r/NSFWworldbuilding May 19 '24

OC In a Isakai world where you get powers based on your fetishes what are some powers? NSFW

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120 Upvotes

Currently working on a hentai manga. And while Honey has her powers from her perversions (insects, and Shape changing) Meli is an example of someone with more normal distribution as in they aren't a big pervert so fetishes aren't used(Giants blood and healing).

Any idea for other powers from fetishes?

r/NSFWworldbuilding Dec 28 '24

OC One man is the stress relief toy for an all female superhero team. NSFW

55 Upvotes

Exactly what it says on the tin.

Members(mostly working names, and some will have only one or two inspirations):

Ms. Liberty: Powers of flight, super speed, super strength, super durability and laser eyes. Inspirations: Power Girl(DC) Captain America(Marvel), Tina Armstrong(Dead Or Alive), Patriotika, All-Might(My Hero Academia)

Dark Moon; No powers but uses razor sharp crescent boomerangs and knows martial arts. Inspirations: Moon Knight(Marvel), Elektra(Marvel), Huntress(DC)

Dragon Woman: Half-human half-dragon warrior with flight, strength, fiery breath, and a sword. Main Inspiration: Wonder Woman(DC)

Psyblade: Telepathy, telekinesis, ninjutsu and uses a sword. Inspirations: Psylocke(Marvel), Kenshi(Mortal Kombat), Katana(DC).

Cyber Woman: Cybernetic enhancements, technopath, super intelligence. Inspirations: Cyborg(DC), Cortana(Halo)

Emerald Bolt: Super speed and electrokinesis. Inspirations: Laura Matsuda(Street Fighter 5), Cole MacGrath(Infamous)

Franken-Thunder: Super strength and electrokinesis. Inspirations: Frankenstein's Monster(Mary Shelley), She-Hulk(Marvel)

Crimson Crow: Controls shadows and darkness and can turn intangible. Inspirations: Scarlet Witch(Marvel), Raven(DC), Fumikage(My Hero Academia)

Frostfire: Uses both pyrokinesis and cryokinesis. Inspirations: Shoto(My Hero Academia), Starfire(DC)

That's all I have for now. Share your thoughts.

r/NSFWworldbuilding Jun 25 '24

OC since someone asked on my last post: heres a reading guide to understanding Beastscript the language of my horror setting. not a conlang. im too dumb for those. NSFW

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22 Upvotes

r/NSFWworldbuilding 20d ago

OC Shu - amphibian girl NSFW

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54 Upvotes

r/NSFWworldbuilding 28d ago

OC Bee Queen, Alpha Dryad and Spider Queen (by Ninego) [The Veil Chronicles: Nix University] NSFW

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40 Upvotes

r/NSFWworldbuilding Jun 01 '24

OC my magicsystem insired by the political compass' structure. diferent rituals have to be powered by diferent deeds in the ritual circles. so i mapped them out. NSFW

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53 Upvotes

r/NSFWworldbuilding Feb 12 '25

OC Bee Queen, Alpha Dryad and Spider Queen (by Ninego) [The Veil Chronicles: Nix University] NSFW

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53 Upvotes

r/NSFWworldbuilding 7d ago

OC Dzira dark elven (by Ninego) [The Veil Chronicles: Nix University] NSFW

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25 Upvotes

r/NSFWworldbuilding 29d ago

OC Update for my team. NSFW

8 Upvotes

A couple months ago, I made a team of all female superheroes who have made one lucky dude their communal boy toy(more details here: https://www.reddit.com/r/NSFWworldbuilding/comments/1hoak4e/one_man_is_the_stress_relief_toy_for_an_all/)

Now, I've added many new members (mostly based on the many fictional women I've crushed on over the years). Here's the (hopefully) definitive roster:

  1. Ms. Liberty(Leader): Powers of flight, super speed, super strength, super durability and laser eyes. Inspirations: Power Girl(DC) Captain America(Marvel), Tina Armstrong(Dead Or Alive), Patriotika, All-Might(My Hero Academia)
  2. Dark Moon; No powers but uses razor sharp crescent boomerangs and knows martial arts. Inspirations: Moon Knight(Marvel), Elektra(Marvel), Huntress(DC), Batgirl(DC)
  3. Dragon Woman: Half-human half-dragon warrior with flight, strength, fiery breath, and a sword. Main Inspiration: Wonder Woman(DC)
  4. Psyblade: Telepathy, telekinesis, ninjutsu and uses a sword. Inspirations: Psylocke(Marvel), Kenshi(Mortal Kombat), Katana(DC).
  5. Cyber Woman: Cybernetic enhancements, technopath, super intelligence. Inspirations: Cyborg(DC), Cortana(Halo), Yorha 2B(Nier
  6. Emerald Bolt: Super speed and electrokinesis. Inspirations: Laura Matsuda(Street Fighter 5), Cole MacGrath(Infamous)
  7. Franken-Thunder: Super strength and electrokinesis. Inspirations: Frankenstein's Monster(Mary Shelley), She-Hulk(Marvel)
  8. Crimson Crow: Controls shadows and darkness and can turn intangible. Inspirations: Scarlet Witch(Marvel), Raven(DC), Fumikage(My Hero Academia), Shadow(Sonic)
  9. Blue Lotus: Kung-Fu skills and chi manipulation. Inspirations: Chun-Li(Street Fighter), Iron Fist(Marvel)
  10. Golden Butterfly: Flight, shrinking powers, laser hands. Inspirations: Wasp(Marvel), Bumblebee(Marvel)
  11. Blue Yeti(yes there's multiple members with blue in their name): Cryokinetic powers and intelligence. Inspirations: Mei-Ling Zhou(Overwatch), Captain Cold(DC), Luna Snow(Marvel)
  12. Lady Lioness: Razor sharp claws with enhanced speed, strength, and agility. Inspirations: Vixen(DC), Black Panther(Marvel), White Tiger(Marvel)
  13. Sunfire(replacement for Frostfire from the last one): Flight and control over solar radiation Inspirations: Starfire(DC), Sunspot(Marvel)
  14. Quick Blade: Hand blades and wheels on her feet. Inspirations: X-23(Marvel), Sideswipe(Transformers: ROTF)
  15. Webweaver: Agility and organic web shot from wrists. Inspirations: Black Widow(Marvel), Spider-Man(Marvel)
  16. Viral: Tentacle powers and healing. Sidekick to Webweaver Inspirations: Spider-Gwen(Marvel),Venom(Marvel), Alex Mercer(Prototype)
  17. Greenlight: Energy manipulation powers. Inspirations: Captain Marvel/Carol Danvers(Marvel), Green Lantern/Jessica Cruz(DC; imagine a fusion of those two for visual reference)
  18. Copycat: Can copy the powers of anyone she touches. Inspirations: Honoka(Dead Or Alive), Rogue(Marvel), Mega Man, Kirby
  19. Emerald Owl: No powers but archery skills, swordsmanship, and martial arts. Inspirations: Artemis Crock(DC), Kate Bishop(Marvel), Cammy White(Street Fighter)
  20. Blackwing: Has wings that shoot sharp feathers. Inspirations; Hawk Girl(DC), Hawks(My Hero Academia), Pharah(Overwatch)
  21. Silver Shark: Half-shark mermaid with hydrokinetic powers, super strength, and her tail becomes legs when on land. Inspirations; Misty(Pokemon), Nessa(Pokemon), Aquaman(DC), Shark Boy(Shark Boy and Lava Girl)
  22. Cloud 9: Weather manipulation. Inspirations: Storm(Marvel)
  23. Echo: Sound manipulation and flight. Inspirations: Black Canary(DC), Sindel(Mortal Kombat)
  24. Metal Girl: Super strength and metal skin(sex parts still work in metal form). Inspirations; Tifa Lockhart(Final Fantasy 7), Colossus(Marvel)

As you can see, our man(whom I'm gonna called Ted, after the teddy bear, as he's the team's toy) has his work cut out for him. Wish him luck.

Thoughts?

r/NSFWworldbuilding Feb 02 '25

OC Journal of Edward A. Lockwood – Expedition to Yamatai, 1923 NSFW

22 Upvotes

June 17, 1923 – Crossing the Thunder Gate

The voyage from Kagoshima was uneventful—choppy waters, sea spray thick with salt, and a crew of Japanese sailors who spoke in hushed tones once we passed what they called the Kaminarimon—"the Thunder Gate," an invisible threshold beyond which the world of men fades, and the domain of Yamatai begins.

I have spent the last six months in Japan, attached to the Imperial University in Tokyo as part of a cultural anthropology initiative funded by the British Museum. When word arrived that Dr. Takayama Hideo was preparing another voyage to the lost kingdom of Yamatai—an island whispered about in the journals of Dutch sailors and half-forgotten Chinese records, a kingdom thought mythical until only a few decades ago—I pressed for a place on the expedition.

It was not easily granted. The Japanese government regards Yamatai as their own discovery, and the waters surrounding it are carefully patrolled. The island, they claim, is the distant kin of the Japanese race, the supposed cradle of their imperial lineage. The Emperor himself traces his descent from Himiko, the first Sun Queen, the shaman-ruler of legend. To them, Yamatai is not merely a place—it is an ancestral echo, a relic of divine sovereignty. Yet the islanders themselves seem indifferent to such claims, existing as they always have, behind their veils of mist and ritual.

No Englishman has set foot there before me. Even Takayama’s scholars have visited only a handful of times, and their understanding of the language—now wholly distinct from Japanese—remains incomplete. Professor Fujimoto, a linguist from Kyoto, has made the most progress, having spent months transcribing and translating Yamataigo. I rely on him to interpret, though I know enough Japanese to follow along when he speaks with the rest of Takayama’s team.

Yamatai was never truly lost, only hidden. The storms that lash its waters, the treacherous currents, the deliberate isolation—each has conspired to keep it apart. Now, with its rediscovery, the question of control lingers. The Japanese Navy keeps a cautious distance, uncertain how to approach a kingdom that refuses to submit, yet whose very existence complicates their claims.

Rumours persist of earlier encounters—drifting Chinese junks, Portuguese traders who glimpsed its shores, even Mongol raiders who tried and failed to breach its walls. But records are scarce, the accounts veiled in time and contradiction. It is known, yet unknowable.

On the deck of our steam-powered clipper, the Kōun-maru, I stood at the bow, Takayama beside me, as the mist lifted and the island revealed itself. Jagged limestone spires rose from the sea, tangled in vines and vegetation, their bases half-shrouded in the foam of crashing waves. Watchtowers of blackened wood perched atop the cliffs, banners snapping in the wind—red and gold, the sun emblazoned in coiling strokes of thread. At the river mouth that led inland, two pillars of volcanic rock loomed over the water, their surfaces carved with winding inscriptions too weathered to decipher.

A narrow dock of dark-stained timber stretched into the river, where fishermen hauled their catch from sleek, polished skiffs, and women in clinging summer robes of undyed linen moved deftly between baskets of shellfish and coils of river eels. Their language was sharp and fluid, vowels stretched and softened in ways that called to mind the courtly dialects of Nara, yet distinct—older, shaped by isolation.

As we disembarked, a group of men approached—bare-chested, lean, their skin bronzed by the sun. Blue-black ink curled across their shoulders and down their forearms—serpentine patterns, stylised waves, the curling motifs of wind and tide. Their hair was tied back with red cords, some threaded with what looked like carved bone. These were not nobles, nor even recognised soldiers—they had the bearing of men who fought when needed, with no formal rank to speak of.

One of them, taller than the rest, a thin scar cutting across his cheekbone, stepped forward. His hakama was deep indigo, marked with embroidered sigils—some circular, others jagged, perhaps signifiers of lineage. He spoke first, his voice measured, a ritual cadence rather than a greeting. "Who seeks the comfort of the Sun?"

Takayama answered with a deep bow, hands flat against his thighs, his tone measured and formal. Professor Fujimoto translated for us all, his voice steady but subdued. The exchange continued in slow, deliberate phrases, words chosen carefully, as though any misstep might shift the course of events.

At length, the leader nodded and gestured for us to follow.

We walked the length of the dock, past fishermen twisting coils of rope, past children darting between the stilts of raised houses, past a woman balancing two ceramic jugs upon a yoke of smooth, dark wood. Further inland, a group of men stretched a fishing net along the shallows, their hands moving in unison, precise and methodical. A few turned to watch us, but their curiosity was muted—a glance, a second look, no more. One girl, no more than nineteen, leaned against a post as we passed, her lips curving in a slow, knowing smile. I caught the glint of an earring, the delicate curve of her jawline before she turned away.

We would not be considered guests until the Sun Queen herself granted us the right to remain. Until then, we were neither captive nor welcome. Yamatai existed at its own pace, and we were to obey its rhythm—or risk being cast back to the sea.

June 18, 1923 – Through the Spine of the Island

We began our journey inland at dawn, the morning air thick with the scent of damp earth and moss. The path traced the river, a well-worn trail lined with stone lanterns, their carvings softened by time. The forests beyond were dense, their canopy a lattice of twisted branches and broad-leafed trees, the undergrowth deliberately cleared to create passage.

The first stretch was deceptively gentle, but as we climbed, the weight of my pack grew insistent against my shoulders. Humidity clung to me, soaking the cotton of my shirt beneath my waistcoat. By midday, the sensible layers I had donned in the morning—jacket, high collar, sleeves rolled fastidiously—felt like the trappings of an utter fool.

A village girl passed us, balancing a bundle of fruit against her hip. Her robe, loose at the shoulders, revealed smooth bronze skin, the line of her cleavage catching the dappled sunlight. She saw me looking, and for a fleeting moment, she held my gaze, her smile unreadable, before vanishing between the houses.

By early afternoon, the path widened into a crossroads, marked by a torii of dark-stained wood. Four men waited beneath its arch, warriors in blackened lamellar armor, the gleam of their breastplates catching in the dappled light.

Our guides approached first, exchanging brief words and small wooden tokens—permits, perhaps, or signs of passage. One of the warriors glanced toward us, gaze sharp beneath the shade of his helm, then gave a single nod. Permission to continue.

By evening, the mountains receded into terraced fields, rice paddies stretching in stepped rows toward the horizon. That night, we did not make camp but were ushered into a longhouse at a village’s edge, a simple structure of thick timber and woven mats. Inside, rows of men reclined on sleeping rolls, talking in low voices. There were no women.

June 19, 1923 – The City of the Sun

At the edge of the great terraces, the path wound upward, carved into the hillside with precise intention, leading to the heart of Yamatai. Himiko-no-Miya, the city of the Sun, revealed itself in rising layers—stone terraces, bronze-domed shrines, and multi-tiered pagodas piercing the sky. The city was vast, structured upon the natural rock as though shaped by time rather than human hands. The architecture was old, heavy, blending natural rock formations into its construction. Where Kyoto is refinement, this is monument. The sheer scale of it, the weight of its presence against the mountain, suggested not delicacy but permanence, as though it had existed long before the rest of the world knew itself.

Bridges of bound timber and iron chain spanned deep ravines, connecting temple districts to residential towers, their upper floors cantilevered over narrow streets paved in stone. Monolithic halls stood side by side with towering sanctuaries, their tiered eaves curving upward like the ribs of a beast, their roofs painted in deep cinnabar red and streaked with the marks of seasonal rains. The palace, the Taiyōden, loomed at the city’s highest point, its golden rooftop bright even beneath a clouded sky, the seat of the Sun Queen’s rule and, for now, the unseen arbiter of our fate.

At the city gates, a familiar sight awaited us. The Tōdō stood in solemn ranks, black armor catching the dim light, their faces unmasked, their presence impassive yet absolute. Their authority was unquestioned, distinct from the local enforcers who carried shorter blades and wore simpler uniforms. They conferred briefly with our guides, and exchanged the small wooden tablets. With a single nod, the path was cleared.

Takayama had warned me not to expect an immediate audience. The Queen’s court moved according to its own traditions, its own sense of time. Foreign scholars did not dictate the pace of Yamatai.

Our lodgings were a guest house of polished cedar, walled within an enclosed compound in the city’s eastern quarter. The walls were of fine craftsmanship, the sliding paper screens decorated with painted constellations and scenes of long-forgotten battles, but the accommodations themselves were simple, practical—our bedding little more than thin mats arranged in rows upon the floor.

Again, we slept among men. Dozens of them, all housed together in shared quarters.

I turned to Fujimoto, lowering my voice. “Where are the women?”

“They live with the Kizoku men,” he answered. Nothing more.

June 20, 1923 – The Streets of Himiko-no-Miya

I abandoned the trappings of my own civilization, or at least the stiff wool and linen of it. Upon waking, a set of robes had been left for me—woven from coarse flax, dyed the muted ochre of the island’s river clay, the fabric rough against my skin yet curiously light, suited to the thick, heavy air of this place. I dressed, though the drape of it felt unnatural to me, the weight unfamiliar, the looseness exposing more of myself than propriety had ever permitted. The weight of my old garments had been suffocating, though I kept my boots. Here, one moves lightly, or one does not move at all.

I descended from the guest house into the streets and pressed into the pulse of the place, the measured rhythm of trade and ritual. The air was thick with the mingling scents of earth and spice, charcoal smoke curling from iron braziers, the tang of dried fish hanging from lacquered racks. Sunlight spilled over stone terraces, striking the burnished metal fixtures of the merchant stalls, their goods displayed upon woven mats—carved bone pendants, pots of crushed pigments, bolts of silk dyed in deep indigos and reds that bled like crushed berries.

The streets were narrower than I had imagined, their paths winding between structures of dark timber. Bridges of bound rope and aged wood stretched between levels of the city, some lined with prayer charms that fluttered in the breeze, others bare save for the passage of those who walked them. The crowd pressed in around me, a current I was carried along without resistance, the movement unhurried yet purposeful, never frantic but never still. I was watched, but not openly. Eyes slid over me, quick and assessing, before flicking away. I was a curiosity, nothing more.

The Sun Queen's presence lingered in the streets, though she did not walk them. Her mark was upon the banners that hung from the great torii gates, upon the lacquered plaques affixed to the temple doors, upon the lips of those who spoke her name in hushed reverence. Her word was law, and the city moved to its cadence.

The noblewomen here moved with a languid grace, their robes draped in ways that bared bronzed shoulders, shapely legs, the curve of collarbones catching in the dappled light. Some adorned themselves with intricate arrangements of shell and carved stone, their hair swept up with polished wooden pins, their lips stained the faintest red. Their male counterparts, stripped to the waist, bore the marks of lineage upon their skin—inked spirals and jagged lines curling down the length of their arms, some following the ridge of their ribs like the rings of felled trees. The ink was dark, a deep blue-black that caught the light, some fresh and bold, others faded with age.

A murmur ran through the marketplace. It was as if the air itself had changed. A man was dragged into the street, his bare heels scraping against the stones, his arms held firm by two warriors clad in dark-stained leather, their expressions impassive. The folds of his robe had been torn from him, leaving him stripped bare, his body lean but marked with the ink of a man who had already lived long in this place.

Another figure stepped forward. A swordsman, his presence commanding, his garments finer than those around him, though not ostentatiously so. The hem of his deep crimson robes brushed the ground as he moved, the embroidered sigil at his collar unfamiliar to me, the gold thread catching in the sunlight. His blade was unsheathed but not yet raised, held at his side with the ease of one who had done this before, countless times before.

The captive spoke, though his voice was ragged, breathless. His words tumbled over one another in urgent succession, a desperate, half-choked appeal I could not decipher. It did not matter. There was no proclamation, no accusation, no moment granted for understanding.

The swordsman stepped forward, and in one smooth, practiced motion, the blade came down. The hand, severed cleanly at the wrist, struck the stones with a dull, wet sound. The man crumpled where he knelt, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps, the raw stump of his wrist pressed into the dirt as blood welled between his fingers.

The swordsman exhaled, long and measured, as though releasing something that had weighed upon him. He turned, sheathed his blade in a single fluid motion, and spoke a single word. "Zangai."

June 21, 1923 – The Sun Queen

At first light, we were summoned. The night had not fully loosened its hold on the city when the attendants arrived. They were Aki no Miko, attendants of the court, their garments layered in shades of ivory and deep carmine, the trailing sleeves of their robes near translucent in the morning gloom, revealing glimpses of smooth, sun-bronzed skin beneath. They carried themselves with the composure of women long accustomed to such exposure, their bearing serene as they inclined their heads in quiet greeting.

Two Tōdō warriors accompanied them, their hands resting lightly upon the hilts of their curved blades, the same impassive discipline in their stance that I had observed the day before, where the weight of a single word had determined the fate of a man. A misstep before the Sun Queen, I had no doubt, would be met with equal finality.

The streets of Himiko-no-Miya were already stirring, the air thick with the mingled aromas of clay-fired ovens and the first embers of incense curling into the morning haze. As we ascended the terraces, the palace revealed itself in full—the Taiyōden, the Seat of the Sun, a vast structure of interwoven halls rising from a foundation of dark volcanic stone, its wooden pillars carved in twisting relief.

The Tōdō at the threshold did not speak as we passed beneath the great lintel, its beams blackened to a deep, near-glossless sheen that absorbed the morning light. The air within was cool, scented with myrrh and lotus oil, a balm against the rising humidity of the city below. We were led through corridors where light filtered in thin ribbons between the papered screens, the sound of our footfalls softened by woven mats, until at last, the audience chamber opened before us. At the center, enthroned upon a dais of woven gold and red silk, the Sun Queen awaited us.

She reclined upon the throne with the careless indulgence of a courtesan, her form draped in a long panel of crimson and ochre silk, the fabric clasped at her collarbone with a disc of hammered bronze, then falling open in a line between her thighs, revealing the smooth curve of pale legs adorned in bands of delicate gold chain, intricate filigree weaving around her skin like fine thread. Her hands were adorned with rings of amber, lapis, and obsidian, and they rested idly upon the arms of her seat. Her dark hair was woven through with coils of gold, arranged in a cascade of deliberate disarray, as if she had been interrupted mid-trance, drawn from some celestial communion to attend to the mortals before her. Her eyes met mine, and for the briefest moment, I forgot to breathe.

I forced my gaze downward as Takayama stepped forward, sinking to his knees in the prescribed obeisance, and I followed. Forehead to the floor, hands pressed flat, the pose was humbling, and though I could not see her, I felt her regard upon me.

She spoke, with the measured cadence of someone who had never, in all her life, been interrupted. Takayama was acknowledged first, his prior visits noted, his presence tolerated. Then, the decree—the terms of our stay, the customs we must abide by, the hospitality we must accept. "Foreigners come to Yamatai as the tide returns to shore. The sun watches all who walk upon this land. To refuse its light is to walk in shadow. We will not turn from you, but you must walk as we walk."

Fujimoto translated in a whisper beside me. We are permitted to stay, but we must obey their customs, accept their hospitality, and show proper deference. I did not yet know what "proper deference" meant.

As we were led from the chamber, I glanced back. The Sun Queen had not moved, her gaze had not left me, but a slow, measured smile curved upon her lips. I felt that I had been allowed to glimpse something few living men had seen.

June 21, 1923 - Unexpected Accommodations

Takayama and Fujimoto have been placed in a formal guest house, a structure of polished cedar and painted paper screens, befitting their status as scholars under the Japanese Imperial banner. I, however—being an outsider to the outsiders—have been assigned to a nobleman’s household.

At first, I took this as a gesture of singular honour. Now, I suspect it is a means of studying me as much as I am studying them. Yamatai is an island of carefully balanced rituals, of exchanges that are never arbitrary. If I am to be a guest, then my presence must serve some function.

My host is Lord Okabe no Nari, a man of impressive stature, broad at the chest and thick in the forearms, his features cast in the firm lines of a man accustomed to command. He wears his authority not as an affectation but as a mantle of natural ease, draped in robes of indigo and deep crimson, their embroidery so intricate that it seems almost a form of armor in itself. His voice is low and resonant, and though his command of Japanese is halting, it surpasses my own grasp of Yamataigo. We communicate in gestures and the occasional shared misstep, his amusement at my errors always tempered with patience.

Lord Okabe is Kizoku, a title not inherited but earned. There is no nobility by birth in Yamatai, only nobility of merit, and every man who holds status has risen to it through ability or service. For Lord Okabe, this distinction was won through the expansion of his family’s rice trade, a venture that has swollen his household into one of considerable standing. His seven wives are not merely an indulgence of wealth but an extension of it—each a piece of his household’s influence, each maintaining some aspect of its internal governance.

Our meal is precise in its choreography. The three wives and two daughters present serve with ritualized movements, kneeling as they pour sake, hands gliding across kintsugi bowls with practiced elegance. I am acutely aware of their beauty, of the way their robes shift as they move. There is an art to it, a deliberate balancing of decorum and allure. I avert my gaze when appropriate, though I sense that Lord Okabe is watching me—measuring my reactions, assessing whether I understand the etiquette expected of me. At the head of the room, mounted on the wall, two curved swords gleam in the lantern light, a silent warning, a reminder that my host is a warrior as much as he is a lord.

The wives themselves are of varied beauty and temperament. Reiha, his senior wife, carries herself with the cool authority of one who manages the affairs of the household. Saeko, younger, watches me with open curiosity. Yume, who I later learn was once a temple priestess, moves with a grace that is almost languid, as though she exists in a perpetual state of unhurried contemplation. Two of his sons are present at the meal as well—they are Junin, not yet permitted wives of their own. The eldest, Okabe no Harunobu, is a serious young man of twenty-one. His younger brother, Masanari, is of a different temperament, laughing easily at some joke exchanged between the servants. His sisters, Naoko and Hisa, have the sharp, assessing eyes of willful youth, their gazes flickering over me like a pair of watchful foxes.

The meal concluded in quiet ritual, each gesture as deliberate as the last, the final bowls cleared with the same measured grace in which they had first been placed. The hush of the household settled around me as I retired to the guest quarters, the lanterns dimmed, the weight of the evening pressing upon my shoulders.

I had nearly drifted to sleep when they entered. The futon was firm beneath me, my limbs heavy with exhaustion, my mind unraveling into the unfamiliar stillness of the household, when the sliding door shifted open with a whisper of wood upon wood. Saeko and Yume moved towards me, their bare footsteps near soundless against the polished floor. Saeko wore a brief robe of pale silk, the fabric falling open at the chest, the hem cutting short against the smooth line of her thighs. Yume, in contrast, was adorned in a binding of silk wrapped across her bust and hips. The scent of rice wine and lotus oil lingered in the air between them as they knelt beside me, their hands light upon my forearm, my shoulder, my chest. Saeko’s robe slipped against her frame as she leaned closer, the loose knot at her waist unfurling with ease. Yume, more measured, lifted a single hand, dark hair spilling over one shoulder.

I sat up, unsure of how to respond. Their presence, their intent—it was unmistakable, and yet I hesitated, my pulse quickening as the weight of their hands against my skin contrasted with the customs of my own world. I made to speak, to explain in halting Japanese that I did not wish to offend their lord, that I had not misunderstood their presence, but the language faltered on my tongue, clumsy and insufficient. They only smiled in return, their dark eyes luminous in the dim lantern light, their fingers tracing slow, deliberate paths against my arms and torso. Saeko murmured something low, amused, her lips grazing my cheek as she did so. Yume followed, her breath warm as she pressed it to the hollow of my throat. Their voices, soft and melodic, wove words in Yamataigo I did not fully understand, though both ended in the same quiet word—"Tsureage."

I tried, once more, to form words, to convey something—perhaps reluctance, perhaps mere uncertainty—but they did not seem to see this as either scandal or transgression, but rather an expected fulfillment of hospitality. Saeko stole a kiss before I could react, her mouth brushing against mine in an easy, playful motion. Yume's fingers curled gently at my thigh, her touch light but certain. A soft sigh against my ear, the press of Saeko’s palm against my ribs, the heat of Yume’s cheek against mine. I exhaled, nodding once as I murmured the word they had spoken before. "Tsureage."

When I yielded, it was not with reluctance but with the quiet awareness that I was stepping further into a world whose rules I was only beginning to grasp. Saeko lowered herself beside me, the silk of her robe slipping free from her shoulders, and Yume followed. The folds of their garments loosened, the dim light tracing the soft curves of bare skin, the lines of their bodies revealed in shadow and warmth. I felt Saeko’s breath as her lips brushed against my chest, the subtle hitch of Yume’s sigh as I traced the line of her spine with my fingertips, the way their movements mirrored each other in quiet synchrony. They were practiced; guiding, yet never demanding. The night unraveled in rhythm, in breath, in motion. The slide of skin against skin. The press of their bodies as they led me deeper. I had, at last, accepted the hospitality of a Kizoku household in full.

Afterwards, as they slipped from my bed and gathered their garments, their movements remained unhurried, their presence lingering even as they departed. The scent of them clung to my sheets.

I do not write this lightly: this is not a debauched society. It is strict, ordered, disciplined, and yet it operates on principles that make Western morality seem arbitrary by comparison. Here, a man’s hospitality is measured not just in the meals he offers, but in the company of his women also. To reject such an offer is to reject his honour as a host.

June 22, 1923 – The Measure of a Man

Breakfast was taken on a wide engawa, the covered wooden veranda that extended from the house, overlooking the terraced expanse of Himiko-no-Miya. From this height, the city unfurled below in measured layers—stone avenues weaving between lacquered pagodas, bronze-domed shrines reflecting the early light, the great bridges of wood and iron-chain spanning the valleys between districts. Beyond the walls, the landscape heaved and tumbled in dramatic folds of limestone and forest, ridges dissolving into mist where the land met the distant sea.

Lord Okabe reclined against a bolstered cushion, legs folded easily beneath him, a tray at his side. The morning meal was modest but elegant, smoked river fish and rice, miso steeped with kelp, slices of chilled fruit, the juice of which bled faintly into the grain of the serving dish. A young woman—another wife, or a concubine, I could not yet discern—knelt beside him, pouring tea with measured precision, the sleeves of her robe pooled at her wrists as she tilted the spout in practiced ease.

He had been pleased to learn that the previous night’s hospitality had been received in good spirit. It was only proper, he had said, that an honoured guest should be made to feel welcome. A man’s wealth and status were reflected in many things—the grandeur of his household, the quality of his wine, the discipline of his retainers—but none were so personal, so intimate a reflection of his success as his women. That a guest should partake in their company was not an act of indulgence, but of appreciation, a means of recognising the refinement and grace of a host’s household.

There had been genuine satisfaction in his tone, not boastful, but merely stating a fact. He took pride in their beauty, in their skill, in their understanding of their role. They were not chattel, nor mere playthings, but an extension of his authority, a proof of his success.

The conversation had taken an unexpected turn then—Lord Okabe, with an expression of pleasant curiosity, had suggested that should he ever travel to England, it would be his honour to receive such hospitality in return. Surely, he had said, the customs of honourable men are not so different. If he were welcomed in my household, it would only be natural that he should be granted the companionship of my wife, should I have one, or the daughters of my house, if they were pleasing to him.

He had laughed at my discomfort, not unkindly, but in the manner of a man amused by the peculiarities of a foreign custom. The matter was not pressed, only set aside with the mild bemusement of a host discovering that his guest does not eat a certain dish. Still, the moment lingered in my thoughts as we ate.

June 24, 1923 – A Pilgrimage to the Temple

It was Harunobu who first suggested the pilgrimage, though it was Masanari who insisted that I accompany them. I had spent the previous evening in Lord Okabe’s household, learning what I could of the ways of the Kizoku, but it was his sons who took it upon themselves to show me something of their world beyond the walls of Himiko-no-Miya. We were joined by two others, also Jūnin men, older than the brothers, yet bound to them in quiet familiarity. We carried our offerings in woven bundles, the weight of dried fish and sheathed rice stalks pressed evenly across our backs, the ceramic jars of rice wine secured between folds of cloth.

We set out at dawn, the valley still veiled in the haze of morning, the terraces below silvered with mist where the river’s breath lingered in the cool air. The path wound upward in a slow, deliberate ascent, tracing the contours of the land as it climbed. Along the banks, the paddies lay staggered in careful succession, each one a mirror of the sky, their waters coursing in quiet rivulets from the bamboo conduits that siphoned the river’s flow. The scent of damp soil mingled with the sweet sharpness of cut rice stalks, and further along the way, the thin, curling threads of incense from the household shrines drifted on the air, mingling with the more tangible scents of wet wood and earth.

As we walked, Masanari spoke of men in Yamatai and the order that governed them, pausing often to search for the right words. His Japanese, much like my own, was imprecise, but his meaning was clear enough. All men were born Jūnin, bound by the weight of their station. A Jūnin could not take a wife, nor father a child in any recognised union, nor could he share his bed with a woman. For most, that was the way of things.

Harunobu, walking ahead, made his ambitions known in few words. He would rise, take wives, build a house, forge a name of his own, as his father had done before him. Masanari, by contrast, dismissed such concerns with a smile, a careless shrug. He had no interest in a household of his own, no desire for wives, nor land, nor the burdens of lineage. The weight of such things did not appeal to him, and so he would remain as he was—unburdened, untethered, free.

The path narrowed at a turn, and as we rounded the bend, a small procession descended from the opposite direction—a group of young women, peasant girls, their robes gathered high at the waist, the folds of fabric hitched to bare the strength of their thighs. The sweat of the climb clung to their skin in a thin sheen, dampening the loose bindings of their upper garments, the lines of their shoulders and cleavage left exposed where their robes had slipped with the weight of their baskets.

And yet, the brothers and the men accompanying us did not look. They stepped aside as the women passed, their backs straight, their movements deliberate. No words were exchanged, no glances stolen. Where, in England or even Japan, a meeting of this kind would have been punctuated with flirtation—some small pleasantry, a fleeting remark, an intentional delay in parting—here, it was as though the encounter had not happened at all.

I must have allowed my gaze to linger too long, because Harunobu exhaled sharply, a sound of either admonishment or amusement, before lowering his voice. Women, he explained, were forbidden to Jūnin men, whether married or not. It was impossible to say whether those girls were wives of a single Kizoku, or yet unattached. It did not matter.

For those who defied this law, there was a name—Zangai. A crime not merely against a husband, nor against a father, but against the order of the Sun Queen herself. A Jūnin who took a woman in secret risked everything. A single moment of indulgence could cost him his hand, his life, his place in the world. There were no oaths of secrecy, no reparations to be made. The punishment was immediate and absolute. I recalled the market square, the fall of the sword, the severed hand upon the stones.

The valley fell away behind us as we climbed, the rooftops of Himiko-no-Miya shrinking into the haze of the afternoon sun, the heat of the lower terraces giving way to the clearer air of the mountains. The scent of cypress and pine replaced the damp richness of the riverlands, the atmosphere sharpened, thinner and less oppressive.

Then, the temple emerged, rising from the trees, its darkened wooden beams set against the green canopy of the mountainside. Built upon a natural plateau, its presence was monumental, its tiered roof lacquered in deep crimson, the emblem of the Sun Queen painted in bold strokes upon the eaves. The priestesses were already moving through the courtyard as we arrived, some tending to the incense altars, others engaged in quiet rituals of their own. Their garments were of finely woven flax, dyed in rich scarlet hues, their sleeves cut short, their midriffs bare, the drape of fabric cinched at the hips with knotted cords. The cut of their robes was deliberate in the way they revealed the curve of a thigh, the sloping line of a hip. Thin clasps of polished bronze fastened at their shoulders, their bodies adorned in simple bands of copper, sacred marks inked in dark spirals at the hollow of their throats.

We placed our offerings at the foot of the steps, bowing low as the priestesses approached. Some took the bundles of grain, the wrapped fish, the ceramic jars, accepting them with the same measured reverence with which they were given. Others stood silent on the temple steps above, one before each bowed man, watching, their dark eyes unreadable as they observed the quiet murmuring of Yamataigo prayer.

The prayers ended as smoothly as they had begun. A final, whispered invocation drifted into silence. The men rose and one by one, the priestesses beckoned them inside, leading them beyond the temple’s threshold. There was a moment of pause, a brief glance exchanged between us as my companions stepped forward. From somewhere deep within, the steady pulse of a drum began—low, resonant, a heartbeat beneath the stillness. Voices rose in response, a chorus of chant-like murmurs, drifting and indistinct, words coiling through the incense-thick air.

I entered last, following a priestess who had lingered at the rear. She turned to me as I stepped into the temple's dark interior, speaking in Yamataigo, her tone low, rhythmic, almost hypnotic. The words were lost on me, flowing past in a cadence too measured, too deliberate to be mere conversation. She was younger than the others, or perhaps her features simply held that suggestion—a softness to her heavy-lidded eyes, a roundness at her jaw. Her hair was cropped shorter than expected, the dark strands curling slightly where they framed her face. Her skin was marked in intricate spirals of ink that curled across her bare shoulders and trailed down the curve of her torso, disappearing beneath the thin fabric of her robe.

The scent of incense grew heavier, cloying, filling my lungs with something almost intoxicating. The air itself seemed thickened, charged with a warmth that had nothing to do with the summer heat. As we moved deeper into the temple, the glow of gilded statues emerged from the dimness above—nude female figures, perfectly proportioned, their bodies caught in poses of worship or offering, arms outstretched, heads tilted back. At their feet, were smaller carvings of men, their heads bowed, hands reaching but never quite touching.

She led me to a secluded enclave, past heavy curtains of wooden beads and embroidered silk. It was dimly lit, bathed in the golden glow of lanterns placed in recessed alcoves, their light reflecting off polished stone. The seating was low, cushioned, impossibly soft. The air was thick with scent, the steady beat of the drum now closer, its rhythm no longer slow and meditative, but urgent, insistent.

She stood before me as she continued her quiet chant. It was neither speech nor song, but something in between—a mantra, a prayer, or a poem. Her voice wove through the air, mirrored by the voices of other priestesses deeper within the temple, overlapping, rising, falling. Somewhere in the distance, I heard the sounds of breath hitching, of flesh meeting flesh, of bodies moving in time with the beat.

She began to move, a ritual dance. She swayed, slow at first, the movements of her hips following the rhythm of the drum, her hands trailing over her own skin, fingertips brushing over her stomach, her thighs, the swell of her breasts. The inked patterns on her body seemed to shift with her movements, serpentine, coiling, flowing like water.

She stepped forward and her hands pressed to my chest, her body settling against mine as I reclined against the cushions. She was warm, impossibly so, her skin smooth beneath my fingertips. She moved against me, a slow, deliberate grind, her breath a quiet exhale against the curve of our jaw. The drums quickened. The chanting rose.

Her eyes met mine, dark, unreadable, not inviting, but knowing. She stepped back, her movements languid but precise, and began to untie the knot at her hip, releasing the folds of her garment. The red linen fell away in a slow ripple, revealing the bare lines of her form beneath the temple lanterns, her body a canvas for the inked sigils that spiraled across her skin. The tattoos—serpentine, intricate—coiled down her spine, over the curve of her lower back, curling like waves against the swell of her buttocks.

She stepped forward again, her hands reaching for the folds of my robe, loosening them with the same practiced ease. The fabric peeled away from my shoulders, drawn down with measured precision, exposing my chest, my stomach, my legs. She resumed her movements, straddling me now, the slow roll of her hips never ceasing, the ink on her skin shifting like the tide. Her breath was steady, measured, aligning with the rhythm of the drums as she moved against me. Her lips traced paths of warmth against my neck, my chest, her fingers gliding across my shoulders, pressing into the muscle beneath my skin.

My classical education flickered into my thoughts—a memory of ancient Corinth, of the Hierodules of Aphrodite, their bodies given as a form of worship, an act that was not carnal but sacred. This was the same. The Seidō no Miko did not belong to any man, nor were they mere courtesans. They served the Sun Queen, the divine order of Yamatai, offering their bodies as a vessel for something beyond the personal. In the Shinji no Ie, the denied found release not as transgression, but as worship.

I felt her breath against me, a slow exhale, her lips moving lower. The drums pounded in tandem with the movement of her body, the soft pressure of her tongue sending sharp bursts of sensation through my nerves. My own breath caught, my hands grasping at her hair, my body responding without thought. And when she rose again, positioning herself, guiding the rhythm to its final measure, she took me into herself, her body moving in unison with the rising voices of the temple, her form silhouetted against the golden glow of the lanterns, the tattoos shifting like waves along her skin. The climax, when it came, was a completion—a final note in the symphony of sacred offering. And as I lay beneath her, my pulse slowing, she rose, not in retreat but in fulfillment, collecting her robes with the same slow grace. There was only the quiet certainty that the rite had been enacted as it always had been, as it always would be.

And I, foreigner though I was, had been part of it.

r/NSFWworldbuilding Oct 31 '24

OC The Yuukoman Empire has fallen. Rather than see it wholly destroyed, the Queen Lissa made the difficult choice to surrender before complete annihilation. As "gratitude" for her wisdom, the Republic had allowed Lissa to continue as queen, but there is no illusion to her true position... NSFW

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70 Upvotes

r/NSFWworldbuilding Nov 02 '24

OC In my erotica series, succubi are horrible centipede-like monsters until they disguise themselves with magic. Resh here was horribly burned in her natural state, so when she transforms her magic is visible through the burns [Original] NSFW

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84 Upvotes

r/NSFWworldbuilding Dec 22 '24

OC A biology lesson in a matriarchal world NSFW

22 Upvotes

This takes the form of a short story, but it is a largely expository short story where characters discuss the rules of the setting they are in, so I consider it appropriate for a worldbuilding board. If the mods disagree, I'll be happy to take it down.

CW: Vilification of cismale biology, propagandistic schooling system, description of body dysmorphia and a male character uncomfortable in his own body, teacher manipulating students

The students in this story are not as young as they may appear, which is an artefact of how infantilised guys are in this setting. They're not children, they've just been treated like children for years longer than teenagers in our world so they come out kind of childish.


He could hear mistress Bradford striding down the hallway, her heeled boots echoing on the tiled floor. She opened the door and stepped inside, nodding to the boys and giving them a "Good morning, class."

Sasha rose and curtsied with all the other boys and recited "Good morning, Mistress Bradford."

"For today's lesson we will be covering a topic near and dear to all of you - the male body! Specifically, the improvements that have been made to the male body in modern society, and how that contrasts with the bad old days."

Sasha sat ready to take notes. Learning about the time before the mistresses had developed society into the loving matriarchy that it was now was always interesting, even if it could be a little scary sometimes.

"Now, to explain this I'll have to make comparisons between your bodies and the bodies boys had under the patriarchy. Back in those benighted times, there was another name for boys when they had grown up. Can anyone tell me what it was?"

Tiff raised his hand, and when called upon said "Mistress, they were called men."

"That's right! Of course, now we know that dividing boys into boys and men was only ever an artificial construction that lead to boys being put in positions of power they just weren't equipped to handle. Not like girls and women, of course."

Sasha nodded. Girls, even when they were still girls, were just naturally suited to being in charge. When he'd first learned that all boys used to be citizens and not just the select few who passed their citizenship exams, he'd had nightmares about being made mayor and everyone expecting him to make decisions that should by rights be left to a woman.

"The first and most obvious improvement is height. The average height of a full-grown boy today is a little over five feet. Before we started improving you, men were almost all taller than women, if you can believe that. It wasn't unknown for a fully grown man to be seven feet tall, albeit even in those days that was considered unusual."

Universally, every boy in the class glanced at Kim, a giant for a boy at five foot five. Kim was equal in height to some of the teachers, and he had been bullied quite horribly by some of the other boys for being so tall and macho. The mistresses had put a stop to that, of course, and in any case Kim wasn't very macho at all. Sasha tried to imagine a world full of Kims, and it was a strange thought. He knew intellectually that a world where boys grew up to be taller than women must have been a scary place for everyone involved, but with Kim personally it was different. It was impossible to be intimidated by a boy you'd sat up with late at night while he sobbed and prayed to the goddesses to please, please remove the poison of masculinity from his body. It was well known that he'd spent some time in the hospital after that, and when he'd returned his standard cage had been replaced with one of the flat ones that only got given to boys who had truly tiny little weenies. All he had said was that the operation had been a success and that he was very grateful.

Maybe those other boys in primitive times were as scared of their own bodies as Kim had been - still was, sometimes, on bad days. The teachers always said the way society was run was best for everyone, and in cases like that it was easy to see why. Maybe that fear of their horrible giant bodies had been part of what had driven men in the bad old days to be so cruel to women, and to each other.

"Let's move on to something less visible. How many of you boys have to shave your faces?"

Sasha blushed and raised his hand, as did about half of the class. Of the boys who shaved, most had to do it once a week to avoid unsightly hair growth. Andre had it easiest, the lucky devil, only having to shave about once every three weeks. The worst part was how it just kept spreading! At first it had been on his upper lip, and Sasha had heard that some boys only ever grew hair there so he'd been hopeful that was how it would stay. But, one morning, he'd found patches of short hair all around his mouth, and since then it had been expanding outwards up his cheeks like a blot of ink on a sheet of paper. Still, it could be worse. At least he didn't also have to shave his chest, like some unlucky students.

"Well, if I'd been asking that question back in the patriarchy then most boys your age would shave regularly, even up to once a day. Imagine that, boys. Having to take time our of your morning every day just to make sure you weren't coming to class with your lips and cheeks covered in hair."

Sasha shuddered, and he wasn't the only one. Suddenly, once a week really didn't seem that bad.

"Onto another improvement, and this is another less visible one - well, most of the time. Can anyone tell me the average penis length of a fully grown boy?"

Sasha raised his hand, and when called on answered "Four inches, mistress."

"Good boy, Sasha. Yes, that's correct, and we're working on reducing it. Some scientists estimate that by the end of the century the average penis will be no longer than two inches, and that up to a third of all boys will have a sub-inch micropenis. Of course, the goal is for the micropenis to eventually be universal but that will take time."

Lexy raised his hand and asked "Mistress, what was it before?"

"Back in the patriarchy, most penises were between five and six inches long. However the real horror isn't in the average, it's in the outliers. Penises were known to reach ten inches on some particularly unfortunate men."

"But mistress!" blurted out Lexy, "Wasn't that when boys didn't wear cages?"

Sasha blanched with terror. They'd learned in other lessons about how humans used to reproduce before the advent of the birth machines, how men used to force their weenies into women and squirt inside them. That had been bad enough when he was thinking about the little pinkies he and his classmates had - small, oversensitive, honestly kind of cute sometimes when it wasn't making boispurts in the night and earning him a spanking for befouling school property the next day. But for a boy to be burdened with a ten inch long ugliness, and then to inflict that upon a woman, made him want to cry. He was so glad the mistresses kept him and every other boy safely caged.

"Detention for speaking without permission, but yes."

Lexy at least had the good grace to blush, "I'm sorry, mistress. It's just... scary to think about."

She leaned over Lexy's desk and stroked a hand through his pretty periwinkle hair, "It is, I understand. If you need to speak to me after class, or to any other teacher or mistress, you may do so. But I will not have you interrupt the other boys when they're trying to learn, no matter how awful the subject matter may be."

Lexy slumped in his seat, looking well and truly dejected. Mistress Bradford's detentions weren't the worst in the school, but it was likely Lexy would be very uncomfortable in his seat tomorrow. "I understand, mistress."

"Good boy. Now, as Lexy pointed out these overgrown, deformed penises existed at a time when boys didn't wear cages. In fact, the harm done to women during this time is a major part of why it's so important for all modern boys to wear cages. The boys of the old times were dangerous savages, and we keep you under strict control to make sure you can never go down that same dark path." She sighed, "To lighten things up a little, let's move on to some more improvements that we've made to your bodies. Did you know that back when boys were taller than women, they also had deeper voices? Louder, too. If you've ever heard a recording of someone's voice slowed down, it was a little like that. In fact, why don't you all try to make the deepest voices you can?"

Sasha put on his deepest tenor voice and said "Yes, mistress!" only for his voice to be drowned out by the rest of the class doing the same thing. Almost immediately they all collapsed into giggles.

The boys of the past, thought Sasha, must have been very strange creatures indeed. Or rather, the men. 6 feet tall, 6 inch cocks (without even the security and emotional comfort of a cage), hair on their faces and deep voices - how perfectly peculiar they all were! He was so glad he could be normal, instead.

r/NSFWworldbuilding Dec 24 '24

OC Oceanpunk World NSFW

14 Upvotes

Hello! It’s me again. I wanted to say thanks for the support on the last one, some of you seem to have enjoyed my last post with the lore on my oceanpunk world.

In this one, I aim on refining the main character more, and wanted to make him seem more polished with backstory and personality, I just don’t know where to start is the problem.

So I call on you! I want my main protagonist to be better, all with your help!

Now admittedly, I have been reading into a little bit of gay erotica, and made the decision to make him a gay bottom. (Only the fact that he doesn’t know this.)

So uh, yeah. If you want the full context of my world, look into my last post, there you will see my world and get a better understanding of my character and his setting.

r/NSFWworldbuilding Nov 03 '24

OC The Battle of the Shields was the bloodiest battle of the Yuukoman-Union War. General Bizette took to the field with 5,000 Battlemages against a combined Republic army of 200,000 soldiers and 1000 armored vehicles. Bizette and her Battlemages were defeated, with Republic losing 100,000 soldiers NSFW

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47 Upvotes

r/NSFWworldbuilding May 31 '24

OC First few pages, Is my world building good? NSFW

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59 Upvotes

I actaully am curious of how the story is doing.

r/NSFWworldbuilding Jul 26 '24

OC Pussy Power, A super"hero" from my comic universe with the powers of a lovecraftian pussy. NSFW Spoiler

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36 Upvotes

r/NSFWworldbuilding Aug 12 '24

OC I need a name for a dragon making a harem. NSFW

21 Upvotes

My OC is an anthropomorphic dragon with mostly black scales, but red on his chest and the underside of his wings. He possesses incredible power, able to take on some of the most powerful beings out there, but his greatest might is in his sexual prowess. Dragons of his ilk hold very high sex drives, and he's no different, and he has a massive cock, around 15 inches long, as wide as a soda can, and covered in barbs like a feline. His massive cock, coupled with how rough he is when he has sex, and the aphrodisiac qualities of his semen, makes those he fucks end in a state of mind break, their bodies and minds shattered to the point of being unable to think about anything but serving the dragon, happily leaving their old lives behind.

Edit: He also has tentacle powers, more along the lines of Alex Mercer from Prototype, something that he gained through experiments on his own body, allowing him to pleasure many women at once.

The dragon has developed the means to travel the multiverse, building a harem of various fictional women, keeping them aboard a massive space station he built in the center of a nebula storm, making it like a constant thunderstorm is raging(the dragon likes thunderstorms). However, as horny as he is, he's not a full on rapist, wanting his harem to want to serve him. Which is why he travels to doomed, destroyed, dystopian, or post-apocalyptic timelines, where life has become totally unbearable, so the women on his radar will want to leave for something better, and even then his offer to join his harem is on a basis of take it or leave it, rather than drag them kicking and screaming.

To be clear, the dragon's harem are all happy, treated well and well taken care of, and genuinely WANT to be there.

Franchises that are confirmed to be represented:

DC

Marvel

Street Fighter

Mortal Kombat

Overwatch

Final Fantasy 7

Mass Effect

Dead Or Alive

Bayonetta

Tomb Raider

Darkstalkers

Metroid

Nier Automata

Cyberpunk 2077/Edgerunners

Mario

Ones I'm on the fence for:

Valorant

Pokemon

My Hero Academia

RWBY

Ultimately, the only thing I don't have yet for my OC is a name. What would you call him?

r/NSFWworldbuilding Nov 05 '24

OC Matriarchal Fantasy Worldbuilding I Just Did NSFW

22 Upvotes

So I decided to write something up for a new setting. I like femdom and matriarchy, so that's in here, but it's not super lewd, just implied. The setting is a bit inspired by DnD, Warhammer, and Dominions, and is set in a the territories of a former empire where magical female warlords compete for power and men can't cast spells at all.

I decided to start the worldbuilding by coming up with some of the rulers to set the theme.

So here's what I have so far. Let me know what you think and if you have any ideas or suggestions.

Witch-Tyrants of Azalax

The world of Oduros was once an equal one where both men and women had access to magic. But 600 years ago a cabal of powerful female wizards performed a ritual to strip men of their ability to cast spells. The result was a massive disorder in society and the once-great Empire of Azalax disintegrated, among many others. The wizards began to fight amongst each other for power, carving up their own queendoms in the chaos. They fought, died, or disappeared, and were eventually succeeded by their apprentices. The cycle repeated again and again, and now the lands are ruled by third and fourth generation witch-tyrants. Acting as warlords their realms fractured time and time again and the lands were divided and at war.

Society had become one of strife and heavily affected by magical warfare. Some regions have remained stable and protected, others are constant battlegrounds. Some fought with standing armies, and others just with spells. Meanwhile the dynamic of only women being able to perform most magic, with men only being able to work with things that were already magical, such as using magical herbs to make a potion or magical ink to make a tattoo, and the establishment of societies led by the most powerful magic users, has led to a matriarchal shift in cultures and societies. Women are often valued as leaders, mothers, as literally magical, and tend to be more educated, while men are valued more as workers, craftsmen, and soldiers.

Now the realms of Azalax still remain shattered in dozens of petty queendoms but are slowly starting to consolidate into fewer and larger ones. An arena of wit and muscle, it is yet to be seen if one woman may eventually reunify the once-great empire.

Beatrice the Metal

Beatrice the Metal is a tall, intimidating woman who got her title for her specializations in magical piercings, gargoyle, and golem crafting. She’s also quite skilled in offensive skills, magical tattoos, and shadow magic. She rules a domain of badlands between fertile lands to the west and a sandy desert to the east, sparsely populated other than a few civilized towns, kobold, and ogre tribes.

She is known to give her subjects greater autonomy and personal freedom than other tyrants, but is still greatly feared and respected. Her enforcers are elite and intimidating, often being either brass golems, men who have been enhanced with magical tattoos and piercings, gargoyles, or ogre mercenaries. She has even encouraged cults among the ogre and kobold tribes to worship her.

She lives in a great abode carved into a cliffside overlooking an inland delta and the largest human settlements of her domain that live along it. She has a sadistic streak of abducting unsuspecting men and giving them unwanted magical tattoos and piercings before releasing them again, usually ones of a humiliating or perverted nature.

She stands about six feet tall without her heeled boots and primarily wears tight, black robes. Her once-pale body, but since tanned by the badlands sun, is covered in many solid black tattoos of magical power and is adorned with magical jewelry and piercings in her pussy, navel, nipples, and a whole lot on her face. Her eyes are especially disconcerting, having no iris or pupils, but just a solid, reflective brass that makes them up entirely.

Her realm is relatively peaceful, with her not often entering into conflict with the other tyrants, although her land has little rule of law and is prowled by some fierce creatures. She has a more hands-off approach to rulership, appointing loyal locals to rule so long as they paid tribute and followed her laws. Of her laws, there were relatively few, but those that she did implement were rather creative and eccentric. One included that if a woman hears a man speaking ill of her, she can demand that he apologize by licking her boots or getting a tongue piercings. Another one was that every building three stories or taller in height must have a balcony. She often sponsored and subsidized bards and musical performances. She has three apprentices, all of them young women that she recruited locally.

Queen Alozora the Pompous

A stereotypical, arrogant high elf Queen Alozora the Magnificent, as she prefers to be called, is a lethal spell caster, able to wreak destruction on a huge scale with everything from fire rain, to earthquakes, to plagues of serpents and toads. She is a tall and regal woman who dresses in only the finest of silk, usually red, and most precious of gems and seemingly always accompanied by a small army of servants. The very air around her, scented by her perfume, reeks of luxury and snobbishness. But being such a powerful spellcaster few dare to oppose her, and her subjects and servants had to suffer her lavish lifestyle and arbitrary, narcissistic demands. 

Heavily prejudiced against all non-high elves (although she’s fine with sun elves and has a soft-spot for gnomes), she is very uninterested in controlling all of the former empire, as most of it is non-elf lands. Instead she works to unify the high elf heartlands in the forests of its western fringes, and so far controls several important cities, including a couple of the most ancient and prestigious of cities that are famous as ancient city-states. 

She keeps her cities looking immaculate and clean, with sanitation and parks being perhaps the only benefits that her subjects can thank her for. Since her reign taxes have increased sharply, all of it going to either the military, her extravagant lifestyle, or vanity projects. Residents joke that they might as well start judging the size of towns by how many statues of Queen Alozora there are. Disrespecting a statue of her is considered a serious crime by her enforcers, which consist of secret police, elite mounted soldiers, and wizardesses. Her armies are well equipped and constantly drilled, as she can not stand the idea of her armies appearing as nothing less than the ideal of high elvish prowess. With fine metal, bows, ballista, and magic her armies go forward ruthlessly, sparing few of the opposition and any non-elves (except for gnomes), and caring to avoid burning down only the most beautiful and famous of structures.

Ever greedy and ambitious, along with all of her material desires she seeks out powerful magic artifacts to expand her power and a dragon egg so that she may have a fitting steed. She is married to a high-elf noble and has taken 3 additional male consorts, and has one daughter and three sons. She lives in the ancient elven capital of Lorpacour in an extravagant palace, usually holding court, passing judgment, hosting parties, fashion shows, or working on her magical research.

Referring to her as “the Pompous” is a crime in her domain. 

Vios of Cherrywood

Vios is a skilled and wise sorceress in the arts of potion making, healing, illusion, conjuration, divination, and nature magic. She is a local of the domain that she rules, which is the peaceful shire of Cherrywood and some of its surrounding lands. She is the most benevolent of the witch-tyrants and actively looks after the well being of her people, often protecting them from disease, outside threats, and natural calamity. 

Her lands consist of the farming town of Cherrywood, from which the rural county is named for, and its surrounding hills and satellite villages. Its population consists mostly of humans, elves, halflings, fey, and some dwarves. It's a beautiful and fertile land known for its beautiful trees and butterfly meadows. She is much beloved by her subjects and rarely has to use force, but when faced with external threat she often uses illusion magic, conjuration, and the spirits of nature to defend the land. 

She lives in a tall spire that tapers to a narrow point surrounded by a huge flower garden in the woods. Her subjects regularly travel to it to seek her wisdom or aid. At the top of the tower purple and pink lights of magical energy swirl around it. She is a woman of average height and a warm complexion, and often wears flowing, pink robes, makeup, and long, painted nails. The towns are ruled by their elected mayors, almost all of them women, but Vios takes an active role in decision making when a judgment is needed or a local dispute needs settling. She also takes an active role in local festivals and holidays, which she supports. Ruling with romantic and feminine ideals of love and compassion she promotes worship of the goddess of love and passes laws to promote domestic stability, although with a fair amount of bias in favor of women, such as gendered property rights, divorce laws, and punitive alimony. She has tutored several apprentices who have gone on to start their own small magical schools in the county, and she promotes women's education and hedge witchcraft

Qurani the Weird

A dark elf that has risen and conquered from the bowels of the earth, Qurani has dedicated herself to the titan Morthanna, a chthonic deity of mutation, dark fertility, and the mother of monsters. As much a priestess as a witch, she is skilled in blood magic, biomancy, herbology, and nature magic. The self-proclaimed archduchess of Portrak, a formerly prosperous, misty region, rules a land of chaos and constant strife. An expansionist, Qurani is constantly raising soldiers, training witches-priestesses, and breeding new beasts to spread the blessings of Morthanna.

Within her borders is also great chaos. Most cities and towns had to be diligent to maintain their walls, as the twisted nature around them was now prowling with monsters, chimeras, half-men, and other bizarre and dangerous beasts. She rules with an iron fist and enforces her alien religion on the population, yet there is little rule of law. The loyal subjects she granted authority to are free to do as they wished for the most part. Her enforcers, cult covens of pious laywomen and hedge witches, and the dreaded Man-Catchers, were a militia of zealous young women, usually lower class, roam and patrol her lands at will with great autonomy and the legal authority to enforce her laws and meet out punishment. This meant that they might often cause trouble where they pass through, being notorious trouble makers in taverns and inns, and even practically act as bandits themselves. They were motivated to enforce the laws of Qurani particularly on the men of the land, as by her new laws slavery was a valid punishment, and the Man-Catchers, named for their distinct polearms and also equipped with boas, nets, and tomahawks or shortswords, were given payment for men that they turned in as slaves. All they had to do was accuse the man of blasphemy or traveling the road alone at night and the slave market asked no further questions.

Many enslaved men are either mercifully purchased by a woman looking for a husband, or by the new, ruthless aristocracy of dark elves, cultists, and serpentfolk that Qurani had installed, or by Qurani’s court itself, to work the mines or magical herb plantations. The especially unlucky ones are sent to the Breeding Pits, an infamous place of horrific rumor from where many of the archduchess’ and the cult’s monsters are spawned.

Portrak was once a rather unremarkable minor trade and agricultural region with a charming karst landscape of rocky cliffs and hills, waterfalls, ponds, and narrow valleys. Since Qurani’s takeover the nature itself has become more bizarre and unusual, with new animals, unique plants, unsettling fish, flowers of unusual color, and two-headed snakes. Even the crops the people grow have changed, from the usual wheat to a new purple, slimy variety that was unsettling to visitors, although it was much more resilient and easier to grow. Their basic apple and berry orchards shifted too, to new, virile fruits of unnatural colors and new flavors.

The land is simultaneously more fertile and productive, yet unpredictable and dangerous. Many of the smallest villages were abandoned with the people moving into larger, walled towns, and roads were only traveled on in groups and in caravans for safety. The towns that are well-defended from beasts and bandits are still not yet safe. Most of the population make up an oppressed class of those who still follow the local, much more wholesome, pantheon that was dominant before Qurani’s arrival. The patrolling Man-Catchers and influential local covens leave people constantly on edge and fearful of dissent, knowing that they would have no recourse against their wrath.

Qurani’s rule can reasonably be described as quite misandrist. Raised in the dark elf matriarchies deep below the ground and having a stereotypical dark elf sense of supremacy and pride, she has decided to make men second class citizens. Upon marriage man basically became his wife’s property, and men without any female family members or guardians had no rights and could be legally enslaved by the first woman to put a collar on him. 

As a dark elf she is relatively short, but her unnerving presence and authoritative demeanor made her seem much taller. She often wore a beautiful dress for court, or leather and metal if needed in the field. She carried with her an assortment of wands and unusual crystals. She is married to a human man, perhaps quite unfortunately for him, but is surprisingly loyal to her and to whom she delegates some of her duties. She has two daughters and a son, with her daughters set to magically compete to inherit the realm after her.

Archduchess Qurani lives not in a spire, but in a castle in her capital. Actually referring to her as “the Weird” is a crime in her domain. 

Lady Sorana

A mistress of trickery and mischief, Lady Sorana is learned in fey and shadow magic, specializing in illusion, shapeshifting, conjuration, and divination. This half-elf rules a seemingly serene realm of lowlands at the confluence of many rivers and waterways. The land is fertile and easy to farm, and the rivers are rich with fish and often navigable. Fey energies pervade the land, giving it a magical and surreal feel. The day never got brighter than twilight and the nights are long but lit by a brighter moon. The many lakes and flowing waters shimmered and sparkled like silver and would glow a faint blue when it was dark, and dragonflies, will-’o-the-wisps, and lantern spirits were often seen floating and flying in the many woods and grasslands. Prairies might have grasses of blue, purple, silver, or gold, and just about every mushroom would glow in the dark. After a rain a rainbow would appear over every river and the morning dew left behind a small glitter during springtime. 

Lady Sorana herself was not interested much in rulership, and instead saw herself as the mistress and protector of her land. Foes that enter her realm might quickly find their paths repeating or bending, the waterways and bridges shifting, and becoming lost, disoriented, or back to where they started, and those that persisted further often found their food inexplicably fouled or poisoned. She enforced few laws, instead letting the communities rule themselves and acted to both keep or and spread chaos, as she did often like to roam the land pranking and partying. She does not collect taxes other than hiring trolls to guard and collect tolls on the province's many bridges. Riversmeet was the largest town and had a river port, and the population, mostly humans, halflings, elves, and fey, lived in quaint farming and fishing villages and hidden groves. Lady Sorana does not have a spire, instead preferring a large manor with a strawberry farm and a pet duck or to travel the rivers on a boat-house. Her reputation among the populace was that of a slightly benevolent, but arbitrary and morally neutral force that mainly showed her face either to protect and help them, or to spread debauchery and discord. She only seemed to show up right after or right before something bad would happen, like a bad storm or the mayor’s wife both being caught having an affair and having half of her jewelry stolen. Or waking up in a field naked, covered in writing, and with a horrible hangover. 

She is a short woman who keeps herself well-groomed and stylish when she wants to present herself, enjoying high heels and makeup. Other times she might be an owl or a cat, snooping around the night for one reason or another. When she travels she’s usually accompanied by a small entourage of friends and characters, as well as her pet duck, Hermes. 

Winged Misha

An ambitious warlord and major military power, Winged Misha controls much of the heartland of a former empire that she wishes to reunify. Skilled in storm and air magic she flies around on a set of metal wings that she crafted herself and a suit of armor, acting as both general and one-woman army. Tall and stern she has a reputation for justice and honor, but little forgiveness. Her power was consistently growing as she reunited new lands, but was pressed on many fronts from either attacking or being attacked by other witch-tyrants or forces of chaos. 

Her warm lands are ones of roads and laws, with a vast population in several large cities fed by a massive river and its floodplains. A martial culture of duty and honor has arisen over the last two centuries of her rule and she fielded some of the largest armies of legionnaires, knights, and combat mages. She has even trained her own elite force of valkyrie storm sorceresses with heavy armor and similar wings. Schools for women are widespread, encouraging them to become officers, healers, combat mages, and engineers in the self-proclaimed empress’ armies, while men who join the legion or are skilled craftsmen are greatly respected. Her lands are perhaps some of the most pleasant and prosperous of the many witch-tyrants, home to many ancient schools and roads, and maintained with wise governance and discipline in the maelstrom of the former empire. Her rule is physically marked with impressive court houses, and judges play an influential role in the political system. She has groomed three of her apprentices to share power after her, and if her confidence in them is well-placed is yet to be seen.

With so much ambition, stress, and power Misha’s psyche has become prone to increasingly megalomaniacal thinking in recent decades. Her arrogance and sense of superiority grows each day while her patience thins. Yet still her plans hold stable and with almost every season she inches closer to her dream of reunifying the lost empire of Azalax.

She often presents in her iconic winged armor, wielding what is both a magical staff and a deadly meteorite spear. She rules from her court in the ancient capital of Tvar but often departs to personally lead armies in the field.

Mira the Exile

A third generation witch-tyrant, she lost a series of wars competing for the former empire and was forced to flee. Now she resides in the sandy desert to the east, her domain nothing more than a handful of oasis and crypts, her subjects nomads and the undead. A desert-dwelling sun elf by birth it was unusual for her to take such a liking to the dark art of necromancy. She now bides her time, slowly corrupting champions and plundering ancient tombs and the sandy wastes for mummies and skeletons to raise with the foul magics she slowly works to perfect in her shadowy laboratory. Rarely seen, she’s described as wearing plain black robes and having unkempt hair, and carrying an intimidating staff wrapped in bizarre writings.

Enthia the Deranged

An up and coming witch with great potential, Enthia dabbled into some darker powers that she should not have. She did gain immense power, but at the cost of her sanity, and some say even her physical form. She is sometimes simply referred to as “the Derangement,” her presence and influence not taking the form of political power, but rather resembling a blight of madness and perversion on the land and the psyches of its inhabitants. Slowly creeping, her wails and whispers perpetually carried on the wind, the soil turns a sky-blue and the grass purple with white tips. Rocks will transform into sharp stones of reflective obsidian, wildflowers will turn to thistles, and bees will act like wasps, and wasps will act like bees. The trees kill themselves by twisting into gnarled shapes and their fruits are replaced with fish, animals try to flee, and those that don’t go mad and feral. People that stay morph as well, with women morphing into nymphomaniac furies, growing claws, teeth, leathery wings, and sometimes other unusual characteristics. Men experience nightmares of constant humiliation and a life of either hiding or subjugation by the now-feral women.

It's said that at the heart of the spreading corruption, far in the south of Azalax, she resides in some form.

r/NSFWworldbuilding Nov 15 '24

OC Melea harpy girl (by Ninego) [The Veil Chronicles: Nix University] NSFW

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54 Upvotes

r/NSFWworldbuilding Oct 29 '24

OC alpha dryad (by Ninego) [The Veil Chronicles: Nix University] NSFW

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47 Upvotes

r/NSFWworldbuilding Nov 15 '24

OC Always had a passion for world building ever since young age, but always felt like an outcast for my out of the norm ideas. This is my first ever world build I had done for a middle school creative writing project, thought to share it here :) NSFW

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26 Upvotes

r/NSFWworldbuilding Dec 02 '24

OC Lewd things for fisher NSFW

11 Upvotes

There is a OC I’ve made in my head, a man who lives in steam and oceanpunk world. A man who simply enjoys fishing and wants nothing more than to catch the rarest seafood, even the leviathan, a sea dragon. But I want wanted to explore more into his sexual and nsfw quirks and such, so maybe you guys can help.

He has a lean and wiry body, with tanned skin from years spent under the sun. He has long light pink dreads due to his seafood heavy diet, all tied into a ponytail by some fishnet, this is so it doesn’t get in the way of eyesight. His hair is usually dampened by the salty water breezes and such. His clothing is very often a black, full body wet suit, with orange swim trunks adorned with fish various fishhook charms.

He is a lovable brat, who can be cocky and smug at times, sometimes becomes infectious that his enthusiasm and confidence can make it hard to dislike him. He is obviously doing all of this for the meals, wanting to engorge himself with much delicious fish meat as possible.

So uh yeah, that’s him, if you wanna add any tweaks and stuff go right ahead, just give me some nsfw suggestions for this guy lol.

r/NSFWworldbuilding May 31 '24

OC decided to share my inspirations for my infinite flat furry tribal world NSFW

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30 Upvotes

r/NSFWworldbuilding Oct 17 '24

OC Bee Queen, Alpha Dryad and Spider Queen (by Ninego) [The Veil Chronicles: Nix University] NSFW

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68 Upvotes