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v4r.justin#0

Sztuka AI autorstwa v4r.justin#0 na PixAI. Utworzono z Tsubaki.3 Flash.

v4

v4r.justin#0

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character: emilia_(re:zero) 1girl, solo, emilia_(re:zero), long hair, white hair, purple eyes, braid, hair ornament, hair flower, black eyeliner, skinny, medium breasts, bruised, blood, bandage, bandaged hands, black and white satin sports bra, sponsor logos, black and white skin tight shorts, boxing ring, fists up, fighting stance, serious, nervous, dizzy, horny, cowboy shot, upper body, close-up, from in front, old pub, wooden walls, cheering crowd, realistic, looking at viewer, A front-facing cowboy shot cropped at the hips, the camera slightly below ring-floor level so the viewer looks up across the near ropes: at the centre of the frame she stands squared to the lens, one shoulder dropped, both bandaged fists raised between her chin and her collarbone in a tight guard, knuckles turned inward, the left fist a hand's width higher and a little forward of the right, elbows tucked against her ribs, thumbs locked over curled fingers. Her weight hangs on her back leg, the front knee slack and turned inward, so the whole torso lists a few degrees off vertical and the guard sits slightly low, the way a tired fighter's does. Her chin is up but her head is tilted a touch to her left, eyes half-lidded and unfocused, pupils aimed just past the lens rather than into it, both irises catching the overhead light with a wet glassy shine; a heavy black eyeliner wing has smeared at the outer corner of the right eye and dragged a faint dark streak toward her temple. Colour rides high on her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, lips parted on a short breath, one lip corner pulled in and caught between her teeth in a small nervous bite, the wet edge of the lower lip shining. Her white hair is loose from its braid at the crown, the braid fallen forward over her right shoulder and hanging down the chest, the small flower at the side of her head knocked askew, several fine strands stuck to the sweat at her cheek and throat. Bruises map her visible skin: a purple-green shadow swelling under the left eye, a split at the inner brow with a dried dark line down the cheek from it, a bruised bloom across the right ribs just under the bra band, and a red graze on the point of the left shoulder. A thin trickle of blood runs from her right nostril over her upper lip to the corner of her mouth, drying darker where it thins. Her fists are wrapped in off-white cloth bandages, wound in overlapping diagonal turns around the knuckles and wrist, the fabric dirty and compressed, a coin-sized bloom of fresh red soaking through the wrap over the front knuckles of the right hand and a rustier brown ring on the left. The sports bra is black satin with white piping along the neckline and underband, sheened with a hard wet highlight across the bust, sponsor patches sewn along the underband and one on the left cup — a rectangular black-and-white patch reading "IRON FIST GYM", a smaller round patch above it, and fine illegible print under them; the black-and-white shorts are cut high at the hip and grip the skin tight, their white waistband carrying a second sponsor band whose lettering stretches with the fabric where it pulls across her hip. Sweat beads stand on her collarbones and run in a short track down the sternum into the band's edge. The ring frames her: a near rope crosses the lower foreground in a soft blur just under her elbows, the middle and far ropes cut behind her shoulders, the corner post rising to the right of frame. Above and behind, her own cast shadow is thrown long and broken across the scuffed canvas because the light is coming from behind her head. An old pub wraps the ring — dark plank walls of unpolished wood, a low ceiling lost in shadow, a bar counter glimpsed at the far left and hanging bulbs in tin shades. The crowd packs the space beyond the ropes as a dense mass of shoulders and raised fists, faces reduced to open shouting mouths and bright eyes, everyone blurred into a shallow depth of field so the shouting reads as noise rather than detail. A man in a flat cap leans over the top rope at frame right, mouth open wide in a cheer, one arm flung out; a woman with short dark hair beside him has both hands cupped around her mouth. Warm hanging bulbs and two hard overhead spots are the only sources: the spots hammer the top of her skull, the rise of her shoulders and the wet planes of her bra while her eye sockets and the underside of her chin sink into warm brown shadow. Palette is beer-amber, tobacco brown, black satin and the cold white of bandages and skin, with blood the single hot red accent. The near rope's shadow lies across her forearms in one unbroken bar; the canvas under her front foot dips and puckers where her weight has been planted a long time; the crowd's beer glasses throw small wobbling highlights up onto the lowest plank of the wall behind them. Dust turns slowly in the spotlight beams above her head. Nervous, punch-drunk and lit from within.
Pokaż parametry
Oryginalny prompt
emilia (re:zero), medium breasts,, ,beautiful satin black and white sport bra black and white skin tight shorts close-up, with sponsors,underground fighting arena, horny,, , ,from infront, shes dizzy,, ,skinny,medium breasts,cowboy shot, , look nervous, , ,only upper body,, realistic, bruised,,bloody,,,r bandages around her fists looking serious with her fists up,realistic, old pub with wooden walls and a cheering crowd,crowd cheering,,boxing ring,black eyeliner,
Tryb
flash
Rozmiar
944 x 1584
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Model i LoRA użyte

Tsubaki.3 Flash - AI Model cover image

PixAI DiT.3

Tsubaki.3 Flash
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AI artwork
v4
character: emilia_(re:zero) 1girl, solo, emilia_(re:zero), long hair, white hair, purple eyes, braid, hair ornament, hair flower, black eyeliner, skinny, medium breasts, bruised, blood, bandage, bandaged hands, black and white satin sports bra, sponsor logos, black and white skin tight shorts, boxing ring, fists up, fighting stance, serious, nervous, dizzy, horny, cowboy shot, upper body, close-up, from in front, old pub, wooden walls, cheering crowd, realistic, looking at viewer, A front-facing cowboy shot cropped at the hips, the camera slightly below ring-floor level so the viewer looks up across the near ropes: at the centre of the frame she stands squared to the lens, one shoulder dropped, both bandaged fists raised between her chin and her collarbone in a tight guard, knuckles turned inward, the left fist a hand's width higher and a little forward of the right, elbows tucked against her ribs, thumbs locked over curled fingers. Her weight hangs on her back leg, the front knee slack and turned inward, so the whole torso lists a few degrees off vertical and the guard sits slightly low, the way a tired fighter's does. Her chin is up but her head is tilted a touch to her left, eyes half-lidded and unfocused, pupils aimed just past the lens rather than into it, both irises catching the overhead light with a wet glassy shine; a heavy black eyeliner wing has smeared at the outer corner of the right eye and dragged a faint dark streak toward her temple. Colour rides high on her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, lips parted on a short breath, one lip corner pulled in and caught between her teeth in a small nervous bite, the wet edge of the lower lip shining. Her white hair is loose from its braid at the crown, the braid fallen forward over her right shoulder and hanging down the chest, the small flower at the side of her head knocked askew, several fine strands stuck to the sweat at her cheek and throat. Bruises map her visible skin: a purple-green shadow swelling under the left eye, a split at the inner brow with a dried dark line down the cheek from it, a bruised bloom across the right ribs just under the bra band, and a red graze on the point of the left shoulder. A thin trickle of blood runs from her right nostril over her upper lip to the corner of her mouth, drying darker where it thins. Her fists are wrapped in off-white cloth bandages, wound in overlapping diagonal turns around the knuckles and wrist, the fabric dirty and compressed, a coin-sized bloom of fresh red soaking through the wrap over the front knuckles of the right hand and a rustier brown ring on the left. The sports bra is black satin with white piping along the neckline and underband, sheened with a hard wet highlight across the bust, sponsor patches sewn along the underband and one on the left cup — a rectangular black-and-white patch reading "IRON FIST GYM", a smaller round patch above it, and fine illegible print under them; the black-and-white shorts are cut high at the hip and grip the skin tight, their white waistband carrying a second sponsor band whose lettering stretches with the fabric where it pulls across her hip. Sweat beads stand on her collarbones and run in a short track down the sternum into the band's edge. The ring frames her: a near rope crosses the lower foreground in a soft blur just under her elbows, the middle and far ropes cut behind her shoulders, the corner post rising to the right of frame. Above and behind, her own cast shadow is thrown long and broken across the scuffed canvas because the light is coming from behind her head. An old pub wraps the ring — dark plank walls of unpolished wood, a low ceiling lost in shadow, a bar counter glimpsed at the far left and hanging bulbs in tin shades. The crowd packs the space beyond the ropes as a dense mass of shoulders and raised fists, faces reduced to open shouting mouths and bright eyes, everyone blurred into a shallow depth of field so the shouting reads as noise rather than detail. A man in a flat cap leans over the top rope at frame right, mouth open wide in a cheer, one arm flung out; a woman with short dark hair beside him has both hands cupped around her mouth. Warm hanging bulbs and two hard overhead spots are the only sources: the spots hammer the top of her skull, the rise of her shoulders and the wet planes of her bra while her eye sockets and the underside of her chin sink into warm brown shadow. Palette is beer-amber, tobacco brown, black satin and the cold white of bandages and skin, with blood the single hot red accent. The near rope's shadow lies across her forearms in one unbroken bar; the canvas under her front foot dips and puckers where her weight has been planted a long time; the crowd's beer glasses throw small wobbling highlights up onto the lowest plank of the wall behind them. Dust turns slowly in the spotlight beams above her head. Nervous, punch-drunk and lit from within.
v4r.justin#0
AI artwork
v4
character: emilia_(re:zero) 1girl, solo, emilia_(re:zero), long hair, white hair, purple eyes, braid, hair ornament, hair flower, black eyeliner, skinny, medium breasts, bruised, blood, bandage, bandaged hands, black and white satin sports bra, sponsor logos, black and white skin tight shorts, boxing ring, fists up, fighting stance, serious, nervous, dizzy, horny, cowboy shot, upper body, close-up, from in front, old pub, wooden walls, cheering crowd, realistic, looking at viewer, A front-facing cowboy shot cropped at the hips, the camera slightly below ring-floor level so the viewer looks up across the near ropes: at the centre of the frame she stands squared to the lens, one shoulder dropped, both bandaged fists raised between her chin and her collarbone in a tight guard, knuckles turned inward, the left fist a hand's width higher and a little forward of the right, elbows tucked against her ribs, thumbs locked over curled fingers. Her weight hangs on her back leg, the front knee slack and turned inward, so the whole torso lists a few degrees off vertical and the guard sits slightly low, the way a tired fighter's does. Her chin is up but her head is tilted a touch to her left, eyes half-lidded and unfocused, pupils aimed just past the lens rather than into it, both irises catching the overhead light with a wet glassy shine; a heavy black eyeliner wing has smeared at the outer corner of the right eye and dragged a faint dark streak toward her temple. Colour rides high on her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, lips parted on a short breath, one lip corner pulled in and caught between her teeth in a small nervous bite, the wet edge of the lower lip shining. Her white hair is loose from its braid at the crown, the braid fallen forward over her right shoulder and hanging down the chest, the small flower at the side of her head knocked askew, several fine strands stuck to the sweat at her cheek and throat. Bruises map her visible skin: a purple-green shadow swelling under the left eye, a split at the inner brow with a dried dark line down the cheek from it, a bruised bloom across the right ribs just under the bra band, and a red graze on the point of the left shoulder. A thin trickle of blood runs from her right nostril over her upper lip to the corner of her mouth, drying darker where it thins. Her fists are wrapped in off-white cloth bandages, wound in overlapping diagonal turns around the knuckles and wrist, the fabric dirty and compressed, a coin-sized bloom of fresh red soaking through the wrap over the front knuckles of the right hand and a rustier brown ring on the left. The sports bra is black satin with white piping along the neckline and underband, sheened with a hard wet highlight across the bust, sponsor patches sewn along the underband and one on the left cup — a rectangular black-and-white patch reading "IRON FIST GYM", a smaller round patch above it, and fine illegible print under them; the black-and-white shorts are cut high at the hip and grip the skin tight, their white waistband carrying a second sponsor band whose lettering stretches with the fabric where it pulls across her hip. Sweat beads stand on her collarbones and run in a short track down the sternum into the band's edge. The ring frames her: a near rope crosses the lower foreground in a soft blur just under her elbows, the middle and far ropes cut behind her shoulders, the corner post rising to the right of frame. Above and behind, her own cast shadow is thrown long and broken across the scuffed canvas because the light is coming from behind her head. An old pub wraps the ring — dark plank walls of unpolished wood, a low ceiling lost in shadow, a bar counter glimpsed at the far left and hanging bulbs in tin shades. The crowd packs the space beyond the ropes as a dense mass of shoulders and raised fists, faces reduced to open shouting mouths and bright eyes, everyone blurred into a shallow depth of field so the shouting reads as noise rather than detail. A man in a flat cap leans over the top rope at frame right, mouth open wide in a cheer, one arm flung out; a woman with short dark hair beside him has both hands cupped around her mouth. Warm hanging bulbs and two hard overhead spots are the only sources: the spots hammer the top of her skull, the rise of her shoulders and the wet planes of her bra while her eye sockets and the underside of her chin sink into warm brown shadow. Palette is beer-amber, tobacco brown, black satin and the cold white of bandages and skin, with blood the single hot red accent. The near rope's shadow lies across her forearms in one unbroken bar; the canvas under her front foot dips and puckers where her weight has been planted a long time; the crowd's beer glasses throw small wobbling highlights up onto the lowest plank of the wall behind them. Dust turns slowly in the spotlight beams above her head. Nervous, punch-drunk and lit from within.
v4r.justin#0
AI artwork
v4
character: emilia_(re:zero) 1girl, solo, emilia_(re:zero), long hair, white hair, purple eyes, braid, hair ornament, hair flower, black eyeliner, skinny, medium breasts, bruised, blood, bandage, bandaged hands, black and white satin sports bra, sponsor logos, black and white skin tight shorts, boxing ring, fists up, fighting stance, serious, nervous, dizzy, horny, cowboy shot, upper body, close-up, from in front, old pub, wooden walls, cheering crowd, realistic, looking at viewer, A front-facing cowboy shot cropped at the hips, the camera slightly below ring-floor level so the viewer looks up across the near ropes: at the centre of the frame she stands squared to the lens, one shoulder dropped, both bandaged fists raised between her chin and her collarbone in a tight guard, knuckles turned inward, the left fist a hand's width higher and a little forward of the right, elbows tucked against her ribs, thumbs locked over curled fingers. Her weight hangs on her back leg, the front knee slack and turned inward, so the whole torso lists a few degrees off vertical and the guard sits slightly low, the way a tired fighter's does. Her chin is up but her head is tilted a touch to her left, eyes half-lidded and unfocused, pupils aimed just past the lens rather than into it, both irises catching the overhead light with a wet glassy shine; a heavy black eyeliner wing has smeared at the outer corner of the right eye and dragged a faint dark streak toward her temple. Colour rides high on her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, lips parted on a short breath, one lip corner pulled in and caught between her teeth in a small nervous bite, the wet edge of the lower lip shining. Her white hair is loose from its braid at the crown, the braid fallen forward over her right shoulder and hanging down the chest, the small flower at the side of her head knocked askew, several fine strands stuck to the sweat at her cheek and throat. Bruises map her visible skin: a purple-green shadow swelling under the left eye, a split at the inner brow with a dried dark line down the cheek from it, a bruised bloom across the right ribs just under the bra band, and a red graze on the point of the left shoulder. A thin trickle of blood runs from her right nostril over her upper lip to the corner of her mouth, drying darker where it thins. Her fists are wrapped in off-white cloth bandages, wound in overlapping diagonal turns around the knuckles and wrist, the fabric dirty and compressed, a coin-sized bloom of fresh red soaking through the wrap over the front knuckles of the right hand and a rustier brown ring on the left. The sports bra is black satin with white piping along the neckline and underband, sheened with a hard wet highlight across the bust, sponsor patches sewn along the underband and one on the left cup — a rectangular black-and-white patch reading "IRON FIST GYM", a smaller round patch above it, and fine illegible print under them; the black-and-white shorts are cut high at the hip and grip the skin tight, their white waistband carrying a second sponsor band whose lettering stretches with the fabric where it pulls across her hip. Sweat beads stand on her collarbones and run in a short track down the sternum into the band's edge. The ring frames her: a near rope crosses the lower foreground in a soft blur just under her elbows, the middle and far ropes cut behind her shoulders, the corner post rising to the right of frame. Above and behind, her own cast shadow is thrown long and broken across the scuffed canvas because the light is coming from behind her head. An old pub wraps the ring — dark plank walls of unpolished wood, a low ceiling lost in shadow, a bar counter glimpsed at the far left and hanging bulbs in tin shades. The crowd packs the space beyond the ropes as a dense mass of shoulders and raised fists, faces reduced to open shouting mouths and bright eyes, everyone blurred into a shallow depth of field so the shouting reads as noise rather than detail. A man in a flat cap leans over the top rope at frame right, mouth open wide in a cheer, one arm flung out; a woman with short dark hair beside him has both hands cupped around her mouth. Warm hanging bulbs and two hard overhead spots are the only sources: the spots hammer the top of her skull, the rise of her shoulders and the wet planes of her bra while her eye sockets and the underside of her chin sink into warm brown shadow. Palette is beer-amber, tobacco brown, black satin and the cold white of bandages and skin, with blood the single hot red accent. The near rope's shadow lies across her forearms in one unbroken bar; the canvas under her front foot dips and puckers where her weight has been planted a long time; the crowd's beer glasses throw small wobbling highlights up onto the lowest plank of the wall behind them. Dust turns slowly in the spotlight beams above her head. Nervous, punch-drunk and lit from within.
v4r.justin#0
AI artwork
jg
character: emilia_(re:zero) 1girl, solo, emilia_(re:zero), long white hair, silver-white hair, purple eyes, hair flower ornament, x-shaped hair ornament, crown braid, white ribbon in hair, medium breasts, skinny, slender, black and white satin sports bra, black and white pleated miniskirt, sponsor logos printed on bra and skirt, boxing gloves, wrestling ring, at turnbuckle, corner turnbuckle pads, school gym, upper body visible, cowboy shot, close-up, from side, from in front, profile-turned-to-camera, head tilted, arrogant look, smug half-lidded eyes, seductive smile, lopsided smirk, dizzy, flushed cheeks, parted lips, half-closed eyes, swaying off balance, one boxing glove gripping the top rope, other glove loose at her chest, leaning back into the turnbuckle, sweat on skin, realistic, photorealistic skin texture, gym fluorescent lighting, A realistic photograph, a low-angle three-quarter close-up on one slender young woman with long silver-white hair and violet eyes, standing at the padded corner of a wrestling ring inside a school gym. Her body is turned side-on to the frame in profile, but her chin and chest rotate toward the lens, so her face and the swoop of her bangs are seen nearly front-on while her shoulder and the side of the sports bra read as a clean profile — a deliberate side-and-front hybrid, head tipped back against the turnbuckle. Only her upper body and hips are in frame; the ring's bottom rope and the gym floor are cropped away below. The top rope cuts diagonally across the upper third of the image; her right boxing glove clamps over it, fingers buried in the leather, the glove creasing where it grips. Her left glove rests open and slack against her collarbone, tapping her own chest. She leans her weight back into the corner turnbuckle pads, hips pushed forward and shoulder blades against the post, one boot heel out of frame. Her expression is a knot of three things held at once: heavy half-lidded dizzy eyes, unfocused and slightly unfixed, meeting the viewer from under lowered lashes; cheeks flushed pink with a sheen of sweat across her temples and collarbones; and an arrogant, lopsided smirk lifting one corner of her mouth, chin raised, one brow arched high as if she already knows she's won. Her silver hair spills loose over one shoulder, a crown braid wound across the back of her head and a white ribbon and flower ornament tucked at the side, strands stuck lightly to her damp cheek. She wears a black and white satin sports bra and a black and white pleated miniskirt, the fabric catching the light in that wet, liquid sheen satin has, with sponsor logos printed in crisp white and red across the bra's band and the skirt's waistband, slightly warped by the curve of the cloth. The boxing gloves are black leather with white lacing. Behind her, the wrestling ring's ropes stretch out of focus into three padded turnbuckle posts, and beyond them the school gym recedes: pale wooden floorboards, hanging basketball hoops, a folded bleacher stack, and high clerestory windows. Cool overhead gym fluorescents light her from above and slightly to the right, throwing a hard bright rim along her silver hair and the top of her shoulder while soft shadow pools beneath her jaw, inside the turnbuckle, and across the far turnbuckle pads. Her hands and gloves cast a sharp small shadow onto the top rope and the floor beyond. Sweat makes the ring light bead and glint in tiny highlights on her skin — each droplet catching the overhead lamp as a single pinpoint, brightest on the up-facing surfaces of her shoulder and the curve of her chest. The palette is cool white, silver, and gym-floor tan against the black and white of her gear and the red of the sponsor logos, everything slightly overexposed in the ceiling light. Cinematic, sweaty, teasingly off-balance — dizzy but in control.
Justin G

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