The Mysterious Art Museum - Chapter 100 (1) - The Mysterious Art Museum

[Mature Content]Arabella Donovan sacrificed her youth solely for her husband. However, he divorced her because she could not bear children for him, causing her great pain.Bella decided to disappear from his life.Five years later, she returned to the country with her adorable son.Her peaceful life started to get disturbed when her ex-husband chased her back the moment he found out she was giving birth to his son.But now, she wasn't the same Bella she used to be. She is an entirely different person.*****“Boss, she's back!”“Who?” Tristan Sinclair asked while scribbling his signature across stacks of papers.“Your wife—” The assistant hesitated, watching Tristan closely. When he saw Tristan's furrowed brows, he corrected himself. “Sorry, I mean your ex-wife, Ms. Donovan. She's returned with a boy...”Tristan sighed, eyeing the contract before him. After five years of searching, only to find out she's moved on, it feels hurt. But he couldn't avoid it. She deserves happiness with someone else. He'll take this loss. “She deserves a new husband...” Tristan muttered, dismissing his assistant.“Boss, what I meant was the cute little boy. I think he's around four years old—”Tristan snapped. His head up, fixing his sharp gaze on his assistant.“I need you to arrange a DNA test for the kid. And get me her address!”A glimmer appeared in his eyes as a smile slowly spread across his face.

After an accidental electric shock, Jackson traversed into a parallel world filled with supreme beings—beings whose might and strength could hold the skies on their shoulder.

At first, Jackson preconceived the idea that he’d only traversed on the other side of the world, the United States, until that is various peculiarities popped up.

While watching the news channel, Jackson wondered whose the big green guy jumping up and down the buildings of New York without care.

Who is that bodybuilder statue donned in a red-blue uniform standing tall and proud in the Memorial Hall?

And who is that man flying the skies with a big hammer calling himself a God?

Jackson wondered if he should advise his parents to move away from New York.

But after a moment of thought, Jackson pulled out his mobile phone and dialed a number. “Mr. Stark, for the safety of mankind, I think it’s necessary to discuss the developments of technology and advanced armors with you.”

This is the story of a young man living in the world of Marvel who only wished to live a quiet and stable life but as fate would have it, fate had other plans for him.

“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.

Reborn in the world of Naruto, Otis is granted a single “Legendary Skill”: Throwing. No chakra beasts. No kekkei genkai. Just the art of hurling things... perfectly. Now a towering five-year-old in Konoha, Otis must survive a ninja world that laughs at his gift — until they see what a true master of throwing can do.------------------------------------------Disclaimer:This is a fan fiction inspired by Naruto by Masashi Kishimoto. All rights belong to their original owners. No copyright infringement intended. For concerns, contact me and I’ll take it down.------------------------------------------(A/N):This Fanfiction is written by me.This is not a translation or adaptation.I upload on Webnovel, Royal Road, and Scribble Hub only------------------------------------------Want to read ahead?Join my Patreonpatreon.com/pacifist01https://discord.gg/SeF8utGspM