Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate-Chapter 206: Pin me harder ?

The stars were out, scattered like white embers across a deep indigo sky. The training grounds were quiet—too late for servants, too sacred for idle noise. The only sounds were breath and movement. The muted rhythm of two bodies weaving in combat.

Damien's foot slid across the mat—tight, precise, controlled.

His body had changed.

The fat was nearly gone now, muscle tightened against his frame, his core more defined with every passing day. He didn't move like a recovering cripple anymore. He moved like a contender.

And Elysia?

She no longer held back.

Not even a fraction.

No flourishes. No correctional pauses. Only Silent Vein, in its rawest, most punishing form.

Damien ducked a sweeping strike.

SWOOSH.

His elbow snapped out in a counter that clipped just past her ribs—her block came a half-second late.

Not because he was faster.

But because his rhythm had changed.

'She still expects the old pattern. Good.'

Elysia reoriented instantly, and Damien watched her—not with his eyes, but with the algorithm humming behind his skull.

Neural Predator. Combat Echo. Silent Vein: 36.8% Synchronization.

Every movement fed the system.

Every twitch she made translated into possibility.

For the past week, he'd sparred her every night, sometimes until dawn.

When he wasn't training his mind, he was grinding his body. Repetition. Resistance. Recovery. His stats had climbed—Strength, Endurance, Agility—all moving toward that first threshold of ten.

And in the background?

Silent Vein kept evolving inside him.

Not as imitation.

But as ownership.

Elysia lunged again, dropping low, hand flicking toward his knee to bait a shift.

Damien didn't fall for it.

He pivoted on the ball of his foot, riding her pressure, and used her low stance against her.

THUD.

His shin slammed against her forearm—not enough to hurt, but enough to knock her angle off.

Her eyes widened.

That wasn't part of the standard pattern.

She stepped back, just half a pace, but that moment of separation told him everything.

'You felt that.'

They circled again.

Elysia adjusted—fluid as always—but something in her stance had lifted slightly. Not just in readiness.

In respect.

Damien inhaled slowly, steadying his rhythm.

His heart still pounded.

His shirt clung to his frame.

But the pain, the fatigue—they were tools now. Not burdens.

He was moving with her.

Not behind her.

He raised his hands again, chin tilted in the barest grin.

"Again."

Elysia nodded.

And they clashed once more—shadows beneath the stars.

*****

Just like that, they kept going.

Three hours.

It didn't feel that long. Not with the way time bled under sweat and silence, punctuated only by the sound of flesh meeting flesh, by exhalations, low grunts, sudden impacts against the mat. The stars above had shifted, the sky deepened into something blacker than night. Still, neither yielded.

Until—

THUMP.

Damien hit the ground.

His back slammed into the mat with a sharp oof, air punched out of his lungs, and Isabelle was on him.

Not hovering. Not smug.

On him.

Her knee pressed to his hip, her palm against his chest, hair stuck to her cheeks from the sheer heat of effort. Her chest rose and fell in erratic bursts—fast, shallow, and wild—and her green eyes, normally still as glass, were marbled now with strain and something far less familiar.

Desire.

She didn't speak right away. Sweat trickled down the side of her throat, dripping to her collarbone. Her uniform clung to her like second skin, but the illusion of poise had long since vanished. There was a flush on her face—too warm, too raw to be ignored.

'My cute maid is really having a rough one, isn't she?'

Damien didn't say it out loud.

He didn't need to.

Because Isabelle saw it on his face—on the slight tilt of his mouth, the breathless way his chest rose to meet hers. And when her fingers clenched slightly at the fabric over his heart, when her thighs pressed just a bit tighter at his side—he saw the answer in her.

She was holding it in.

Had been, for days.

Weeks.

And now it bled through her in the softest, smallest betrayal of self.

"Master," she whispered. freewёbn૦νeɭ.com

Damien's smile dropped into something deeper.

Not amusement.

Understanding.

That single word—wrapped in heat and weight—carried everything she wasn't saying.

Still, she didn't continue. Not with words. Not yet.

Her fingers shifted again, grazing along his chest, tracing the place where his heartbeat thundered beneath sweat and skin.

He tilted his head up, just slightly, voice a whisper through the thick air between them.

"…Do you want it?"

And the silence that followed wasn't empty.

It was pregnant.

With tension. With need. With the unbearable sharpness of a line neither of them could unsee.

She didn't answer.

Not with words.

Just that look—that wide, stunned green—shaking in the aftershock of her own confession. It wasn't submission. It wasn't refusal.

It was naked wanting, raw and terrifying in its honesty.

And Damien?

He moved.

Fast.

A twist of his hips. A flex of muscle. A surge.

And just like that—

THUD.

She was beneath him.

Pale hair splayed across the mat, sweat-slicked skin glowing beneath starlight, chest heaving from effort and—now—something far less pure. His forearm pinned just beside her temple, his other hand splaying fingers across her cheek, tilting her head so she couldn't look away.

He was above her.

Every inch of him.

And she didn't fight.

Didn't flinch.

Didn't even blink.

"Say it again," Damien breathed, voice low and thick. "But mean it this time."

Her lips parted—just slightly. Her breath trembled past them.

He leaned closer, nose brushing hers, sweat dripping from the angle of his jaw down onto her collar.

"Do you want it?"

The words weren't gentle this time.

They were sharp.

Bladed with intent. Anchored in the dark heat pooling between his hips and hers, the friction of too-damp fabric against already-sensitive skin.

She tried to look away.

Tried.

His thumb brushed her cheek.

"Don't hide," he murmured, almost tender. Almost.

Her lips trembled. Her eyes fluttered. But still, she didn't speak.

'Gods, she's so fucking beautiful like this.'

He could feel it. His cock pressing hard against the strain of his waistband, grinding through the thin barrier of both their training clothes. His body screamed for movement, begged for friction. For heat. For her.

'Just a thrust. One. She'd break open so fast.'

But he didn't.

Not yet.

Instead, he leaned down—closer, until their foreheads almost touched—and he whispered, mock-soft against the edge of her jaw:

"…You don't get to whisper it once and look away, Elysia."

Her breath hitched.

His thumb traced the edge of her lip now, slow and cruel.

"You've been holding this in for week," he said, voice dragging like silk across a blade. "Coming to me in the middle of the night, covered in sweat, calling it training."

His hand slid lower.

To her throat.

Not choking. Just resting there.

Feeling.

Reminding.

"I should fuck you right here," he said, and the hunger in his voice left no room for misinterpretation. "Bury you until you can't pretend anymore."

She twitched beneath him.

But didn't deny it.

Didn't move.

Didn't breathe.

'You'd take it,' he thought. 'You'd moan for me. You'd break for me. And still—'

Still.

He pulled back just enough to smirk.

The cruel kind.

The kind that curved sharp and slow and knew exactly how much power it held.

"But I won't," he said.

Not yet.

He dragged his thumb along her throat, feeling the pulse hammering there like a confession.

"My dear maid," Damien murmured, voice like velvet dragged over gravel, "you need to answer when your master asks."

His fingers, still splayed over her throat, pressed just slightly—not enough to hurt. Just enough to feel her flinch.

And she did.

Not from fear.

But from truth.

Because she knew he was right.

"You've made me do all the work," he went on, leaning closer until his nose brushed the shell of her ear. "You look at me with those eyes, crawl into my space every night, push your body against mine in combat and call it devotion. And then when I ask—"

His lips brushed her cheek.

"You go silent."

His thumb stroked once—firmly—down the center of her throat, right over that racing pulse.

She swallowed.

Painfully.

"Do you want it?"

The question wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.

It seared.

Her lips parted.

Trembled.

And then—finally—

"…I want…"

Her voice was soft. Ragged. Like it had been clawed free from the pit of her stomach. Like she didn't just say it, but bled it.

Damien didn't breathe.

His gaze locked to hers, drilling down through those pale lashes, those trembling green irises that shimmered like fractured jade.

"....."

The silence stretched.

Elysia blinked—once. Twice.

Then:

"…I want master to pin me harder."