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

The first thing Damien noticed wasn’t the light.

It was the sound.

Faint. Barely there. A hum—steady, soft, low. Not mechanical. Not environmental. Human.

His eyes opened.

And there she was.

Elysia.

Still asleep, though not the way he was used to seeing her. Not with that rigid, soldier’s stillness she wore like armor. This was different. Her lips were slightly parted, a ghost of a breath slipping between them, and that hum—quiet, barely a note—rose and fell with her chest. Not a melody. Not intentional. Just instinct, maybe. A noise her body made in rest.

Her body.

Curled toward him. One leg draped over his, her arm tucked near his side, as if some part of her had reached out during sleep without permission.

And she hadn’t moved away since.

Damien let the moment stretch, eyes tracing the shape of her brow, the mess of dark hair fanned over the pillow, the light sheen of sweat still clinging to her skin.

She was soft now.

Not weak.

But unguarded.

And that difference mattered.

His hand moved lazily, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. No response. Just another faint hum from her chest.

He exhaled, slow.

‘She is learning quite fast.’ he thought, not quite smiling. ‘Faster than expected.’

Not just in bed. Not just physically. But mentally.

Elysia had always been cold. Disciplined. Chained. She still was—but the links were bending. One by one. Slowly. Methodically. Not from force, but from repetition. From presence. From contrast.

Desire didn’t have to be loud to be real.

He’d seen it last night. The shift. The moment her body stopped obeying and started wanting. The way her mouth had parted without words. The way her hips had chased friction. The way she had clung to him—not out of duty, not for protection—but because her body chose to.

Even her silence had changed.

It wasn’t defiance anymore.

It was hesitation.

She was starting to feel, and she didn’t know what to do with it.

“Well, you will find it out soon.”

His gaze drifted lower.

And there it was.

The bracelet.

Sleek, matte-black, lined with faint glyphs that pulsed with dormant power. An elegant shackle—subtle, silent, absolute.

One around each wrist. Twin seals of restraint.

The only reason he could touch her the way he did. The only reason a woman like Elysia—an A-rank Awakened – could be lying like this.

He stared at the bracelets for a long moment. Not in awe. Not in fear. But something else.

A small irritation.

Not quite.

But…

His hand slid from the sheet, fingers brushing his own forearm as if confirming what he already knew.

That burn beneath the skin. That pressure. Constant now. Like his bones were winding tighter every day, muscles knitting with unnatural precision.

Nine across the board.

Strength. Agility. Endurance.

Only one point left.

One.

‘The time of awakening is approaching soon,’ he thought, eyes narrowing faintly. ‘And when it comes… those bracelets won’t be the only thing that breaks.’

He sat up slowly, letting the sheets fall away. The air was cool against his skin, but his body didn’t flinch. Not anymore.

He rolled his shoulders once, feeling the way they moved now—dense, fluid, clean. No excess. No resistance.

‘Almost there,’ he thought, and this time, the smirk came.

Not wide. Not arrogant.

Just sure.

Because once he reached ten—once the system triggered that next evolution—there’d be no need to hide behind borrowed restraints. No need to lean on glyphs or family seals or cleverly layered contracts.

He would be enough.

More than enough.

‘And when that day comes…’ he glanced back at Elysia, still sleeping soundly, breath rising in that soft hum, ‘…let’s see how it would feel different.’

He stood.

No sound. No creak. Just a smooth rise to his full height.

The room was still thick with the scent of the night before—sweat, heat, skin. But Damien didn’t linger in it.

He moved down of the stairs to the kitchen to small prep station near the side alcove, where the ingredients Elysia had stocked yesterday sat neatly wrapped and chilled. She’d made a point of ordering only high-density protein options. She hadn’t expected to eat them.

He chuckled once, low in his throat.

‘Too bad. You’re not skipping out this morning.’

His fingers moved quickly. Knife in one hand, pan in the other. Egg whites, lean meat, a blend of starches Elysia had marked for “physical conditioning” on the ration sheet. She hadn’t been subtle.

She never was.

‘Still thinking like a soldier,’ he thought, tossing the contents into the pan with a controlled flick. ‘Fuel the body, starve the mind. No indulgence. No softness.’

He clicked his tongue. A bit of seasoning. Just enough to matter.

‘And yet you’re sleeping beside me. Humming.’

A small hiss of oil hit the heat.

******

The soreness came first.

A slow, dull ache threading through her limbs as awareness returned—bone-deep and unfamiliar. Not pain. Not injury. Just fatigue, raw and absolute. The kind she rarely felt. The kind she wasn’t allowed to feel.

Then came memory.

Heat. Pressure. Friction. The way her breath had caught. The way his voice—low, rough, amused—had slipped past her defenses like it belonged there. She’d responded. Acted on impulse, not instruction. And that… that alone set off a dozen silent alarms in her head.

Elysia opened her eyes.

The ceiling. Unfamiliar in its softness. Not the sterile white of training chambers. Not the cold grey of military-grade barracks. This was… domestic. Quiet. Dim morning light filtering through curtains that didn’t belong to her.

Her fingers flexed slowly.

The bracelet around her wrist was still there. Matte-black. Silent. Still thrumming with that ever-present pressure against her mana. Sealed. Still.

Which meant the weakness in her body wasn’t imagined.

She moved, slowly pushing herself upright. Her thighs trembled. Her shoulders protested. That alone told her everything. Without her strength—without her conditioning—her recovery mirrored that of an ordinary woman.

And Damien had known that.

He’d taken his time last night, maybe because of that…

She reached for the robe at the bedside, the one she’d folded the night before. It smelled faintly of cedar and something else—him. She slipped it over her arms, cinched the belt, and began descending the stairs with controlled steps. Each one slower than usual. But steady.

She would not limp.

She would not show weakness.

The scent hit her halfway down.

Cooked protein. Starch. Seasoning. It grounded her more than it should’ve. A strange pang stirred in her chest—one she didn’t have the vocabulary for.

She reached the bottom.

Damien stood at the stove.

Bare-chested. Calm. Moving with that easy, confident grace that never seemed to falter. As if the world bent to him before it even realized it.

He didn’t look back.

Just said, “Morning.”

Her gaze dropped instinctively. Not to the floor, but away from his eyes. That was all it took for him to notice.

The food was simple. Clean. Functional. Exactly what she would’ve made for him after a hard session. But this—this was the second time he’d cooked for her.

And both times had followed a night like that.

She stared at the meals.

Clean plating. Balanced portions. Nothing indulgent, but still—there was care in it. Thought. The kind that came from observation, not obligation. He remembered how she liked things cooked. What ratios she preferred. She hadn’t told him. Not out loud.

“What are you looking at?” Damien’s voice broke the silence. Smooth. Amused.

Her gaze flicked up.

He was turned now—facing her fully. Bare from the waist up, skin marked faintly with the kind of bruises that came from pleasure, not pain. His physique had changed again—more definition, more weight in the way his frame carried itself. Dense. Efficient. Refined.

And yet somehow, still careless.

“Even after going all night,” he added, lips curving into that lazy, deliberate smirk, “are you still not satisfied?”

The words hit.

Not like a weapon. More like a spark—quick, quiet, and far too close to the edge of something volatile.

Elysia didn’t respond. Didn’t flinch. But her lips moved—just barely. A twitch. The hint of a smile ghosting at the edge of her mouth.

Damien’s grin widened, seeing it.

But she didn’t meet his gaze.

Because her chest had tightened.

Because her heartbeat had picked up, faint and sharp, rising behind her sternum like a drumline she couldn’t control.

And worse—something else stirred.

Lower.

A flutter. A weightless, inexplicable sensation deep in her core. Her stomach tightened—not from hunger. From… something else.

Something she didn’t understand.

She picked up the utensils with steady hands, keeping her face still. Blank. Composed. Soldier’s mask intact.

But the moment she looked at him again—just a glance—it came back.

That thing in her gut.

The heat. The rush.

It hadn’t started here. Not really.

This feeling—it had become a pattern.

She felt it when he stood too close during training. When his breath grazed her ear mid-spar. When their limbs locked and she could feel the thrum of his pulse through his grip.

It always came near the end.

Of every match. Of every drill.

Right after the last strike. Right before she stepped back.

She would feel… this.

Now it was stronger. He wasn’t just close. He’d been inside her. Known her pulse from the inside. Bent her without breaking her.

And still—her body was reacting like it hadn’t had enough.

‘What is with me, again?’ she thought, biting the inside of her cheek lightly as she lowered her gaze to the plate. ‘What is this… thing?’

No answer came.

Only that rising pulse.

And the knowledge that he could probably hear it.

Smell it.

Feel it.

She picked up a piece of meat and ate in silence.

Because that was the only thing she could still control.

————–A/N—————

Sorry for the late-post. I had an exam yesterday, so I couldn’t write any chapters. I will post more chapters if I can.

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