Young Master Qin Keeps Coveting Me After I Beat Him Up - Chapter 696 - : Wouldn’t That Benefit Jiang Xun And Chen Shuxiao?

She comes from the top of Zhongshan Mountain, she is covered with frost and snow, she is unparalleled in beauty, but she has no talent for “love”, and she likes nothing more than a cup of tea in her life, watching the excitement.

It is said that she was young and ill-fated, with a weird personality, but in fact, she can also be obedient and docile, with a smile like a flower.

It is said that she has a mean tongue, arrogant and rude, but in fact, she can also smile sweetly and be gentle and amiable.

but–

She… is… is… no, happy, willing!

Until that day, she met a boy.

Half of the city is full of wind and moon and half of the city is snow. All the scenery in her life are brilliant because of him.

…

- Description from novelbuddy

war, blood, and betrayal carved him into something else. A legend. A killer. A mercenary whose name struck fear into both criminals and so-called heroes alike.But now, the world had changed. Lines blurred between right and wrong, between justice and vengeance. Should he step into the light, wear the mask of a hero, and fight for a cause greater than himself? Or should he embrace the darkness that had always been his home, a place where morality was just another illusion?“Don’t box me in with your shallow ideas of good and evil,” he muttered, his voice calm but edged with danger. “I do what I want, when I want.”The air was thick with tension as he moved like a shadow through the dimly lit room. The writer had no time to react—one moment, he was scribbling nonsense about legends and myths; the next, a cold barrel pressed against the back of his head.The figure smirked beneath his mask, eyes gleaming with something between amusement and menace.“You wanna write fiction?” he whispered. “Then let me show you how real legends are made.”A single gunshot shattered the silence.As the writer’s body slumped over the desk, the man holstered his weapon, stepping into the faint glow of a flickering neon light.“It’s that simple,” he said, his voice unwavering. “I’m Deathstroke.”

I was left paralyzed with only a month to live, but that “9-inch” part of me was still hard as a rock. Even the sickly beautiful schoolgirl couldn't resist my “pecker,” and to fulfill my dying wish, my sister even dressed up as a lady in black stockings to teach me how to “drill.” What's more outrageous, the hospital nurses wanted to make a little movie with me, lining up with the head nurse at the front...Just after coming out of the emergency room, I saw the system panel:Name: Ethan JonesGender: MaleLength: 9 inchesSkill: Hard as a Rock LV1Note: Peak human hardnessDying Wish: To caress auntie's sheer black stockingsTask Reward Points: 1000 pointsDespite my strength and stamina attributes being only at 1, and my agility at 0, only my “pecker” could lift the heavy blanket while doing squats. My face was full of question marks—what kind of bug is this system? Just because I like looking at auntie's legs, did it give me such a special skill?Now, I have no choice. I must complete tasks to earn points and add attribute points.However, the story actually begins 12 hours earlier...

“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.