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Prompt by Sombrero

in motion FLUX prompts

about 2k results

8 months ago

In the textured realism of Simon Stålenhag, a moon-worshiping priestess stands ankle-deep in the calm waters of a misty lake, her naked body fully exposed (2.0). Her raven-black hair flows wildly in the wind (1.8), adding a dynamic sense of motion as she raises her arms in worship toward the vast, star-filled sky. The night is illuminated solely by torches (1.8) planted in an irregular pattern along the sandy beach behind her, their golden flames flickering against the cool, muted tones of the environment. Her posture is powerful yet serene, the natural curves of her body, including her softly rounded bubble butt (2.0), highlighted by the warm glow of the torches. The contrast between the golden torchlight and the cool misty darkness of the lake creates a striking interplay of light and shadow, emphasizing the contours of her figure (1.9). To her side, a silver-grey horse (1.7) stands peacefully, tied to a nearby tree on the shoreline, its sleek coat reflecting faint glimmers of the torchlight. The lake is veiled in a thin layer of smoke (1.8), which drifts softly across the surface, blending with the hazy reflection of the torches in the rippling water. The air is alive with hundreds of fireflies (1.9), their tiny golden lights moving erratically, adding texture and depth to the scene. The torches' crackling flames mix with the gentle rustle of leaves and the faint hum of the fireflies, creating a richly immersive atmosphere. The volumetric lighting (1.8) from the torches filters through the drifting smoke, casting soft, dynamic beams across the scene. The muted earthy tones of the surroundings, interspersed with the vibrant glow of the torches and the flickering fireflies, evoke Stålenhag’s characteristic balance of realism and mysticism, capturing a moment of sacred ritual and haunting beauty.

ElectricL
18 970

9 months ago

A dark, gritty comic-style illustration, rich with hand-drawn textures, heavy inking, and a worn, weathered aesthetic. On the jagged, desolate surface of the moon, three astronauts in scuffed, retrofuturistic red spacesuits sprint for their lives, kicking up clouds of lunar dust that trail behind them. Their sleek, Soviet-inspired spacesuits are dull and battered, with faded USSR insignias barely visible under scratches and grime. Each astronaut is armed, firing crude, makeshift weapons backward in desperation as they attempt to fend off their alien attackers. In the distance, an ominous alien spacecraft hovers above the lunar horizon, its massive, angular silhouette casting long shadows across the surface. Bright neon-green plasma bolts streak through the darkness, fired from the ship’s glowing, turret-like weapons. The plasma bolts illuminate the gritty scene in brief, blinding flashes, casting jagged shadows and reflecting off the astronauts' scratched visors. The composition is chaotic and dynamic, with the lead astronaut crouched and firing while the others sprint, their postures tense and frantic. One astronaut stumbles, his weapon raised as he looks back in horror at the attackers. The moon's surface is jagged and uneven, littered with sharp rocks, deep craters, and faint traces of long-forgotten alien ruins etched with strange, glowing glyphs. The alien ship is vast and angular, with faint lights along its hull giving it a menacing presence. The Earth looms faintly in the background, partially obscured by lunar dust and darkness. The atmosphere is tense and moody, dominated by muted greys, dusty reds, and bright flashes of neon green from the plasma fire. The illustration is gritty and imperfect, with visible hand-drawn lines, bold inking, and heavy shadows. The texture of the lunar dust and the weathered suits is palpable, creating a tactile, raw aesthetic. The scene feels alive with motion and desperation, capturing the chaotic action of a life-or-death struggle in a hostile, alien world

ElectricL
15 630

8 months ago

A high-speed, dynamic portrayal of a 30-something, medium-built guitarist reminiscent of Kirk Hammett of Metallica, with flowing long black hair, captured in the electrifying moment of delivering the greatest guitar solo of all time on a 1979 Gibson Flying V. His face is contorted with raw passion and intensity, exuding a sense of deep emotional connection to the music. The Flying V guitar, with its iconic white and black finish, stands out as a symbol of power and brilliance. The scene explodes with vibrant splashes of fiery reds, electric blues, and molten oranges, swirling in chaotic yet mesmerizing patterns around him, visually embodying the raw energy and emotional resonance of the music. The dark, metallic-toned background creates a stark contrast, heightening the vibrancy of the colors and amplifying the sense of sound breaking free into space. The guitarist’s dark shirt blends subtly into the shadows, allowing the vivid colors and intricate detailing of the guitar and his expressive movements to dominate the frame. The composition features an unholy, brutal beauty with gloomy and intense dark tones, layered with an expressionistic art style that emphasizes movement, emotion, and the interplay of light and shadow. The scene is rendered in a digital painting style with highly intricate details, capturing the fine textures of the guitar, the strands of hair in motion, and the nuanced expressions of the guitarist. The 9:16 vertical aspect ratio intensifies the dramatic, towering energy of the moment, presenting an unforgettable masterpiece of musical brilliance, raw power, and emotional depth.

Pulsar212121
12 410

8 months ago

A colossal, ancient tower rises endlessly into the storm-wracked sky, its blackened stone walls jagged and monolithic, as if carved by forgotten gods. The tower stretches upward with impossible scale, piercing through the heavens themselves, its summit vanishing into churning, thunderous clouds. Around the tower’s foundation, the earth trembles and fractures—fiery veins of molten orange light seep through the cracks like wounds in the very fabric of the world, casting a sinister, flickering glow against the weathered stone. At the base of the tower lies the remnants of a once-mighty wall, a colossal gate now reduced to crumbling ruin. Though shattered and decayed, the gate still exudes power, its shattered arches adorned with intricate carvings of twisted demons and forgotten gods, their faces frozen in expressions of torment and rage. Jagged, black iron spikes jut from the stone, some broken, others slick with the glow of embers drifting through the thick, sulfurous air. The gate yawns open like a maw, and the darkness beyond seems to pulse and breathe—an ominous passage leading into the depths of hell itself. The landscape surrounding the tower is a barren, scorched wasteland. Twisted rock formations claw upward like skeletal fingers, shrouded in drifting mists that glow faintly with the light of unseen fires. Patches of smoke rise lazily from fissures in the earth, and small, flickering flames dance atop scattered braziers—unearthly fires that refuse to die. The wind howls through the desolation, carrying with it whispers and distant screams, as though the very land resents the presence of intruders. Above, the sky churns violently. Dark clouds swirl in a massive vortex centered around the tower, lit from within by bursts of electric blue and crimson lightning that tear through the heavens, illuminating the tower’s grotesque carvings and dark reliefs. Shadows dance and warp across its surface, giving the impression that the stone itself is alive, writhing with an ancient, malevolent energy. The atmosphere crackles with power, as if the boundary between worlds grows thin in this accursed place. In the distance, at the edge of the ruined path leading to the gate, a lone figure stands, cloaked in black and dwarfed by the tower’s immeasurable size. The figure’s silhouette is sharp against the fiery glow emanating from the cracked earth, their head tilted upward as they stare at the monstrous tower with a mixture of awe and dread. A faint wind pulls at their cloak, adding a sense of motion to the scene, as though the very world pushes them toward their inevitable fate. The color palette is dramatic and vivid: deep, shadowy blacks and cold grays dominate the stone, contrasted by fiery oranges and molten reds that pulse like a heartbeat through the earth. The sky above glows with dark blues and sickly purples, pierced by streaks of violent, crackling lightning. Reflective pools of molten light shimmer against the tower’s base, while faint embers drift through the air like dying stars, caught in the gravity of this immense, profane structure. Every detail—every crack, carving, and glowing fissure—breathes with life and dread, as though the tower itself is aware of those who dare gaze upon it.

ElectricL
9 190

6 months ago

Abstract Full-Body Portrait of a Prostitute – Salvador Dalí (Late-Life Style, Singular Focus & Pure Surrealism) (Surrealism:1.7, Salvador Dalí late-life style:2.0, Dreamlike distortion:1.6, Hyperreal textures:1.5, Chiaroscuro contrast:1.4, Oil-painting brushstrokes:1.5, Organic fluidity:1.6, Metaphysical realism:1.4) A full-body surrealist portrait of a prostitute, painted in the unmistakable late-life style of Salvador Dalí, where dream logic dictates form and reality bends into its own subconscious reflection. She stands alone in the void, a lone figure frozen in motion yet melting into time itself. Her body is elongated but coherent, her limbs refined into one singular, fluid, organic motion, as if she is a sculpture made of half-formed candle wax, melting at the edges but never fully dissolving. Her face remains untouched by distortion, hyperreal and melancholic, eyes darkened with kohl, staring directly outward, unblinking, as if confronting time, fate, and the fabric of reality itself. A single strand of jet-black hair escapes from her carefully pinned curls, swaying in an invisible breeze. Her lips—painted a deep, blood-red—drip slightly at the edges, as if smeared by unseen hands, caught between seduction and sorrow. Her dress, a relic of the past, is a contradiction of luxury and decay, the hem transforming into thin wisps of smoke, curling and dispersing into the canvas. The fabric is stretched unnaturally, its folds elongating like the melted forms of Dalí’s classic clocks, one shoulder slipping in an eternal descent, never quite falling. The setting is an infinite, surreal landscape—a lonely street with no visible end, where shadows stretch longer than their owners, and the cobblestones appear to melt into liquid mercury. In the background, a large, antique pocket watch, twisted and partially submerged in the air, hangs frozen at an uncertain hour, its hands warped into elongated spirals. A single red rose, impossibly large and impossibly alive, hovers just behind her, its petals peeling away like fragments of forgotten love letters. The air feels thick, painted with visible brushstrokes, where light and shadow do not obey the laws of physics—instead, they bleed into one another, wrapping around her body in soft, liquid chiaroscuro, mimicking the curvature of a dream. She is not merely a woman but a symbol—of desire, of loss, of something slipping through time like sand through Dalí’s own fingers.

ElectricL
8 260