MTL - Quick Transmigration: I’m Almost Dead - Chapter 132 Hello Director (6)

Once Jiang Hongping was reborn, she immediately gave up her marriage with Qi Heng to her cousin Jiang Shuangling. She married Qi Heng in her last life, but she was driven back within a few days. The second marriage could only be to marry a poor and lame man. To be a stepmother.
The other party’s oil bottle son is the devil! ! !
Jiang Shuangling travels back to the 1970s, what? Let her marry, after weighing the pros and cons, it is better to marry than to stay under the uncle’s house and marry with a younger brother.
Seeing each other for the first time, Jiang Shuangling was shocked.
A handsome young man of twenty-three.
Just to this face, this figure, she can!
Isn’t it just to be a stepmother, go up! ! !
The first meeting of the reorganized family:
Jiang Shuangling, a 29-year-old urban white-collar worker, glanced at the faces of her cheap brother, cheap son, and cheap husband, thinking:
All here are my brothers.
The cheap brother took her hand cautiously and called her affectionately: Sister
The cheap son opened his mouth and hesitated.
Jiang Shuangling said calmly: You can also call me Ajie.
The man next to him darkened: he called you sister, what did you call me? dad?
Jiang Shuangling spread her hands: It’s not impossible.

This article is the heroine who can make her life very cool anytime and anywhere, and the warm little sweet text of daily chicken flying and dog jumping.
Jiang Shuangling x Qi Heng (heng)

Content tags: Travel through time and space Farming text Sweet text Chronological text
Search keywords: Protagonist: Jiang Shuangling ┃ Supporting role: Qi Heng ┃ Others: Chronicle
One-sentence introduction: Everyone here is my younger brother.
Purpose: to manage the trivial things in the daily family well, and to live optimistically and positively in the era of struggle.

- Description from novelbuddy

“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.

Every author loves their story.Sure, you may get tired of writing it after quite a while, but even so; it was a novel you enjoyed writing before, no?The words you put consideration to, the effort you did research overnight.The thrill to have a reader, the thought of someone enjoyed your work.All of it was something you used to cherish, but you may end up forgetting the joy over small things one day as you move on.Everyone loves their work.But some forget they did.

I had to take him home and raise him. There was no bathtub or a large basin at home, so I had to put him in the washing machine for the time being.

It was an hour later before I remembered it again, by which he had been washed extremely clean.

- Description from Novelupdates