Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate

"Were you lonely?"

At this question, her breath caught in her throat.

Her spine arched. Her mouth opened. But no words came. Only sound—"Aah—!"

But Damien didn't need the answer in speech.

He felt it in her body. The way her hips shuddered in his grip. The way her pussy clenched around his fingers in frantic pulses. The way her eyes fluttered, lashes wet, cheeks flushed with something deeper than just climax.

Loneliness.

It wasn't something a combat maid was supposed to feel.

They didn't get lonely.

And yet—he could feel it. In the way she came. In the way her hands clutched at him, shaking. In the sob that escaped her lips—not from sadness, but from something far older. Far more starved.

She came apart in his hands.

Completely.

Her voice cracked open as it spilled from her throat. "Aah… aahhhn—!"

Her walls convulsed, wet and pulsing, flooding his fingers with heat and slick. Her entire body trembled in waves, thighs shaking, her arms finally wrapping around his shoulders like she didn't care anymore who she was supposed to be.

Damien felt it all.

And he smiled.

'So it was like that.'

So it had been loneliness. That edge in her breath. That tremble in her step. The silence that ran deeper than duty.

He knew that silence. Had worn it himself.

But now—he'd filled it.

His fingers slowed, easing through the final spasms of her orgasm, still inside her, coaxing every last twitch from her body until her hips gave up the fight and slumped against the wall.

Still breathless.

Still clinging.

He leaned in again, breath ghosting against her temple.

"I won't leave you empty again," he whispered, tongue tracing the shell of her ear. "Understand?"

Her only answer was the sound of her breath—shaking. Unsteady.

But Damien didn't need more than that.

Because her legs were still wrapped around his waist.

Because her nails were dug into his back.

Because her pulse was no longer racing from fear—but from feeling.

And because the next word she whispered—barely audible, barely even language—still landed like a vow between them.

"…Master…"

Spoken not like a title.

But like home.

Damien didn't say a word.

He didn't need to.

The look on her face—flushed, trembling, wrecked and willing—said more than any plea ever could.

He lifted her again.

Not with haste. Not with violence. Just firm, fluid motion. Like gravity answered to him now. Her legs tightened around his waist instinctively, her breath catching at the shift, and her hands—still trembling—slid up his back, clutching at his shoulders like the idea of release had become terrifying.

'She's scared to fall,' he thought. It was strange, this kind of reaction coming from a combat maid….

Damien did not expect it, kind of strange it was.

But she wasn't scared of him.

That was the difference.

He crossed the room slowly. The lamplight spilled over the bed like a waiting altar—sheets pulled back, untouched, undisturbed. Until now.

He laid her down like she was something sacred.

Not because she was fragile. But because he was too full.

Full of heat. Full of breathless need that had been clawing its way through him for days now, scraping against his ribs, daring him to lose control.

And now—finally—he would.

Damien stayed above her for a moment.

Just looked.

Her skirt was still rucked high around her hips, her underwear gone, her body flushed and slick and trembling in the open air.

Her blouse was open down the middle, her breasts rising with each quick, uneven breath, nipples still peaked, sensitive from contact that hadn't even tried to be gentle.

And most importantly, she was already wearing the bracelet…

The bracelet that would restrict her strength….

'….Naughty maid….'

His fingers twitched at the sight.

'She's already ruined… and I haven't even put it in yet.'

But it wasn't ruin, not really.

She looked like someone pulled from a fever dream. A vision too intimate to be drawn, too visceral to be spoken of later.

His.

Every inch.

He reached down, unbuckled his belt with one hand.

The soft clink of metal made her jolt.

Not from fear.

From expectation.

He smirked.

"You can relax now," he murmured, voice dark, hoarse from everything he hadn't said. "There's no one watching. No orders to follow."

Just us.

He shoved his trousers low on his hips. Just far enough. Freed himself.

She stared, as her eyes widened a little.

With the shaft raised….Veins prominent, twitching slightly in the cool air between them. Slick already from her—because of her—and pressing hot against the inside of her thigh.

Damien watched her expression change.

From uncertainty…

To ache.

He lowered himself.

Pressed the head of his shaft to her entrance.

Not deep. Not yet.

Just enough to slide through her soaked folds, letting the heat of her split around him in slow, heavy strokes.

Elysia shuddered.

"Ah… mmh—Master—"

Her moan was thin, gasped, her hips tilting up involuntarily into the friction. It wasn't even penetration yet. Just the tease of it. His cock dragging between her slick folds, her body twitching as he slid past her clit again—again—like a promise he hadn't kept yet.

He leaned forward, lips brushing her temple.

"Ready?"

She didn't answer.

Not with words.

Just another moan—"Nnhh—!"—as he aligned.

And then—

He pushed in.

Slow. Deep.

She tensed.

Back arching. Breath locking. Mouth open with no sound but a high, soft "Aahh—!" that broke into pieces the second he passed the first resistance.

Tight.

Even after his fingers, even after all the slick pooling between her thighs—she clenched around him like her body still didn't know what to do with him.

He groaned. Not loud. Not showy.

Just a low, choked sound scraped from the bottom of his throat.

'Yeah…This is warm….'

He didn't move for a moment. Just stayed there, buried halfway, head tipped down against her neck, breathing like it hurt.

Because it did.

He pushed in further.

A slow grind of hips. An unbearable slide.

And she—

She let it…

Her head tilted back, eyes fluttering, hands sliding from his shoulders to his back, his arms, grabbing anything—because there was no footing in this. No balance.

Only him.

"M-Master… aah—too much—"

"No," he whispered, catching her jaw, tilting her face up again.

"You can take it."

Another push.

Her walls fluttered—tight, wet, pulling at him like she didn't even mean to. Her body wanted him deeper. Even as it trembled.

And Damien gave it.

He bottomed out.

Fully.

A thick, final slide until their hips met, until she gasped and dug her nails into his back and trembled under the weight of him.

"Ahhhn…!"

Damien froze.

It was too much.

Too hot. Too perfect. The way she pulsed around him, clenching with aftershocks from earlier, already so wet it dripped down his shaft and soaked the sheets beneath her.

He grit his teeth.

'Don't come yet. Don't—fuck—don't lose it.'

He needed to move.

But not yet.

Not until she felt everything.

He kissed her again. Not gentle. Not teasing.

And then—he pulled back.

And thrust.

Hard.

Deep.

Her cry was broken—"Aahh—!"—louder now, her legs locking around his waist again, as if she couldn't bear to let him go.

Again.

Faster.

He set the rhythm.

Each thrust a promise. Each withdrawal a tease. He rocked into her like it was work, like her body was a vessel he had to pour himself into, again and again, until it overflowed.

And she—

She moaned. Sobbed. Clung.

"Master—ahh—Master, I can't—"

It was time for Damien to show what his Awakened body could do to his maid.