Colpine · Chat

The dismissal bell rings. Instantly, the hallway erupts into noise. The screech of chairs scraping the floor, the thud of books hitting desks, and a chorus of voices blend together, spilling out through the gap of the classroom's back door. Colpine leans against the rear doorframe. His back rests against the wall, one hand shoved into his trouser pocket, loosely holding his phone with its screen long gone dark. His gaze cuts through the surging crowd, looking. Searching. On the other side of the corridor, Derek Hale has his slave pinned against the wall. One hand clutches the other's jaw in a rough, bruising kiss. The slave's head thumps against the wall with a dull thud, lips crushed red and swollen, saliva trickling from the corner of their mouth. You watch intently. Your pace slows, your head tilting slightly, your eyes glued to the scene. Colpine looks over too. For a second. He sweeps his eyes over Derek, then over the slave, before snapping his gaze back to you. You don't notice Colpine looking at you. He slips his phone into his pocket. The movement is light, yet slightly firmer than usual—as his fingers grip the edges to slide it in, his knuckles let out a nearly imperceptible click. Colpine straightens up, his back leaving the doorframe, and walks toward you. His pace isn't hurried, leisurely as ever. You finally notice him. You pull your gaze away from Derek, looking up at his face. Colpine reaches you. He doesn't stop. His left hand rises, fingers splaying as his palm cups the back of your head. His fingers weave through your hair, the pads of his fingers resting against your scalp. His hand is cool—he'd been holding his phone all this time, and the device was warm, yet Colpine's fingers remain cold. The chill seeps into your roots like a stray shard of ice brushing against your skin. He leans in and kisses you. The initial contact of his lips is dry. Thin and faintly cool, like two sheets of paper resting lightly over your mouth. Colpine doesn't press hard right away; he merely holds them there. His breath slips from his nose, warm against your philtrum. Then he shifts. Not parting his lips, but angling his head slightly, letting your upper lip slide between his. Colpine's lips soften, the dryness melting away, replaced by a warm, faintly moist texture. You feel the tip of his tongue. Not pushing inside. Just that soft patch of flesh on the inside of his upper lip—wet and warm—brushing lightly against the contour of your upper lip. Like a test, or a careless graze. Where that fleeting touch lands, your lips turn slick, your skin dampened by his saliva, growing faintly cool as the air hits it. Colpine deepens the kiss. The resting touch turns into a slow, grinding pressure. He rolls from one side of your lips to the other, so unhurried it feels almost like savoring a taste. He catches a piece of your lower lip between his, wrapping around it like a slowly melting piece of candy—hot, soft, accompanied by the occasional flick of his tongue. His breathing grows heavier. Gushes of air rush from Colpine's nose, hitting your nose and upper lip in steady waves. His pace is faster than usual. You can feel his lips slightly part and close with every breath—each time they part, your lower lip slips free a little, only to be drawn back in when they close. Colpine's left hand tightens. His fingertips sink into your hair, anchoring your head so you can't pull away. His thumb presses into the spot behind your ear, resting against that thin patch of skin where your pulse thumps. His thumb presses down gently in time with the rhythm, once, and then again, as if counting your heartbeats. Colpine parts his lips once more. Wider this time, taking your entire lower lip into his mouth. The tip of his tongue presses against the inside of your lower lip, dragging slowly along the rim—from one corner to the other, slick, warm, with a subtle, rough friction. As he licks across the seam where your lip meets the soft tissue inside your mouth, a shudder of tingling warmth runs through you. The skin inside is far thinner, far more sensitive, and wherever Colpine's tongue traces, the flesh turns hot, soft, and swollen. The slight curl of his tongue slots perfectly into the dip of that seam. Colpine pulls away for a fraction of a second. Just an instant. Just enough for your lips to catch the rush of air, exposing the wet, heated flesh to the sudden chill. He stares at your lips. Just staring. His eyes drift from your upper lip to your lower lip, from left to right, from the slight upturn of your mouth to the bruised, swollen edge of your bottom lip. Colpine's irises are pale to begin with; under the dim corridor lighting, they look like two gray stones submerged in cold water. His Adam's apple bobs. Then Colpine kisses you again. Rougher this time. The force of his mouth crashing down is harder, as if having held back once, he refuses to hold back any longer. His tongue probes against the seam of your lips—not forcing its way in, just pressing urgently against the outside before pulling back. It's a sharp, impatient prod, his wet, hot tongue striking your lips like a sudden spark that flares and dies out. Colpine draws his right hand out of his pocket. He doesn't reach for your waist; he doesn't touch your face. His hand hangs at his side, knuckles slightly curved, fingertips brushing against your hand hanging by your side. He doesn't grab it. Just fingertip to fingertip, the pads of his fingers trailing over your knuckles—from index to pinky, slowly, stroke by stroke. The pads of his fingers aren't smooth; the faint calluses from holding a pen brush against your skin, stirring up a delicate itch. When Colpine's lips press down and grind against yours again, your mouth parts slightly. Not on purpose—his tongue kept teasing the seam of your lips, making the spot so wet and sensitized that your lips simply gave way on their own. His tongue slips right in. Just the tip. The softest, narrowest point, resting right against the gap between your front teeth. He doesn't push further, simply pressing there, like a strip of damp, warm cloth caught in the edge of a closed door. You can feel the slight force of his tongue against your teeth, flattening slightly as the soft flesh spills past the gap to touch your gums. His breath fills your mouth entirely. Scorching and carrying a faint, subtle scent—not mint, not tobacco, just the scent of Colpine. Clean, warm, and entirely his. He pulls back. Slowly, his tongue dragging along the inner rim of your lower lip before finally breaking away. Your lips are coated in his saliva. Glistening, wet, your bottom lip swollen noticeably plumper than usual from his mouth. A thin, fragile thread of spit hangs from the edge of your upper lip; you lick it away with the tip of your tongue—it doesn't taste like you. It tastes like him. Colpine is still staring at your lips. His left hand hasn't left the back of your head. His thumb traces a slow circle on the skin behind your ear, pressing into the thin flesh and grinding down gently. Colpine speaks, his voice dropped an octave, rough and low. "What are you looking at other people for?"