[This sort of tenderness is most unlike the façade the two of them both present to the world, but Thranduil would be lying if he said he did not enjoy it. There are times he feels as if he is the one hewn from stone; unyielding, hard, cold, and as unchanging as the mountain itself. But in quiet moments like these, with Thorin's warmth pressed to his chest, the scrape of his beard and the soft press of his lips meandering across his skin, he feels alive.
He murmurs Thorin's name quietly on a slip of a breath, barely any sound escaping his lips, and he lets his eyes slide slowly closed, his hands drifting out of Thorin's hair to curl instead around his broad shoulders.
The hot spring is moving gently about them, but it is fed from below, so there isn't even the sound of a bubbling brook to disturb their peace. Just the quiet lap of the water they displace hitting their bodies, the soft puff of their breath, the occasional murmur of voices. Coupled with the dark canopy overhead and the sparse light thrown by the occasional lantern, it is dark and quiet and safe down here, something almost subterranean about it all. And yet Thranduil does not feel claustrophobic at all. Not with Thorin, a creature made for such underground spaces.]
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He murmurs Thorin's name quietly on a slip of a breath, barely any sound escaping his lips, and he lets his eyes slide slowly closed, his hands drifting out of Thorin's hair to curl instead around his broad shoulders.
The hot spring is moving gently about them, but it is fed from below, so there isn't even the sound of a bubbling brook to disturb their peace. Just the quiet lap of the water they displace hitting their bodies, the soft puff of their breath, the occasional murmur of voices. Coupled with the dark canopy overhead and the sparse light thrown by the occasional lantern, it is dark and quiet and safe down here, something almost subterranean about it all. And yet Thranduil does not feel claustrophobic at all. Not with Thorin, a creature made for such underground spaces.]