MTL - The Cp with the Female Partner Exploded In the Entertainment Circle - Chapter 124

In 2180, the last survivor of the human race returns to Earth.

In 2025, a 3rd generation Chaebol regains consciousness after being rendered a vegetable in a car accident.

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“Why do you insist on marrying me?”“My son likes you, and I like you even more!”He is a noble young master who holds a high status, but he has a mischievous son whose mother is unknown.She is an ordinary and humble celebrity from the bottom tier, yet she caught the attention of this father and son duo.After marrying him, she is spoiled to the utmost and successfully fulfills her dream of becoming a renowned diva in the entertainment industry.However...After experiencing such beautiful love, what is there to be afraid of?When I love you, you are my whole world. When I don't love you, would there be such a time?PS: Tao Yaoyao VIP group 574598711~

Below the nine setting suns lies the remains of the Golden Crows.By chance, a young man arrives in the world of Journey to the West, attaining enlightenment using the bodies of nine Golden Crows, leading to a different journey.Summary for this book: “Living in the Journey to the West, I started off by roasting nine Golden Crows.”Yet another summary is, “My days of collecting bodies in the Journey to the West. When it comes to body collection, no one's better than me. Three hundred years of professional body collection experience, skilled at cooking braised meat, and never adds sugar in it.”

“Villains aren’t born, they’re made...blah...blah...”Cute quote. Stick it on your Tumblr header next to your anime pfp.You boys love your villain stories, don’t you?You want carnage. Chaos. Control. You want a dark throne, a cold smirk, and a woman kneeling at your feet begging for mercy.But you?You don’t want to lift a damn finger.You’ll cheer for the villain as he kills a god, but cry when he gets betrayed.You call it “plot armor” when the hero survives—but call it “art” when the villain does the impossible.You’re not fans of villains.You’re fetishists.You want the violence, but not the silence after it.You want domination, but not the burden of being hated.You want power, but only if the story forgives you for it.You don’t read these stories to understand evil.You read them because you think you're too good to win the normal way.“Villains don’t play fair.”Exactly. That’s why you love them.Because you wouldn’t last a day in a world where strength mattered and excuses didn’t.You don’t want a villain’s life.You want his results.You want to watch him burn the world for a woman.But you’d cry if a girl left you on read.So tell me—What exactly are you rooting for?At least unlike you, I support heroes—the ones with boobs.You know the type.Tits squeezed into latex, thighs tight in spandex, preaching virtue with cum-drunk eyes the moment they fall into my arms but always end up screaming my name instead.She flies above cities, saving lives like it’s her job.But at night? She crashes into my arms, trembling, moaning, clawing at my back like I’m the only real thing she’s ever touched.Her cape drops before her guard does.But I don't need to tear it off.She hands it over herself—bit by bit, kiss by kiss, lie by beautiful lie.You ever felt a heroine's breath hitch in your ear as she begs you to stop pretending you're the bad guy?Ever watched the symbol of hope ride you like you're the last man left after the world ended?That's not conquest.That’s devotion, baby.Unfiltered. Undeniable.And the irony?They fall the hardest.Because no villain ever tried to understand them. No hero ever dared to see past the shine and into the ache beneath.But I do.I whisper into the cracks of their perfection.I plant kisses where they hide their pain.I fuck them where they forget to wear their strength.And when they break—when their moans turn to prayers, when their strength melts into submission—That’s when I rise.I’m not just some brooding misfit out for revenge, or a misunderstood loner sitting around hoping for a shot at redemption.I’m not a villain.I’m the SUPERVILLAIN—the kind your heroines moan for when the cameras are off and the capes are crumpled on my floor.