#Top programming tools

[techygrowth]

There are more tools and resources available than ever before, from developing custom applications to learning to write code. This list includes tools that are fundamental to the software development process, such as coding editors, debugging tools, and collaborative platforms. It is made simpler for developers to select the best tool for their projects by providing an explanation of each tool's primary functions and applications. This book will expose you to the most effective and well-liked tools available to improve your coding efficiency and project management, regardless of whether you are working on web development, mobile apps, or system programming.

[sporesgalaxy]

i shouldve played pokemon violet in spanish....

[punk-pins]

tumblr live update on mobile: it now has the option to snooze the live streams at the top of the dashboard for 30 days, but the video icon for the tumblr live tab in the middle of the footer can’t be disabled at all :/

[khushidubeyblog]

Beyond the Classroom: The Importance of Experiential Learning in PGDM Programs

[techcronus]

Node.js Development: Everything You Need to Know in 2025

In 2025, Node.js development continues to be a powerful tool for building efficient, scalable, and real-time applications. This backend JavaScript framework has become a go-to technology for backend development, favoured by developers for its speed, flexibility, and vast ecosystem. Here’s everything you need to know about Node.js development trends, advantages, and key considerations in 2025.

Why Node.js Remains Popular in 2025

Node.js has gained a strong foothold in web and app development due to its high performance and ability to handle large volumes of simultaneous requests, making it ideal for data-intensive applications. Its non-blocking, event-driven architecture allows developers to build scalable web applications that can easily support thousands of concurrent users.

Key Node.js Trends to Watch in 2025

Serverless Architecture: Serverless is growing in popularity, and Node.js serverless applications fit perfectly with this trend. In a serverless environment, developers don’t need to manage server infrastructure; they focus instead on writing code. This approach can reduce development costs and improve scalability, making Node.js a key player in the serverless computing market.

Edge Computing: As demand for faster data processing rises, Node.js for edge computing is becoming crucial. By enabling data processing closer to the data source, Node.js helps reduce latency and improve application performance, particularly in real-time applications.

Microservices Architecture: Microservices are essential for large-scale, modular applications. Node.js, with its lightweight nature, is perfect for Node.js microservices architecture, allowing developers to build small, independent services that can be deployed and scaled individually.

Artificial Intelligence (AI) and Machine Learning (ML) Integration: In 2025, integrating AI and ML models into applications is a significant trend. Node.js with AI and ML is compatible with powerful machine-learning libraries, making it an attractive choice for developers looking to create intelligent applications.

Benefits of Using Node.js in 2025

High Performance: Node.js uses the V8 engine, offering impressive speed and efficient execution of JavaScript. This makes it suitable for applications requiring fast response times, such as real-time applications, chat applications, and IoT devices.

Rich Ecosystem: The Node.js ecosystem, including npm (Node Package Manager), gives developers access to a wide range of reusable modules and libraries. This Node.js ecosystem reduces development time and helps accelerate project timelines.

Cross-Platform Compatibility: Node.js Development cross-platform applications work well across different platforms, making it easier for developers to build applications that run seamlessly on various operating systems.

Scalability: The non-blocking, asynchronous architecture of Node.js for scalable applications makes it easy to scale horizontally, supporting increased workloads as businesses grow.

Best Practices for Node.js Development in 2025

Leverage TypeScript: Using TypeScript with Node.js enhances code quality and reduces bugs, making it a valuable addition to any development project.

Prioritize Security: Security is a primary concern for developers, particularly in 2025, as cyber threats grow more sophisticated. Implementing Node.js security best practices, like input validation and rate limiting, is essential for protecting applications.

Adopt CI/CD Pipelines: Continuous integration and continuous deployment (CI/CD) pipelines streamline development and ensure faster, more reliable Node.js deployments.

Conclusion

Node.js continues to be a versatile and high-performance choice for backend development in 2025. Its adaptability to trends like serverless architecture, microservices, and AI integration makes it a prime technology for building future-ready applications. By leveraging the power of Node.js developers, businesses can develop scalable, efficient, and intelligent solutions to stay ahead in the digital landscape.

[sanjida1]

AI HIGH TICKET COMMISSIONS

[romerona]

Ethera Operation!!

You're the government’s best hacker, but that doesn’t mean you were prepared to be thrown into a fighter jet.

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Awkward!Hacker! FemReader

Part I

This was never supposed to happen. Your role in this operation was simple—deliver the program, ensure it reached the right hands, and let the professionals handle the breaching.

And then, of course, reality decided to light that plan on fire.

The program—codenamed Ethera—was yours. You built it from scratch with encryption so advanced that even the most elite cyber operatives couldn’t crack it without your input. A next-generation adaptive, self-learning decryption software, an intrusion system designed to override and manipulate high-security military networks, Ethera was intended to be both a weapon and a shield, capable of infiltrating enemy systems while protecting your own from counterattacks in real-time. A ghost in the machine. A digital predator. A weapon in the form of pure code. If it fell into the wrong hands, it could disable fleets, and ground aircraft, and turn classified intelligence into an open book. Governments would kill for it. Nations could fall because of it.

Not that you ever meant to, of course. It started as a little experimental security measure program, something to protect high-level data from cyberattacks, not become the ultimate hacking tool. But innovation has a funny way of attracting the wrong kind of attention, and before you knew it, Ethera had become one, if not the most classified, high-risk program in modern times. Tier One asset or so the Secret Service called it.

It was too powerful, too dangerous—so secret that only a select few even knew of its existence, and even fewer could comprehend how it worked.

And therein lay the problem. You were the only person who could properly operate it.

Which was so unfair.

Because it wasn’t supposed to be your problem. You were just the creator, the brain behind the code, the one who spent way too many sleepless nights debugging this monstrosity. Your job was supposed to end at development. But no. Now, because of some bureaucratic nonsense and the fact that no one else could run it without accidentally bricking an entire system, you had been promoted—scratch that, forcibly conscripted—into field duty.

And your mission? To install it in an enemy satellite.

A literal, orbiting, high-security, military-grade satellite, may you add.

God. Why? Why was your country always at war with others? Why couldn’t world leaders just, you know, go to therapy like normal people? Why did everything have to escalate to international cyber warfare?

Which is how you ended up here.

At Top Gun. The last place in the world you wanted to be.

You weren’t built for this. You thrive in sipping coffee in a cosy little office and handling cyber threats from a safe, grounded location. You weren’t meant to be standing in the halls of an elite fighter pilot training program, surrounded by the best aviators in the world—people who thought breaking the sound barrier was a casual Wednesday.

It wasn’t the high-tech cyberwarfare department of the Pentagon, nor some dimly lit black ops facility where hackers in hoodies clacked away at keyboards. No. It was Top Gun. A place where pilots use G-forces like a personal amusement park ride.

You weren’t a soldier, you weren’t a spy, you got queasy in elevators, you got dizzy when you stood too fast, hell, you weren’t even good at keeping your phone screen from cracking.

... And now you were sweating.

You swallowed hard as Admiral Solomon "Warlock" Bates led you through the halls of the naval base, your heels clacking on the polished floors as you wiped your forehead. You're nervous, too damn nervous and this damned weather did not help.

"Relax, Miss," Warlock muttered in that calm, authoritative way of his. "They're just pilots."

Just pilots.

Right. And a nuclear warhead was just a firework.

And now, somehow, you were supposed to explain—loosely explain, because God help you, the full details were above even their clearance level—how Ethera, your elegant, lethal, unstoppable digital masterpiece, was about to be injected into an enemy satellite as part of a classified mission.

This was going to be a disaster.

You had barely made it through the doors of the briefing room when you felt it—every single eye in the room locking onto you.

It wasn’t just the number of them that got you, it was the intensity. These were Top Gun pilots, the best of the best, and they radiated the kind of confidence you could only dream of having. Meanwhile, you felt like a stray kitten wandering into a lion’s den.

Your hands tightened around the tablet clutched to your chest. It was your lifeline, holding every critical detail of Ethera, the program that had dragged you into this utterly ridiculous situation. If you could’ve melted into the walls, you absolutely would have. But there was no escaping this.

You just had to keep it together long enough to survive this briefing.

So, you inhaled deeply, squared your shoulders, and forced your heels forward, trying to project confidence—chin up, back straight, eyes locked onto Vice Admiral Beau "Cyclone" Simpson, who you’d been introduced to earlier that day.

And then, of course, you dropped the damn tablet.

Not a graceful drop. Not the kind of gentle slip where you could scoop it back up and act like nothing happened. No, this was a full-on, physics-defying fumble. The tablet flipped out of your arms, ricocheted off your knee, and skidded across the floor to the feet of one of the pilots.

Silence.

Pure, excruciating silence.

You didn’t even have the nerve to look up right away, too busy contemplating whether it was physically possible to disintegrate on command. But when you finally did glance up—because, you know, social convention demanded it—you were met with a sight that somehow made this entire disaster worse.

Because the person crouching down to pick up your poor, abused tablet was freaking hot.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with a head of golden curls that practically begged to be tousled by the wind, and, oh, yeah—a moustache that somehow worked way too well on him.

He turned the tablet over in his hands, inspecting it with an amused little smirk before handing it over to you. "You, uh… need this?"

Oh, great. His voice is hot too.

You grabbed it back, praying he couldn't see how your hands were shaking. “Nope. Just thought I’d test gravity real quick.”

A few chuckles rippled through the room, and his smirk deepened like he was enjoying this way too much. You, on the other hand, wanted to launch yourself into the sun.

With what little dignity you had left, you forced a quick, tight-lipped smile at him before turning on your heel and continuing forward, clutching your tablet like it was a life raft in the middle of the worst social shipwreck imaginable.

At the front of the room, Vice Admiral Beau Cyclone Simpson stood with the kind of posture that said he had zero time for nonsense, waiting for the room to settle. You barely had time to take a deep breath before his voice cut through the air.

“Alright, listen up.” His tone was crisp, commanding, and impossible to ignore. “This is Dr Y/N L/N. Everything she is about to tell you is highly classified. What you hear in this briefing does not leave this room. Understood?”

A chorus of nods. "Yes, sir."

You barely resisted the urge to physically cringe as every pilot in the room turned to stare at you—some with confusion, others with barely concealed amusement, and a few with the sharp assessing glances of people who had no clue what they were supposed to do with you.

You cleared your throat, squared your shoulders, and did your best to channel even an ounce of the confidence you usually had when you were coding at 3 AM in a secure, pilot-free lab—where the only judgment you faced was from coffee cups and the occasional system error.

As you reached the podium, you forced what you hoped was a composed smile. “Uh… hi, nice to meet you all.”

Solid. Real professional.

You glanced up just long enough to take in the mix of expressions in the room—some mildly interested, some unreadable, and one particular moustached pilot who still had the faintest trace of amusement on his face.

Nope. Not looking at him.

You exhaled slowly, centering yourself. Stay focused. Stay professional. You weren’t just here because of Ethera—you were Ethera. The only one who truly understood it. The only one who could execute this mission.

With another tap on your tablet, the slide shifted to a blacked-out, redacted briefing—only the necessary information was visible. A sleek 3D-rendered model of the enemy satellite appeared on the screen, rotating slowly. Most of its details were blurred or omitted entirely.

“This is Blackstar, a highly classified enemy satellite that has been operating in a low-Earth orbit over restricted airspace.” Your voice remained even, and steady, but the weight of what you were revealing sent a shiver down your spine. “Its existence has remained off the radar—literally and figuratively—until recently, when intelligence confirmed that it has been intercepting our encrypted communications, rerouting information, altering intelligence, and in some cases—fabricating entire communications.”

Someone exhaled sharply. Another shifted in their seat.

“So they’re feeding us bad intel?” one of them with big glasses and blonde hair asked, voice sceptical but sharp.

“That’s the theory,” you confirmed. “And given how quickly our ops have been compromised recently, it’s working.”

You tapped again, shifting to the next slide. The silent infiltration diagram appeared—an intricate web of glowing red lines showing Etherea’s integration process, slowly wrapping around the satellite’s systems like a virus embedding itself into a host.

“This is where Ethera comes in,” you said, shifting to a slide that displayed a cascading string of code, flickering across the screen. “Unlike traditional cyberweapons, Ethera doesn’t just break into a system. It integrates—restructuring security protocols as if it was always meant to be there. It’s undetectable, untraceable, and once inside, it grants us complete control of the Blackstar and won’t even register it as a breach.”

“So we’re not just hacking it," The only female pilot of the team said, arms crossed as she studied the data. “We’re hijacking it.”

“Exactly,” You nodded with a grin.

You switched to the next slide—a detailed radar map displaying the satellite’s location over international waters.

“This is the target area,” you continued after a deep breath. “It’s flying low-altitude reconnaissance patterns, which means it’s using ground relays for some of its communication. That gives us a small window to infiltrate and shut it down.”

The next slide appeared—a pair of unidentified fighter aircraft, patrolling the vicinity.

“And this is the problem,” you said grimly. “This satellite isn’t unguarded.”

A murmur rippled through the room as the pilots took in the fifth-generation stealth fighters displayed on the screen.

“We don’t know who they belong to,” you admitted. “What we do know is that they’re operating with highly classified tech—possibly experimental—and have been seen running defence patterns around the satellite’s flight path.”

Cyclone stepped forward then, arms crossed, his voice sharp and authoritative. “Which means your job is twofold. You will escort Dr L/N’s aircraft to the infiltration zone, ensuring Ethera is successfully deployed. If we are engaged, your priority remains protecting the package and ensuring a safe return.”

Oh, fantastic, you could not only feel your heartbeat in your toes, you were now officially the package.

You cleared your throat, tapping the screen again. Ethera’s interface expanded, displaying a cascade of sleek code.

“Once I’m in range,” you continued, “Ethera will lock onto the satellite’s frequency and begin infiltration. From that point, it’ll take approximately fifty-eight seconds to bypass security and assume control."

Silence settled over the room like a thick cloud, the weight of their stares pressing down on you. You could feel them analyzing, calculating, probably questioning who in their right mind thought putting you—a hacker, a tech specialist, someone whose idea of adrenaline was passing cars on the highway—into a fighter jet was a good idea.

Finally, one of the pilots—tall, broad-shouldered, blonde, and very clearly one of the cocky ones—tilted his head, arms crossed over his chest in a way that screamed too much confidence.

“So, let me get this straight.” His voice was smooth, and confident, with just the right amount of teasing. “You, Doctor—our very classified, very important tech specialist—have to be in the air, in a plane, during a mission that has a high probability of turning into a dogfight… just so you can press a button?”

Your stomach twisted at the mention of being airborne.

“Well…” You gulped, very much aware of how absolutely insane this sounded when put like that. “It’s… more than just that, but, yeah, essentially.”

A slow grin spread across his face, far too entertained by your predicament.

“Oh,” he drawled, “this is gonna be fun.”

Before you could fully process how much you already hated this, Cyclone—who had been watching the exchange with his signature unamused glare—stepped forward, cutting through the tension with his sharp, no-nonsense voice.

“This is a classified operation,” he stated, sharp and authoritative. “Not a joyride.”

The blonde’s smirk faded slightly as he straightened, and the rest of the pilots quickly fell in line.

Silence lingered for a moment longer before Vice Admiral Beau Cyclone Simpson let out a slow breath and straightened. His sharp gaze swept over the room before he nodded once.

“All right. That’s enough.” His tone was firm, the kind that left no room for argument. “We’ve got work to do. The mission will take place in a few weeks' time, once we’ve run full assessments, completed necessary preparations, and designated a lead for this operation.”

There was a slight shift in the room. Some of the pilots exchanged glances, the weight of the upcoming mission finally settling in. Others, mainly the cocky ones, looked as though they were already imagining themselves in the cockpit.

“Dismissed,” Cyclone finished.

The pilots stood, murmuring amongst themselves as they filed out of the room, the blonde one still wearing a smug grin as he passed you making you frown and turn away, your gaze then briefly met the eyes of the moustached pilot.

You hadn’t meant to look, but the moment your eyes connected, something flickered in his expression. Amusement? Curiosity? You weren’t sure, and frankly, you didn’t want to know.

So you did the only logical thing and immediately looked away and turned to gather your things. You needed to get out of here, to find some space to breathe before your brain short-circuited from stress—

“Doctor, Stay for a moment.”

You tightened your grip on your tablet and turned back to Cyclone, who was watching you with that unreadable, vaguely disapproving expression that all high-ranking officers seemed to have perfected. “Uh… yes, sir?”

Once the last pilot was out the door, Cyclone exhaled sharply and crossed his arms.

“You realize,” he said, “that you’re going to have to actually fly, correct?”

You swallowed. “I—well, technically, I’ll just be a passenger.”

His stare didn’t waver.

“Doctor,” he said, tone flat, “I’ve read your file. I know you requested to be driven here instead of taking a military transport plane. You also took a ferry across the bay instead of a helicopter. And I know that you chose to work remotely for three years to avoid getting on a plane.”

You felt heat rise to your cheeks. “That… could mean anything.”

“It means you do not like flying, am I correct?”

Your fingers tightened around the tablet as you tried to find a way—any way—out of this. “Sir, with all due respect, I don’t need to fly the plane. I just need to be in it long enough to deploy Ethera—”

Cyclone cut you off with a sharp look. “And what happens if something goes wrong, Doctor? If the aircraft takes damage? If you have to eject mid-flight? If you lose comms and have to rely on emergency protocols?”

You swallowed hard, your stomach twisting at the very thought of ejecting from a jet.

Cyclone sighed, rubbing his temple as if this entire conversation was giving him a migraine. “We cannot afford to have you panicking mid-mission. If this is going to work, you need to be prepared. That’s why, starting next week you will train with the pilots on aerial procedures and undergoing mandatory training in our flight simulation program.”

Your stomach dropped. “I—wait, what? That’s not necessary—”

“It’s absolutely necessary,” Cyclone cut in, his tone sharp. “If you can’t handle a simulated flight, you become a liability—not just to yourself, but to the pilots escorting you. And in case I need to remind you, Doctor, this mission is classified at the highest level. If you panic mid-air, it won’t just be your life at risk. It’ll be theirs. And it’ll be national security at stake.”

You inhaled sharply. No pressure. None at all.

Cyclone watched you for a moment before speaking again, his tone slightly softer but still firm. “You’re the only one who can do this, Doctor. That means you need to be ready.”

You exhaled slowly, pressing your lips together before nodding stiffly. “Understood, sir.”

Cyclone gave a small nod of approval. “Good. Dismissed.”

You turned and walked out, shoulders tense, fully aware that in three days' time, you were going to be strapped into a high-speed, fighter jet. And knowing your luck?

You were definitely going to puke.

Part 2???

[scondigital2022]

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SCON Institute trainers have real-world Power BI experience. They understand the tool well and can offer practical advice on its use. Trainers will provide personalized advice throughout the training program.

SCON Institute offers other business analytics and data science courses than Power BI certification. This lets you learn more about this field.

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powerbi #microsoft #businessintelligence #excel #dataanalytics #datascience

[austinbutlerslovers]

Devotion

Label 18+

Summary Your Na-Baron Feyd Rautha becomes dangerously obsessed with you, consumed by a need to have you entirely to himself—until a fateful event forces him to choose between his desire for you and his legacy.

🔗 Masterlist

🚨Depraved Smut🚨 Feyd feral • obsessive • constant claiming • Feyd impatient • oral on fem • nipple play • clit play •words of devotion • body praise • sex on a ceremonial table • sex after a battle • rough sex • missionary • girl on top • breeding kink • lactation kink • thigh rutting • Feyd jealous • multiple orgasms • creampies

*Can be read with or without 🔗Obsession for the wedding

📖 Proofreaders @purejasmine @magicovento @psycheetamore ✨Inspired and dedicated to @lokisnapemalfoy 🗳️ Based on Unanimous 🔗 Poll Decision 🏆

🏆 1st Devotion 2nd Daddy’s Doll 3rd Love/Hate 4th Wild Hearts. *Special thanks for voting 😍 & enjoy the upcoming fics!🤩 🗳️

Devotion

The Harkonnens were never content to leave their future to chance. For centuries, their breeding practices had been as meticulous and calculated as their rise to power.

The Baron himself was the architect of these plans, ensuring that the Harkonnen bloodline remained as ruthless and potent as the poisons they used to eliminate their enemies.

The philosophy was simple: strength and ambition above all else, ruthlessness and cunning embedded in every generation.

When Feyd Rautha was born, he was hailed as the progeny of this breeding program,a perfect specimen of Harkonnen genetics.

His childhood was molded not by love but by calculated cruelty, ensuring he would grow into the precise tool the bloodline needed.

His beauty, his intelligence, and his lethal instincts were all results of an unforgiving strategy to create an heir who could dominate not only Giedi Prime, but the galaxy itself.

But the Harkonnen obsession with breeding didn’t end with Feyd. The Baron viewed every union as a transaction, every offspring as a pawn to be used in his intricate web of power.

Alliances were forged through bloodlines, with matches calculated for maximum political and genetic advantage.

You would be the first female to bear a Harkonnen heir, and were scrutinized for your lineage, physical strength, and intelligence.

The Baron had manipulated your ruling planet to approve the match, believing it would ensure a viable heir and secure his nephew’s position.

The union was never about love or even desire; it was about creating the perfect Harkonnen progeny, an heir born of cruelty, strength, and unyielding ambition.

It was a calculated transaction, a means to secure the future of House Harkonnen in the brutal game of power and dominance.

But the Baron, in all his scheming, underestimated one thing.

He didn’t know you.

You were no pawn in their dark schemes—every move you made, every choice you accepted, was driven by one singular desire:

You wanted Feyd-Rautha

From the moment you first laid eyes on him, you were bound to him.

When the Harkonnens arrived on your homeworld, flanked by imposing guards and the ever-watchful Baron to negotiate with your father, the bargain was sealed before the terms were even spoken

The Harkonnen presence was suffocating, their power overwhelming, but it was Feyd who drew your attention.

There was something in his dark intensity, the sharpness of his gaze, and the lethal grace of his movements that captivated you completely.

You saw the danger in him, the cruelty, but it only deepened your fascination.

As the negotiations wore on, you realized you were not being forced into the agreement—you were entering it willingly.

You were lured by the darkness that surrounded Feyd, and you knew you would surrender everything to be his.

After the grim Harkonnen wedding traditions of Blood Binding, the Trail of Chains, and the Bending of the Will—you belonged to him completely.

From your wedding night until the first light of dawn, you gave yourselves to each other, surrendering in ways neither of you had anticipated, driven by pure unspoken obsession.

Though he once seemed so incapable of love, over time the calculating and cruel Feyd Rautha began to surrender himself to you, piece by reluctant piece.

The Na-Baron of House Harkonnen, underwent a remarkable transformation since you became his Baroness.

The arrogant grin that once promised manipulation and danger now softens every time he looks at you, a rare tenderness breaking through his hardened exterior.

Instead of being bound by silent obedience to duty, you find yourselves infatuated with each other—an obsession that neither of you can resist nor wants to control.

Now, as you sit before the Baron in a meeting about your recent union, you are both restless beneath the oppressive weight of politics.

Seated across the long obsidian table, you and Feyd exchange stolen glances, the heat between you simmering just beneath the surface.

The sharp planes of his face are illuminated by the cold artificial lighting, his lips forming a signature smirk every time your eyes meet his.

Beneath his polished veneer of diplomacy, something far deeper stirs in Feyd as his gaze roams over you possessively, making it clear what he wants.

His jaw clenches in a way that makes your pulse quicken.

You know that look.

It’s the silent promise of what’s to come.

You try to focus on the Baron’s voice droning on about the future of House Harkonnen, but the weight of Feyd’s stare burns into you, his fingers drumming impatiently against the table.

By the time the meeting ends, the tension between you is unbearable.

No sooner than the words have left the Baron’s lips concluding the meeting than Feyd is on his feet, striding purposefully toward you.

His hand finds your wrist, his grip firm and commanding as he leads you through the fortress corridors with swift, measured steps.

His silence is more telling than any words as your heart pounds in anticipation.

He shoves open a heavy steel door to a separate hall, dragging you inside before kicking it shut behind him.

The echo reverberates through the chamber, and before you can catch your breath, Feyd’s mouth is on yours.

The air is cold, but you barely feel it as he presses you against the ceremonial table in the room’s center, the harsh edges digging into your thighs.

“I could not wait,” he rasps, his lips claiming yours in a demanding kiss, the force of it nearly bruising.

You whimper into his mouth as his hands slide up your thighs, pushing the fabric of your gown higher in a frantic search for skin.

When his fingers graze your bare flesh, a low groan fills his chest.

“You’ve worn nothing to keep me from you,” he rasps, his voice thick with need as his fingertips trace along your wetness.

You gaze into his blue eyes—sharp and vivid, unmatched by anything on Giedi Prime’s dark expanse, “Nothing could keep me from you,” you whisper pulling him into another searing kiss.

His hands grip your hips as he hoists you onto the table with effortless strength, your body yielding as he steps between your legs.

His kiss turns messy, his lips parting against yours as his tongue slides in, devouring you in ways that make your heart race.

You clutch at his shoulders, your fingers trailing into the intricate design of his pendant as his movements become methodical undoing his fastener, driven by a hunger neither of you can suppress.

“I will claim every part of you,” he rasps, savoring the evidence of your desire as his hands slide to your hips, fingers pressing hard into the soft flesh.

With a possessive grip, he thrusts in sharply, a desperate plunge that fills you with a raw, searing heat that borders on pain.

His length forces its way deep inside your body as you give in to the relentless sensation.

His hand grasps the back of your neck as he penetrates you fully, your breath catching as a satisfied moan escapes your lips.

His blue eyes meet yours, and for a fleeting moment, all of his arrogance and cruelty falls away.

His lips part, as his pupils dilate, and his face softens in a rare moment of unguarded bliss.

The way he looks at you in that instant, like you are the only thing in the universe steals your breath away.

“You are mine,” he whispers reverently, his lips pressing against yours as he slowly begins thrusting his cock deep inside.

You moan as he takes what’s his, reaching for his face, cupping his sharp jawline as he leans into your touch, his lips claiming yours in a rough, desperate kiss.

The stone walls of the fortress echo with your moans and the sharp, guttural sounds Feyd makes as he takes you.

It is his domain, his right, yet in moments when his passion subsides, when he cradles your face with a gentleness that no one else will ever see, when he brushes his lips across yours in reverence whispering your name like a vow, the cruel and calculating Na-Baron is nowhere to be found as he becomes entirely yours.

No place within the Harkonnen fortress or even the cold steel corridors of his warships remain untouched by the echoes of your passion.

As newlyweds, the intimacy between you is endless, and insatiable, a hunger that neither of you can resist.

The tension that once simmered beneath the surface gives way to an all-consuming need, and with every stolen kiss every hidden moment of intimacy, Feyd becomes more entwined with you—so deeply, so thoroughly, that he begins to lose himself.

His hunger for you becomes an obsession, a need that overrides his cunning nature, making him reckless, distracted.

And then, one night, something in him shifts entirely.

Feyd had been gone for weeks, sent on a brutal campaign to crush a lingering rebellion on the outskirts of Arrakis. The mission was relentless, hunting down insurgents through the planet’s caverns.

He relished the slaughter, the thrill of the fight, but something clawed at him beneath the surface. No matter how many bodies fell at his feet, no matter how much blood stained his blade, his thoughts always drifted back to you.

You, soft and waiting in his chambers, you untouched by any one but him. The thought of you is the only thing that soothed the rage simmering beneath his skin, the only thing that made the relentless crusade tolerable.

And now, as he strides through the fortress halls returned from his mission his mind is on one singular focus.

You.

His boots echo against the polished stone floors, his presence commanding as guards and servants alike step out of his way without a word.

His face is hard, his muscles tense with an impatience that only grows stronger the closer he gets to his quarters.

He doesn’t knock. He never does, the door opens with a forceful shove, and there you are waiting for him just as he had envisioned.

You stand in the dim glow of his chamber, draped in a delicate silk robe that clings to your form, tied loosely down the front in anticipation of him undoing it.

When word had reached you of his return aboard his Ravager, you immediately prepared yourself to see him, and now, as he stands before you, the intensity of him sets your heart ablaze.

He is clad in the stark, angular lines of his Harkonnen Warlord uniform, black as the void and edged with argent, the fabric clinging to his broad shoulders and tapering down to his lean waist.

The harshness of the attire only sharpens his beauty—his full lips parting as he takes you in, his blue eyes piercing like the ice of some distant planet with a heat that defies their cool hue.

He is the epitome of command and power, the sculpt of his face so handsome it feels like he is a blade honed to perfection.

Your smile is soft and welcoming, a quiet glow of happiness at seeing him again. But the glint in his sharp blue eyes tells you he’s missed you far more than you’ve missed him.

“You have returned,” you breathe, but you barely get the words out before he’s on you, his hands gripping your waist and pulling you flush against his battle-hardened body.

His lips crash into yours with a desperate hunger, devouring you with a need that is raw and filled with longing.

Before you can react, he lifts you effortlessly in his arms as he carries you to the bed, laying you down with determination.

He only takes a moment to look at you, his gaze dark, reverent, his chest rising and falling in heavy anticipation.

“I have craved you” he whispers, his voice a hushed confession as his fingers pull at the lace of your gown, his mouth claiming yours again with a fierce hunger.

He kisses a trail down your neck, his lips hot and wet as he sucks heavily to leave marks for himself.

You gasp as his hands slide down your waist, fingers digging in possessively as he lowers himself, his mouth following the same path.

“I must savor you,” he whispers, his voice rough and low as his hands tear your gown free, exposing you to him.

And then, with effortless strength, he lifts your legs over his shoulders, holding your thighs on him as his breath fans over your skin.

The first flick of his tongue has you arching against him, your fingers grasping the silk sheets beneath you, reaching for anything, to ground yourself.

The pleasure is sharp, intoxicating, and as he delves deeper, his grip tightens on your thighs, holding you still as he works you open with unrelenting precision.

You moan as his tongue flicks against your clit before dragging down, slipping between your folds, tasting every inch of you with torturous intent.

Your body shudders, the sharp gasps spilling from your lips turning into a desperate moans as his tongue moves faster, stroking, coaxing, driving you higher.

Your hips push instinctively against his face until his hands tighten, pressing you firmly onto the bed and he holds you still as he devours you with ravenous sweeps of his tongue.

Your body writhes beneath him, your nails dragging against the sheets as your moans rise higher, desperate, uncontrollable.

He groans against you, his voice rough as his mouth seals over you, sucking hard before his tongue flicks in with relentless strokes, sending surges of pleasure racing though your core.

Your thighs tremble, threatening to close around his head, but he only buries his face deeper his tongue plunging in with unrelenting force.

Your back arch off the bed the tension coiling impossibly tighter inside you.

“Feyd—” you plead in a desperate breathless cry, placing your hands on his head as your body tightens, every muscle locking up as the pleasure peaks.

Your release crashes through you like a tidal force and Feyd groans into you, drinking it, lapping it up with a feral intensity that leaves you shaking in his grasp.

You lay panting beneath him as he rises above you, his lips glistening with your pleasure.

Without a word, he strips off his surcoat, the glow of the chamber’s dim lighting casting shadows over the definition of his pale muscles, every ridge and line carved to perfection.

His chiseled chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, his hunger for you burning in his eyes as he moves over you.

“How long have you endured since I have bound you to me?” he asks, his voice low and rough like gravel, a glint of possession flickering in his gaze as his fingers trace your skin.

“An..eternity,” you reply with soft breaths, your words sparking a fire in him that nearly destroys his composure, his breath catching as his control frays.

You crave him like this—feral, unhinged, completely yours.

He climbs on top of you, his weight pressing you down, his skin hot against yours. His hands pin your wrists as he gazes down at you, his eyes filled with dangerous devotion.

“I can not escape you,” he confesses as he lowers his mouth to the curve of your breast. “Not for an instant have you left my mind,” he whispers, his lips brushing over your nipple before gently sucking it into his mouth.

His teeth tense with a punishing force, needing to make you feel what he feels. Then as you whimper his tongue soothes, licking gently, as if to atone for his obsession.

His hands slide down your arms around your breasts, kneading and squeezing as he claims them possessively.

Then his thumbs flick over your nipples, before his mouth follows, hot and relentless, his tongue licking heavily as he savors what he wants.

Your fingers trail over his broad shoulders, pulling him closer, needing him just as much as he needs you, and he groans in response, pressing himself harder against you.

“You have missed me,” he whispers, his voice rough with certainty.

His hips shift as he lines himself up, and your eyes drop between your bodies, taking in the sight of his cock, thick and rigid, heavy with an aching need for you.

Your fingers slide down his chest, grazing over the defined ridges of his abs before wrapping around the base of his cock.

His breath catches, a low groan escaping his throat as you stroke him slowly, feeling the heat and weight of him in your hand.

“I have missed you,” you whisper in return, your voice filled with longing, your eyes locking onto his.

There’s no patience in him now, only the need to claim you, the need you to remind you that you are his.

His lips seize your mouth in a kiss that steals your breath as he nudges your legs apart, settling between them, his cock pressing against you.

He drags the head along your slick center, collecting your wetness with each slow, measured stroke, making you arch into him, making your body beg for more.

Then he thrusts his thick cock inside, drawing soft whimpers from you as your nails drag down his back, your pleading eyes locked on to his feeling him stake his claim.

Your slick walls tighten around him as he pushes in deeper, a rush of pleasure flooding your core as you surrender to the overwhelming sensation.

His thrusts are slow, methodical, but with each roll of his hips, his need sharpens. His hand slides up to grip your jaw, forcing your gaze to stay on his as he drives into you with a primal urge to breed.

It feels impossible that he can go any harder, but he does, each thrust sending waves of pleasure through you that leave you trembling.

“I want you swollen with what is mine,” he rasps, his thrusts growing more intense, his need for you all consuming.

His pace quickens, his hips snapping as he angles deeper, making you shudder and gasp clinging to him harder.

He groans your name, low and wrecked, lost in a pleasure that no one else has ever made him feel, and the sound of his voice, the raw, helpless way he gives himself to you makes you come undone.

Broken moans spill from your lips as he thrusts into you, relentlessly, ravenously, feeling you orgasm against him, each movement dragging more pleasure from you as you lie beneath him.

His grip slides to your hips, his muscles flexing with every thrust, groaning as he feels the depths of you that only he can claim.

His eyes, dark and fevered, lock onto yours- his pleasure raw and unrestrained, his body moving with one sole purpose.

He doesn’t stop, he doesn’t slow and his thrusts become desperate, punishing, consuming, as if the idea of stopping is unthinkable.

“Feyd,” you gasp, wrapping your legs around him, pulling him deeper, your voice a tether in his chaos. “Give yourself to me.”

He tilts his head back as your words reach him and a groan of surrender tears from his throat. His rhythm falters under the weight of your command, and he thrusts once, twice more, before he spills into you, the heat of his seed flooding through your core.

The sight of his face and the way his mouth parts as his eyes darken with ecstasy, fills you with a devotion that leaves you entirely his.

He slowly collapses onto you, his body heavy and warm, his breath coming in ragged pants against your skin.

His lips find your chest, pressing soft, dazed kisses between your breasts as he basks in the aftermath.

“You have ruined me,” he murmurs, his voice drowsy as his fingers trace lazy circles over your skin.

“You are not ruined,” you reply, trailing your fingers over his neck. “You are mine.”

He hums softly at that, his lips curving into a rare smile as he leans up to kiss you again, slower this time, tender in a way that feels almost out of place for a Harkonnen.

In these moments, Feyd Rautha, the cruel and calculating Na Baron becomes something else entirely.

He becomes yours.

As he drifts to sleep in your arms, you know that you have satisfied him in every way imaginable, leaving him soft, surrendered, and completely undone by the force of your love.

It comes as no surprise when the proclamation is made that you are bearing the seed of House Harkonnen.

The fortress hums with whispers of your impending role, the air thick with the weight of expectation and legacy.

The Harkonnen bloodline, ruthless and unyielding, will continue through you, and the realization settles over you that you have fulfilled your role to Feyd in every way.

You are beyond obsessed with him, though you try to hide it. The thought of him fills your mind, even when he is not near, and as your pregnancy progresses, his attachment to you deepens in ways that even he cannot even fully understand.

You carry the life you created together, a new chapter in the blood-soaked lineage of the Harkonnens, and as your body becomes heavier with the weight of your unborn child, you become Feyds object of fascination.

His gaze lingers every time you are near, a curiosity so raw it seems to surprise even him. Every swell, every change in your form draws him closer, as though the transformation within you stirs something deep and primal in himself.

In the final days of your pregnancy, a ceremony takes place deep within the fortress.

It is held in a grand shrine carved from obsidian, lined with cruel, jagged relics of past conquests.

Shadows dance along the towering walls, cast by the flickering glow of fire pits filled with thick incense that clings sweetly to your lungs with every breath.

The air is heavy, suffocating, charged with an ancient energy that feels both sacred and oppressive.

The only two males present in the vast, echoing chamber are the Baron and Feyd.

You are dressed in a black opulent gown lined with dark obsidian crystals, your entire body veiled save for your lower face and hands.

This is a sacred time in your pregnancy, mere days from birth. The fabric clings to your form, accentuating the curve of your swollen belly, a visible testament to the life growing inside you.

A heavy Harkonnen pendant rests at your throat, a symbolic marker of your new role within the dynasty.

Carefully, you are knelt upon a cold white stone slab as trembling female attendants gather around you.

Their heads remain bowed in submission, their hands shaking as they place a modesty cloth over your legs and slowly lift your robe to reveal only your bare belly, round and full with the future of the Harkonnen line.

They work in fearful silence, their ink-darkened fingers tracing ancient markings of fertility across your skin, binding you to the legacy you carry.

At the head of the room, the Baron lounges forward in his oversized throne, his grotesque form draped in layers of dark, rich fabric that do little to conceal his bloated mass. His beady eyes glisten with an unsettling mix of greed and cunning as he surveys your womb for the first time.

“My dearest nephew,” he rasps, his voice thick with satisfaction, “she bears the fruit of our dominion… the future of House Harkonnen.”

Feyd’s piercing gaze never strays from you, fixed on the swell of your body that carries his heir.

There is something raw in his eyes, an infatuation bordering on obsession, a hunger so possessive it sends a shiver down your spine.

His fingers twitch at his sides, aching to touch you, to claim you, even here, even now, in front of them all.

The Harkonnen Shaman enters the chamber and steps forward, cloaked in dark robes adorned with symbols of death and rebirth. His voice is low and resonant, each word deliberate, steeped in ancient authority.

“You now bear the fruit of life,” he chants, his withered hand hovering over your belly, as if feeling the of the life within. “And it is life’s blood that shall nourish it.”

A ceremonial basin rests ominously on the altar beside you, filled with a viscous substance, and your heartbeat quickens as the Shaman gestures toward it.

Feyd steps forward, his breath heavy, the tension in his body coiled tight with unspoken obligation.

Without hesitation, he lowers his fingers into the liquid, the thick red substance clinging to them as he lifts his hand.

His dark eyes meet yours, and without breaking contact, he brings his fingers to your womb.

“Seal our future,” he says, hushed and commanding, laced with something deeper—something desperate. “Deliver our heir,” he whispers.

Your skin prickles with anticipation and fear, but beneath it all, a dark thrill stirs within you.

The weight of Feyd’s gaze, the feel of his touch, it’s intoxicating, binding you to him in ways you could never comprehend.

Feyd watches intently, his blue eyes dark with fascination as he draws the ancient marking of his bloodline over your womb, staining your skin as the Shaman watches approvingly.

Whispers ripple through the chamber as the Baron’s grin widens in grotesque delight.

Feyd works methodically, each stroke pressing the significance of this moment deeper into your soul.

When the markings are complete, the Shaman raises his arms, his voice rising as it echoes through the vast chamber. “The oath has been written. The heir will be strategic and cunning and will bring forth powerful alliances to House Harkonnen.”

The Baron lets out a thrilled laugh, his thick hands clapping together in arrogant satisfaction, his eyes darting between you and Feyd.

“Strategic and cunning indeed,” he praises, his voice laced with dark approval and greed.

Feyd says nothing, but his eyes remain locked on you, unreadable yet intense, the weight of his gaze speaking far more than words ever could.

The ceremony is strange and overwhelming, yet beneath it all, something within you shifts irrevocably.

You are no longer just a vessel, you are part of something far greater, something ancient and unstoppable.

You belong to Feyd, to the future you now carry, and to the darkness that binds you both.

Late at night after the ceremony, under the pale light of Giedi Prime’s twin moons, you rest in your chamber, the heavy silence pressing in around you.

The bed beneath you is vast, adorned with dark silks, the headboard emblazoned with the sigil of House Harkonnen, yet it feels empty, foreign, without Feyd’s warmth beside you.

For the first time, you have been sent to separate sleeping quarters, a symbolic tradition meant to mark the transition from union to lineage.

Unable to sleep, you open your eyes to see Feyd standing in the doorway bathed in the cold glow of the twin moons filtering through the towering windows.

His tall form remains still as he leans one shoulder against the doorway, watching you rest, his expression unreadable, his dark eyes fixed solely on you.

With the birth only days away, he is forbidden from seeing you, a decree meant to protect your fragility in these final moments.

But as his eyes search yours with longing, you see he can not bear it.

In an unmistakable act of defiance he approaches you slowly, as if he is afraid to disturb the quiet sanctity of the moment.

His hands, used as instruments of destruction, are gentle as they trace the swell of your belly.

“I never dreamed this,” he rasps, his voice carrying an unfamiliar vulnerability. “That I could create something… pure.”

He lowers himself to you, his movements almost worshipful as his hands splay protectively over your womb.

“I crave what your body has become,” he whispers, his voice thick with awe and desire as his fingers trace reverently over your curves in worship of them.

“Every change of your form is so perfect,” he praises, his lips meeting the sensitive skin of your neck as his hand moves lower, caressing the swell of your womb.

“Your nuturing body… your sustenance…” he rasps, his fingers tracing the soft fullness of your breast.

He trails his lips lower, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses down your collarbone until he reaches the peak of your breast.

His mouth hovers just above your nipple,his breath fanning over the sensitive skin as his dark eyes flick up to meet yours.

He hesitates, waiting, testing, then with a quiet groan of surrender, he seals his lips around it.

A quiet moan falls from your lips as his tongue rolls against your nipple, coaxing, teasing.

His first pull is firm yet careful, his mouth working gently, as though he fears you will break the fragile connection.

A tingling warmth blooms at the peak of your breast, spreading through your chest, as if something deep within you responds to him, awakening, yielding.

It’s primal, instinctive, as though your body knows what he wants before your mind fully registers it.

The tenderness of his mouth trying to pull milk leaves you vulnerable. What he is doing feels forbidden, yet the sight of him, his lashes fluttering as he tries to drink from you, makes it impossible to stop him.

Your nipple hardens under the stimulation, the sensation growing sharper, hotter, your breast swelling with heat as he sucks deeper.

A soft gasp escapes you as he switches to the other, his mouth latching with purpose, his breaths warm against your skin.

He groans with frustration low in his throat, his fingers squeezing the soft swell of your other breast as if urging your body to give him what he craves.

And then you see it—a slow droplet of milk rolling from your nipple.

His hum of satisfaction vibrates against your chest, deep and resounding as the first taste of your sweet milk warmly coats his tongue.

His fingers tighten possessively around your breast as a shudder runs through him, feeling something primal overtaking his restraint.

The intimacy of it is overwhelming, the way his mouth works on you, his soft whimpers of his pleasure, the desperate way he drinks from you—it all becomes too much.

His suckling grows stronger, more intense, his grip tightening on your breast as he holds it drinking deeply, greedily, craving this more than he would ever admit.

His tongue laps at your nipple between deep hungry pulls, his fingers rolling over the other, coaxing more milk to leak from you to feed his growing need.

You softly stroke his face and he whines, rutting his hips against you, his arousal evident and throbbing with need. His hand reaches between you unclasping his faster to free cock and he firmly thrusts it between your slick thighs.

You softly whimper as he uses you, the slippery heat of his cock making your thighs press together. He clings to you as though tethered thrusting harder between your thighs, the slick sounds of his movements filling the quiet chamber

His hand slips between your bodies once again, this time his fingers push into your throbbing core, stroking you, coaxing more from you as your loud moans fuel his growing need.

He draws from you forcefully, the unrelenting pull of his mouth making your nipple ache as he thrusts between your thighs, his husky moans drowsy with satisfaction from both pleasures

His fingers work inside of you, deeper, firmer curling just right until you can’t hold back and a sharp cry spills from your lips as you orgasm from his intensity.

He groans against you feeling your release, his hips rutting harder and deeper until his release comes sudden and forceful, his cock twitching as it spills in thick, hot streams between your thighs

The warmth of his seed leaks slowly down your skin, as he becomes weaker, softer, drinking from you until there is nothing left, until he is too spent to take more.

As his body grows heavier beside you, his breaths shallow and his fingers slip from you, his lips barely touching your nipple as exhaustion overtakes him.

He hums as you stroke his chin, his eyes half-lidded as his lips curve into a lazy, milk-drunk smile, utterly satisfied, utterly spent.

As he looks at you his gaze lingers with something unspoken, something softer than words, as if in this moment he needs nothing but you.

As he drifts into sleep in your arms you watch him rest peacefully, his features serene in a way you’ve never known.

Each night Feyd visits you this way, and each night, his hunger seems to grow, his need for you deepening, as though he is becoming dependent on the very act

As he lies milk-drunk in your arms, you caress his temple, finally summoning the strength to confide what you’ve withheld from him for so long, your voice trembling with quiet unease.

“I fear the medical facilities here on Giedi Prime… and the Harkonnen rituals after a female gives birth,” you confess, your words faltering as you dare to resist a Harkonnen rite for the first time. “…The bloodletting of the mother to bind her strength to the child—it terrifies me,” you admit.

Feyd listens intently, not once dismissing your fears of his customs.

“I will not let them touch you,” he says, his voice resolute, low and heavy from his indulgence, carrying no trace of resistance.

The very next day he hires a skilled doula from a distant planet, sparing no expense to ensure you are comfortable.

When the night finally arrives, Feyd paces outside of the chamber like a caged beast, his brute strength shattered by the sound of your laboring cries.

Yet, when your daughter, Lily, is finally born in the intimate warmth of the birthing chamber, Feyd is the first to hold her.

His expression melts into something unrecognizable as he looks at her with pure, unrestrained joy.

His fierce hardened exterior crumbles as he stares down at the tiny life in his arms, his breath catching in his throat.

In that moment, nothing else exists. Not war, not bloodlines, not duty only her.

In the days that follow, Feyd’s initial joy slowly and unexpectedly, turns to bitterness.

Whenever he sees you nursing Lily his jaw tightens and his gaze darkens —yet he says nothing, only brooding in a corner, if not storming from the room entirely.

You can feel the weight of his longing, the frustration he refuses to voice.

Then one night, after the baby has fallen asleep, he lays in bed with you, his body tense beside yours before hesitantly confessing his desire.

“I envy her,” he admits, almost shamefully, as he trail his fingertips over your breast. “You give her something I can no longer have.”

You smile softly, caressing his cheek, “You have me“ you say soothing him but the longing in his eyes does not fade.

His hand moves lower, cupping your breast, his fingers pressing in, squeezing just enough to make his own torment worse.

His jaw clenches, his breathing uneven as he watches with dark satisfaction seeing your milk begin to soak through the fabric of your gown.

He pulls down the delicate material, baring your breast fully to his sight, your breath catching as his expression shifts, his blue eyes darkening with something deep and primal.

He squeezes until you are leaking down his hand and deep and a broken groan falls from his lips as his head dips lower, his breath hot against your skin.

“There is enough for me,” he whispers, his voice almost reverent, and before you can even think to stop him—his mouth latches onto you.

His lips seal over your nipple, his tongue rolling softly as he begins to nurse, his hand squeezing over your breast, coaxing more for him to take.

His lashes flutter in bliss, his face softened in quiet ecstasy as he drinks from you, his low hums of satisfaction vibrating against your skin as he becomes completely lost in his indulgence.

Lily’s soft cry breaks the quiet, and Feyd pulls back, his guilt shadowing his features.

He climbs out of bed and lifts her from her cradle, holding her close as if to atone for his selfishness.

“She needs you more,” he says softly, his voice breaking as he places her in your arms.

He watches her latch as he sits beside you, his gaze fixed on the tiny life between you.

As Lily struggles to nurse, he reaches out, brushing his knuckles gently against her soft cheek, encouraging her to drink.

And when she begins to suckle greedily he smiles —a true, unguarded smile that you’ve never seen before.

Over time, his love for Lily grows to match his love for you. Gone is the spoiled Na-Baron who once demanded you all to himself. Instead, Feyd becomes a doting father, personally feeding Lily as she transitions to solid food.

Each meal is a ritual, he speaks to her softly, telling her stories of bravery and caution, instilling in her the strength to carve her own path.

And every time you watch him hold your daughter, his once-imposing figure now gentle and protective, you’re reminded of how love has transformed the cruel heir into a man capable of profound devotion.

The day Lily reaches one year of age a Harkonnen ceremony marks the occasion.

You attend with Feyd to introduce her to the gathered nobles and warriors of Giedi Prime.

The ritual is dark, grand, and imposing, like everything else on this world.

The hall looms massive, lined with banners of House Harkonnen and the nobles stand in disciplined silence as Feyd carries Lily forward.

She is dressed in black and crimson, the insignia of his house emblazoned on her tiny chest.

A shaman anoints her forehead, intoning ancient words of devotion, binding her to a legacy of war and conquest. Then, with reverence, Feyd places her into the waiting arms of her grandfather, the Baron.

For the first time, the ever-calculating, grotesque Baron does not sneer or grin in mockery.

His pale blue eyes soften, overtaken by an expression no one has ever witnessed.

As he drapes the obsidian necklace around her tiny neck, she blinks up at him, wide-eyed and impossibly small in his massive arms.

Something shifts in him—unvoiced, un-calculated.

He cradles her delicate form as if she’s far too precious for a world that knows only cruelty.

In a voice quieter and raspier than usual, he vows to her, “My little Harkonnen Heiress, I will mold you to twist rulers like reeds in your grasp and we will shatter any who defy our dominion.” He grins with his ruthless satisfaction.

Then the Baron turns, proudly presenting Lily for all to see. The nobles and warriors salute in unison, the sound echoing through the chamber, cementing her place in the Harkonnen bloodline.

Through it all, you stand with Feyd, observing the ceremony with fulfillment as his fingers trace secretly down your palm, a hidden caress amid the solemnity.

“She is perfect,” he praises, his voice low, meant only for you and as his gaze lingers on yours, his sharp blue eyes glint with a ferocity that transcends the moment.

You know that look —and as his fingers tighten around your hand, you can sense the promise of his deepening desire—the unspoken vow of what’s to come

After the ceremony, you and Feyd place Lily to rest in her chamber as she sleeps from the momentous occasion.

Her crib gleams of dark obsidian, its edges carved with angular Harkonnen runes, a stark cradle of power softened by a black silk lining.

Lily lies within, her tiny form serene, skin flushed with the faintest of rose, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks as she breathes softly.

Feyd brushes his fingers gently across her cheek, ensuring she is peaceful taking one last look before walking the distance to your quarters, both of you still dressed in immaculate garments.

Feyd wears a sleek, black surcoat edged with crimson, the Harkonnen insignia stark against his chest, while you don a flowing gown of midnight silk, its hem embroidered with silver threads that shimmer like stars against Giedi Prime’s gloom, the cut accentuating your form with regal grace.

Once the doors shut, sealing you in silence, Feyds hand cradles your face with a gentleness that defies his strength. “You have undone me,” he says, his voice low and enamored, his blue eyes soft with awe.

His lips press reverently against yours, each kiss burning with quiet fervor, his breath grazing you like an unspoken vow.

He pulls back, his sharp blue eyes blazing with devotion as he lowers to his knees before you, his powerful frame, perfected by years of combat and conquest, submitting willfully to yours.

“Give me another,” he rasps, his voice rough with worship, his hands trailing up your hips.

“Let me feel you bloom with my seed again,” he rasps, placing his hand on your womb in a fervent plea to your dominion over him.

You smile, trailing your fingertips affectionately over his head before you slip from his grasp, leaving him kneeling.

You walk across the room, your robe trailing behind you like a lure he can’t resist, its silk whispering against the stone floor.

His sharp blue eyes follow your every move, glinting with a knowing, unreadable hunger.

“You crave another legacy to bind us deeper in this world of shadows,” you tease, eyes locking with his as he stands, his gaze drawn to you like a blade to its mark.

You lay back on the sheets, arms spread wide with a smile of invitation. “Come then,” you order, and he hesitates for only a second before disrobing.

His surcoat falls away, revealing his pale, muscular form, his broad shoulders sculpted by battle, abs ridged with power, and lean hips framing his thick, pink tipped cock, rigid and heavy with need against his pale skin.

He approaches with purpose, his hands brushing lightly over your feet, fingers tracing the delicate curve of your arch before pressing a kiss to your ankle in reverence.

“You need yet another heir to solidify your empire?” you challenge, your voice a silk caress, your gaze steady as he pauses at your words.

He climbs over you, fingers sliding and lifting your gown, kissing along your thighs with worshipful hunger before pressing his lips to your womb, lingering as if willing his seed to take root.

“You are my empire,” he rasps, his voice low and fervent, before his kisses trail upward over the fabric of your gown, pausing between your breasts, his hands parting your thighs with reverent care.

“I would conquer worlds to see you carry my blood again,” Feyd breathes, his voice husky with adoration, his warm breath fanning your skin.

His words blaze through you, sparking a fever pitch of desire, your pulse hammering as his fingers slip beneath your gown, hooking the delicate silk at your hips leaving nothing between you.

“Take me,” you whisper, urgency threading your soft command, your impatience mirroring in his own as he tears your gown apart, the midnight silk shredding under his strength.

The sight of torn fabric and the raw power in his hands sends a jolt of arousal surging through your core and his lips find yours, desperate and devouring.

His tongue brushes yours as pants and moans spill between you, the kiss deepening into a frantic need for each other.

His hands roam over your hips, your waist, your breasts, savoring curve with possessive hunger until he suddenly pulls you on top him.

His hands guide yours, placing them on either side of his head as he looks up at you, his eyes darkening with pure, unfiltered lust as he takes in the sight of you above him.

“You hold my fate,” he confesses, his hands sliding up your sides, his eyes trailing down to where your bodies will meet. “I will forge dynasties if you grant me more,” he vows, his hands gliding up your thighs and pulling you down onto him, his cock nudging hard against your slick entrance before pushing through.

You softly gasp as he fills you deep, the heat of him radiating your core, the hard length throbbing as he lowers you until the base of him settles against you.

His breath falters as your walls clench him tight, and he surrenders, his hands clutching your hips with worshipful desperation as he watches you take him.

Each slow grind on his thick cock draws sounds of satisfaction from him as his gaze fixes on where you claim him.

His hands trail up your body caressing your sides guiding you until they cup your breasts, your skin warm and flushed to his touch.

He pulls you to him with a possessive longing, guiding your breast to his mouth, his breath teasing your nipple before his lips seal around it.

A soft moan spills from your lips as his tongue flicks around it, his mouth pulling with an unrelenting need amplifying the pulsing heat of his cock inside you.

The sensation drives your hips to move faster, and he switches to the other his mouth hot and insistent, sucking stronger, harder, as you feel his moans vibrate against your skin.

“Feyd,” you whimper, your voice shaking as his lips remain latched and his hips begin surging up to meet yours in deep, unforgiving thrusts.

The sounds of your broken moans and his feral grunts mingle as he pulls off your nipple with a wet pop, leaving you gasping.

His breath is ragged as he groans, his hands seizing your hips to drive you harder onto his cock.

Your moans are unhinged desperate cries as your climax slams into you, your body quivering violently in his grasp. Your walls tighten, pulsing around him, as the pleasure overtakes you completely.

Feyd pants as he watches you, his hands gripping your hips firmly, keeping you grinding on him, dragging out your release until you can do nothing but shake and sob above him.

Then with one fluid shift, he guides you beneath him never breaking the connection, his hands hooking behind your thighs, lifting them high as he lays on top of you.

His chest presses yours as his thrusts become demanding, his hips slamming against you with ruthless intensity, the slick, wet smacks of your bodies filling the chamber, raw and unrestrained.

His face is a haze of need and lust as his cock throbs inside, swelling with each punishing stroke until his rhythm falters. A deep moan escapes him as his climax hits and his body seizes with ecstasy.

He thrusts harder, his hips jerking as thick, hot streams of his seed flood you into you and your walls milk him instinctively.

The overstimulation wrecks him as he rides out the aftershocks, his desperate grunts fading into soft, ragged breaths, until he is spent and collapses against you his chest heaving with exhaustion.

Your fingers graze his shoulders in a soothing caress as he presses drowsy kisses over your heart in quiet devotion.

“You have given me everything,” he whispers, his voice thick with reverence as he lifts to look at you, his blue eyes sharp and endless with desire.

An endearing blacked-out grin forms on his lips as your thumb brushes his chin affectionately.

“Because you are mine,” you confirm, smiling in return as you trace the sharp edge of his jaw with possessiveness.

“Forever,” he rasps, his eyes heavy with surrender, his voice fading as the vow settles between you.

On the cold, brutal world of Giedi Prime, a love you never thought possible formed in the shadows of House Harkonnen, yet remains completely untouched by its cruelty.

The ruthless and ambitious Na-Baron, who once sought only power and conquest, now finds strength in his lineage and as your womb swells with his second unborn heir, Feyds obsession deepens—his sharp blue eyes tracing your rounded form with a reverence bordering on worship.

The halls of the Harkonnen stronghold, once filled with whispers of betrayal and fear, now echo with Lily’s laughter.

He adores her—she is the only one who can make the Baron soften, the only one Feyd kneels for without question. And you, the anchor that keeps him steady, the only person he will ever truly belong to.

To the outside world, he remains a formidable force, a warrior, a ruler, a Baron who commands both fear and respect. But in the privacy of your chambers, he is simply yours.

He worships you with the same intensity he once reserved for battle, his hunger for you never waning, his devotion growing fiercer with time.

Feyd-Rautha, the once cold and callous Harkonnen, now lives for his legacy, and the woman who holds his heart forever.

END ⚔️

🔗Masterlist

🏷️ Always Tag Me @purejasmine @burnthheparaphilia @butdaddyilovehim99 @austinbutlerfly @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal @lindszeppelin @abswifey @aust-een @umika @feralgodmothers @megangovier @magicovento @obsessedvibee @austiebuttbutt @faegoddessog @dunevitani @unicoo @thejoywillburnoutthepain @jessica987 @slowsweetlove @hardcoredisneynerd @finley-08 @thegabbyh @thefallofthedamned @buckysteveloki-me @bucking-mustangs-with-wings @shegatsby @darlingisntit @lovereadingfanfic @denised916 @shockercoco @minispice-1 @i5uckersblog @ughdontbeboring @meetmeatyourworst @avidreader73 @xxmandaveexx @mamawiggers1980 @12joeywheelerfangirl @imjustheretoreadsmuthaha @gravesdiggergirl @nostalgichoya @stars-remain2 @skulliecadaver-blog @jjubilee-fluff

⚔️ Feyd Tag List

@dunevitani @rougegenshin @maloribarnes1999 @moony-artemis @xxxstormyninixxx @prettypinkblogger @aoi-targaryen @austinswhitewolf @mimsie95 @the-wanderer-2022 @jakesullyissopookie @francis-writes @shiranai-atsune @berlinalv @everyonelovesavalet @dacreshoney @caroline334 @sophroniaclark @emeraldsgirl @cooliosthings

[bigfatbreak]

Hi hello!!! I want to say I LOVE your fearlnette au its so good!!! I been binge reading it. I’m amazed how much character and detail and emotions depth there is!!! I simply adore the artwork, the colors??? The background symbolism, the hidden hod eyes and alya’s fox ears??? AMAZING 10/10.

I’m super curious on how you make the comics, like how long it takes and what program you use. What made you decide to have each panel or centric scene have certain colors? Was it a style choice or something else? I love the way you wrote marinette and Felix, they are such good characters and I love them. Adrien and kugami and good too!!

Also what are your thoughts on the canon show? How does canon influence or change your au?

thank u for all the lovely compliments! I'll start from the top

how long it takes to draw: -takes about a day to frame everything / rough composition / rough dialogue -another day for lineart - if I'm lucky, sometimes it can take two -another day for rendering everything -I usually spend my weekends working on the update between working fulltime at my irl job. each technical "update"/"scene" is anywhere between 50 and 80 frames long, posted in full on patreon, and they're cut up by sections to post on tumblr due to tumblr's 30 panel limit

what program: I use csp. i used to use photoshop but she's dead to me now

why the colors: I like gradient maps a lot and they're a good tool to manipulate the mood in a subtle way, or hint at things. they're also really pretty when using a style that heavily relies on contrast and texture, which ended up being the main bread and butter of feralnette

thoughts on the canon show: if I didn't at least have a kernel of affection for the OG I wouldn't be working on this au, but I will admit binging the shit out of the series during quarantine put it somewhere permanent inside me. as a whole it could use some polishing, or at least some sense of self. idk how to explain it, the series suffers from "a little bit of everything" and cant seem to figure out what it wants to be, which leaves it meandering on the genre board and that can make the characters' motivations and arcs lacking as a result.

how does uodating canon influence your au: for feralnette, it kinda doesn't. the comic takes place a bit after season 3 so everything that's established is established. for my other aus, it can add some crispy lore or step on its own toes and make me flinch like im dancing at a gala with an impertinent partner

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[yanderenightmare]

TW: nsfw, noncon, emotionally distant yandere, death threats

gn reader

Thinking about an extremely aromantic psychopathic yandere who’s completely out of touch with his feelings...

From the moment you infected his mind, he desperately wanted nothing more but to gauge you out and bleach your existence away.

He was ready to do anything.

It's not like it's something he hasn't done before. It shouldn't have been a problem. But standing there above your sleeping form with the knife to your unsuspecting neck, he felt his own throat close up.

Something he'd never felt before made him stop – something in his chest that ached worse than any pain he'd ever beared – something that made his hands shake with cold and his eyes leak warmth down his face.

He doesn't understand what's going on, and it's annoying. You're annoying. He doesn't want to see your face, but at the same time... the thought of going without it pisses him off even more.

He doesn't want to keep you around, but he ends up feeling as though he has to. He tells himself it's only until he feels ready to finish you off – like a lamb raised for slaughter in the wolf's den.

You don’t really know what goes on inside his head when he glares at you with hints of vexation and hunger – eyes narrowed at you almost in disgust, as though you’re some sort of nuisance, some sort of sickness he can’t seem to shake – but also something else – something hungry – something in the way he locks his jaw and swallows thickly before growling out an irate sigh as he throws his shirt off and climbs on top of you.

It seems almost as though he sees it all as a simple means to an end – as though the urge arising within his gut is a plague he needs to cure as quickly as possible – and you as a mere tool for him to do exactly that.

He never kisses you. You don’t think he knows how. The sex isn’t any good either – all cold, methodical movements as though he’s a robot who’s been told to complete a task it wasn’t programmed to do. 

It’s obvious he doesn’t view you as much more than something he owns. 

Sometimes, he’ll even look surprised when you voice wishes and needs of your own – as though he’s forgotten that you’re still a living, breathing thing and not just something he’s hunted and killed and stuffed for sport.

But that’s how you feel most days anyway – like a dog’s humping toy – just a limp thing made up of cotton and torn fabric trying to hold itself together, getting more frayed by each passing day.

It's surprising he hasn't killed you yet. He told you he would when the time was right, but it's been more than a while now. You wonder if it's a surprise for him as well.

Probably not...

He’s like a machine. Wordless, sept for the steady string of growls and groans as he fucks you fast like you’re this annoying reminder that he’ll never be able to get rid of the warmth in his gut forcing him to complete the tedious task again and again and never be done with it.

It almost feels as though he hates you.

While his hand holds yours down, cuffing your wrists above your head with the other wrapped tight around your throat. Not because you bother fighting back. But – you think, perhaps… he feels as though it’s your fault somehow – your fault that he feels this way. 

He’ll mutter about it sometimes – that he was just fine before you came along – level-headed, composed, perfect before he met you. 

He pulls out just before cumming inside you, tugging himself in quick faps, then blows all over your stomach and chest. 

The sigh he breathes out is like an exclamation of “fucking finally” while his throbbing length bobs, still seeping pearls of cum, slowly calming down the more he squeezes it all out into a white pool on your pelvis. 

He isn’t much better after, either. 

Loosening his grip on you, he’ll grunt out something along the lines of “Go clean yourself up.” 

But sometimes... as time goes on... he starts doing something that somewhat resembles a kiss before leaving you.

It's awkward, like a brush or press of his stiff lips against yours – one of which reminds you of the type of nudge a dog could be trained to do in exchange for a treat – almost like a thank you.

He hasn't spoken about killing you in a while...

It scares you – how it's become so trivial it almost feels marital...

You don't know what scares you more though...

The thought that he's going to kill you one of these days, or the thought that he's forgotten about it all together.

BNHA – Bakugou, Overhaul, Shigaraki

JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Toji, Kenjaku

DS – Muzan, Sanemi

HxH – Illumi, Feitan

AOT - Levi

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[jinjeriffic]

DCxDP Prophecy Universe Part 2

Part 1

Damian glared at the envelope. He and Father were in the process of analysing the letter for any signs of toxins, explosives or other traps. Obviously he wasn’t fool enough to open a missive from a questionable source without taking precautions. So far, all their scans had come up empty. Literally. The letter was defying all their attempts at chemical or spectroscopic testing, x-ray and magnetic resonance scans were inconclusive, it defied all properties of ordinary matter. It was frustrating. It was vexing. He was blaming magic.

For all intents and purposes, the letter looked like ordinary paper, with an ordinary wax seal, bearing the initials CW. The looping handwriting addressing it to Damian was precise and neat. Swiping the surface of the letter for chemical traces yielded no results. When Damian had tried to cut off a corner of the paper for analysis it had resisted all attempts, including a laser and a diamond headed cutting tool. Damian’s only satisfaction was that when Father had grunted and taken over the task from Damian, he had no more success than his son. As if Damian didn’t know how to perform the standard array of tests!

It certainly didn’t help that his siblings wouldn’t stop their incessant chattering!

“I’m just saying, ghosts wouldn’t be the weirdest thing we’ve encountered, Red. I’m not sure it would even make my personal Top 5.”

It seemed gossip among heroes travelled faster than the speed of light.

“Really, Nightwing? Ghosts? It’s far more likely to be a meta with something to hide. Or a few screws loose.” Damian could practically hear the eyeroll in Drake’s voice “And since when do ghosts act as glorified mailmen?”

“I don’t know Red, since when do aliens pretend to be Kansas farmboys? C’mon, we deal with magic users all the time!”

“And lets not forget people coming back from the dead” Red Hood interjected over the open comm line.

“Magic is just science we don’t understand yet. Any sufficiently analysed magic becomes indistinguishable from science!”

“B, a little help here?”

“Hn” Father straightened up from his position at the lab table “Oracle, any progress on clearing up the footage from Robin’s mask?”

Grayson threw up his hands with a frustrated huff while Drake smirked.

“The program is almost finished rendering. Whatever scrambler they used did a real number on the video quality. I’m surprised the audio is as clear as it is.” Oracle replied.

“Hn. And the isotope tracer on the money?”

“Sorry B, no hits on the local sensors. Wherever the guy went it’s either outside Gotham or shielded somehow.” she said, mildly frustrated.

“Maybe it’s ghost magiiiiic” Drake sing-songed. Grayson lightly cuffed the back of his head, to which the former Robin responded with a firm shove. Their interaction quickly devolved into a childish tussle.

Damian gave an annoyed huff. “Don’t you two imbeciles have anything better to do?”

“Aww, we’re just here to look out for our baby brother!” Nightwing teased.

“Yeah, we gotta make sure your ghost encounter didn’t leave any lasting psychological damage!” Red Robin added.

Before Damian could retaliate for their needling, Oracle chimed in. “Uh, guys? You’re going to want to see this. Most of the footage was corrupted beyond repair, but I was able to pull some partial stills and, well…” she threw a handful of pictures up on the screen. There was artifacting marring them, but parts of the stranger were visible in each of them. Oracle magnified one that had a pretty good view of his face.

“Holy shit” Drake whispered.

Damian frowned. “What?”

“Dami, he looks like you. Just… older.” Grayson said softly.

“What are you talking about?” Damian snapped.

“Disregard the pale colouring for a second. The nose, the chin… he looks like you if you had a growth spurt,” Drake wrinkled his nose “and went through puberty.”

The commlines erupted into chaos. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Spoiler exclaimed “are you telling me there’s an older version of Robin running around Gotham?!”

“Copy?” Batgirl inquired.

“Don’t tell me Talia cooked up Demon Brat 2.0!”

“Given that he looks older it’s more likely version 0.1 if anything,” Drake snarked, “though there’s the possibility of artificially accelerated growth rates…”

Damian had had enough. “Tt. You are ignoring the obvious - if this is some kind of supernatural entity it likely copied aspects of my appearance in an attempt to engender feelings of familiarity.” he said haughtily, pushing down the uncomfortable churning in his stomach. There was no way Mother would replace him with a cheap copy. She couldn’t! “Besides, the creature has obvious powers and neither of my bloodlines has any trace of the meta gene.”

“That’s ignoring the ghostly elephant in the room.” Grayson chimed in, “Maybe it’s a dead ancestor?”

Drake gave their older brother an annoyed look “Even a time travelling descendant from the future is more likely than that. And delivering a ‘prophecy’ to boot?”

Oracle pulled up an aged up picture of Damian next to the stranger’s, highlighting several reference points. “On closer inspection, there’s a couple of discrepancies. The cheekbones for one - Robin definitely takes after his mother, while our mystery meta looks more like… well… Robin’s grandmother on the paternal side.” she finished hesitantly. “B?”

They turned to look at Batman, who had remained silent during the whole exchange. If they hadn’t known him so well they would have thought him unaffected, but the tightening around his mouth betrayed his agitation.

“There’s no use in pointless speculation until we have more data to work from,” he growled, “Oracle, look for any reports of a meta matching the target. Since our regular methods have failed to yield results, I will contact the JLD about running tests on the letter.” He turned to Drake, “Red Robin, see what you can find on recent League activities. If this is another scheme by Ra’s or Talia we need to know about it.”

“The last thing we need is more demon spawn running around!” Red Hood groaned over the comms.

Damian was furious. This was absurd! To even indulge the possibility that that creature was in any way related to him was making him feel like he had swallowed battery acid. He was the Demon’s Heir! He was not replaceable! There was only one thing to do.

“Robin? Stop!”

He ignored his Father’s shout. He stomped over to the lab table, snatched up the envelope and broke the seal.

Nothing happened.

He unfolded the paper and saw the same handwriting that had been on the outside.

Brother of blood, brother of soul

Never buried but already mourned

In lightning and ice the scorned child returned

To strike down the Demon’s Head

With all that Death earned

Damian’s hand shook. He reread the lines over and over again, refusing to comprehend. He could feel his Father standing behind him, scrutinising the letter as well.

“Son…”

Suddenly, the paper burst into green flames, going up into smoke that dissipated unnaturally quickly.

Silence reigned for a few moments. Then…

“Well that was needlessly melodramatic” Nightwing remarked.

Part 3

[captainmalewriter]

Just Like Him

Lewis stood in front of his bathroom mirror with an ancient tome full of magic spells in hand. He had stolen it from an antique bookstore just the other day. All it took was slipping the book into his jacket as he walked out the door. Now, a world full of powerful magic opened up to him- and without ANY restrictions.

Lewis grinned as he mentally rehearsed the incantation he was about to cast. He couldn't decide what spell to cast first, but after hitting the gym that morning, Lewis knew exactly which one he wanted to use. He wanted to steal the appearance of the handsome gym bro he saw at the gym. In Lewis' mind, Darwin was the embodiment of a perfect man. Good looks, bulky body, cute face with a full beard... No doubt a man like him could get any woman or man he wanted. Lewis knew he liked Darwin from the moment he saw him. But his attraction went beyond just the physical. His lust was infused with intense envy. Lewis wanted nothing more to become Darwin and was ready to use magic to accomplish that. Surely, his luck in the dating world would increase tenfold with a body and face like Darwin's.

Feeling determined, Lewis took a quick breath then set the book down. He focused on his reflection in the mirror, then recited the spell from the ancient tome.

serised ym fo tcejbo eht emoceb i llit ydob ym mrofsnart wen eht htiw ni dlo eht htiw tou

Once he recited the last syllable, a wave of nausea hit him like a semi truck. His face tingled as stubble along his jawline came in. Lewis was never able to grow much facial hair, but that changed thanks to the magic spell. Stubble soon became a full beard and thick mustache as seconds on the clock ticked away. Lewis smirked at himself as his face morphed to match his gym crush. Within minutes, his original face was gone and in its place was the hot Filipino Darwin.

Then, he felt a sudden tenderness in his chest area. Lewis had always been a rather thin, flat-chested man. His pectoral muscles were growing at an explosive speed. Lewis bounced in place his pecs grew heavier and heavier, causing them to jiggle from their newfound heft. Loud, whiny moans left Lewis' lips as he pinched his sensitive nips. His torso thickened up with mass too until his body filled in the baggy wife beater he was wearing. Yet despite growing bigger, his body fat percentage remained low, giving Lewis the physique of a big, cuddly man with visible ab lines but still had plenty for a lover to grab and play with.

"OHHHH FUCKK MANNN!!!"

Lewis cried out with delight as he felt a surge of blood rush to his groin. No doubt it was just a physical reaction to the magic hitting the lower half of his body. He became fully erect within seconds, but something felt inexplicably off. Lewis was blessed with a well-endowed cock. He knew how his big tool sat in his pants when he was hard. It didn't feel the same this time. With bated breath, Lewis pulled out his underwear and took a peek at his- or rather, Darwin's tool. His jaw dropped when he saw his once 7.5 inch monster shrink until it was just slightly below average at around 5 inches.

"What the fuck? Nooo..."

Lewis was powerless to stop the shrinking. He wanted to become an exact copy of Darwin after all, and like a computer program, the spell he cast was just doing its job.

But while Lewis was focused on his new package, his butt began growing bigger and rounder until he had the perfect bubble butt of a man who never skipped leg day at the gym. The elastic waistbands of his briefs and sweats stretched out a bit as they had to accommodate his new dump truck. Darwin had an ass that turned heads when he walked into the room. Lewis himself knew how true this was. He couldn't help but take a good, long look or two (or three) as Darwin hit his squats. But as mouthwatering Darwin's butt was, Lewis was a total top. He was more interested in putting Darwin's tool to work than having someone lay it down on him.

Or so he thought. As his ass became the perfect size and firmness, Lewis' thought patterns began changing too. Suddenly, all he could think about was finding a long, girthy cock to tame his hungry hole. Dreams and ideals of a monogamous relationship were erased from his mind and in their place was Darwin's burning desire as a power bottom to be used and bred by any attractive man he came across. Just imagining taking backstrokes from a gang of big, strong men making his cheeks clap with every thrust was enough to make Lewis drip with pre. Soon enough, Lewis had become a perfect copy of Darwin just like he wanted. Both in body, and in horny mind.