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Prompt by e6e5cd22949

Hands in his pockets prompts

hundreds of results

9 months ago

Samantha “Sam” Taggart stands confidently, her posture exuding a sense of professionalism and determination. Her facial features reflect both the vulnerability and resolve that defined her character on ER. She has sharp, expressive eyes—perhaps a soft shade of brown, focused and empathetic, with a hint of exhaustion from the challenges she’s faced, but also filled with an undeniable strength. Her face is framed by shoulder-length brown hair, slightly wavy, with some strands tucked behind her ears, revealing a few silver strands that suggest the weight of time and experience. Her hair, while neatly styled, gives off a sense of practicality, not overly done but well-maintained for her demanding work environment. Her complexion is fair with a natural warmth, though slightly tired from the long hours typical of an emergency room nurse. There’s a subtle weariness to her features, yet her eyes carry the warmth of someone deeply invested in the well-being of those around her. A faint scar, perhaps from an earlier trauma or a reminder of her time in the ER, traces her neck or jawline—something that tells the story of a life lived through intense moments of crisis. Sam’s attire is a nurse’s scrubs, but not just any ordinary set. Her scrubs are a deep navy blue, fitted and functional, with a few wrinkles that suggest she’s been on her feet all day. The top is short-sleeved, with a name tag that reads "Samantha Taggart" pinned to her chest. There are a few pens and a stethoscope tucked into the pocket of her top, ready for use at a moment’s notice. Her scrubs are paired with comfortable, scuffed sneakers—practical for long shifts in the chaotic environment of the emergency room. Around her neck, there’s a stethoscope, and in her hands, she holds a medical chart or folder, her fingers gripping it tightly as she scans through patient information with focused concentration. Her demeanor is calm but intense, ready to spring into action at the first sign of trouble. Her body language is poised, with a slight forward lean as if she’s always anticipating the next challenge, but she carries herself with a quiet confidence that comes from years of experience. The background is the bustling and chaotic environment of the emergency room. Bright overhead lights cast a sterile glow over the scene, while the noise of medical staff moving quickly and patients being attended to adds to the high-stress atmosphere. The walls are lined with medical equipment, and the faint sounds of beeping monitors and hushed voices fill the air. Despite the chaos, Sam remains centered, a calm and composed figure in the midst of a storm. Her expression shows a mix of exhaustion and compassion—a nurse who’s seen it all but still fights for the patients in her care. There’s a subtle hint of vulnerability behind her eyes, perhaps a moment of reflection on the personal sacrifices she’s made for her career, but it’s quickly masked by her professionalism and dedication to her work.

Ignis_Tempestas
9 220

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

6 months ago

(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
4 120