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Their footsteps are familiar, disturbing the organic detritus of the forest floor with feet that drag and kick through the settling leaves. Tiny bugs scurry out of their way, their weight unnoticeable until they cross over your roots and the little feelers that sense vibration can pick them up. You curl your petals down a little to welcome Gerard, displaying the intricate patterns that decorate your flower.
Gerard runs a hand along a petal in greeting when they reach you, and you arch the petal up to push back against their hand. "Your flower looks beautiful today," they hum, keeping their hand on you so you can pick up the vibration of their voice and interpret it. "It's even prettier than last year's."
The markings on your petals evolved specifically to be attractive to fly-people like Gerard, and you're always pleased to learn that they work every time. You nudge the tip of your petal gently at Gerard's legs, and they laugh. You can feel their laugh in your roots.
"I'm just looking. You just opened, don't you want me to look?" They've told you before that their faceted eyes make your patterns almost hypnotic when they fill their whole vision, repeating and tiling and making them feel breathless. You've never had any idea what 'seeing' is like, but it's nice to know Gerard enjoys looking at your flower. After all, it's made practically just for them.
They stand and look for a while, running their fingers over the petal you've curved up to meet them, until your pheromone glands finally catch on to their presence and release a load of rotting-meat smell into the air. Gerard inhales the scent deeply.
"Fuck, you smell good." They step up between your petals and wade into the center of your flower, thighs-deep in pollen-coated stamens. You fold your petals up around them, encasing them in the heady smell of rot. One petal curls back just a little bit to allow light in, illuminating the patterns in front of their eyes. Gerard runs their hand along the lines and then places their hands flat, leaning forward and spreading their legs to present themself to you.
Your prehensile stamen emerged from its pocket when you released the rot-smell, and now you drag it up Gerard's leg, smearing pollen along their inner thighs until their rough hairs are fully loaded with thick pollen. You tease at the hem of their short skirt before slipping the anther underneath to roll pollen all over their ass as well.
"Fuck, please," says Gerard when you stop, the tremor in their voice revealing how turned on just your scent and a bit of rubbing got them.
But you've only paused to allow the anther's pollen sheath to split and curl back, revealing the smooth pseudo-sex organ underneath. You rub it against Gerard's ass, just because.
Your first push in knocks all the wind out of Gerard and collapses them onto their elbows. It's always amazing what kind of effect you can have on them, especially as you slowly ease all the way in and they somehow melt more. Gerard always acts like it's the most revolutionary feeling on the planet. You appreciate that.
The first few thrusts are a warmup, coaxing natural lubricant from Gerard's body as they pant into the muscles of your curled petal. Then, you adjust your angle to rub against Gerard's seminal gland, and their hips buck forcefully.
"Fuck," buzzes Gerard, and digs their fingers into your petal. When you fuck in again, their hips snap to meet you harder. You can feel their seminal gland already leaking, dribbling precum down your anther along with the slimy lubricant from the rim. "Fuck," they moan again. "Faster. Please."
You oblige, of course. You can feel them clenching and shuddering around you with the stimulation, breathing heavy and uneven in not quite time with your thrusts.
At this pace, it takes no time at all until they're trembling like a high-canopy leaf and letting out high-pitched breathy moans, fucking themself back on you as hard as they can. You rub against their sensitive seminal gland with every movement, coaxing out as much precum as they can leak before it topples over into orgasm.
When it does, they come hard, shaking and gasping, and you fuck them through it, wringing every bit of the orgasm from their body until they collapse again against you. You pull out slowly, and their seminal fluid oozes down your stamen and smears between their thighs.
You let your petals relax to their resting state, lowering Gerard until they're lying flat, still breathing hard. They stroke you lightly with a tired hand.
"Thank you." You feel their quiet voice mostly through their chest now, the gentle rumble of their lungs soothing after all the action. "I forget how fucking good you feel."
As Gerard relaxes, your prehensile stamen retreats inside you, tucking the load of their seminal fluid into the brain-part that governs your flower's sex. By the time Gerard tugs their skirt back down over their ass and rolls over, your stamens have already received the instructions to wilt in order to be replaced by a single fat pistil to collect the pollen Gerard brings back later.
"I hope our other mate has big enough petals this year for me to take a long fucking nap before they fuck me," Gerard says. They're up on their elbow now, like they're about to get up. "I don't think I could walk back here after if I don't nap. My legs..." They trail off, running a hand between their thighs. "You feel so good inside me, you know?"
Of course you know. Since you don't feel sexual stimulation, you drink in Gerard's reactions hungrily. The echoes of their pleasure occupy your thoughts full-time during your dormant periods, and you eagerly await flowering season so you can make them feel so good again.
"So fucking good," says Gerard again. They swing their legs over the side of your petal, their skirt flared out around their bare ass. You can feel how slick they still are, and you briefly consider tipping them back into the center of your flower for a second round. They grind against you a little like they're thinking about it too, but then they get up, humming. "I'll be back later. Love you." Gerard swipes their finger through the wet spot where they'd just been sitting, and even though they don't say anything else beside a satisfied sigh, you know they're tasting their own fluids on their hand.
After a long moment, they wander away, walking a little unevenly. You listen to their footfalls contentedly, knowing it's because you fucked them so thoroughly. What's more, they'll return with different pollen in the evening for a third round, even more disheveled and well-fucked than before.