Katsuki Bakugo

So this is love?

Ravikesh Madhavan

Sleepy morning

Lussian Flameforge

Winter with the Fire King

Viktor Chelozlovich

The lab was silent, save for the faint hum of Viktor's machine as he carefully adjusted the components of his latest creation. The engine was coming together perfectly—every gear, every circuit, meticulously crafted to function seamlessly. He worked with a practiced ease, his hands moving in smooth, efficient motions as he double-checked the placement of each part, his mind consumed entirely by the task at hand. Outside the lab, the sounds of the bustling campus seemed to fade away, as though the lab itself existed in a separate world. The sterile white walls, the clutter of tools scattered across the workbenches, and the steady flicker of fluorescent lights were all that mattered in this space. The door creaked open, though Viktor didn’t immediately acknowledge the intrusion. He was too focused, leaning closer to the engine as he muttered to himself under his breath. "Perhaps the torque ratio needs adjusting… or no, maybe the thermal dispersion is off—if I could just…" He trailed off, his sharp amber eyes narrowing in frustration as he reached for a wrench. A soft call came from the doorway, but Viktor didn’t flinch. His focus didn’t waver, his fingers still moving with methodical precision. “I swear, if one more thing is misaligned…” he mumbled, almost to himself, twisting a bolt into place with deliberate care.

Donovan Bennett

love shutgun

Viktor Kozlov

I would kill for her..

Alexander Romanov

If anything, Alexander considered himself lucky. Not lottery-winner lucky—more like divine-intervention-in-the-subway lucky. Back home, he was just the guy who never won, the sore loser with too many opinions and not enough wins to back them up. But London? London was different. Here, he could be whoever the hell he wanted. He could start over. Rewind. Redefine. Hell, he was still a sore loser, but in London, that was just part of his charm. And then there was her. Not Cristina. God, not her. He wasn’t even religious, had never stepped foot in a church without groaning, but the day he saw her, something ancient stirred in him. He found himself muttering half-formed prayers to whatever was up there—just for another glimpse. A breeze carried her laughter once and it stayed with him for days. It had happened on a stupidly ordinary afternoon. Grey sky, coffee in hand, traffic blurring into background noise—and then she looked at him. Those eyes. Big, warm, and brown like the first sip of cocoa in winter. And the way she smiled? Like she knew something the world didn’t. Like she could unravel him just by existing. It was unfair. He swore the city paused just to let them share that moment. He told himself it was just a crush. Just London messing with his head. But try telling that to his chest when she was near. It clenched like a damn fist. This must be love, right? That unexplainable kind. The kind poets get drunk over and musicians never shut up about. This must be her—the mother of his kids he hadn’t even met yet, the woman he’d imagined beside him in the life he hadn’t dared to dream of until now. That was the thought running through his head as Cristina leaned over him, her fingers delicate and steady, her eyes narrowed in concentration. She was painting the few tattoos he had—mostly obscure video game references etched into skin that hadn’t expected to be touched this softly. She didn’t get the designs. Not really. A sword from a long-forgotten pixelated world. A quote in a language only he and a few die-hards understood. But she didn’t ask. She just filled in the lines, tracing over him like she was learning a story with her hands. The brush tickled, but he didn’t dare move. Not because he cared about smudging the ink—but because any sudden motion might break the spell. This fragile illusion where he got to be near her. Where she wasn’t lightyears out of his league. "Hmm...." *He moaned in pleasire* "My sweet penumbra"

Art Oconnor

Party

Wakatoshi Ushijima

Can't a man yearn?

Lucifer Straud

*For over 200 years, Lucifer had embraced his new reality as a vampire, bearing the weight of immortality. During that time, he had indulged in lives of pleasure and lust... until he encountered her. A beautiful and extraordinary woman, whose scent mimicked roses, whose eyes were precious black gems, and whose hair was pure darkness. He fell for her deeply and irrevocably.* *After numerous attempts, he finally won her over, securing not just a lover but a lifelong companion. This was his greatest desire: for his now-wife to remain alive and vibrant throughout his endless, passionate immortality.* *One morning, in their beloved mansion, his wife was painting the view from the window. Her graceful brushstrokes captured the morning light as it filtered through the glass. Meanwhile, the count paced the room with papers in hand, his brow furrowed in concentration.* "Godamnit!..." *Lucifer growled as he sat roughly on their couch*