quite a few, pretty much just focusing on the wh40k ones at the moment, though i haven’t been able to post much about them on here yet. there’s more about them on my main, but i’m open to writing/drawing explicit stuff about them (other than Sekhmet) and will answer nsfw and kink-related asks about them on here! Taweret particularly was created as a kink-centric character since he’s got the whole “pretty much always pregnant” thing going on, and i’ve got another more self-insert-y oc i’ve just figured out the details on who i’ll definitely be drawing/writing about on this blog. I’ll list the characters + brief blurbs about them under the cut, feel free to send asks about them, or even doodle requests.
Dionel - Blood Angels, He/She
The sole survivor of a ship that got briefly lost in the warp at the very start of the Horus Heresy, before appearing suddenly in M41 due to warp time shenanigans. Became a close advisor to the newly revived Sanguinius due to her unique insight.
Soren - Space Wolves, He/Him
Brash and hotheaded, which he took a bit too literally when he got half his face burned off by a blast of warp fire from Taweret, his eternal nemesis. He’s very fertile and bears strong pups, and Taweret is fixated on capturing him and using him to breed even more daemon offspring.
Taweret - Thousand Sons, He/It
A sorcerer who asked for a blessing to further spread Tzeentch’s influence, and indeed got one, in the form of a womb constantly swelling with shapeshifting daemon babies, who he plants in the nurseries of loyalist ships to be raised as their own and sabotage them.
Merren - Imperial Psyker, He/Him
A biomancer very close to Sanguinius, tasked with tending to his wounds, and other needs. Tries to be aloof and standoffish but deep down he very much does care. Secretly obsessed with the idea of Sanguinius eating him whole and alive.
Hiss - Alpha Legion, She/They
Never shows her face. Might not have one. Pellinore’s arch-nemesis and a complete wildcard. Occasionally ropes Taweret into joint missions, which he usually ends up regretting, because they’re both competing to be the mastermind of the operation.
Pellinore - Dark Angels, He/Him
Close companion of the Lion and mentor of sorts to Altair. About as much of a head-in-the-clouds artsy type as a Dark Angel can possibly be, but also very single-minded when it comes to revenge. Has been hunting Hiss for over a century after she killed several of his closest battle-brothers. Used to be quite scrawny for an Astartes, but after crossing the Rubicon he filled out quite nicely. The process also made him a bit dumber, but he’s cute like that :}
Altair - Dark Angels, He/Him
Altair was more than a neophyte when he got sucked into the warp when Caliban broke apart and was flung to the middle of nowhere ten millennia in the future. He survived mostly by being too pathetic to have possibly been working for Chaos. Was even skinnier than Pel at one point but put on a good deal of weight with proper feeding and care. Really bad at fighting but really good at having babies.
Giotto - Blood Angels, He/It
This guy’s pretty much a self insert or at least specifically engineered for me to project onto. Got abandoned on a death world while trying to retrieve an admech macguffin after contact with his company was cut off and he was presumed dead. Ended up having to eat its dead squadmates to survive, as well as any wildlife smaller than him. Eventually got rescued by Ultramarines and nursed back to health.
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forcemasc but it's nerdy. forcemasc but it's a zombie infection. forcemasc but it's a forcemasc or die situation. forcemasc but it's kidnapping. forcemasc but it's non-sexual. forcemasc.
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Tags: Primarch x reader, erectile dysfunction, virgin Perty, size difference, weight gain, fat kink, small dom big sub, Perturabo being pathetic and cute, tongue sounding, cock worship, hyper cock, objectification, mild degradation, humiliation
WIP unfinished but hopefully y’all still like it!! I didn’t get to polish the real sounding part yet but the overtones are there. Tongue in his penit. Let’s go!
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He’s trying to keep his voice down, so it doesn’t echo through the pipes of the maintenance room you’ve cornered him in. Him, the Lord of Iron, a primarch with three powerful lungs in a chest the width of a tank, trying to be quiet. It’s cute.
He’s not in his armour, draped in a tiny chiton that looks to your Terran sensibilities like a t-shirt and work skirt. Sure, it’s fancy linen handwoven by pure Olympian maidens or whatever, but he really does look like he’s about to serve you recaf from a beverage cart. And he certainly is serving in that skimpy outfit tonight. His whole ass is out, leaving those heavy globes wobbling bare when he shifts his immense weight. A hazard striped sash cinches the fabric under his pecs, billowing out around those hairy tits that sag enough to obscure the curve of his stomach. It’s deceptively soft, no matter how hard he tries to hide it with his posture. You’ve got your fingers up under his skirt - you can’t call it anything else - and are squeezing greedy handfuls of his plush inner thighs. He can’t hide a damn thing about his body from you.
If he so much as opens his mouth to offer insult or order, someone will hear him. The Iron Warriors patrol the corridor outside and it only takes a whimper from their gene-father’s lips to draw a whole squad to his location. One broad hand clamps his mouth shut, the other high up and braced against the ceiling. It’s an awkward position the giant primarch struggles to hold, all nine hundred pounds of his iron-hard musculature coiled in taut slabs of restraint.
The clanking machinery in the walls does nothing to keep your little moans from his ears. He hears it all - every wet lick of your tongue through the hefty meat of his foreskin, the fluttering tease at the tender juncture beneath, and those half-laughs huffed through your nose when his bare legs quiver from too much. You scrape your blunt nails along the thick column of his quads, drawing your hands around in slow prickling lines to the back of his knees. He’s so tender there his voice betrays him with a sharp grunt before he gulps it into nothingness again.
You run your fingertips along the smooth skin, mouth busy humming into his fat, dripping tip. Oh, it’s dripping now. Gluey white rivulets running down your chin, hot and musky as the rest of him. He can’t see you smearing your face with it over the curve of his gut, but he can definitely feel every point of your being in contact with his flesh. He’s triangulated a model of what you look like down there, rotating you in the vast, shuddering engines of his mind. When you smile sideways and open your lips wide around his leaking head, he almost blams right there.
“Mmm, Perty…” Slow and drawling, drugged with pleasure. “Such a leaky boy. Where’s your self control~?” Your tongue drags along his slit hard enough to have him actually whine in the back of his throat. Swirling around before it comes back down, you do it again. And again. Now his thighs are twitching, muscles bunching and straining beneath pudding-soft fat. Those thick, hot cushions of blubber could easily crush your skull if he lost control. A position like this is a gun to the head but you’re horny enough to like it. Poor, helpless Perturabo with his big soft cock that doesn’t even know how to stand. All yours to tease until he spills himself in a pitiful puddle of unearned shame. He’s so beautiful like this, and it’s your sworn duty to make him understand this is where he belongs. That he doesn’t even have to get hard or fuck you or do anything to earn your love. He could forget the square root of 64 and you’d still be sucking his spinal fluid out through his dick like it’s the last meal you’ll ever have.
He likes it in the slit, that much is clear when your tongue has his hitching breaths draw out into long, muffled crooning. Like a dove nesting on something precious. He’s moaning through his fingers, then into the meat of his palm, but when that doesn’t quiet him enough he starts squirming. His little linen skirt swishes around his thighs, he’s rubbing them together and you were smart enough to keep your head clear before he started. You took his entire package with you, of course. Lightly, then a little harder, you squeeze one of his fat nuts.
“Aww, what’s the matter? You gotta pee or something?” You blow into his slit and a bubble of pre answers. Oh, he really likes it.
That gives you an idea. “You’re gonna get dehydrated if you keep going like this. You’re making such a mess…” Two rough licks lap up the droplets to prove your point. More just keeps seeping from his flushed cockhead.
When you plug his pulsing slit with your tongue, Perturabo makes a sound that could almost have come out of a mortal man. The gravelly depth of a voice built for command flattens into something thin and reedy by comparison. Like a decorative secretary whining about a missed payslip.
He grabs himself mid-shaft and squeezes, trying so hard not to cum. If he does, this will end, and he can’t, can’t let it be over. Without his hand on the ceiling he slumps to one side, face pushed into the wall, back arched and only his hand around his mouth keeps him from moaning like a slack-jawed whore.
You, tongue fucking his cock with enough depth for your teeth to threaten his tip, only have to wiggle it slightly and you’re playing him like an instrument. Perturabo’s massive body quivers and shakes, heaving great breaths in the now steaming air, doing something into his palm that sounds like he’s crying. You still can’t see his face; the bulk of his body obscures you. His grip on his flaccid meat is trembling, skin whitened from the strain.
You know what he’s thinking. If he lets go, he’s going to nut so hard the whole Legion will know. He can’t survive that. Can’t let them know their Lord of Iron is a soppy little slut for having his dick fondled. He’s supposed to be better than that. He’s a primarch, not a… not a…
“Mmmh, Perty…” you slur around his meat, pulling out and giving him a good few flicks. “You know that only works if you’re hard, right…?”
“Huahh…?” Perturabo sniffles, glancing down and seeing only himself contorted amidst the crates and pipes snaking along the walls. Carefully, he loosens his grasp, but a sudden jet of cum has him force his fist shut again. “N-no… don’t lie to me…”
Taking a few steps back, you let him see you with his creamy essence dripping down your face. He flusters further and scrunches his glossy blue eyes shut. As he sees you, so too do you see the tear tracks along his angular cheekbones. Poor thing’s so overwhelmed he probably doesn’t even know what planet his flagship is orbiting.
uuughhhgh keep thinking about a deity who eats its worshippers as an act of love and protection. especially in a hypothetical setting where the world is dark and dangerous. its subjects' souls are under constant threat from forces seeking to consume them. so it consumes them first, swallowing them down so gently, keeping the most vulnerable souls snug inside of it where they can be safe forever.
fucked up that i'm not in a temple getting brought heaping food offerings by my many dedicated worshippers, having my belly massaged with oils and tended to as it swells and fills. my cute devotees making sure im comfortable in my silk pillows as another plate of rich meats and breads is brought to me and carefully fed to me one bite at a time. no need to rush a deity. i have all the time in the world to eat and grow....
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Muscle needs padding, let me rest my head on your stomach. Let me grab your sides and feel the way my fingers sink in. Or, until I realize the appearance of softness is just a facade for the sheer force underneath.
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fucked up that i'm not in a temple getting brought heaping food offerings by my many dedicated worshippers, having my belly massaged with oils and tended to as it swells and fills. my cute devotees making sure im comfortable in my silk pillows as another plate of rich meats and breads is brought to me and carefully fed to me one bite at a time. no need to rush a deity. i have all the time in the world to eat and grow....
why are all the primarch x reader imagine posts about the primarchs smuckling and smumbling when they should be about the primarchs getting pedicures and wearing intricate sandals and toe rings and letting why en massage their feet ? HMM?
fulgrim - as if he hasn’t already been getting them regularly. his feet are shockingly delicate, and he’s so pale the soles are visibly flushed. ‘pedicure’ in this case really only means filing off a little rough skin and repainting his toenails, but he thanks you like this was a heroic undertaking, and his toes trail suggestively down your torso as he playfully asks how he can ever repay you.
perturabo - idc
i don’t remember the order for the rest of them im skipping to ferrus
ferrus - fulgrim put him up to this, most likely. you have to enlist help to grind the callouses and rough skin off his soles, and he gives off an aura of impatience the whole time, but once that’s done you start giving him a foot massage and he melts. moaning and flexing his feet as if to guide your attentions to where he wants them next, face flushed like he can’t believe he’s reacting like this. he’s visibly hard by the time you’re done.
Perturabo is in his fuckass armor All The Time so you know his feet are not being taken care of, sadly. Going to need a heavy duty angle grinder to deal with those callouses. Like Ferrus he's impatient but even bitchier, loudly voicing his every complaint and acting like sitting still and having his feet tended to is the hardest mission he's ever been given. Inwardly, though, he's conflicted. It's pointless and inefficient to him, to be taken care of like this. The callouses will come back, his nails will become a horrible mess again, he's a machine of war and he doesn't require such high-class frivolities. But it feels nice, in fact this is the best he's felt in decades. He can't remember the last time hands other than his own touched his bare skin. He's sensitive from the lack of touch, and so incredibly pent up you might be able to get him off just by massaging his feet. Of course, he'll do his best to remain absolutely stonefaced as he creams his pants. (whether he's successful is another story.) He may be mellow enough afterwards to let you paint his toenails with little hazard stripes.
