What Do You Mean My Cute Disciples Are Yanderes? - Chapter 1280 Our Daughter

Wu Jin, as a trainee from a certain entertainment company, had a peerless, stunning face. He was qualified to debut as a lead performer even if he just sat there and did nothing.

Cool and abstinent president X gentle and pure beauty

Wen Hua is getting married.

The other party is said to be the head of a Chinese family of European financial giants.

When we met, he was dressed in a suit and leather shoes, and his gestures were dignified and self-reliant, with a demeanor all over his body.

Wen Hua stared at him in silence, and after a while, she chuckled, “Interesting.”

After marriage, the two are model couples outside, but the queen respects each other as guests and does not disturb each other.

A friend asked her why she married Xi Mo.

She smiled at Yan Yan, “He is rich and powerful, if there is someone richer than him, I will marry too.”

Suddenly looking up, the man’s dark handsome face was hidden under the psychedelic lights of the bar.

Friends watching the excitement didn’t think it was a big deal: “Huahua, you’re miserable, go home and kneel on the washboard.”

It was impossible to go home, so she went back to her natal family.

Go back to your natal home if you get into trouble, go back to your natal home if you get angry, and go back to your natal home if you say something wrong

Mr. Xi is no stranger to this, and nine out of ten times he coaxes people back with nice words.

When he caught up with Wen’s house, someone was sitting in the living room eating oranges, saw him, and unhurriedly ate the last piece, with a provocative expression on his face, “Don’t move here, I’ll buy you some oranges. ”

“…”

Instead of being angry, he gently and patiently coaxed her home

- Description from novelbuddy

Goddamnit! Now I’ve got to look for another job to pay the bills! That f*cker! I did nothing wrong!

“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.