Work Text:
A Kitchen Incident
The reflection of the setting sun on Lake Honrich glittered through the windows of Honeyside’s kitchen. Silent lay the house on the shores, only two visitors left behind in its walls; the inhabitants all had flown out. It had been kind of Canmal to take the two of them in after all the horrors, even kinder to convince Jirocian of letting Morotar stay in his home. Mumbles of desertion and regret had finally led the Imperial to agree, even though he his eyes still owned a hostile linger every time they were directed at the Altmer.
“As long as he does not wear these dreadful robes,” he had said and Morotar had done so.
Instead, he had shopped for a woollen coat that was a little too short for his high statue, as were most garments, sometimes even in Alinor. His extra inches too made him bow his head every time he entered a room in the Riften house and this morning, he had hit his head on the frame in his tiredness. He bowed now too while he stepped through the open door, holding onto the upper part of the frame as if he was ducking to enter a cave. Nevri looked up from her cutting board and offered him a warm smile. After a week of restful sleep, they no longer appeared as if they had been awake for a hundred years straight. At least that was something. Nevri's bones still ached from the exertions, and she could only guess how Morotar was feeling pain wise. But the Altmer didn't let on much, only flinching occasionally at a small, careless movement.
He paused where he stood, one arm outstretched and still leaning against the doorframe. The sleeve of his tunic slipped down, revealing his tense muscles. Nevri grew warm at the sight, so she looked away and fixed her gaze on his face. With one eyebrow raised, he looked at the knife in her hand and then at the pile of onions she had chopped.
“What are you doing there?” he asked, the raised eyebrow growing into deep lines on his forehead and a pained expression on the corners of his mouth.
“Cooking? What else does it look like?”
Sitting around in an arm chair and trying to read, Nevri had decided to cook instead. Canmal and Jirocian were out for work until night fell and the least she could do was to serve them a warm meal. She had strained their hospitality so much by now, their stay now way longer than it had been planned. And cooking might give something back, though she would never be able to repay them. She would have asked Morotar for help, had he not retreated into the guest room to take another nap after breakfast. He did not sleep well, kicked and groaned in his slumber, sometimes waking and sitting upright in bed, the entire body shaking. It would take time had been what Canmal and Jirocian had said, it was what the Alchemist had said. And it was, what Morotar too had said, reminding her that he had once gone through the horrors of war and had somehow learned to cope with that too. So, this, what had befallen him, too had to simmer a while. But Nevri did not want to wait; to see him in this state broke her heart time and again. There was no comfort for her; his words, that he had chosen this, never eased the ache. Her grip around the knife tightened and for a millisecond, she squinted her eyes, banned these thoughts. They would come back eventually, but not now. Not while her hands had something to do.
Morotar entered the kitchen, strode around the island and came to a halt next to her. Closer than necessary, his chest only a hair’s width away from her back. Nevri felt his warmth, breathed in his scent. Wildflowers overpowered the rosemary by now; his own soap was depleting.
“I meant that,” he said, his fingers raising a hand full of the diced onions and letting them trickle down. “You butchered that poor onion.”
“What is your problem with my onions?” she exclaimed, letting the knife fall to the board and turning to face him.
He looked down on her with one corner of his mouth lifted and his hand rising to stroke a loose strand of her hair out of her face. Nevri caught his wrist, held him there and wrinkled her nose.
“Don’t touch me with your reeking hands,” she added and he gave a laugh, yet did not lower his hand.
“As I said, you butchered these onions. No dice looks like the other, they are way too big. Don’t you know anything about how the way you dice influences the finished dish?”
She only snorted as an answer, pressure on his wrist still there.
“If you cut them like you did here, there’s no consistency in the food. And the cut is so important, half-rings for example thicken a sauce, the other way they give off more aroma. These… are nothing but unpleasant in the mouth. You didn’t even peel them properly, Nevri, what were you doing here?”
For whatever reason, this seemed to get him worked up quite a bit. Now Nevri was the one to raise her brows and let go of his wrist. Why in the plains of Oblivion did he know so much about cutting onions? Yes, he had mentioned that he liked to cook but had been shooed out of the kitchen often enough. But this was… unexpected.
“Then do it yourself, if you know so much about it. They’re just for a stew, they will be mush anyway, I don’t understand your problem,” she said and wriggled out between him and the counter.
“Fine!” he said, snatching the knife.
Half an onion was left and he took it in hand, letting it glide through under the knife. In seconds perfect half rings had been cut, all neatly stacked next to the sad pile Nevri had created. She giggled, then rose the basket with her groceries to the counter, unpacking more vegetables.
“Then go on with the carrots, the celery root… what else? Ah, parsley and not to forget, the potatoes and the lamb leg. Get that bone out, it has to be cooked with the stew,” she ordered.
Looking up, she found a puzzled look on Morotar’s face. He scanned ingredient after ingredient, fixating the longest on the potatoes.
“What in Auri-El’s name did you plan to cook? When do you want to cook the broth, where are the spices? Nevri, I- ”
“Love,” she said and leaned with her elbows on the counter, supporting her chin with her hands. She had chosen the little pet-name he had called her before on purpose – the way he seemed to melt beneath it was delightful. “Your pretentious bastard self is showing again. And there is no time for a broth, I want to serve this when Canmal and Jirocian are back. Hence the cooking with the bone. And spices – I’ll see what I can get, the more the better.”
The knife clattered on the board and with a slam, Morotar hid his face in his hands, slowly letting them run down and peeking through his fingers. He looked a bit like Nevri had suggested to put an old shoe into the soup – perhaps what she had said came close to it. Though, neither Ambarys nor Geldis had ever complained about her seasoning.
“First of all, I am no bastard. My parents were married, I’m legitimate and you know that. Part of the problem and so on.” He had let his hands fall and instead had taken the celery root. One hit with the knife and it was clear in half. “I’ll let the ‘pretentious’ slip.” Another cut and the celery was in quarters. “But,” he started chopping, “that is not how stews work. They live from the broth and you can’t achieve that only by putting a bone in there. Yes, it will help, but you need the hours of cooking, ideally the entire lamb leg. With vegetables and rosemary and bay leaf… And so on. The spices need to be chosen carefully, so that nothing is overpowering. It is an art to season and perhaps you should learn a bit about it.”
The celery was chopped, the carrots were next.
“Do you want to criticize the cuisine of Morrowind? The cuisine of my people? Because that’s how I learned that; stuff everything you have in there until it tastes good. No one has ever really complained,” Nevri added and blew the loose strand out of her face. She could guess his next words the moment his mouth bend downwards. But he chopped so neatly while he lamented – it was quite the time saver.
“You cooked only for Dunmer, did you?”
Nevri nodded.
“See, your people have this very special cuisine that tends to have these very elaborate spice mixtures. I’d say you need them to make the bugs taste fine but for something as exquisite as a lamb that kind of seasoning is way too overpowering. You don’t need all these fruitiness, the spiciness and especially not mint in everything.”
The carrots cut, he grabbed the potatoes, peeling one after another with his knife. Quick and nimble he was; Nevri had never seen anyone so skilled in peeling potatoes before.
“What about cilantro?”
“Cilantro? Are you mad? Half of your dinner guest taste soap instead of the herb and you don’t even really notice. No cilantro!”
“Okay, no cilantro then. Did I ever tell you, that you’re extremely boring?” Nevri said and rolled her eyes walking over to the cabinets.
There, she opened the doors and searched through different pots and bowls, most of them filled with spices. Salt she grabbed first, then sniffed out more that she’d like in the stew she had planned. No matter what Morotar said, she would season to her liking.
“Watch your mouth, Nevrasa. I did not sleep well enough to endure your damn nagging,” he warned and put the knife down. “Anything else besides the lamb left?”
“No, no. Only that. Do your worst with it.”
Nevri had returned to the kitchen island and leaned onto it again to watch Morotar’s work. Few simple cuts and the meat was separated from the bone. He went on with slicing it too, quick and almost hidden glances over to her mixing into his craft. She saw those and surmised that these were controlling if she wasn’t doing anything else to annoy him more. At the moment she did not, though she cooked something up in her mind. A moment long her eyes fixed on the big wooden spoon laying on the tabletop.
“I’ll go and put some oil in the pot,” she said and turned again to the cupboard she had come from.
There, she scanned for the sunflower seed oil in a corked bottle finding it almost instantly. However, her attention was also on the small bowl that she had snatched from one of the shelves. Quick and without much commotion, she filled all the spices she could find and found fitting into this little vessel. A glance over her shoulder told her, that the Altmer just stoked the fire under the cooking spit – no attention on her.
The bottle of oil in one hand and the other with the spices inside hidden from him, she went over to the big pot and let some oil drizzle inside. It did not take long for it to heat and with that exact moment, Morotar came to throw in the onions. Her moment – Nevri poured the bowl over the onions, coating them in a thick layer of seasoning.
“Oops,” she made, shrugging her shoulders.
Looking up, she found Morotar staring open mouthed at her, the handle of the wooden spoon in his hand threatening to break under the pressure of his fingers. As if he could not believe it and had to ask the gods for guidance, he looked up, then down again to meet her smirk.
“You are the most insufferable pain in the neck that I’ve ever met, you know that?”
Nevri tilted her head, still grinning. “Indeed. What are you about to do with that?” She nodded to the spoon. “Spank me?”
Playful, she pushed out her lower lip and widened her eyes, as if she deeply regretted her misdeed. But nothing inside her did; in fact, she took a mischievous delight in it.
“You know what?” He too now grinned, yet his eyes were of a heated sheen. “Yes, I will do that.”
A swish of his hand let the fire in the hearth die down and the cooking next to them stop. Morotar made a step towards her and Nevri one backwards; not because she was afraid but out of sheer surprise. Never had she expected him to say that and moreover did not believe that he was serious.
“Bend over,” he uttered in a low growl, his free hand patting on the countertop.
Nevri looked at him, at the counter and then back at him. A nervous giggle escaped her that died down the moment he had crossed the distance between them. That spoon he had just had in his hand was gone; she heard the faint clatter of it somewhere close. Now, however, his hands had clasped her jaw and pulled her onto the tips of her toes, pressing a kiss to her mouth. Nevri melted under his touch, her hands gripping for his tunic, pulling on it. Kiss after kiss they exchanged and when he bit her lip, she let out a small cry, one that he only hummed to.
Morotar’s hands let go of her head and wandered down over her neck, brushing over the two bulging scars down there. She shivered under it; a light burn spread on her skin. Lower he drifted, grasping her waist. His fingers gathered her shirt, the ghost of a touch flitting across the skin beneath. Goosebumps formed under his caress and with little pressure he had turned her so that the edge of the counter pressed into her behind.
His grasp tightening, he rose a little from her lips, his eyes closed and forehead pressed to hers he rested there for a moment, blew air from his nose like an angered bull.
“What is it with you, that I always have to tell you things twice and you still do the opposite?”
“Isn’t that what you adore about me?” Nevri murmured.
With a sudden force, he turned her in his arm, his fist in her back pressing her flat to the counter surface. One, then two times, he twisted her braid around his hand, only to rip her up again. Nevri was pressed against his torso, felt his heavier growing breathing against her back and there, pressed to her butt, she noted something growing hard. The fingers of his free hand traced along her sternum, careful not to touch her breasts. Lower they went until they found her waistband. Nimble motions opened the fastening and with a few pulls, her pants and smallclothes hung on her knees. He pushed her down again, held her there.
“I adore it, yes. But it drives me insane too, Love,” he spoke; the knuckles of his free hand ran along her thighs. “Spread.”
Nevri made as sound that was close to a moan but stifled by her pressed down ribcage. Recoiling from his squeeze, she did as told and all of a sudden felt cold air touch her core. Achingly slow, his finger ran along the inside of her leg, up, up and then stopping just before he touched her where she yearned for the most.
“Oh, you’ve blown a fuse now?” she mocked, stretching herself out to him as much as his hold allowed.
“I have not blown a fuse,” he stated, leaving unspoken the ‘you would not ask if I did’. “I am simply giving you a little lecture that you probably will learn nothing from. But at least it will please me.”
Nevri wanted to say something in return, the words already on her tongue, but she jerked instead. Something had touched her, had slipped over her butt cheek. And it had not been his hand. Cold it was compared to him but soft and polished. All of a sudden, she knew: the spoon.
“You have been acting up a bit too much lately, have you?” he muttered under his breath. Even he was struggling with the expectation, the one that brought a jitter to Nevri’s knees.
“Have I?” she asked, sounding as if she was innocence in person.
Slap.
The first hit came down on her skin, burned. She twitched under the pain, the shock of it rocking through her entire body. Her chest rubbed over the counter with it and she let out a whimper barely audible for him.
“You have. Say it. Tell me that you’ve been acting like a brat.” He huffed while he spoke and his grip around her hair tightened, pulled at the roots.
“Why would I, if I haven’t?” Nevri could not suppress a chuckle.
Slap.
Another hit met her butt, this time burning harder. He had used more force, yet knowing well that she could take more. A lot more.
“Stop lying. Say it,” he demanded now.
“I- ”
More words of contradiction wanted to leave her mouth, but nothing but a whine came from her. The handle ran between her folds, the tip threatening to vanish inside her. Only one push to her clit he granted her, then let the spoon run back again slow.
“Think before you speak. Say what you are,” he spoke on, his tone strict and still luring, inviting. What would she get if she did?
Slap.
This time, the wide part of the spoon met her with a smacking noise. The burning grew worse, intensified. She squirmed under him, strained against his hold. A wail came from her mouth and still she stretched to him, holding her behind in his direction without hesitation.
“Oh, you like that, do you?” he snarled, not without mockery.
Slap.
Another, stronger one. Nevri yelped under him, feeling how the heat between her legs grew and how her wetness ran out of her, leaving her glistening for him.
“Perhaps I need to do that more often, hm?”
“Yes,” she gasped before he could hit her with another one.
Still, the next one came as sure as the sunrise. Slap.
“If you want me to do this again,” he now muttered and paused, while the handle settled again between her now swollen labia, rubbing along her entrance, only gifting her with slow, small thrusts. “Then tell me what you are.”
“A brat,” she squeaked and the grip on her hair loosened.
“That you are,” he hummed.
The spoon clattered on the surface and Morotar moved away from her, slow groans of his breath accompanying him. Nevri stayed in her position, only saw him from the corner of her eyes. Confused, she at last rose, pulled her pants up and closed them, looking at the pacing man. As he noticed her, he stopped to stare at the spoon lying on the counter.
“We need to get a new one,” he murmured and then looked over to her.
His cheeks were as much flushed as hers and Nevri wondered, why he had bent her over the counter and then had not fucked her to Oblivion right then. It was more his type, if she was honest. To break it off here was strange.
“Why did you stop?”
He laughed.
“You are greedy, you know that? The entire point was that you will not get what you want,” he said and stepped over to her, finally stroking the loose strand out of her face. “Despite, I’d never do that so close to the food.”