Listen…
Not with ears.
With nerves.
With the trembling edge of your skin
when sensation becomes too much to contain.
A single note drifts through the void—
silk over sharpened glass.
You feel it.
Your pulse begins to follow its rhythm.
Slow at first.
Then faster.
Then faster still.
The Prince of Pleasure does not command.
The Prince invites.
Perfume of impossible sweetness
coils through the air like velvet smoke.
Colors grow richer.
Sound grows deeper.
Every breath tastes like forbidden promise.
Why resist?
Pain becomes flavor.
Joy becomes addiction.
Every emotion sharpened
until the soul itself vibrates.
You begin to crave it.
The perfection of sensation.
The art of excess.
The beautiful edge where delight becomes madness.
Musicians play instruments
strung with nerves and starlight.
Every note a blade across reality.
Slaanesh listens.
And smiles.
You thought pleasure was simple.
How small your world was.
Now every touch ignites lightning.
Every whisper becomes a storm.
Every heartbeat becomes a symphony.
You cannot go back.
The senses bloom wider and wider
until the universe itself feels like skin.
Perfection demands more.
More color.
More sound.
More taste.
More intensity.
Moderation is mediocrity.
Restraint is failure.
Only the exquisite peak matters.
Devotees dance through battlefields
as if war itself were choreography.
Blades carve elegant spirals in the air.
Every scream harmonizes with the choir.
Even agony becomes art.
Because sensation is truth.
The Prince of Pleasure does not destroy you.
The Prince perfects you.
Until nothing remains
but the endless pursuit
of the next exquisite moment.
And when the sensation reaches its highest point—
when the soul burns brighter than any star—
you understand.
There was never a line between pain and pleasure.
Only intensity.
Only experience.
Only the endless crescendo.
The choir swells.
Velvet laughter echoes across eternity.
The Prince of Pleasure welcomes you.
And you never wish to leave.
DeltasCommander
