Poppy and Branch barely made it passed the door.
There are better places for this.
If Branch were a more patient troll, or more considerate, he’d take Poppy somewhere comfortable - but right now, he is neither of those things.
He’s on his knees and he is starving.
Poppy - she looks good enough to eat.
Squirming and pinned against the front door, fingers wound into his hair, the sound of his name breathy on her voice and further fraying as he claims her inner thighs with teeth and tongue. Pink flush paints her cheekbones, shyness and excitement, shadow of a smile curling at the corner of her mouth.
“Here?” The Pop Queen asks, too innocent, like he might forgive her all the longing looks and teasing kisses.
Poppy is the love of his life and it was completely obvious he was hers; The teal troll has hunger pangs and sweet tooth cravings and an instinct to retaliate, and Branch is not one to deny his nature.
“You’re lucky we made it this far,” Branch tells her, smirking as he shoves her dress above her hips.
Poppy tips her head back and laughs, shaky sighs that fast unravel when his mouth reaches the lace between her thighs. Branch feels the shiver rattle through her, liquid heat beneath his tongue, thumbing her thong aside to taste where she is warm and wet with slick.
Poppy stiffens, whimpers, tensing in her hips and legs. She tugs his hair between her fingers, hard enough to sting and draw a groan from somewhere in his lungs as his tongue maps practiced circles in against her clit. The pink troll sucks her lip as if she might stifle her growing whine, but it breaks loose and sings like music in his ears. Branch head spins, dizzied by her voice, the silk and taste of her against his tongue.
Her muscles flex and start to tremble, one leg slotting into place over his shoulder, locking him against her. A savage sense of pride swells in his chest, and Branch indulges himself with the soft span of her thighs, kissing and biting while his fingers rise between them, seeking, finding, pushing in to fill her.
“O-oh, god, that’s-!” Spasms wrack her hips, the sole of her boot slipping and losing traction as Poppy scrabbles to drag him closer. “So good, Branch, please!”
Branch fucks his fingers deeper in slow increments, waiting to hear her beg before obliging her with more, the flat of his tongue keeping languid pace. Eventually the borders of her words dissolve away and she can only mouth at vowels, voice split into pleading sounds. The survivalist feels the points of her nails scoring lines into his shoulder, precious little pains that barely hurt at all; some nights, Poppy leaves her mark in reddened arcs across his back, where they sting for days and days. Need throbs down from that biting pain to the stiff, twitching weight of his cock, aching for friction.
“Pleasepleaseplease,” releases through her teeth, the tension gripping her in waves and waning off to shudders, climbing just to fall again. Telltale moans catch in her throat, and she rocks shakily against his mouth, gasping when his lips round to pull gently at her clit.
Poppy lifts his gaze to watch her features twist with bliss, crooking his fingers, groaning at the wet, soft heat of her around them. She’s close, breakneck on a collision course, and babbling as she nears climax, breathless professions of her love, and his heart pounds in his chest with every frantic sighing of his name.
Branch rolls his tongue, his fingertips nudging against that tender point inside of her, and with the last hitch of her hips, Poppy unravels. Climax seizes her in phases: hands clenched into fists, white at the knuckles as she sobs and arches back against the door. “Yes, yes, fuck,” lifts and stutters on her tongue, and she clings to him with shaking hands, shattered and panting when the height of her rush breaks and fades away.
The Pop Queen slumps to her knees, abruptly drained of strength, shaping a pool of weightless limbs against the floor. Aftershocks still shiver in her body, and she watches him with lidded eyes, flashing a tipsy smile as Branch swipes a hand over his mouth.
“Couldn’t make it to the bed?” Poppy rasps, tracing a thumb across his bottom lip.
“Some things can’t wait.”
Her eyes are bright and satisfied as they drag lovingly down the length of his body, lingering where he is hard and waiting for her, and she doesn’t say as much, but her smile seems to agree. Determination hardens in her features, and that wicked glance is all the warning he gets before she shoves him back against the wall. Poppy's fingers tremble at the pocket of his shorts, her cheeks still flushed from coming when she dips her mouth to kiss the muscles in his stomach, tense beneath the skin. Slim fingers trace the shape of him, teasing at pressure, the warmth of her breath sinking through his clothes. Her lips lift the length of his cock, pausing to suck softly at the swollen head, and then she’s slipping his shorts down and Branch is flush against the wet heat of her mouth, her lips closing to draw him in over the soft pink of her tongue.
Blazing pleasure claws up through his nerves. Branch fights to keep his eyes open, to watch as Poppy holds his gaze and takes him deeper, tears welling at her lashes when he nudges at the tight grasp of her throat, then even deeper, and she shouldn’t, doesn’t have to, but oh god, he is helpless to stop her, rendered weak and speechless with each torturous curl of her tongue around him.
His cock glistens when Poppy retreats, slicking a hand around the base of him and dragging wrings of friction that make stars appear behind his eyelids, pleasure hooking deep beneath his gut and winding tighter, glimpsing into something just beyond his reach. The sound of her name falters on his voice, one hand weaving gingerly into the silk threads of her hair, and it takes all of his restraint not to grip down and fuck into that tempting heat, his fingers twitching restlessly with need.
The Pop Queen normally maintains a certain order of appearance, type A to the letter, and it thrills Branch to no end that he’s left her in such delicious disarray, the curtain of her hair messied and free, her dress rucked thoughtlessly aside, her mouth - oh, fuck, her mouth - swollen and wet and sealing into that breathtaking fit around his cock. Branch drinks in all the angles of her face, losing her features to a blissful blur as scorching heat rives into him, and he can only whine her name out through his teeth.
Poppy's lips sink tight around him, and she sucks, kneading with perfect suction, knots of pleasure twisting in the pit of his gut. Every part of him feels taut with tension, riding on the edge of an oblivion that threatens to swallow him whole, and with the taste of her still warm and slick at the back of his tongue, Branch gasps a ragged fuck and jerks and comes into the cavern of her mouth.
Blindly, he feels Poppy's tongue tracing around him, sucking through the lightning flashes of his climax, persisting even when the peak fades into overstimulation, and he pleads her, “Poppy, Poppy, please,” wracked with shivers as she finally releases him.
The teal troll staggers half a step back, swaying on his feet. Heaving for breath, he reaches out to curl a hand beneath her jaw, leading her face up with a firm tilt of his fingers.
Poppy needs no further guidance. She parts her lips and lets her mouth fall open to expose where Branch has spilled in pools of white across her tongue.
A wounded noise hooks in his throat. Branch stares, spellbound, some filthy, sinful part of him roaring with satisfaction at the sight - his cum in Poppy's mouth, his frenzied heartbeat deafening between his ears, and every pulse echoes with certainty: she’s mine, she’s mine, she’s mine.
At the gentle prompting of his touch under her chin, Poppy seals her lips and swallows, throat working as the pink troll takes him down her throat. Afterward, her tongue curls out to lick the wet line of her lips, tasting the last trace of him before a shy but bliss-dazed smile lights her face.
Feeling his knees wobble, Branch sinks down to the floor, sighing when cold tiles cool his overheated skin. With a pleased little hum, Poppy wiggles her way into his arms, sketching unsteady fingers at his chest. They sprawl together on the floor, two steps from the front door, and if Branch had the strength, he’d bring her to their bed, where Poppy can bask in afterglow among the comfort of their sheets.
But Poppy threads her fingers through his hair, whispers “I love you,” soft against his ear, a secret just between the two of them, and for the moment, there is nowhere else he’d rather be.
