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"They Call Guys Like Me a Simp.”

(Meanwhile, I’m out here living what their favorite MC only dreams about.)



You ever notice how stories glorify the ones who feel nothing?



The MC who never laughs.

Never feels.

Who plays women like chess pieces and calls it intelligence.

He manipulates a girl? “He’s strategic.”

He never opens up? “He’s mysterious.”



He never flinches, never laughs, never lives —

And you call that strength?



Funny.



Because to me?



That’s just a prison in disguise.



You see an “alpha.”



I see a boy too scared to feel anything real.



While they spend ten chapters monologuing about logic and sacrifice,

I’m already making the Saintess scream,

drenched in sin,

halo cracked,

legs trembling from truths her prayers never taught her.



And I didn’t get there with cold eyes or control.



I got there with laughter and chill. With warmth. With a grin and a hand on her thigh.

I didn’t need to dominate her mind —

I freed her heart.



But that scares people, doesn’t it?



Because readers trust the ones who suffer.

Who stay quiet.

Who kill without blinking and love without showing it.



But me?



I flirt.

I laugh.

I take hits and smile back, bloody and defiant, as if too weak to get angry.



I don’t need to pretend emotions are weakness.

I weaponize mine.

Pleasure. Connection. Laughter.

That’s my arsenal.



And while your favorite MC is still calculating his next five moves,

Trying to outwit death and romance like both are math problems,

I’m already balls deep in the jade fairy — her sacred yin furnace clenching like it’s worshipping my shaft, her Dao Echo shattered into breathless moans, and her so-called cultivation path leaking down her thighs while she begs me to break her meridians again.



You call that luck?



Nah.



That’s mastery of the three worlds.



Because in a world that respects coldness,

I came in hot.



Where others manipulate, I connect.

Where they posture, I play.

Where they sacrifice, I seduce.



So go ahead.

Call me a simp.



But while your genius MC is busy monologuing about destiny,

I’m the one making goddesses question theirs —

with a smirk, a touch, and no regrets.



I’m not the hero.

Not the villain.





I’m just a simp… the kind who leaves your cold, emotionless MC’s woman dripping, ruined, and too stretched to go back to him.