Title: Bad Landings
Author: ClarySage Warnings & Disclaimers: I don't Harry Potter, or Draco Malfoy...more's the pity The Following Fic Contains: kissing...badly
I can't say it was where he kissed me, more like it was wondering where the next one would land. It's always amusing when I remember upon the first touch of his mouth that he is above all an exceptionally bad kisser. The ones that land are interesting, truly, half the time it's a miracle they find my face at all. I'd like to blame the fact that he has poor vision, but even so, bad kissing can't stem from that alone.
You'd think I would stop kissing someone who can't manage to find my lips in the dark. Always it's the corner of my mouth, the side of my face, my eyebrow. I shudder to recall such embarrassing incidents. Yet, it doesn't stop there, for when he does at last manage by some small marvel to reach my mouth, the kiss is horrifying. In a word, it's bad. Not just bad, and not just one word can possibly contain it; it's sloppy, unsatisfying, messy, careless, shoddy, indecisive, and poorly conceived.
Then, to my utter consternation, I do it again, or rather; I let him do it again. You would think that if he were so good at everything else that he'd of course be fantastic here as well. However, that's as far from the truth as is possible, as I discovered and wished fervently afterwards that I never had.
I wonder myself why I let it happen more than once, and in my defense I have to say, there's something about the horrible kisses. It's not really a technique, because he significantly lacks in anything remotely resembling a technique. It's not really a taste; most of the time, he tastes boyish, smudges and dirt, sweat and the slightly rancid smell of chocolate left for days. No, it's not that, and in struggling to put a mental finger on it, I can recall those sloppy unwashed kisses, the ones that tangled against my hair, or jarred along my cheekbone.
More than anything, it's the enthusiasm, I think. Despite the fact that he still hasn't learned a thing. It's not really that he needs to learn. It's startling to be kissed silly by someone who doesn't have a clue, like tangling with a puppy who knows no better. All wet and shy, and snuffling. And for some strange reason I'm not turned off by it. Instead, I find my own skill slipping away, practiced routines and copycat techniques.
His way is more fun, more easy, and retractable.
Like I said, it's not where he kisses me, it's wondering where the next one will land.
Author: ClarySage Warnings & Disclaimers: I don't Harry Potter, or Draco Malfoy...more's the pity The Following Fic Contains: kissing...badly
I can't say it was where he kissed me, more like it was wondering where the next one would land. It's always amusing when I remember upon the first touch of his mouth that he is above all an exceptionally bad kisser. The ones that land are interesting, truly, half the time it's a miracle they find my face at all. I'd like to blame the fact that he has poor vision, but even so, bad kissing can't stem from that alone.
You'd think I would stop kissing someone who can't manage to find my lips in the dark. Always it's the corner of my mouth, the side of my face, my eyebrow. I shudder to recall such embarrassing incidents. Yet, it doesn't stop there, for when he does at last manage by some small marvel to reach my mouth, the kiss is horrifying. In a word, it's bad. Not just bad, and not just one word can possibly contain it; it's sloppy, unsatisfying, messy, careless, shoddy, indecisive, and poorly conceived.
Then, to my utter consternation, I do it again, or rather; I let him do it again. You would think that if he were so good at everything else that he'd of course be fantastic here as well. However, that's as far from the truth as is possible, as I discovered and wished fervently afterwards that I never had.
I wonder myself why I let it happen more than once, and in my defense I have to say, there's something about the horrible kisses. It's not really a technique, because he significantly lacks in anything remotely resembling a technique. It's not really a taste; most of the time, he tastes boyish, smudges and dirt, sweat and the slightly rancid smell of chocolate left for days. No, it's not that, and in struggling to put a mental finger on it, I can recall those sloppy unwashed kisses, the ones that tangled against my hair, or jarred along my cheekbone.
More than anything, it's the enthusiasm, I think. Despite the fact that he still hasn't learned a thing. It's not really that he needs to learn. It's startling to be kissed silly by someone who doesn't have a clue, like tangling with a puppy who knows no better. All wet and shy, and snuffling. And for some strange reason I'm not turned off by it. Instead, I find my own skill slipping away, practiced routines and copycat techniques.
His way is more fun, more easy, and retractable.
Like I said, it's not where he kisses me, it's wondering where the next one will land.