Chapter 965: MVPs of my Origin Story.

So yeah. By every moral metric humanity pretends to care about,

I’m the villain

.

Let’s be brutally honest for once: I had become so disgustingly fluent in the language of instant claiming that

"real dating"

now sounded like something

anthropologists

study in crumbling villages—like courtship rituals involving

carved wooden dildos

and three months of

goat-herding

before you’re allowed

to touch a boob

.

Archaic. Adorable. Irrelevant.

Normal people date. They text. They endure awkward small talk about

"what do your parents do?"

and

"favorite Netflix show right now?"

They suffer through three to eight progressively worse dinners before deciding whether the sex is worth another human’s emotional baggage.

Me?

I skip the foreplay of civilization and go straight to rewriting her central nervous system with my dick. Same-day acquisition. Zero to

"you belong to me"

in the time it takes most men to decide which filter makes their

Tinder

selfie look least like a mugshot.

Was I really that good?

No.

I am the best!

No one could hold a candle.

No one else on the planet could pull this off with the same conversion rate, the same

day-one shatter-and-rebuild

efficiency.

And

spare

me the

"they must be easy"

cope.

That’s just jealous men trying to comfort their shrinking egos by pretending the women were defective instead of admitting their own game was stuck on

tutorial

mode.

It was never about the women being easy.

It was about the men being tragic.

And it had nothing to do with my

women

being easy or whatever convenient label people wanted to slap on.

Not theirs. Never theirs.

It was me. My abilities. My cock. And yes—their men’s problems.

The

husbands, the boyfriends, the fiancés

—they were the

real MVPs

of my

origin story

.

They stopped trying somewhere around year three. They confused paying the mortgage with foreplay.

It was always the men who came before me.

They treated their wives like high-end kitchen appliances: expensive, rarely used, occasionally wiped down, never worshipped. They provided financially and then acted shocked when the woman upstairs was emotionally malnourished in a five-bedroom house full of unused square footage and unused orgasms.

I wasn’t

stealing.

I was

famine relief

with better branding.

With one last long, guttural groan that probably registered on nearby seismographs, I came inside her—deep, claiming, final.

She shattered with me: back arched like she was trying to escape her own spine, thighs quivering, whole body spasming in that beautiful post-orgasmic seizure that only happens when someone finally remembers where the clit actually lives.

Then we kissed.

Slow.

Lazy.

Like the rest of the planet had politely fucked off for ten minutes.

Fuck, she tasted so good.

She tasted like champagne, bad decisions, and the faint aftertaste of someone else’s wedding vows. Delicious.

One might wonder what happens now between me and her.

So... what now?

Not sure... hard to say, buddy.

What I did know, right there in the sticky afterglow, was that she already belonged to me. Maybe not on paper. Might not even accept to be part of me tonight. Maybe not even next week. But

inevitability

has a

smell,

and it was all over both of us.

She’d probably go the Patt route.

Patt—the one Hollywood exception who negotiated terms like she was signing a record deal instead of surrendering her monogamy clause. We agreed to

"try dating first."

As if...

—

see how far we’d go

. I already knew the ending credits. Obviously... he’d end up in the harem eventually—my woman.

But—lady’s choice, right?

Unlike Eziel or my other women who’d agreed to live with me the moment I offered, like I was presenting a timeshare and they were signing before the slideshow ended, some would be different.

Patt was different. She knew she wouldn’t be able to feel alive without me —because once you’ve had

36K ultra-HDR sex,

the thought of going back to 480p

standard-definition

dicks

feels like punishment—but that didn’t mean she’d jump headfirst into my world and leave everything behind.

But she had a career.

A brand.

An identity.

A life built brick by careful brick.

A carefully curated life that wasn’t going to collapse just because a smug teenager had turned her into a crime scene of orgasms.

And honestly? I liked that version.

It gave me the illusion of

normalcy.

It anchored me back to the classic way; dating. Conversations that weren’t interrupted by screaming. Arguments about where to eat instead of arguments about whose turn it was to come first.

Growing before moving in.

Quiet mornings. Learning someone through sentences instead of just through the shape their body makes when it breaks for you and reshaping the architecture of their orgasms.

Courtship.

The antique way.

The slow-burn fantasy most men chase for years and never catch.

For me, it was optional DLC. A nostalgic side quest. Something to do between mass conversions and spontaneous hallway reclamations.

This nameless woman—whose name ARIA was deliberately withholding because my own ASI has a sadistic sense of dramatic timing—was clearly Patt 2.0 in the making. She’d walk out of this room wearing someone else’s ring and someone else’s last name, but carrying my fingerprints like a new tattoo under her skin.

That gave me a window of opportunity. To learn them. To grow to love them.

And that window?

That delicious little window of "dating" before she inevitably surrenders?

That was the part where I got to love her.

Really love her.

Because—shocker—I don’t fuck women I don’t like. My abilities amplify. They doesn’t invent. Desire has to exist first. I’m not running a

coercion simulator;

I’m running a preference maximizer with cheat codes.

So yes

.

Like.

One slow-burn

"normal"

romance at a time—sandwiched between the spontaneous claims, the cuck conversions, and the growing collection of women who now measured every man who came after me against an impossible standard and found them all tragically out of focus.

Then love.

Then utopia.

Theology of spontaneous sin, continued.

Next sermon: how to date someone you’ve already spiritually married via orgasm.

Bring popcorn.

Amen.

And...

sorry-not-sorry.