Poppy’s perfect pink nails dig into your wrist once the bell rings, causing a piercing pain to travel up your arm. You meet her chocolate brown eyes, cold and unrelenting.
You furrow your brows, confusion making its way onto your expression. Everyone else is going already, and the class empties out quickly, leaving only the two of you in front of the teacher’s wooden desk.
“What is it?” You ask. Poppy never talks to you in a public space, if it isn’t an attempt to mortify you in front of the whole school. And when it’s only the two of you… well, usually very little talking is involved, not when your lips are trailing paths all over her skin.
Her wanting to talk is new, and you’re not sure what you should expect from it.
“Are you fucking professor Kingsley?”
The question is so blunt and unexpected that it leaves you speechless for a few seconds, mouth slightly open.
Her nails dig in even deeper, causing you to tear your arm away from her grasp with a hiss. Your wrist is marked, now. “Ah fuck Poppy, that hurt!”
“There are rumors going around,” she continues, ignoring your complaints “that you and the professor do more than just grading papers in her private office.”
She’s angry, you can tell. It’s not the kind of explosive anger you got used to, that leads to shouting and threats. Her rage is quiet and icy, this time, turning her eyes into hard stones.
Her ire only manages to make you angry as well.
“And why should I tell you,” you spit out, causing her eyes to flash dangerously . You have to force yourself not to flinch. No matter how much time you’ve spent with the woman, she still manages to somewhat scare you.
“Because,” she replies, her voice just above a whisper between white, clenched teeth, “I don’t share. And if you can’t make me your only priority, it’s not gonna work between us.”
Laughter bubbles up from your chest, coming out ugly and mocking. “Well this is just rich, coming for you,” you exclaim, whispering be damned. “Poppy, you have a boyfriend, for hell’s sake. It seems a little late do decide that whatever we have going on is exclusive.”
“So you are fucking her.”
“That’s not what I said!” You exclaim, now exasperated “but even if I was, it’s not any of your fucking business.”
“It’s not anything like my boyfriend!” She shouts back, sounding like an angry child. Poppy lashes out, as she often does when unable to control her own feelings, and tries to shove you back. However, you’re ready for her, grasping her hands and pulling her in against your body. She’s shorter than you are, and she has to tilt her chin up to stare into your eyes, breath grazing your lips.
“How is it different?” You ask with a calm tone, suddenly collected once again. You feel her breathing catch in her throat at your proximity, her expensive perfume is strong and intoxicating.
“Because I don’t like my boyfriend,” she whispers, and hell, she almost sounds shy, insecure. It’s that side of her that you’ve seen so rarely, and it intimidates you even more than her bursts of anger. Because Poppy is human, and not a perfect ceramic doll, or a post on the T.
“but the way you look at Kingsley, I…”
You feel your heart beat faster at that confession, and heat envelopes you. “Oh,” you manage to say. So that’s what it is about? Poppy is jealous of your feelings? It makes your head spin, because how could anyone expect something like that?
“Yeah,” she says bitterly, “ ‘oh’. Now let me go.” She gives an half hearted tug, unable to free herself from your grasp. Instead of freeing her, you pull her even closer than before, molding her form against yours.
The taste of her lips is familiar, by now, sweet cherry. You feel her stiffen beneath you for barely a second, before she’s kissing back with a slow exhale. There has always been hunger inside you, when you kissed her. But now it’s different, it’s even better, and it’s scary, because for some reason Poppy hates the idea of you liking someone else. And that means something, and you wonder when your hookups have started to have meaning, after weeks and weeks of affairs behind closed doors.
As the kiss deepens you let her wrists go to grasp at her hips, keeping her in place, your fingers poking at her like claws. She moans softly in your mouth, as she lets her arms circle around your shoulders.
It’s otherworldly, kissing Poppy Min Sinclair. You don’t think you’ll ever get tired of that unique feeling, and you wonder how you ever did without it in the first place.
You think of her boyfriend, that blonde, narcissistic actor that she doesn’t even like, and you gently bite into her lower lip, claiming her.
She whimpers as her fingers grasp onto your hair, and God, it’s addictive to feel her unravel beneath you.
“Not here,” she gasps when you finally let her lips go. However, her hands push you your head against her neck, as you possessively lick and bite the fair skin of her throat.
You had forgotten where you were, and frankly, you don’t even give a damn anymore. If you get caught, Poppy gets caught as well, and you would both fall from grace. You let your hands travel down her body, under her skirt, until you’re palming the burning flesh of her thighs.
It doesn’t take too much effort to lift her petite form up, and you’re kissing her again as you settle her on the mahogany desk.
You lean back, just enough to take her appearance in. Her eyes are barely open and glassy, her lips are plump and her hair is disheveled. Right now, Poppy looks like the incarnation of sex, and you hold in a whine when she slowly licks the lip that you had just bitten.
Poppy is anything but a patient woman, she grabs the collar of your shirt with a heated “don’t you dare stop now,” and while you ravish her mouth you let your fingers slip under her skirt once again.
Her underwear is soaked, you feel it just with a brush of you knuckles, and you hear Poppy’s breathing stop for a second, her hips rolling against your hand.
In another occasion you’d draw back and tease, make fun of how desperate she’s being for your touch. But right now what you want is to fill her, to wipe away from her mind whatever pitiful attempt her boyfriend might have made with her in the bedroom.
Poppy moans when you scoot the lacy cloth to the side and let your fingers touch her directly, feeling just how wet she is for you. She’s pressed hard against you, chest against chest, lips against lips, and even if your wrist is bent in an almost uncomfortable position, you slip two fingers inside her.
“God,” she says against your mouth, meeting your hand with rhythmic thrusts of her hips. She doesn’t kiss you anymore, she just bites her lip and closes her eyes, forehead pressed against yours. It makes pride and hunger tear into your chest, the way you are absolutely wrecking her world, and when you suck at her neck and curl your fingers she gasps your name like a prayer instead of a curse. She comes with a muted scream, stiffening against you, ass raised from the desk, and then she finally comes down with a sigh.
“God,” she says once again, her hand coming to fix her hair, scooting blonde locks away from her own face, as you wipe your glistening fingers against your pants.
“Good?” You ask her with a cheeky smirk, and she rolls her eyes as an answer, even when you can see the small grin tugging at the corner of her lips.
You snort, fixing the collar of your shirt. Then it’s quiet, and you’re no longer in your own private bubble with a gorgeous lover, but you’re in an empty classroom with the woman you despise the most in the whole school. She gets off the desk and you know it’s over like that.
You won’t talk about what happened, about what she said, and you’ll do it all once again, like always.
“I’m not having an affair with professor Kingsley.” You state, before she can leave. You don’t know why you do it, but you do nevertheless. Poppy stops in her tracks and looks at you, her face is unreadable.
“Just so you know.” You feel the need to clarify to her.
You swear you can see her eyes soften for a second, and you wonder if her shoulders relax because of relief.
“Okay.” She says, looking almost as awkward as you feel. She takes a lock of her hair and brings it behind her ear. “See you tomorrow, then.”
You give her a wry smile. Tomorrow, when you’ll be back at screaming at each other for the pure enjoyment of everyone else in that building, like a couple of starved tigers that are forced to circle each other in a circus, while the crowd goes wild.
“See you tomorrow, Poppy.” You agree.
She hesitates and opens her mouth, as if to tell you something, but then she decides against it and turns around, closing the door and leaving you behind.
Thank you anon for this 😳😳
Tag: @origmansello @poppysminion
