Who Designed The MHA Chapter 368 Cover Art?

Author's Note The book is slow burn, feelings took time to be accepted and noticed. Trigger Warnings This book contains sexual harassment, bullying and trauma. …………………………………….. "Right there, fuck, Jordan, don't stop," Aiden panted when I broke the kiss for air. His nails dug into my shoulders, leaving red trails down my back as I drove into him relentlessly. I reached between us and wrapped my hand around his leaking cock, stroking him in time with my thrusts, firm, twisting pulls from root to tip, thumb swiping over the sensitive head to spread his precum. His balls drew up tight, and I knew he was close. So was I. The pressure built at the base of my spine, my own cock swelling even thicker inside him. I pounded into him faster, the wet sounds of our fucking growing louder, more frantic. Every thrust jolted his body, his hole gripping me like a fist. I leaned in closer, biting down gently on the junction of his neck and shoulder as I felt my orgasm crest. "Come for me, Aiden," I growled against his skin, stroking him faster. "Let me feel you." …….. Aiden was an ordinary human who was living life as it was until one day his life changed and he was invited into Aetherhold Academy for powerful people. Being the only human in a school full with supernatural beings made life a little bit hard, however he had his three protectors fighting for him. What happens when Aiden finds out that he wasn’t a human, he was a powerful Omega who could get pregnant and the reason why he has been constantly harassed was because he has been releasing a powerful mating pheromone? What happens when his three powerful Alpha protectors take a liking to him?

On the day of Zephyr’s art exhibition, I saw people stand around a portrait of myself. My cheeks were flushed, and I was bare. My posture was the one we used in bed last week for fun. Zephyr even got the mole on my chest right. As people stared at me mockingly, I demanded, “Why did you do this to me?” He was unbothered. “It’s not as if I asked you to sleep with someone else.” But he did let people see how I looked when I was having an intimate moment with my own boyfriend! “It’s just a painting. Why are you being so petty?” I was stunned by the mockery in Zephyr’s gaze. Then, I called my assistant. “I’m attending the international art festival as the organizer.”

I was a sketch artist acting for the police. On a secret mission, I was discovered by a murderer. My eyes were gouged out, and my body was dismembered, unceremoniously dumped in a garbage bin. On the brink of death, I called my boyfriend, a criminal investigator. However, he hung up on me because he was busy accompanying his first love to a prenatal checkup. A few days later, he received a painting that was a vital clue to finding the murderer, but he thought I was playing tricks on him. In his anger, he tore that portrait to shreds. After he found out the truth, he spent the whole night searching through the garbage to piece it back together.

When the blood spill somewhere, she appears to take her revenge... The town folks were afraid of the curse that she brought along her self. Not a witch, not a vampire, she was a queen of the red blood who will save the humanity from her ruthless enemies.

My boyfriend said that art held no restrictions, so he used my provocative paintings to enter a competition. Amidst a row of classic ceramic figurines, I became famous. He shot to fame, landing in the top ten of trending searches, while I was humiliated by the entire internet and mocked as a “ceramic influencer.” When I confronted him, he looked at me with disappointment. “They don’t understand art, and neither do you? I thought you would support my work, but I didn’t expect you to stir trouble! You’re so immature!”

Crimson Bloomed: Ascend Post - Apocalyptic Horror | Action | Yuri Harem | Coming - of - Age | Rated R | Mature Content | Slow Burn The city looked like it had been devoured — chewed up by fire, time, and whatever came after — then spit back out in jagged pieces. Dead drones dangled from power lines like rusted ornaments. Neon signs flickered above fractured pavement, their broken scripts glitching into gibberish. Down the block, a half - melted smartcar burned slow, casting warped shadows across the skeletal remains of a coffee bar. Behind a crumpled tram car, someone crouched low, breath tight in her lungs. The shrieking hadn’t stopped. It came again — sharp, bone-deep, the kind of sound that latched onto your spine and refused to let go. She checked the signal jammer at her hip. Still blinking. Still active. Not for long. They were tracking her. She moved fast — boots silent over broken glass, slipping through the breach in an old laundromat’s wall. Her body moved from muscle memory now: slide through, duck left, over the washer, don’t look at the corpse slumped by the dryer. Out the back. Up the fire escape. On the rooftop, she halted. Not alone. Someone was already there — silhouetted against the bleeding sunset. Combat jacket. Short - cropped hair. Pulse rifle slung casually over one shoulder like it weighed nothing. Like this was just another rooftop, just another war. “Don’t move,” the voice snapped. She lifted her hands slowly. “I’m clean.” “Everyone says that.” “Scan me.” beat. Then the girl stepped forward, rifle still raised but gaze locked in. Dark eyes, sharp, searching — not just for weapons, but tells. Fear. Lies. She lowered the rifle half an inch. “You’re lucky you’re cute.” That wasn’t the line she expected.