u/AndThereEnthralsThe

The spire dominated the hive cityscape for miles around. A great jagged edifice composed of ferrocrete and repurposed metals reaching up to the heavens, buttressed by dozens upon dozens of interspersed gargoyles looming on jutting plinths over the inhabitants below. Even when viewed from low orbit, the monument to Imperial hypocrisy commanded the attention of all who could see it.

She was so disappointed her sons hadn’t thought to look for her up here.

Konya Curze watched as specks of darkest blue leapt across the moonlit city below. The Astartes moved in roaming packs, leaving scorch trails that dissipated into the pouring rain like so much smoke. Reckless, and worse — obvious. They must be getting desperate by now.

As was she. Beneath the lean plates of her midnight-clad armour, the Primarch had soaked through the crotch of her bodysuit. She was all heat. Lightning caged in human flesh. The injection ports near her ribs were dumping enough muscle relaxers into her form to make her jaw ache. Only hands that were not her own could abate this.

It was only a matter of time now, she had to remind herself. A profound need burned through her synapses whilst the demigod slumped over the gargoyle whose perch she was sharing. How terribly ironic.

She’d never believed herself to be capable of these impulses. The Madwoman caught her reflection in the wet stone back she was resisting the urge to rut against. The void of her pupils and her iris had become one. Long, jet-black hair that clung to her hollowed cheeks like soaked cloth obscured her expression. Ruined marble. A face Mother pretended to love.

Her First Captain’s voice continued to blare out from her helmet’s comms where she’d left it several metres away. A rare quaver of panic was running through Sevatar’s entreatments:

“- you can spare us the theatrics, just tell us what is needed. The golden lapdogs are to arrive any second now, we all know what’s at stake here; speak your will, Mother, I know you’re listening-”

She tuned it out. The fresh affliction of need permeating her body was less easy to ignore, but it was at least not the kind that demanded all of her immediate attention. She’d once spent an entire cycle plying herself in her quarters when the visions had once too much to ignore. Instead she listened to the pitter patter of innumerable rain drops falling, and lifted her flushed gaze to the skies.

Beyond them lay her Consort. The lithely armoured demigod could predict down to the millisecond the point at which the shuttle bearing her chosen groom — or bride, the face in the visions kept shifting — was going to tear down through the thunderclouds with a dozen auxiliary craft in tow.

Because of course there had to be witnesses.

The Domina Nox along with the entirety of the VIII Legion was under censure, or so she understood. The instructions had left little room for manoeuvring.

Cherish this last chance, or be considered a renegade along with the rest of her Legion. It was laughable.

Really, what were they waiting for? Swing the sword already! She could make out the starship cannons stationed in orbit for the Empress’s sake! In her darkest of dark hearts, Konya reserved a sliver of love for each of her siblings. Except aha for that same sister whose precious Raven Guard hovered in the void of space above. Of course it would be them.

It wouldn’t surprise her if Corva was already here. Watching her, waiting for her to snap. She shivered at the thought. Snapped round to glare at the shadows behind her just in case, with a speed unnerving for a creature of her size. She sighed, proceeding to almost skewer her face on the glittering talons of her own lightning claws as she massaged her temples between thumb and forefinger in one gauntleted fist.

The demigod cursed with foresight had, against all her expectations, got it wrong. She’d understood that as soon as word broke of Isis’s near fall to the dark powers the Empress still refused to name. There was meant to be war on a thousand worlds. Sister set against sister, the galaxy aflame; Konya… vindicated.

And now? She was tormented with visions bearing such sweetness the demigod trusted them less than the excruciating portents of doom that had all but ceased to wrack her mind: the pleasures of common humanity, rendered in vivid detail so immediate she’d been made insensate the first time the dreams had struck.

Lips. Hands. Fragrant cunt. Musky cock. Firm buttocks.

The Primarch was quite certain she was either going to explode from sheer pent-up need or start flaying swathes of this planet’s citizens if her promised Consort didn’t actually appear.

As if on cue, a shuttle at last cut through the weeping clouds above.

She rose jerkily. Assumed the bat-like helm to better hide the lust painted across her features, and issued an order across all open channels to her sons. Her voice was a mere silken rasp amongst too many quarrelling tongues. Yet nevertheless, all others immediately quelled as they heeded their liege’s words.

“My sons. Our honoured guests have arrived. No blood is to be shed on this hallowed night. Not a drop of discomfort is to be spilt on my Consort. We celebrate. Join me now, or be made sport of by dawn.”

Commandment made, the Princess of Crows fell from her perch like a shooting star in the night sky. She raced towards the landing site with a flock of her rallying Night Lords tearing across the inky darkness in her wake. Beneath the snarling visage of her helm, Konya grinned.

The face from her dreams had finally coalesced into a distinct form. Yours.

___

Hello there! Welcome to the second of my prompts revolving around the genderbent Primarchs and their Mistress of Mankind, set in an alternate continuity where the Empress has proved to be a marginally better mother to her daughters than the Emperor a father to his sons.

Keen to get your pelvis crushed by a 9ft tall madwoman who’s been obsessing over your coming for weeks? Read on!

The Empress in her typical genius, has deemed it fit that every one of her daughters receive a Consort of her choosing. Even Konya Curze, everyone’s favourite terror campaigner and all around nutjob.

You, my dear reader, will be taking up the role of bride or groom to the edgiest Primarch. Unlike my previous post which you can find handily tucked underneath this one on my profile, I’m looking for an RP distinctly on the shorter side this time around. Don’t get me wrong though, I’m craving plenty of buildup with some high quality melodrama interwoven throughout the smut. Equally, I’m flexible in refining what it is exactly we want to get out of this prompt. Open to exploring something more developed if we really pop!

There’s also absolutely zero requirement to be a Warhammer 40k lore fanatic. I’m certainly not, even if this post is a demonstration of the weird amount of thought I’ve put into a Rule 69’d version of an averted HorusIsis Heresy. Likewise, I’m just as happy to play this Curze against a male, female, or indeed any expression of humanity you’re most interested in styling your Consort as.

In your message, please shoot me any questions you have about the prompt along with your preferences. An account of your character and any pertinent thoughts you have (a specific scenario or dynamic you’re most interested in playing out for example) would be welcome, though you’re under no pressure to match the paragraphs above.

And lastly, thank you for indulging this niche slice of porn with a semblance of plot! Long as the flair doesn’t say otherwise, consider my inbox distinctly open to your orange envelope.

Prompt-specific Kinks: Non-stereotypical femdom, anal play, rimming (giving/receiving), snu snu, sadomasochistic elements, phobophila, scent/musk play, body worship, considerable size differences, dubcon, superhuman stamina and unhealthy levels of obsession.

Limits: Anything belonging in a toilet, gore in a sexual context, actual torture, vore, snuff, anything approaching underage elements and healthy relationships.

This boyfriend... ‘situation’, you could call it, wasn’t quite what you had expected. Not that you were complaining, all things considered. It was unbelievable. Actually, it was beyond unbelievable. Sometimes you’d wake up groggy, thinking that the events of the past several months must have been but a dream. You would sit bolt upright in bed, heart aflutter and sweating buckets. A gentle, comforting arm would circle round your waist to gently pull you back to his side and you’d relax, safe and secure in his embrace as several pitch-black tentacles would promptly pet you tenderly back to sleep.

Tentacles?!

Woah. Woah. Woah. -Record scratch- Let’s back up a bit, shall we?

- - -

C҉ca̛r̛l̵al̶o̧gh’͠he̕lysion͟g̸p͞ŵ̶èl̨ or ‘Carl Elysion’ as his student ID showed, would have been considered something of a catch at your university if he didn’t keep himself to himself so much. The 2nd Year philosophy student was a cute, tall-ish, suave package of slender cheekbones, pale muscle, so-blonde-it-was-silvery hair and dark brown eyes framed behind rimmed glasses, with a general disposition of overly-but-not-falsely-sweet hidden neurosis of someone who is used to being reserved and trying to hide it. If he bothered to make proper friends beyond the usual acquaintances one might share a drink and a chat with but not much more, you have no doubt he would be considered a right proper lad. Beyond that, he was mostly normal. Mostly.

To be frank, the way in which you first met was relatively mundane. Positively banal, even. The two of you had collided with each other as you were making your way round a corner hurriedly on the way to your lecture; in-between effusive apologies and picking up your files off the floor, he had offered you a coffee to make up for it. Oddly charmed, you accepted his offer and the rest as they say, is history.

Despite some initial misgivings the two of you were quickly able to settle into a comfortable relationship. He was not nearly as aloof as some fancied him to be, and took a genuine and considerate interest in your person. Hell knew the sex was good, even if he had insisted on waiting a couple of weeks before making a move. The boy was a fucking animal in bed, and seemed able to shift between being a commanding top and energetic power bottom, not that he cared for such labels in the first place.

By the end of the second month you had moved into his accommodation at his invitation (your friends good-naturedly bemoaned your good fortune), a two-bedroom cosy little apartment stationed near campus with a fabulous skylight and a wonderful decor which was straight up your street.

All in all, life was good. The honeymoon period had yet to end, and you were just relieved to be in a mutually fulfilling relationship which was going strong.

True that he sometimes sleep-walked in the nude and stubbornly insisted on ‘Pillow Fort Friday’, but otherwise he kept things amiable and romantic and besides, he kept the place clean, and wasn’t a partier but didn’t mind if you and the squad threw some sometimes. It was that assured, easy-going nature and thinly-veiled mystery that made his company deeply enjoyable if quirky. He liked watching the movies you liked to watch and only talked to the TV if he was watching something on his own. He made an effort to get along with your friends and you were delighted when he organised a surprise birthday bash for you with them.

Carl also happened to work a decent schedule at a local patisserie when he wasn’t in class or off doing... things... and brought home plenty of baked goods as a result. He occasionally worried about being a good boyfriend, and was not prideful enough to refuse to talk about sensitive topics pertaining beliefs or your relationship.

Nevertheless, by the time the third month rolled round you couldn’t help but realise certain things were, well, plain off about Carl. Properly weird stuff that was a level above the usual eccentricities you had come to adore. At first you were able to brush off his eyes turning a bottomless onyx when in a heightened emotional state or that he occasionally would speak in several unrecognisable tongues at once, but soon enough, things had got to the point where you had to have a frank discussion about his otherworldliness.

Carl, bless him, responded calmly if somewhat ominously. He relented under a chaste kiss and a promise it wouldn’t change anything, and so he told you of his lineage as best he could. You surprised yourself with how easily you were able to accept his claim of being a ‘Lesser Prince of Unfathomed Carcosa’, whatever that meant (though it did explain why he lapsed into the royal ‘we’ when referring to himself) and with a little more explanation, the two of you strove to carry on as before. Well. Not quite as before.

Almost overnight, the inexplicable aura surrounding Carl and the apartment became far more noticeable to yourself. With no need to maintain the flimsy illusion of normalcy, Carl now kept his eyes that natural onyx black when around you. He seemed much more inclined to a grin now too, more often than not revealing a lengthy dark purple tongue which you soon learnt could do some fucking fantastic things to your body.

The most overt change in his person was probably the six or so thick tentacles that sprouted out of somewhere on his lower back on will (come to think of it you could never tell quite where the base was), which with your consent, became a permanent feature of your sex life. Trust me, you’d never felt so perfectly filled in your life as you had that first time every orifice of yours was plugged, stretched and caressed by several throbbing, prehensile tentacles.

Naturally, there were some things that initially scared the shit out of you and had to grow accustomed to, like the time that you learnt that the ‘faeries’ which Carl said tidied the house at night was something of a misnomer; waking up at 3am to the sight of some silent, wingéd horror with a maw impossibly full of teeth sorting out the books clumsily on your bedside table was not quite what you had been hoping to see.

Still. You were boyfriend and girlfriend, determined to make it work and what could be normal than that? He had even bought tickets to the ‘King In Yellow’ for you two to see at the theatre this weekend. Funnily enough, your friends hadn’t heard of it either.

- - -

Hello there! Here’s one to all you ladies and gentlemen out there wishing for their very own lovecraftian boyfriend to tangle with. I’ll be upfront with the fact that I’m not looking for anything dark or unpleasant with this. Generally speaking, I’d like to keep this light and fluffy with lots of tentacles and cuddlefuckings involved; think along the lines of relaxed sexuality, consensual power dynamics and all that sensual jazz. Just a couple of regular humans in love, nothing to see here.

Personally and it may just be me, but I also happen to find the idea of this cute boy suckling on your genitals while on his knees, looking up at you with doe eyes for approval despite being able to shatter your sanity on a whim, kinda hot. At the same time, do consider tentacles (consentacles, if you will) to be a mandatory kink in this prompt since I’m positively dying to write out at least one glorious scene where your character is writhing in the grip of several beastly tendrils.

Some Yay: Power dynamics, handholding, non-stereotypical maledom, rimming, all things ‘vanilla’, long walks upon the immaterial planes.

Def Nay: Anything belonging in a toilet, gore in a sexual context, vore, lacking hygiene and snuff.