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It starts out as a jest – or at least, Legolas is quite certain it does.
She’s kneeling on the floor and Gimli is sitting behind her, on the bed. Her fingers comb gently through Legolas’s hair, making her scalp tingle. Legolas loves this bedtime ritual. They indulged in it even before they became lovers, but now it has become even more intimate.
It is wonderful, taking care of her beloved, letting her return the favour. It feels sweet and tender and loving. It feels safe. It is often also incredibly arousing.
The tingles in Legolas’s scalp travel down her spine, making her shiver. Gimli chuckles, and deliberately brushes against the point of Legolas’s ear. Legolas makes a little sound in the back of her throat and leans into Gimli’s touch.
Gimli laughs again. “Enjoying yourself, lass?”
She separates Legolas’s hair into multiple strands, and starts braiding them together. Legolas turn her head to throw Gimli a teasing wink, and Gimli grunts in annoyance as the strands of hair slip between her fingers.
“Stay still, blasted Elf,” she says, tugging on the ends of Legolas’s hair to keep her head in place.
Legolas complies, but she cannot resist a quip. “I thought you liked me wiggling and writhing, Mistress Dwarf?”
Behind her, Gimli sighs long-sufferingly, but Legolas would bet good money that she is blushing beneath her copper beard.
Legolas has never been as eloquent as her love, in bed or outside of it, but Gimli likes it when she speaks this way. So she presses on.
“If you were quicker to finish those braids, I could remind you just how delightfully I can move.”
“If ye don’t quit teasing, ghivashel,” – that’s a habit Gimli has picked up from Legolas, mingling taunts and threats with terms of endearment – “I might just take you over my knee and show you how us Dwarves deal with insolent brats like yourself.”
The shivers in Legolas’s spine intensify. “Is that a promise?” she asks. Her teasing tone does nothing to conceal the blatant eagerness in her voice.
Gimli’s fingers fall still. There is a moment of silence, during which Legolas fears she has pushed the teasing too far. Was Gimli truly only jesting? Would she think Legolas too forward? Too depraved? She has never complained about Legolas’s depravedness before.
But then Gimli tucks an errant lock behind Legolas’s ear and asks, “Are you sure, lass?”
Legolas cannot help the relieved sigh that escapes her lips. “I am quite certain, meleth nin.”
“Now?” Gimli asks as she resumes her braiding.
Legolas smiles to herself. It seems that she is not the only one who is eager. Or depraved.
“Please,” she says.
Gimli’s fingers quicken in Legolas’s hair. “Well, if you ask so nicely, I’d best finish this up fast.”
“Please,” Legolas repeats, adding a deliberately alluring breathiness to her tone.
Gimli tugs on one of the braids. “You are a dreadful tease.”
“You love it,” Legolas retorts, grinning.
She sits still, vibrating with anticipation, as Gimli finishes her work.
As soon as all the braids are properly tied, she jumps to her feet and turns towards Gimli. She tosses her hair over her shoulder and clasps her hand behind her back.
“How should we go about this?” she asks.
“Undressing first seems like a sound idea.” Gimli’s lips are twitching – she’s laughing at Legolas’s lack of patience – but Legolas doesn’t take offence. Gimli’s own hands are clasped tightly in her lap, and her eyes are twinkling. She does not seem any more patient than Legolas.
Legolas deliberately stretches her entire body as she pulls her tunic over her head. Taking off her breeches is less elegant, but soon she is fully nude, standing proudly in front of her lover. Gimli herself is still fully clothed. Legolas raises an eyebrow, and Gimli quirks a smile at her.
“You like it when you’re in the nude and I am not. Do not think I didn’t notice, lass.”
Legolas bends at the waist to drop a kiss on her clever Dwarrowdam’s mouth. Her woolly beard tickles her lips as she whispers, “Such keen eyes, Mistress Dwarf. We will make an Elf out of you yet.”
Rolling her eyes, Gimli places one hand on Legolas’s shoulder, one on her hip, and bodily tugs her down over her lap. All the breath escapes Legolas’s lungs in one big huff.
She laughs. “I may have spoken too soon. You are still as impatient as any Dwarf.”
Gimli doesn’t say anything. Instead, her hand lands on Legolas’s left buttock and oh - suddenly the appeal is more than theoretical. The blow is quite light, but Legolas falls silent all the same.
She swallows, and then, “Again.”
Above her, Gimli breathes in sharply, and immediately smacks her again. It’s harder, this time, and Legolas makes a small sound in the back of her throat.
“Like that, do you?” It’s not really a question, and Gimli’s voice is low and rumbly with desire.
Legolas nods, her braids trailing over the bed beneath her.
“Marvelous.” This time, when Gimli’s hand lands, Legolas moans out loud.
And Gimli doesn’t stop. She hits Legolas’s arse over and over again, leaving Legolas gasping in pleasure. It starts as a wonderful dull ache that rapidly spreads to Legolas’s lower stomach, and between her legs. She pushes her arse back against the blows, and Gimli chuckles.
Soon, her arse feels as though it’s on fire. Her moans are getting increasingly louder and she’s shifting her hips from side to side. She’s not trying to escape the blows – far from it – but she is utterly unable to stay still. This time, Gimli doesn’t seem to mind. Legolas can hear her panting, and her Dwarrowdam can handle so much more exertion than this, so it must be with pleasure.
Legolas’s fingers clench and unclench in the bedsheets. “Harder,” she begs, “meleth, harder, please.”
Of course, Gimli stops. She runs her calloused hands over Legolas’s buttocks, and heat coils in Legolas’s stomach. The soft touch on her sensitive skin makes her whine, high-pitched and desperate, but she needs more.
“Gimli!” she growls.
Gimli laughs. “Patience, azyung.”
Her hand caresses Legolas’s buttocks and down between her legs. When two thick fingers press inside her, Legolas shouts.
Gimli answers her cry with a soft groan. Her free hand rises from Legolas’s arse, and comes down again and again.
Legolas cries out with every blow. She’s rocking her hips against Gimli’s hand, against the fingers inside her. The heat in her stomach flares up, threatening to uncoil.
Gimli’s fingers press even deeper inside her, her hand lands just a bit harder on Legolas’s arse, and Legolas screams. She throws her head back, braids flying over her shoulder, eyes screwed shut. Her legs tremble uncontrollably.
When the pleasure subsides, she lies shivering in Gimli’s lap. She rests her forehead against the mattress, and Gimli caresses long, calming strokes up and down her back.
“I take it we’ll be doing this again?” she asks. Her voice is hoarse, and undeniably self-satisfied. Legolas cannot find it within herself to blame her.
She has to swallow before she can speak without croaking. “Please,” she answers.