#also ya'll are making damper because that shit is GOOD

[angronsjewelbeetle]

Okay uh, it turned into a fic??

I don't...have an excuse. My brain just. Uh. I'm sorry?

First kisses: Mortarion exclusive ~♡

Probably out of character so um. Apologies for that.

“Clumsy,” he mutters, but  you can hear the way his tone lifts with amusement. He shakes his head, some of his long hair slipping out from the bun he’s pinned it back in as he lifts you upright with ease, dusting off some of the flour from your arm. He gives you a quick once-over, you playfully wipe some of the flour off on his shirt. He scoffs and reaches over to take the screaming kettle off the stove, “it should be ready soon,” he says, right as the timer chimes insistently. Mortarion passes you the oven mits and you lean down, the familiar smell of chamomile wafting up with the steam as he slips the ceramic lid onto the teapot and you bring the small loaf out of the oven, setting it on the counter. “Normally it’s cooked in the coals of a fire,” he says, “you were saying that earlier. And once it’s cooled down a bit, you eat it with syrup, right?” you reply, watching as the taps the base of the loaf and nods. “Hollow,” you say to the noise, “that’s how you know it’s cooked,” he hums, looking pleased, scarred lips twisted into a little smile as you pour yourself some tea, “where did I put that bread knife?” he asks himself, turning around to survey the kitchen. He spots it by the sink and potters back over to the loaf, slicing off a piece and watching the puff of steam rise from within. He picks up the jug of syrup and pours it over the slice, offering it to you as a bit of the dark golden liquid drips over his hand. You take a bite. The syrup is thick and sweet and the bread is thick and warm, you can feel your cheek getting sticky and hear Mortarion scoff again affectionately as he cuts a thick slice for himself. Both are demolished in mere moments and you find yourself chuckling at him as he licks his hand like a cat. “Let me get that for you,” he says, glancing around before sinking to one knee, wincing as his rear thuds against the cabinet as he slouches down close enough to reach you. He grasps your chin gently and turns your face to the side, leaning in. He licks the sticky syrup off, tongue hot against your cheek. He licks across the corner of your lips and pauses. He pulls away a little, you look at him, breath caught in your throat. “May I kiss you?” He asks, voice quiet. You nod. His lips are soft but dry, and all you can smell is syrup and chamomile.