unexpected audience — ft. kyryll chudomirovich flins
synopsis: flins is good at fucking you—you know that, and he knows that, too. it doesn’t hurt if maybe the ghosts are also made aware
before you read. ❤︎ 2k word count ; female reader ; established relationship ; smut — mdni ; exhibitionism ; mating press ; unprotected sex ; creampie ; praise ; i have no dignity left from writing this so i could not bear to proof read lol </3
commentary. ❤︎ i have no comments i would just like to say everyone should block @luffysprincess and @neiptune while you have the chance there is pure evil in their dna’s
Your favorite thing about Flins is how good he is at talking. Ironically, your least favorite thing is also how good he is at talking.
You don’t like how convincing he can be. (But then again, it’s rather enjoyable when he’s…well, convincing. You don’t ever have a bad time.)
“How lucky I am,” he murmurs, his nose brushing against the column of your throat. He inhales. It’s a sweet scent—the smell of your sweat and your lingering perfume. He likes when he gets to breathe it in right here as his hands dig into your thighs and press your knees closer to your chest. “Aren’t you just a marvelous sight? Breathtaking as always, my light.”
“H-how would you know,” you stutter, “it’s dark—would it kill you to have some more light in here?”
He chuckles.
“Is it? But I can see you just fine,” he murmurs. He rolls his hips once more—the thick, warm girth of his cock dragging along your walls once more and building the pressure in your core with just a little more friction. You whine, and he grins with a little too much satisfaction. “Your face is glowing, did you know? And there’s that divine little way you scrunch your nose—I can see it all clearly. Oh, and we mustn’t forget the way your lips part when you say my name. Wouldn’t you be so kind as to say it once more? For me?”
You’d call him evil if you had the clarity. Instead, you cry, “F-flins,” with a sharp gasp as the tip of his cock slams against a particularly sweet spot at the back of your walls.
He knows that spot a little too well. It’s a little too familiar, and he never fails to remind you that he knows exactly where you need him to fall apart.
“Ah, there it is,” he says happily, “a precious sound, indeed. I envy anyone who gets to hear your voice utter their name—would it be selfish if I asked you to only say mine?” His tone enough makes you feel praised—something you crave a little too much when it comes to him. You like when he’s happy with you. He gives you plenty of honeyed, sugared words when he is. Words that make you so quick to become pliant and weak under his touch.
Spread your legs a little wider for me, darling—you know how beautiful you are when you do. Somehow, you always do when he asks. Ah-ah, don’t hide your face—let me see how you look when you come undone, won’t you? I craved seeing you all day. You can’t bring yourself to hide your face when he asks so politely. Give me one more, my light—you can, can’t you? You always do. And just like that, you’re caving and bending for his whims once more.
It’s easy for Flins to fuck you. He’s good at it when he does, and you can’t ever say no when he wants to. (Because you always want it, too, your heart tells you. No, he’s just very, very good at being convincing, your mind argues). But it’s easy. You make it easy for him to bed you, and he makes it easy for it to be worth it.
His fingers brush along your lower belly. The skin is smooth as silk and he traces it like he worships the feeling of you under his touch. Slow. Careful. Deliberate. Every second his fingertips trace along your body, you feel a dizzying heat of his touch mapping your body out.
And then it finds its way between your legs, right above where he has you split open on his thick length. His thumb latches onto your clit, rubbing precise circles that make your back arch upward—his other hand his quick to plant itself at the small of your back, cradling your body as you mewl.
“You seem to rather enjoy that, don’t you, my darling?” He coos, “Shall I keep it up? Touching you here?”
Another quick circle onto the sensitive bundle of nerves. It’s perfectly timed with a sharp roll of his hips, his tip bullying past your folds. It’s messy—there’s a pool of your slick at the base of his cock, and it’s smeared along your inner thighs. He made a good point of bringing it to your attention, too—my, what a pleasant mess I am greeted with, my dear. Surely I haven’t earned such an eager response from your body with so little? We’ve hardly begun.
Smug. He’s so, irritatingly smug with words dipped in gold. They’re soft and precious and rich the more pure they are, and they lure you in with greed. And you fall for it every time.
Every damn time.
“Close,” you pant, voice a breathless whisper, “s-so close, Flins—th-think…think m’bout to cum—”
He groans at that. He’s good at charming you, but he’s not immune to that effortless charm of your own. You don’t even know it, he thinks—you don’t even know that you have him wrapped around those pretty little fingers without even trying.
His cock does a twitch. He’s close too—you know because there’s a small change in his pace. A touch sloppier. A little less rhythmic with the way he drills into you. A little more desperate as he chases the friction of dragging every ridge and every vein along your slick heat.
You hum a little, grinning to yourself as you pull him down and wrap your arms around his neck, pressing your lips into a wet, messy kiss. Your walls clench around him, and he groans into your mouth, making a soft, low sound that you drink up greedily.
“Does that feel good?” You whisper.
“Must I elaborate such obvious things?” He asks roughly.
“Won’t you indulge me with your usual sweetness?” You plead.
He’s weak—for you, he is. So he groans once more, heavy and labored breaths fanning across your lips as he feels the tight, warm squeeze of your walls around his cock. It’s good—so good, in fact, that he’s almost at a loss for words. (A miracle in and of itself, he thinks. Flins is hardly at a loss for words—he’s quite good at articulating what he wants to say, in fact).
“Well, if I must—yes. You do feel good,” he pants, voice breaking just a fraction as your walls flutter around the throbbing cock that bullies into you. “You…you are a wonder—so soft and sweet and exquisite. I fear one day I may wake up and find you gone. A figment of my imagination. You’d never let that happen, would you my dear?”
“N-no,” you whine, breath getting heavier as the familiar build up creeps up on you. “Never…n-never leaving.”
“An undeniable relief,” he chuckles breathlessly. “I was almost worried—”
He cuts off his own words the second he senses it. Flins can sense things a little quicker than you.
There’s a creak in the door. There’s a weird howl in the wind. There are the faintest, quietest echoes of what sounds like footsteps.
You think you’re imagining it. He knows a little better than that.
It’s not like you can pay it much mind—you’re in a bit of a predicament yourself to pay too much attention to your surroundings. One particularly harsh thrust of his hips, and you forget what you were thinking in the first place.
He tends to do that to you.
“What utterly unremarkable timing,” he almost grumbles. “I always thought my neighbors to be a little more…considerate.”
Flins lives alone on this small little island that he calls home. He keeps to himself. There are no signs of life apart from him and you and the frostlamp flowers that grow along the cemetery. There are no neighbors…unless he means the ghosts.
And then you notice it—the pair of eyes in the corner. The other right beside the first. The pair in the distance to your left and the one that’s a little closer to your right. They watch you carefully, watch the way your knees are folded to press you in half and the way his cock disappears and reappears every time he practically pulls out just to slide back into you all the way. You’re sure they take note of the way his hand—free of gloves for now, has a persistent thumb attached to your clit with those harsh circles that make you dizzy.
It feels shameful, having the dead watch you this way. It feels almost like they are mocking the way you are so alive—watching the way your heart is erratic and your body is worked up to such a heightened state.
“W-wait,” you gasp, “there’s p-people—”
“Yes, it would appear we have an audience,” he clicks his teeth, “how impolite. I don’t appreciate sharing—selfish as it may seem.”
“We should stop—they’ll s-see—”
“Then show them, my darling,” he leans down and presses a soft, delicate scatter of kisses along your jaw. “Perhaps they only wish to watch, don’t they?” His voice is almost a purr now, wicked and low. Still dangerously sweet. His hips snap into you harder, forcing you to take every inch. “Show them how beautiful you are when you come apart.”
Your protest dies in your throat when his thumb grinds cruelly once more over your clit, dragging tight circles that make your thighs shake. You can feel every stare searing through you, their hollow eyes fixed on where you’re split wide open around him. Shame burns in your chest—but it only makes the heat in your belly throb sharper, dirtier.
“Flins—ah, f-fuck—” you choke on your own words when he pulls almost all the way out—but you don’t mourn the loss of him filling you when he slams back to the hilt, the sound wet and obscene in his quiet home in the graveyard. His hand presses at your lower belly, holding you in place, making you feel how he fills you up inside. “They’re—they’re going to see me—”
“Let them,” he sings against your ear, biting at your lobe. “Let them envy what it means to have a pulse. Let them watch you bleed with pleasure.” His thumb flicks faster—it’s almost merciless, and you’re keening now, arching shamelessly so every phantom eye can see how your body reacts and begs for more.
You’re dizzy, your thighs are quivering, and your chest is heaving as you writhe under his touch. He pistons into you like he means to fuck you straight through the earth, the rich soil that houses his troublesome neighbors that don’t know to mind their business. He’s good at dragging the sounds out of your throat no matter how you try to swallow them—no matter how much dignity you try to preserve. His pace is too brutal, too expert at making you lose composure to keep it together in front of your….unexpected audience.
Finally, with a sharp cry, you’re breaking apart around him. You can feel your walls spasming around him with your release, wet and gushing over his cock. He hisses when you clamp down around him, thrusting deeper and rutting until he shudders inside you, spilling hot and thick ropes of cum while his teeth sink into your neck.
“P-perhaps one of these days you’ll kill me, too,” his voice cracks, “and I’ll join our intruders in the land of the dead with how you make my heart stop.”
“Flins,” you sob—it’s all you can manage to utter. All you can bring your incoherent mind to piece together as your nails press angrily into his shoulders and make bright red indents bloom into his skin. “F-feels…feels so good.”
“I’m sure they are aware,” he chuckles, “it’s written all over your face, my dear.”
He sounds a little satisfied with that. With the fact that there is a population of people—dead, of course, but a population all the same—that knows how good he is at fucking you. At making you fall apart around his cock and scream his name and weaken in his arms.
When you come down from your sigh, both trembling in the aftermath, he doesn’t let you hide. You try to pull hims down and bury your face into his neck, but he resists—instead, he drags your chin up so you’re looking directly at him, face fully on display. He’s still deep inside of you—and you’re still full of him, still stretched and dripping with his release.
“I believe they had a proper view, wouldn’t you say?” His voice hoarse but laced with triumph. “Even the dead cannot argue that I know your body better than anyone.”
Well .
