MTL - Mr. Dior - Chapter 85 . Undercover boyfriend of the warlord (7)

Yu Dong , a cultivator from the zombie apocalypse transmigrated over to another world after she died fighting a mob of zombies

- the moment she opened her eyes , someone told her that her wife was giving birth

- Yu Dong was stunned , she hurriedly reached to touch her chest , to check whether or not she was still a woman

- the two perky mounds told her she was

- instantly she looked at her bottom , she wanted to check whether or not she was a ‘ real woman ,’ but before she could

- she was hauled to where her wife was giving birth

- and what she saw made her want to pass out again -

Because her wife was a man ! And she didn’t have just one wife but three !

Yu Dong looked at the man who was groaning on the bed and nearly blacked out- whatever at least she didn’t have to chop zombies for living , right ?

The protagonist is a guy who is among the stupidest of the stupidest in the school. In this school, your grades can, under the supervision of teachers, take a virtual form to do combat! However, if you leave an examination half way, you get zero marks. A bright and cute girl, Mizuki Himeji, was having a high fever during the examination. Despite her potential to be the second highest scorer in the level, she obtained zero marks for having left due to her illness and is thus allocated to the worst class, class F.

Grades mean almost everything. For Class A, they have a smart-looking teacher, a plasma TV as big as the entire wall as their blackboard, personal laptops, personal air-cons, refrigerators, adjustable seats and all kinds of different appliances. Within the refrigerator, there are all kinds of drinks and snacks. Their ceiling is made of glass, the wall lets them put up high-class drawings and plants.

As for Class F, the worst class… They have Japanese desks and seat paddings. Their blackboard is dirty and there is no chalk even! Someone complains that the legs of his desk are broken, so the teacher asks, “Didn’t we distribute some glue to stick wood together? Glue it back yourself later.” Another one complains that wind is blowing in from the broken window. The teacher says, “I got it. I will apply for plastic bags and invisible glue to fix it later.” There are spider webs everywhere, not a patch of the wall is clean. A unique moldy smell spreads across the entire room; it must be from the old tatamis used to tile the floor. This is the status of class F.

The protagonist feels displeased at such an arrangement, and seeks help from his friends to try to make a change through summoning war!! And they devise all kinds of plans to try to beat the famous class A, intending to get class A’s classroom and equipment if they win!!

When Han Kain woke up, he and several other people were inside a mysterious hotel with different rules and different expectations.Going into each hotel room threw them into other worlds and scenarios where they must brace death at times to escape or lift the curse of the individual rooms for a chance to bring everyone that died during the process back to life.Using their blessings that were given at the time of entry, they have to weave their way through the rooms while sometimes sacrificing themselves for a higher likelihood of success.* Very little horror; more of a thriller

“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.