rikka, nakano_miku 2girls, takarada rikka, nakano miku, split screen, from in front, upper body, cowboy shot, fists up, boxing gloves, red boxing gloves, blue boxing gloves, sports bra, red and black sports bra, blue and black sports bra, buruma, midriff, navel, messy ponytail, black hair, long hair, blue eyes, brown hair, hair between eyes, sweat, bruise, bruise on cheek, bandage on cheek, bloody lip, beaten up, determined, gritted teeth, smirk, looking at viewer, old boxing ring, frayed ropes, dusty canvas, old pub, crowd, cheering, throwing money, dollar bills, warm lighting, sexy, best quality, depth of field, dramatic angle, slight dutch angle, foreshortening A straight-on front view sliced by a hard vertical seam down the exact middle of the frame: a split-screen diptych, each half a separate camera on one of the two fighters, both cropped at the ribs so only the upper body shows. On the left panel stands the black-haired girl, seen from the front with her fists raised high, forearms coiled in front of her chin in a tight guard. Her glossy black hair is yanked into a messy ponytail that sits high and slightly off-centre, loose strands stuck flat across her sweaty temple, the tail splaying out behind her left shoulder. She wears a red and black sports bra — the red panel wrapping her chest, black straps over the shoulders and a black band under the bust — and matching black buruma shorts whose waistband just enters the bottom of the crop. Chunky red boxing gloves, worn and scuffed, are up at her jaw level; her rear hand is closer to the lens, knuckles foreshortened large, the front glove tucked smaller near her cheek. She is beaten up: a fresh purple bruise under her right eye, a split lower lip, a plaster taped across one cheekbone, sweat beading at her collarbone and running in a thin line down her sternum. On the right panel stands the brown-haired girl, the same front-facing crop at the ribs, her own guard up but angled a little wider, elbows flared, one glove higher than the other. Her long brown hair is wrestled into a messy ponytail with a fringe of bangs hanging between her eyes; the tail is thicker and messier than the other's, escaping at the nape. She wears a blue and black sports bra — deep blue across the chest with black straps and a black under-band — and black buruma shorts cropping at the same line. Her boxing gloves are heavy navy-blue leather, one of them scratched white with use. Her damage is visible too: a swelling over her left brow, a smear of dried blood at the corner of her mouth, a taped knuckle showing above the glove cuff. Both faces read ready rather than frightened: the left fighter's brows are drawn low over narrowed blue eyes, her mouth set in a tight determined line; the right fighter wears a lopsided, bloodied smirk with her teeth showing, eyes wide and locked forward, chin lowered behind her gloves. Both look straight into the lens, as if the viewer is the opponent standing across the ring. The setting is the same arena mirrored in both halves: an old and dirty boxing ring, the canvas scuffed grey-green with old stains, the ring ropes frayed and sagging, a dented turnbuckle at the frame edge on each side. Behind them the old pub interior glows — dark wooden bar shelves, chipped tiles, warm amber wall lamps that pool a honey-coloured light across the fighters' shoulders and the ropes. A jostling crowd presses in at the bottom of each panel, blurred by shallow depth of field: open mouths cheering, raised fists, and a shower of crumpled banknotes thrown into the air, caught mid-flight at different heights on each side, a few bills landing flat on the canvas apron. The paper money hangs and tumbles, catching the warm rim light along each folded edge. Lighting is warm and low, coming from the pub lamps behind and slightly above, wrapping the shoulders and the tops of the gloves in an amber rim, leaving soft shadow under the jaws and inside the guard. Palette is restricted to the two bras' colours — red and black on one side, blue and black on the other — against a shared background of honey, amber and old brown wood, so the split reads as two temperaments in one arena. A single detail of physics: the sweat on both fighters' skin catches the warm light only along upward-facing curves, drying dull in the hollows of the collarbones. Gritty, charged, and effortlessly sexy.
Justin
AI artwork
hk
character: takarada_rikka, nakano_miku 2girls, takarada rikka, nakano miku, split screen, two panels side by side, upper body only, cowboy shot, boxing gloves, fists up, boxing guard, sports bra, buruma, red and black sports bra, blue and black sports bra, red boxing gloves, blue boxing gloves, confident, smug, grin, looking at viewer, old dirty boxing ring, ring ropes, worn canvas, old pub interior, crowd, cheering, throwing money, banknotes in the air, warm lighting, long hair, black hair, blue eyes, brown hair, hair between eyes, medium breasts, from below, dynamic angle, high detail Split screen, two vertical panels of equal width divided by a hard seam down the centre of the frame; each panel holds one fighter at the centre of the same old ring, cropped at the waist so only the upper body shows. On the left panel: a young woman with long black hair falling loose past her shoulders, blue eyes, standing square to the camera with her chin dropped a fraction and a lopsided confident smirk, one brow cocked; she wears a red and black sports bra whose red cups and black underband and black shoulder straps sit snug against her ribs, matching red buruma at the edge of the crop, and red boxing gloves laced at both wrists, held in a tight guard with both fists up at cheek height, her right forearm angled across her chest, knuckles turned inward, elbows tucked to the ribs, weight on her back foot so her hips roll slightly to one side. On the right panel: a young woman with long brown hair, a fringe hanging between her eyes, blue eyes, her head tilted a few degrees with a cool confident closed-lip smile and steady lids; she wears a blue and black sports bra, blue cups with black underband and black straps, matching blue buruma, and blue boxing gloves, both fists raised in guard at jaw height, left glove a little forward of the right, forearms tense, shoulders drawn up, a strand of hair lifting across her cheek as though from her own motion. Both fighters stare straight down the lens, chin up, sure of themselves. Behind each of them the ring is the same tired platform: rope rows sagging between taped corner posts, the top rope scuffed and grey with use, the canvas stained and split at the seams, its surface dull where feet have polished it. Beyond the ropes the old pub falls back into depth: a low ceiling of dark timber, a bar counter running out of focus, hanging lamps with warm amber bulbs, and a packed crowd of blurred patrons leaning over the ropes, mouths open in cheers, arms flung up, a scatter of banknotes in the air above their heads and more of them settled on the ring apron and caught flat against the canvas. The lamps are the only light: warm orange key from above and slightly behind the fighters, catching the top edge of each shoulder and the sheen of the gloves, leaving soft shadow under the chin, in the eye sockets and beneath the ropes; the crowd sits in warmer, darker falloff. Palette: the reds and blacks of the left panel against the blues and blacks of the right, both grounded in the amber of the lamps and the brown-grey grime of the ring, with the pale green-grey of paper money as the only other colour. The seam between panels cuts clean through the ring so the two halves never quite line up, and the falling banknotes curl and flatten at different angles as they drop, edge-on in the light. Sweaty, electric, effortlessly stylish.
hab keinen namen
AI artwork
hk
character: takarada_rikka, nakano_miku 2girls, takarada rikka, nakano miku, split screen, two panels side by side, upper body only, cowboy shot, boxing gloves, fists up, boxing guard, sports bra, buruma, red and black sports bra, blue and black sports bra, red boxing gloves, blue boxing gloves, confident, smug, grin, looking at viewer, old dirty boxing ring, ring ropes, worn canvas, old pub interior, crowd, cheering, throwing money, banknotes in the air, warm lighting, long hair, black hair, blue eyes, brown hair, hair between eyes, medium breasts, from below, dynamic angle, high detail Split screen, two vertical panels of equal width divided by a hard seam down the centre of the frame; each panel holds one fighter at the centre of the same old ring, cropped at the waist so only the upper body shows. On the left panel: a young woman with long black hair falling loose past her shoulders, blue eyes, standing square to the camera with her chin dropped a fraction and a lopsided confident smirk, one brow cocked; she wears a red and black sports bra whose red cups and black underband and black shoulder straps sit snug against her ribs, matching red buruma at the edge of the crop, and red boxing gloves laced at both wrists, held in a tight guard with both fists up at cheek height, her right forearm angled across her chest, knuckles turned inward, elbows tucked to the ribs, weight on her back foot so her hips roll slightly to one side. On the right panel: a young woman with long brown hair, a fringe hanging between her eyes, blue eyes, her head tilted a few degrees with a cool confident closed-lip smile and steady lids; she wears a blue and black sports bra, blue cups with black underband and black straps, matching blue buruma, and blue boxing gloves, both fists raised in guard at jaw height, left glove a little forward of the right, forearms tense, shoulders drawn up, a strand of hair lifting across her cheek as though from her own motion. Both fighters stare straight down the lens, chin up, sure of themselves. Behind each of them the ring is the same tired platform: rope rows sagging between taped corner posts, the top rope scuffed and grey with use, the canvas stained and split at the seams, its surface dull where feet have polished it. Beyond the ropes the old pub falls back into depth: a low ceiling of dark timber, a bar counter running out of focus, hanging lamps with warm amber bulbs, and a packed crowd of blurred patrons leaning over the ropes, mouths open in cheers, arms flung up, a scatter of banknotes in the air above their heads and more of them settled on the ring apron and caught flat against the canvas. The lamps are the only light: warm orange key from above and slightly behind the fighters, catching the top edge of each shoulder and the sheen of the gloves, leaving soft shadow under the chin, in the eye sockets and beneath the ropes; the crowd sits in warmer, darker falloff. Palette: the reds and blacks of the left panel against the blues and blacks of the right, both grounded in the amber of the lamps and the brown-grey grime of the ring, with the pale green-grey of paper money as the only other colour. The seam between panels cuts clean through the ring so the two halves never quite line up, and the falling banknotes curl and flatten at different angles as they drop, edge-on in the light. Sweaty, electric, effortlessly stylish.
hab keinen namen

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