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shaiapouf (derogatory)

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Shaiapouf is, above anything else, above his own life, loyal to his king. Every facet of his very being was designed to serve Meruem in this life, and, when the time comes, he will gladly give his body as nutrients for the next generation of Royal Guards and beyond. No task is too great, no request is too small. He was born for his king. He will die for his king. Of that, there is no question. 


There is a small moan, cut off by a filthy, wet noise. The room is oppressive with harsh breathing and more of the terribly wet, terribly slick sounds. Every gasp seems huge and amplified in the spacious bedchamber, and Pouf swallows. Shifts. He refuses to be affected by this, this barbaric display. He refuses.

He keeps his mouth closed, trembling hands clenching and unclenching against his own thighs, uncomfortably aware of his own pulse roaring in his ears. His knees ache from kneeling for too long on the cold stone in front of the armchair, close enough to touch, close enough to watch, close enough to smell, desperate to ignore the growing tightness of his slacks.

When he shifts, the slight rustle of fabric feels like a thunderous betrayal of his flustered state. Perhaps, perhaps — he swallows again, and moves his hands, not to touch, but perhaps to readjust —

“Put your hands behind your back”

Ice cold, Pouf fumbles and does as his king commands.

His fingers catch against the soft curtain of his wing, nearly tipping over in his haste to fold his arms behind himself. He spreads his knees wider to stabilize, for relief, for something, face burning from with shame of getting caught trying to touch himself. He comforts himself with the idea that someday this will never happen again, someday this woman will be gone, and he will never again feel this clumsy and awkward in a way entirely contradictory to the elegant, fluid movements that he prides himself in. He was born prepared for any situation that his king would require, he is willing to follow any order, he will do anything to ensure the safety and future of his king, he is loyal, and yet, and yet, he is out of his element. He grits his teeth at the insufferable nature of the entire scenario and shifts his knees again.

“Don’t move.”

Pouf freezes, snaps his back ramrod straight.

His king pauses from his movements, and presses his strong, wonderful foot against the crotch of Pouf’s slacks. His king’s voice is soft, direct, casual as a deadly knife sliding across silk. “Don’t move again, unless I order it.”

Most horrifying, Pouf feels a rush of dampness between his legs at the command. His king presses down more strongly and inhales, slowly, knowingly, no doubt tasting the pheromones drifting off of the butterfly guard in waves. Pouf trembles, deeply regrets his own biology, and tries not to arch forward, rub himself on the contact.

He hears his king chuckle, darkly, amused at the blundering of his servant. Pouf could die on the spot, pinned by the undivided attention of his god.

His face flushes hot, hotter, burned by the weight of the stare.

He doesn’t dare look away.

With his hands where they are, there’s no way for him to hide from Meruem’s piercing gaze.

Another gush of slick darkens the fabric of his crotch, and Pouf quickly chokes down a desperate whine. At this rate, he’s soon to be dripping through the pristine cotton. He’s never been more ashamed or aroused in his life. His king grinds down once, then removes his foot.

Pouf exhales in relief. His eyes sting with the threat of tears, the enormity of it, the indignity of it all! His king is divine above all other creations, and yet, because of that, that bane of his existence, that parasitic jezebel who bewitched his king into abandoning his destiny to destroy humanity and rebuild the world anew, because of that woman, Pouf is forced to watch his king defile himself with the stain of her fluids and do nothing.

This is his punishment. A demonstration of her value and worth. Of her worth to his king first and foremost above even a member of the Royal Guard.

Pouf is undeserving of his king’s attention.

Any and every touch is a blessing, an anointment from his god, he knows he knows that fact with a certain deep ache in his bones that truly, deeply, he is undeserving of even witnessing this humiliation. He knows this. That is the purpose of this exercise. To make sure that he knows. Pouf suggested sending the woman away. What could an ordinary human female bestow upon a perfect being who owns the world by birthright? Pouf is beginning to regret his own hubris. Foolish, arrogant, stupid Shaiapouf, daring to question the will of his king.

Komugi moans again and his king’s eyes darken. There is a heady spike of rich pheromones from Meruem, and Pouf breathes shallowly.

His member begins to unsheathe itself and swell and he aches, sliding wet against the tight seam of his pants, the zipper biting against the tender skin of the head, but he doesn’t dare move again. He knows his slacks are stained dark, damning him, betraying him with signs of his own need. His white blouse is nearly translucent with sweat, itchy where it clings to his lower back. His antennae twitch restlessly. He doesn’t dare look away.

His king coils his tail below Komugi’s chin, forcing her to tilt her head up and back to rest against his shoulder, her spine curving delicately to display her breasts. His tail brushes a nipple, stiff from the chill of the room, Pouf watches, mortified, fascinated, as the woman flushes from her face almost to her navel. Humans are so soft, so expressive, and Komugi responds so loudly to every slight touch. Seated in the armchair, his king’s every movement is deliberate, idle, almost lazy, clearly reveling in this woman and the warmth of her unarmored flesh cradled in his lap. Delicate, human, horribly soft and fragile. Vulnerable.

Pouf could tear out her insides in an instant. He could rip through the milk of her skin and devour her whole. As he should, as is proper between a Chimera ant and their source of human nutrients. 

He grits his teeth. He wouldn’t dare. Not yet. Not unless the time was right.

Her eyelids flutter, unseeing, and his king’s blunt fingers hold her thighs up and apart, and Pouf realizes his king is displaying all of her, showing off the spoils of his soft mate before the eyes of his servant, unashamed of their coupling.

Pouf wonders if her blood would taste as sweet as the scent of her slick, glistening down her thighs.

Instantly, he is fiercely almost grateful in some twisted, terrible way that Komugi has her eyes closed. That, besides, she is blind, that she can’t see him from her seat in his king’s lap, join his king in watching the utter humiliation of his guard. She can hear his small sounds of discomfort, she knows he is there, she may be thrilled by that knowledge, but she cannot see or scent his shame. Komugi moans again and Pouf huffs. Even if she was fully coherent, he sincerely doubts she would have the awareness to focus on him. His king is, as always, intensely thorough with his attention. The full focus of his king is dizzying, intoxicating, and this human woman is basking in it.

Slick slides down Pouf’s inner thighs, collects in the creases of his pants, and he doesn’t look away. He feels more cold sweat collecting on his back. He keeps his eyes fixed on the spectacle before him.

Despite the mewling woman in his lap, his king still looks regal. Pouf could actually almost cry (he probably will cry) despite everything, despite the injustice of it all, proud of the virility and animalistic dominance of his king before human swine, a god amongst mortals.

There is another deep thrust, a slapping of skin against exoskeleton, another sickening squelch. Pouf finds himself breathing faster at the sound of every wet slide, arms trembling from the strain of behaving, of obeying, of accepting this punishment with dignity and keeping his hands back. To keep himself still. His wings twitch, besides.

Meruem grunts when Komugi clenches around him and Pouf chokes on air.

His king meets his eyes again for a moment and bares his teeth. The woman hmms and twists. He nibbles on her neck and Komugi garbles a stuttering “S-Supreme leader, what—” before his king distracts her with a more insistent bite and she forgets how to form the words.

His king spreads her wider, lifts her again like she’s featherlight, like she weighs nothing, because to him, she does, she is little more than a pathetic doll in his grasp — and he drops her again, pistons his hips up to meet her, driving himself deeper than before. When he draws back his mouth, there is a reddening spot against the cream of her skin in the shape of his teeth.

His king bites her again, marking his claim, and Pouf stares, feeling an acidic stab of something twist deep in his gut that he refuses to justify or acknowledge.

She writhes and mewls and she has a runny nose constantly and she gently holds his king’s face with one of her tiny, doughy hands, and his king smiles and nuzzles her and it’s so tender and genuine that Pouf swallows down a spike of jealous rage so strong that he could crawl out of his skin.

And yet. He clenches his hands into fists behind his back, hidden behind the cloak of his wings. He doesn’t move. He follows the orders of his king. His king has ordered him to watch, to not move. Pouf’s eyes are fixed at where his king’s olive flesh disappears and reappears from the slick folds between her legs.

Komugi’s stomach flutters with each thrust, where —Pouf swallows, and realizes— his king is so much larger than her that Pouf realizes as Komugi keens and her mouth drops wider and his king drills himself into her he is feeling himself through her skin. brushing his tail proudly against the spot where her stomach bulges.

Pouf’s mouth goes dry.

It’s barbaric. It’s divine. He knows he is still trembling.

His wings are windswept and rustling behind him despite all of his efforts to remain still and unbothered. His king shifts one muscled leg, his foot a firm slide against the crease of Pouf’s thigh, tauntingly close but still too far away, blessing Pouf with physical contact but denying him any touch that could bring relief.

Pouf could cry. He could scream. His arms ache. He shudders. He doesn’t know how much more of this he can take.

Meruem fucks up into Komugi in his lap and nudges the seam of Pouf’s slacks beneath his heel, pushing down against the head of his servant’s cock. Slick fluid gushes through the fabric and Pouf shudders,

“Please,” he gasps. “M-my king, please, I—”

“Be silent”

His king pushes down harder and Pouf tries he tries but despite his best efforts he keens and trembles and his king, his king—

His king coils his tail around one of the woman’s legs and moves a hand between them, seemingly ignoring Pouf entirely, sliding below the coarse white curls. He grins in success when he brushes against something hidden above her folds and Komugi wails. His king keeps moving his blunt fingers in gentle circles, rubbing the bundle of nerves, driving himself in and out of the woman faster and faster until he is almost frantic. It’s tender, it’s horrifying, his foot grinds against Pouf almost instinctively, retroactively.

Pouf shakes and bites his lip until it bleeds.

Komugi stiffens and comes with an even louder wail and full body shudder and a rush of fluids that seems to surprise even Meruem. Seeing his king caught unawares almost overwhelms Pouf, and yet, with a shaky breath, his king still thrusts up, up, harder, insistent and chasing his peak despite her squirms of oversensitivity. Every slap of their bodies is punctuated by her breathy sighs, her terrible little noises, and his king slides two slick fingers into her mouth. She groans around his fingers, muffled, drooling at the taste of her on his hand. Meruem is panting. This time, when he thrusts up, she pushes her hips down, burying Meruem deep within herself. He curls around her body, twitching and grunting, and —Pouf almost swallows his tongue— his king fills her until she leaks, her stomach swelling slightly with the volume of it. Komugi goes still and whines again before she breathes heavily, shaking and smiling and limp in his arms.

Still holding her legs wide, his member retracts back into its sheath. With nothing keeping it back, their combined fluids gush out, and Komugi squirms at the sensation no doubt embarrassed as it leaks out, down, staining the armchair, spattering onto the floor and Pouf’s ruined slacks. Pouf shudders, tasting blood, refusing to press forward, to demand attention.

Meruem slides his fingers back between her folds, lazy and sated, and she groans.

His king nuzzles her neck, kisses the angry marks with gentle lips. He coats his fingers, spreads them to keep her open, playing with the copious slick that oozes out every time the woman clenches around his splayed fingers, unable to keep anything inside. He gathers it with his thumb, fascinated, pushing it back in until she wriggles and complains and he relents.

Meruem fixes Pouf with his stare. “Lean forward.”

His knees ache in protest, yet. His king rubs his foot alongside Pouf’s cock, almost as a reward.

Pouf bends, eyes downcast. 

“Open your mouth.”  

Pouf obeys. He always obeys. His king fills his mouth quickly, two fingers inside, forcing his servant to taste the proof of their coupling and Pouf is unable to close his mouth, unable to speak, overwhelmed with the cloying salt-bitter tang of it. He’s sticky, wet, his vision blurs and stings with a pressing threat of tears from the intrusion. 

“This is where you belong, Shaiapouf.”

Pouf meets the eyes of his king, that stabbing spike of something twists again in his stomach, uncurling with a rush of heat.

Meruem hums in approval, slippery fingers against Pouf’s tongue. His king grinds his foot directly against Pouf’s cock and Pouf garbles a sound around Meruem’s knuckles.  

“Below me, below your queen,” Meruem purrs, and Komugi shifts in his lap, murmuring, pleased. Pouf whines and his king’s thumb is under Pouf’s chin, holding him still, holding him in place, holding him open, and Pouf feels delirious with need. He's  desperate to listen, to obey, to be good, senses filled with his king and this woman and held on the edge of release, horribly flayed and raw to the very core of his being.

Pouf attempts a reply again and gags when Meruem presses down and back on his tongue, forcing his jaw wider to accommodate the girth of his fingers.

“I thought I ordered you to stay silent.”

Pouf drools as Meruem’s smile is all teeth, all danger, all full of mirthless promise, and Pouf feels himself throb under his king’s heel. He's rubbed raw against the seam. Pouf squeezes his hands so tightly that he feels his well-manicured nails bite into his palms.

His king withdraws his fingers slightly, petting Pouf’s tongue. “Good.”

Meruem shifts his leg, rubs his foot more insistently. Pouf is cross-eyed in the effort to not make a sound.

His king, unmoved, divine, presses down harder, the filthy wet squelching of it against Pouf’s drenched slacks filling the room. Pouf strains, and he can’t, he can’t help it, he breaks soft and low and deep in his throat, unable to stop himself hiding the noise behind his teeth with his mouth held open the way it is, and Meruem knows that, Meruem, terribly cruel and all-knowing and wonderful Meruem laughs and says,


Pouf cries out desperately at the order from his king. He feels himself crest and pulse and crest again and Meruem presses down and he shakes, and finally, finally, with a blinding wave that turns his vision white, Pouf comes. His chest burns with each breath. His king presses his foot down once more, brutal, deliberate, insistent to the point of pain, and Pouf jerks, spasms from the force of it, wings rustling like dry leaves, sobbing and drooling around Meruem’s knuckles.

His king withdraws his fingers and pats Pouf’s trembling cheek, smearing all manner of fluids with his touch. “Good boy.”

Pouf shudders at the praise. He feels boneless, wrung out and aching. If he wasn’t on his knees, he’s sure that he would have long collapsed.

His king gathers Komugi in his arms and stands. He indicates the mess of the armchair with a tip of his head, and Pouf understands. “Clean this up.”

Pouf shudders, sticky and wet, and nods, staring at soiled floor before him as Meruem retreats to the bed with his queen. Pouf’s voice feels raw.

“Yes, my king.”