#amazon warrior

[elois-illust]

DONNA TROY 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ girly pop 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

Gods i love her fr fr 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️✨

[pulpsandcomics2]

Conan and the Amazon by Ken Kelly

[fonscordi]

A more sketchy/drawing style instead of my usual paint, but this is faster for me, and I've been wanting to draw Absolute Wonder Woman since I saw her desing! What a beauty of a tank she is!!! 🤩

[sammyquarius]

A Goddess Among Monsters

Chapter 1: The Man that Fell From the Sky

The sea had moods.

You had learned that long ago.

Sometimes it whispered against the cliffs of Themyscira, gentle as a mother soothing a restless child. Other times, it roared like an ancient beast, hurling itself against black stone as if demanding entrance to a kingdom forever denied to mortals.

Today It felt restless. You stood near the cliffside training grounds overlooking the water, spear balanced lazily against your shoulder. Sweat cooled against your skin after morning combat, the sharp scent of salt and steel lingering in the humid air.

Below, Amazons sparred in practiced rhythm.Shield against shield. Arrow against target. Strength against strength.

The world was familiar Predictable and Safe

Yet your thoughts drifted.

Queen Hippolyta had spoken again of the World of Man during council. A place of greed.

War.

Violence.

Men who built kingdoms only to destroy them. Creatures ruled by pride and hunger for power.You had always listened politely.But quietly You wondered.

Could an entire world truly be so terrible?

Surely there had to be something beautiful beyond the horizon.Something worth seeing. You stood near the shoreline afterward, absentmindedly tracing your spear through damp sand.

Thinking.

Then, Lightning tore through the sky.

Your head snapped upward.

Something burned through the clouds.

At first, you thought it a fallen star something hurled from Olympus itself. Bright. Violent. Wrong.

But stars did not scream. Smoke curled behind it in ugly black ribbons.

Metal glinted through fire. A machine Broken and Falling.

The alarm horns echoed across Themyscira.

“INVADER!”

Amazons rushed toward the cliffs.

Weapons drawn.

The atmosphere shifted instantly from peace to war.

Queen Hippolyta appeared atop the overlooking terrace, expression hard as stone.

“What is it?” General Antiope demanded.

The object spiraled violently before disappearing into the sea with an explosion that shook the shoreline. Before anyone could stop you, you ran. Then dove. The water swallowed you whole cold, violent and dark.

Debris floated everywhere.

Jagged pieces of burning metal drifted like shattered armor from some mechanical beast. Strange symbols painted along its body meant nothing to you.

You swam deeper.

Then—

Movement.

Someone.

Half-submerged near sinking wreckage.

You reached to them quickly and fought against the sea to bring them to shore. They had Broad shoulders. Large frame. Military clothes soaked with seawater and blood.

But when you turned them over

Your breath caught.A face.Sharp jaw shadowed with rough stubble. Golden hair darkened by seawater. Skin bruised and bloody.Broad chest rising unevenly beneath torn fabric.

You stared.

Far longer than you should have.

A man.

A real man.

Not a story. Not a warning whispered during lessons. The Amazons had spoken of men with caution. They told tales of there Cruelty and violent and destructive nature.

Yet—

He looked…Human.

Wounded and Strangely vulnerable.

You crouched beside him in the surf, curiosity blooming faster than caution. His features were different from woman. His face was larger. sharper.more rough around the edges.

You hesitated.

Then, slowly, reached out. Your fingertips brushed against his cheek. Warm and Scratchy. His skin was rougher than yours.

You frowned slightly.

Odd.

Then, the stranger groaned. You startled backward. His eyes fluttered open. His eyes are blue

And suddenly—

He was staring directly at you.

Ben thought he was dead. Had to be.Because no living thing should look like that. Leather armor clung to powerful limbs. Gold caught sunlight against warm skin. Dark hair moved in the sea wind like something painted by the gods themselves.

Strong.

Beautiful.

Terrifying.

Yet somehow soft-eyed as she looked at him.

For a second. He genuinely forgot all of his senses.“…Jesus Christ,” he finally rasped hoarsely. A pause. Then, weaker—“Wow.”

You tilted your head.His voice surprised you. It was Lower and deeper than you expected. It was rough distant thunder unfamilar.

Everything about him was unfamiliar.

“You are…” you hesitated carefully.Your eyes moved over him again. “…a man?”

Ben blinked.Then blinked again.

Because she sounded genuinely confused. Not scared or even impressed, just... curious, and christ, her voice. It was angelic soft but commanding. Like she could snap his spine in half and apologize afterward.

“Yeah, well—” he coughed seawater. “Do I not look like one doll?”

You frowned.

Ben stared at you.

Actually stared.

Then looked around.

The island.

The warriors gathering onshore.

Every single one of them women.

Armed women.

Very armed women.

Oh.

Oh no.

His eyes widened slightly.

“…Well,” he muttered weakly, “This is either heaven or I’m completely fucked .”

You did not understand the remark at all Before you could ask—

Voices thundered from behind.

“Step away from him!”

A dozen Amazons surrounded you instantly, weapons raised.

“He could be dangerous!”

“He is a man!”

“Kill him before he harms anyone!”

Ben instinctively tensed despite barely being conscious.

But before anyone could move—

You stepped in front of him. Shielding and Protecting him.

“He is injured,” you said firmly.

The Amazons exchanged looks.

General Antiope’s expression hardened.“Injured men still kill.” she spit out

“He nearly drowned,” you argued.

“He fell from the sky.” Another Amazon chimed in

Queen Hippolyta approached at last, calm but unreadable.

Her eyes landed on Ben.

A long silence followed.

Tense.

Heavy.

Then—

“He should not be here,” Antiope said quietly.“No man has stepped foot on Themyscira in centuries.” eyes glaring at him with caution and disgust.

Ben grimaced slightly. “Wow. Real welcoming committee.” He couldn't help but spit out.

You looked back at him.

“…You speak often when wounded.”

That nearly made him laugh.

Nearly.

Hippolyta studied him carefully.Then looked to you.After a long strech of silence she finally spoke,“You pulled him from the sea?” she asked.

“Yes.” You replied

“And you wish him spared?” Quenn Hippolyta aksed with apprehension

You hesitated only a moment.

“Yes.” You said softly

Something softened briefly in the Queen’s expression. Then vanished. “Take him to the healers then we must question him.” she ordered

Immediate outrage erupted.

“A man inside the city?”

“This is madness!”

“He could be a threat!”

Hippolyta silenced them with a single glance.

“If the gods have sent him to our shores,” she said calmly, “We will learn why.”

Her gaze settled meaningfully on you.

“You found him.”

A pause.Her next words felt heavier somehow. “You will be responsible for him.”

Your eyes widened.

“Responsible?”

“You will watch him,” Hippolyta said. “Guide him. Ensure he causes no harm.” Then, quieter “And perhaps learn why fate chose you to find him.”

Behind you, Ben looked at you again. Still mesmerized.Still unable to look away. Because somehow, the first face he had seen after nearly dying was the most beautiful woman he had ever known.

And when you looked back at him, Ben felt something dangerous settle deep in his chest. He wanted to know your name.He wanted to hear that voice again and maybe—

Just maybe—

Never leave this island.

For more follow me on:  sammyquarius.tumblr.com

[janrockart]

Fall of the Hammer or: Vanquish the Horrible Night Just one more pic from the archives I've a soft spot for

[xoxshayy]

obsessed with the amazons !

[beautification-tales]

She Has The Power

Find the Prequel on My Naughty Moans

The first thing Prince Adrian registered was the scent of incense still clinging to Lysara's skin—sandalwood and myrrh, sacred oils now mingling with something far more carnal as her thigh slid between his. Moonlight caught the gold cuffs around her wrists, relics of her temple vows, as she pinned him down with unexpected strength. "You've been distracted during our councils," she murmured, her voice lower than during morning prayers. "Tell me, Your Highness... is it the trade agreements troubling you?" Her teeth grazed his collarbone, and Adrian realized with dizzying clarity that the priestess had been reading his restless glances all wrong.

But the weight of his father's last command still coiled around Adrian's ribs like iron chains: *A crown cannot sit on a head without a queen beside it.* The council's whispers grew louder each day—heirs demanded stability, alliances required marriages, and yet every noble daughter presented felt like another shackle. Lysara's fingers traced the scar across his ribs, the one she'd stitched herself after the southern rebellion, and Adrian wondered bitterly if any of those simpering courtiers could wield needle or blade with half her precision.

“I need a queen Lysara,” Adrian gasped as her nails raked down his chest, the words torn from him like an admission of treason. Her laughter was dark velvet against his throat—until she went utterly still. Moonlight carved her face into something unreadable, the playful priestess replaced by the strategist who’d outmaneuvered warlords. “Then take one,” she said, too carefully. “The Duke’s daughter blushes prettily at your speeches.” The mockery in her voice was a blade between his ribs.

“I want a warrior not a coddled woman. A woman that will give me a son that will protect this kingdom.” Adrian growled, catching Lysara’s wrist as she tried to pull away. Her pupils dilated in the dim light—not with fear, but with the same predatory interest she’d shown when first concocting the crimson elixir that had forged him into a blade. “Ah,” she breathed, twisting free to straddle him fully, her ceremonial robes pooling like spilled ink. “You forget, my prince. The same alchemy that reforged your flesh works just as well on a woman.”

Adrian’s cock stirred at the suggestion. “Yes! Make a worthy bride for my kingdom.” His hands grasped her hips, pulling her down onto him. Lysara gasped as he filled her, her body arching against his with a shudder. Adrian groaned at the tight heat of her, thrusting up into her with a possessive hunger. Her nails dug into his chest as she rode him, her breath coming in ragged gasps that mingled with the low growls rumbling from his throat.

Meanwhile, in the adjacent chamber, a young slave girl pressed her ear to the thin partition, her heart pounding. The sounds of flesh meeting flesh, the prince’s deep groans, and Lysara’s breathless cries sent heat pooling between her thighs. She imagined herself in the priestess’ place—Adrian’s strong hands gripping her hips, his mouth claiming hers. The fantasy burned so vividly she barely noticed the dampness soaking through her thin shift.

It wasn’t just lust that gripped her—it was possibility. The slave’s fingers trembled against the wall as she recalled the rumors whispered in the kitchens: the crimson elixir, the way it had transformed Lysara from a mere temple acolyte into a woman who commanded warlords. The same elixir that turned weak and scrawny Prince Adrian into a towering warrior of muscle. If she could take the elixir her whole life could change. She could be more than a slave, more than a body to warm beds—she could be a warrior queen.

Lysara emerged from the prince’s chambers at dawn, her robes hastily retied, the scent of sex and sweat still clinging to her skin. She found the slave girl kneeling by the door, her face pressed to the floor in feigned submission. "Rise," Lysara commanded, but the girl didn’t move—until she seized Lysara’s hem with desperate fingers. "Please," the slave begged, voice cracking like dry parchment. "Let me take the elixir. I’ll do anything. I’ll serve the both of you with all I have." Lysara’s eyes narrowed, but not in anger—in calculation.

She dragged the girl through winding palace corridors to her hidden lab, where vials of crimson liquid glowed like trapped firelight. "Strip," Lysara ordered, tossing her a flask while lighting braziers filled with crushed black lotus. The slave obeyed, trembling as she drank the elixir—then screamed as her bones cracked like green wood in a furnace. Lysara pinned her thrashing body to the stone table with surprising strength, whispering temple incantations as the girl’s spine arched impossibly. "Breathe through it," she hissed. "If you don’t have inner strength then you’ll die like the others."

The slave girl bit down on a leather strap as her arms convulsed, veins bulging beneath suddenly taut skin. Muscle fiber tore and reformed with audible snaps, her shoulders broadening as the pain blurred her vision into red static. She could feel her body betraying her—ribs shifting to accommodate new lung capacity, hips narrowing for combat efficiency—but worse was the hunger. It clawed up her throat like a starved beast, demanding raw meat, demanding violence. Her fingers dug into the table hard enough to leave grooves in the oak.

Then came the legs. The slave girl's thighs split open with a wet crack as tendons lengthened, her calves swelling with corded muscle that would make a warhorse envious. The curves came next—hips flaring outward with dangerous elegance, her once-sticklike frame now all predatory grace. She barely recognized the limbs thrashing before her, slick with sweat and something darker oozing from her pores. "Good," the priestess purred. "The elixir favors you. It knows you're meant for more than scrubbing floors."

The girl moaned as her breasts swelled against her will, the flesh hot and heavy as if someone had poured molten gold beneath her skin. Her nipples hardened into peaks, oversensitive to the point of pain as they brushed against the rough table. Her ass followed suit, rounding out with sinful fullness—the kind that would make men stare and women whisper behind their hands. She whimpered, not from pain but from the overwhelming rush of sensation, her body betraying her with every shuddering breath. "Stop fighting it," Lysara ordered, pressing a hand to the girl's heaving stomach. "Let the transformation claim you."

“I have the power!” The slave girl roared as the transformation ended, her voice now a resonant contralto that shook dust from the lab’s rafters. She surged upright—taller by a full head, her collarbones sharp as sword edges beneath golden skin now marbled with faint warrior markings. The leather strap fell from her mouth, revealing full lips. Lysara stepped back, her calculating gaze flickering over the girl’s new body—the corded muscle, the curves that hadn’t been there before but now demanded attention . “Not a slave,” the girl panted, flexing fingers that could snap a man’s wrist. “A queen.” Lysara smirked. “Prove it.”

The former slave girl picked up a discarded practice sword—then shattered it against the stone floor with a casual squeeze of her fist. Lysara tossed her a battle axe instead, its edge still crusted with old blood. "The south gate," the priestess said as alarm horns began blaring through the palace. "Ogre raiders. They'll be scaling the walls by now." The girl—no, the *warrior*—licked her lios and sprinted toward the sound of screams, her bare feet leaving craters in the flagstones.

Prince Adrian was already knee-deep in viscera when she found him, his bare chest streaked with black ogre blood as he cleaved through a hulking attacker. Another lunged from his blind spot—until the new warrior intercepted it, driving her axe clean through the monster's clavicle with a wet crunch. Adrian's head whipped around, his eyes widening at the unrecognizable goddess of muscle and fury now fighting beside him. "Who the hell—" he started, before she grabbed his jaw and kissed him hard enough to split his lip. "Your queen," she growled against his mouth, then spun to disembowel an ogre mid-charge.

The battlefield became a blur of snapping tendons and splintered bone as the two fought back-to-back, their movements syncing with terrifying precision. Where Adrian fought with brutal efficiency, she moved like liquid death—her enhanced muscles allowing her to flip an ogre twice her size onto its spine before driving her knee through its throat. He caught glimpses of her between strikes: the sweat-slicked curve of her waist, the way her thighs flexed as she vaulted over a swinging club. It wasn't just her strength that stunned him—it was the feral joy in her eyes as she fought, the same hunger he'd seen in his own reflection after the elixir.

The last ogre fell with its skull caved in beneath her fist, its death rattle drowned out by Adrian's ragged breathing. Before he could speak, she shoved him against the blood-slicked castle wall, her teeth sinking into his shoulder as her hand tore at his belt. There was no ceremony, no hesitation—just the wet slide of her thighs around his hips as she impaled herself on him with a guttural cry. Adrian's groan echoed off the stones as she rode him with battlefield ferocity, her nails carving fresh wounds down his chest. Distantly, he registered the cheers of his soldiers retreating tactfully from the courtyard, but all that mattered was the way her muscles clenched around him as she came with a shout that sounded more like a war cry.

Lysara watched from the battlements, her fingers still dripping with the black lotus tincture she'd added to the girl's elixir. The slave's transformation had been too perfect—the muscle growth too symmetrical, the hips retaining just enough curve for childbearing. She licked her lips at the sight of Adrian's hands gripping the warrior's waist hard enough to bruise, his thrusts growing erratic. The priestess had known the moment she saw the slave girl's desperate eyes that this would happen; that hunger was the same one that had driven her into becoming the sorceress she was now.

But that’s a different story

[dangarou]

Art by Luis Royo from his artbook “III Millenium” 🗡️🔥 @luisroyo_official “III Millennium” (1998) is a richly illustrated art book by Spanish fantasy artist Luis Royo, known for his darkly sensual and post-apocalyptic imagery. The book presents a dystopian vision of the third millennium — a world dominated by war, cybernetic mutations, totalitarian regimes, and decaying civilizations. Through paintings, sketches, and visual storytelling, Royo explores the collapse of humanity and the rise of hybrid beings in a high-tech, yet spiritually barren future.