skts nsfw // sex pollen bottsumu cw: dubcon Atsumu needs to stop accepting gifts from strangers. A bouquet of weird looking flowers had been thrust into his arms by a masked fan in a MSBY hoodie on his way back to the hotel. He thought they were safe! He was wrong.

"Miya," Kiyoomi pants into his neck, tongue against his skin and tasting the sweat, "Miya you can't do that again." "Can ya at least call me by my name while you're f-fucking me, Omi?" Atsumu tries to breathe as Kiyoomi pistons into him, both of them desperate for orgasm.

Relief is the only thing on their minds. --- "Those are ugly flowers, Miya." Kiyoomi glared at him when Atsumu returned to their room, proudly displaying them on the desk. "Good thing they're not yours, then." "Put your tongue back in your mouth, so help me."

They were shockingly good road roomies, so after Atsumu took another whiff of the sweet smelling flowers (and sneezed right back into them, /thanks/ pollen allergy) he crawled into his bed and started quietly watching game tape. It was nice, like this. Sitting in silence.

"Seriously, why do they look like that?" Scratch that, Kiyoomi was a menace. "There's nothin' wrong with the flowers, Omi." "They're so.... lewd." And maybe they were. Thick stems, short petals and a bulbous center, the stigma white and dripping out of it, it looked... hmm.

"Well, they're staying, so you better get used to them." "I'll toss them while you sleep, Miya." He wouldn't, Atsumu knew this. Maybe he should have, though. It would have solved so many problems.

"Is it getting hot?" Atsumu asked an hour later, tugging at his collar. Sweat pooled at the base of his neck and on his chest, which was strange for winter. "Yeah..." Kiyoomi didn't look any better. He always sweated more, and there were dark stains on his sleep shirt already.

But when he stood to check, he stumbled and clutched his chest. "What the fuck." "Y'okay, Omi?" Atsumu tossed his tablet aside and pressed a hand to his forehead. "Shit, you're burning up." "You're one to talk, Miya, your hand is on fire."

Atsumu huffed. "Well screw me for trying." But when he tried to pull his hand away, Kiyoomi stopped him. "W-wait," he said. "Feels good when you touch me." What the fuck. "Omi, are you losing your mind?" "No!" But he looked sick or something, face going red, sweaty temples.

"You're one to talk, Miya. You're hard. That's insane." Kiyoomi's eyes were glued to his crotch, and he licked his lips. Part of Atsumu wanted to chase it with his own tongue. Part of Atsumu wanted to look down and see what Kiyoomi said was true.

But no part of Atsumu was prepared for what would come next. When he checked, he /was/ hard, and he suddenly became aware that his cock was aching, and the bundle of nerves inside of him pulsed with heat, and every slight movement made his skin tingle.

He was also achingly horny; so horny he wanted to lick up Kiyoomi's moles and see if they all tasted different. "Omi... I don't feel so good." He fell onto Kiyoomi's mattress, and it was obvious Kiyoomi wasn't doing much better because he didn't complain about his germs.

"My skin feels so hot, Miya." He reached out to grab Atsumu's hand and squeezed tight, but in that moment they both found relief. But only for a moment. "My nerves feel like they might explode," Atsumu said.

"And I have never been this hard in my /life/. It made me lightheaded." No wonder he had no complaints. With each passing moment the heat inside of them grew, burning them from the inside out. Every breath, every movement left them reeling unless they were touching each other.

Eventually, they ended up naked - in their shared madness they realized that /touching/ alleviated the ache, cleared their minds, but the relief was only ever momentary. They were running out of skin to touch.

Both of them dutifully ignored the other's cock, twitching and aching and angry, precum cresting at the tip. Lurid and hard. "We should... Meian..." Atsumu muttered into the curve of Kiyoomi's shoulder, and he hissed with pleasure, arching his back and pressing closer.

When he opened his eyes, he saw something unbelievable. "Miya, the flower!" Atsumu looked. Where before the stigma had been limp, it stood tall, a creamy white. The entire stem looked plumper, and the tip was an angry red, like flushed skin. It looked... "Lewd was right."

"Omi," Atsumu asked, nervous and lucid suddenly. "What do you think is happening to us?" "I don't know, Miya," he said, even as his cock rocked against Atsumu's hip, nearly against his will, "but I have a feeling it's going to be messy."

Atsumu laughed, but Kiyoomi's irises went dark and he stared down at Atsumu's lips, heavy with intent. Heavy with purpose. Heavy, like ripe fruit, with the need to be plucked. "Miya, your lips..." he muttered, and that was all the warning he got before Kiyoomi pounced.

His memory of the next few moments is really funny. He knows he tasted the inside of Kiyoomi's mouth - like mouthwash and overripe cherries - and his nose filled with the scent of fruit off of his skin.

Knows that there was touching; that their bodies were wet with sweat and precum and spit, because Kiyoomi kept licking him, trying to taste every inch of his skin.

"You're sweet, Miya," he said, before diving in to suck up a nipple and make Atsumu shriek, or shock him into digging his heels into the mattress to lick between his abs.

But /Atsumu/ was the one pressing Kiyoomi closed and closer to his body, pushing his face into the meat of his thigh and the back of his knee, letting Kiyoomi push him against the wall and suck his cock.

And Atsumu was the one watching /something/ ooze out of the tip of the flower, sticky like cum before it exploded into a starburst of iridescent powder hovering all around them, painting the air like a night sky. Making him hotter than ever.

And it was Atsumu who came first, ropes of cum painting Kiyoomi's pretty face and mouth. He didn't even complain about the mess, which is how - in Atsumu's brief moment of clarity - he knew something had gone horribly wrong.

He could feel the heat creeping up on him again as he stared down in horror at his still rock hard cock, cum pearled at the tip. Felt an ache in his ass, a yearning to be filled, and realized what they might have to do.

Staved off Kiyoomi's attempts to pull him back into bed by asking questions. Kiyoomi's mind was still altered; he hadn't cum yet, and Atsumu was the opposite of cumdrunk.

"How are ya feeling?" he asked, while rooting desperately through his suitcase. "Wanna fuck you," Kiyoomi held him tight around his middle, and Atsumu felt his cock press up against his ass. "Feels good like this, Miya."

"I know, I know." He gulped. It felt good to him too. Too good. Like the only thing in the world he was meant for was being filled. By Kiyoomi. Jesus.

Maybe if Atsumu were more lucid he would have texted Meian for help, or Foster, or called the hotel or the hospital or the prime minister or anyone that could help them.

But his cock was burning. He was melting. And as the smell of fruit overtook his senses and the heat burned his skin, and every touch of Kiyoomi's cock rutting against his ass felt like sweet relief, there was only one thing on his mind

Holding up the small container of lube like a trophy as his mind became overtaken once more with lust, he grinned at Kiyoomi. "I bet you'll feel real good inside me, Omi."

And that brings them here. Kiyoomi, in his ass, chastising him for the /fucking/ flowers. "Call me Atsumu and fuck me like you mean it," he says.

The side of his head is pressed into the pillow so he can breathe, and Kiyoomi's all over him, smothering every inch of his skin with his own skin, like that'll help the burn.

It doesn't. What /does/ help is the way Kiyoomi's cock pounds his prostate, makes his thighs clench till they're weak and he feels boneless, supported only by Kiyoomi's tight grip around his middle. He's gonna bruise so badly.

"Fine then. Come on /Atsumu/," he grunts, pounding deeper inside him with every syllable, fucking the breath right out of him, "we're almost there, I can feel it.

"O-omi," he says, pleasure building in his gut without relief, without real feeling, but Kiyoomi nuzzles into the nape of his neck and pets his hair. "I've got you, Atsumu," he says, and his breath is hot but it soothes Atsumu right down to the core of him, a fresh wind.

Crisp mint against the ripe fruit. Even so, his pace is relentless, pounding in and out and occasionally grinding his cock in deeper, twisting his hips in circles like he can get closer to him that way.

It keeps Atsumu on his toes; keeps surprising him, keeps pounding the air out of his lungs and the ache from his heart, because he /knows/ this is his fault, knows this isn't how he ever wanted to do this, knows-

"S-sorry Omi," he gasps out, when Kiyoomi presses into him and doesn't move, like he's chasing his own elusive orgasm. "Sorry I brought those flowers in. Sorry I didn't toss 'em out. Sorry i-" did this to you, he wants to say.

But Kiyoomi's cock twitches inside him, and he loses the words to the feeling. "Hush, Atsumu" Kiyoomi says.

They're pressed together everywhere; Kiyoomi's legs bracketing his, Atsumu's plump ass spread wide around his cock, back to chest so he feels the sweat and hair all across Kiyoomi's body, arms wrapped around him and Kiyoomi's lips right against his ear.

"Don't apologize," Kiyoomi continues, and his voics sounds so serious Atsumu almost thinks he's lucid. "This could have happened to anyone. But since it happened to you, I want to say," he groans then, and readjusts himself inside Atsumu.

Atsumu gasps, pleasure erupting in his spine, his toes, his fingertips. Every nerve ending. His brain goes bright with sparks. "I want to say," Kiyoomi grits out, still trying to drill deeper inside of him, "that I'm glad it was you. I'm glad it was /us./"

"Ya don't have to lie, Omi-" "Listen to me, Atsumu," he hisses, pulling him up so Atsumu has no choice but to fall down onto his cock, chest in the air and /sensitive/ to the slight breeze. Upright, he can feel the blood rush back to his cock, and he whimpers.

"If this happened to you alone, I would tear at your door to be here with you. If this happened to you and someone else, I'd rip them off your body and leave them to rot. So when I say I am glad -" he fucks up into Atsumu to emphasize his point "- it's with you, I /mean/ it."

Atsumu's legs are barely touching the mattress; Kiyoomi's holding him up with his pure, insane strength, and - oh /god/ - there's a hand on his cock too, pumping it hard and fast and so so relieving, while Kiyoomi grinds inside him in a way that makes his brain go-

"Ahh!" Atsumu yells, leaning his head back against Kiyoomi to ground himself, scrambling for any part of Kiyoomi he can reach. He comes for the second time that night, with Kiyoomi all around him, the harsh grunts and pants of Kiyoomi's own orgasm chasing after him.

There's no scent of cherries or fruit in the air.

Later. "We're getting rid of that plant, Atsumu. /Immediately./" "I think it's cute!" The glitter has dissipated and the flower has gone flaccid, wilting sideways and colorless.

They're both dehydrated as hell but otherwise back to normal, the strange madness that had overtaken them totally clear from their minds. Kiyoomi blushes when he sees how spitslick Atsumu's skin is, and Atsumu gasps when he sees the cum dried on Kiyoomi's face. They're a wreck.

Suddenly there's a knock on their door. "Hey guys?" Meian says. "Don't accept any weird gifts, okay? There's something weird going around. G'night!" They're quiet until they hear his footsteps disappear down the hall.

Atsumu looks at Kiyoomi, who looks at the plant. "Incinerator?" "Incinerator." "This didn't happen." Kiyoomi says. "Agreed. You confessed to me because I won our service ace bet."

"/Absolutely/ not. You confessed because I looked cute washing my face." "No one looks cute washing their face!" They don't get their stories straight, even in the morning, even after breakfast. No one suspects a thing.

(fin) thank u for putting up with this on your timeline. Once again I had a horny demon to exorcise. Don't accept weird looking plants from weird looking strangers.