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"Dad! Dad!"
Legolas is pounding on his door, or damn near kicking it, if it is shaking so hard, and it is nearly the middle of the night. When Thranduil pulls it open, he's hardly surprised at all to find Legolas standing there with another man hanging drunkenly from his shoulders, face obscured by his grimy looking dark hair. He leans against his doorframe and give his son a flat look.
"You cannot keep leaving Aragorn on my couch every time he gets knackered," he deadpans.
"Then stop opening the door for me." Legolas marches past him, dragging the broader man along; literally, for his feet slide along behind him, the toes of his dress shoes—since when does Aragorn wear dress shoes?—catching on the rug and pulling it up as his son goes. He mutters something under his breath before unceremoniously, bordering on painfully, dumps the man onto the couch, where he slips off the edge and lands face down on the floor with a heavy thud. Legolas does not bother to pick him up, and he turns to Thranduil with an apologetic smile on his face before he steps away. "That's not Aragorn, by the way. He's still back at the bar, where I intend to be. That's his cousin, Faramir. I'll be back for him in the morning."
"Las, we've talked about this," Thranduil sighs. "One of these days, your little schoolmates are going to choke on their own vomit and I do not want to be held liable for their deaths. And haven't you exams to study for?"
"We are studying! Take a shot if you get the question wrong. It's not my fault he's a lightweight!" Legolas pulls his wallet from his pocket and withdraws a few bills, tucking them in the breast pocket of Thranduil's robe before moving around him. "Sorry about the noise violation. That should do it. If not, take the rest from my allowance. Love you, dad."
"At least ring and let me know you've made it to your dormitories safely!" Thranduil calls, though in the end, he's really only talking to a door. He sighs and mutters to himself. "That boy."
He turns around and looks at the man on the floor. Aragorn has been left on his couch enough times that, well, perhaps he should have noticed that this boy isn't the scruffy rugby player who his son made fast friends with during their secondary schooling, and all but followed into university. His hair is longer, and curlier, and when Thranduil rolls him to his back, it's apparent that he's narrower at the waist, too. Though he shares some notable features with Aragorn, his are softer, the set of his brow more relaxed. He's a bit more clean shaven, which seems to suit him just as well as it suits scruffy little Aragorn, and-
His eyes open.
"Fucking hell!" Thranduil jerks back, hitting his elbow against the coffee table.
"He's not coming back, is he?" The man sits up, looking around. When he seems certain Legolas is gone, and that the door remains firmly locked, he turns his attention upon Thranduil. "I'm terribly sorry about the fright. Is your elbow alright?"
Thranduil stares at him. The boy stares back. His eyes are clear as day, the same grey as Aragorn's, but somehow… softer. Lovelier. His eyelashes seem to hint at a softer russet, even in the low lighting of the lamps around the apartment, and the flush that seemed to cover his cheeks only moments ago now stretches down his neck, and into the neck of his navy knit sweater. He's beautiful.
"Mr…. Legolas's Dad?" Faramir asks. "I'm afraid we're not acquainted enough that I know your last name."
"Ah… You are not… drunk?" Thranduil asks.
The man before him crosses his legs in a very childlike manner and scratches his jaw. "No, ah, I am not drunk. I'm not a two-pot screamer, though it helps to pretend. If I make a fool of myself at the bar, I'm usually not invited out again, which means I'm left alone to study. Only, Aragorn is stubborn, and I could not escape this evening's… outing. Again, I apologize for the theatrics. I'll… I'll be heading back to the dorms, now."
Thranduil pushes himself to his feet and extends his hand to Faramir, and when he pulls him from the floor, he marvels at the feel of his hands. They're soft, still, not yet worn by the years, and by their field of study. And they're warm. How long has it been since he's held another person's hand outside of the lab? Even Legolas hasn't really embraced him in years.
"Thranduil Oropherion." He pulls his hand back from the boy and nods to the couch. "I am sorry for how careless my son was with you. That is not how I raised him, I assure you."
"It's no trouble, truly, Mr. Oropherion." Faramir looks to the door, clearly anxious to be leaving.
"Honorifics are unnecessary." Thranduil offers his most charming smile and gestures to the kitchen. Fuck it all, a bit of company can't be so bad after his day. "Join me for a glass of wine before you go? I do desire to know how you've ended up in this curious situation."
He glances once more to the door, chewing on the inside of his cheek. It would be rude to refuse his unsuspecting host. Faramir nods. "If you're certain. It's quite late, I know."
"I've only just gotten off shift, I'm in dire need of a drink." Thranduil flicks his long hair over his shoulder and starts for the kitchen, leaving the young man to follow him. He really shouldn't offer a glass. If anything, he should offer to call the poor man a cab and send him on his way. But it's been quite a fucked day, and he's still angry from the slip in protocol at the lab, and the denial of funding for the synthetic myelin research, and his go at the assistants did nothing to ease his mood.
He pulls two glasses from the rack and selects one of his nicer bottles, and when he turns back to the counter, Faramir waits patiently with his hands in his pockets. He looks nice, for a night at the bar; the knit sweater hugging his chest quite nicely, his trousers pressed and hemmed over a pair of old wingtips. He must come from money, or he must belong to some part of club, or… Has it really been so long since he was in school that the fashions have changed so much? Thranduil gives him a generous pour and sets the glass before him.
"You are studying medicine, then?" Thranduil asks as he pours his own glass.
"Yes, I'm studying Neuropathology," he replies. Thranduil watches as he lifts the glass and inspects it, absently swirling it before raising it to his nose for a small inhale. This seems to render it acceptable to drink, for he does sip, and he does hum almost under his breath.
"Is it not difficult being a researcher, though?" Thranduil asks, curious to see what sort of people his son is carrying into his apartment in the middle of the night on a Sunday. "There's more money in being a surgeon."
"I'm not interested in money," Faramir says, setting his glass back on the counter. Following Thranduil's lead, he leans against it, folding his hands before him. "I want knowledge. And if I cannot make the discoveries myself, I want nothing more than to be on the team that does."
"Any particular reason behind that?"
"My mum. She passed when I was a boy, it was MND." He shrugs, not seeming too put off by it. "I don't have many memories of her, but my brother does. He said it really tore up my dad, and that I missed out on knowing our 'real' father. I guess it would be more for them, than it would be for her."
Thranduil nods. "That's noble."
"It's not noble, it's relatively common; everyone in research has some sort of personal drive." He takes another sip of his wine and offers a rueful smile, only half an apology for the dour turn in their conversation. "What about you? Why does Legolas fancy leaving you with the dregs and drunkards of our dormitories?"
"It's convenient and safe." Thranduil swirls his own wine in the glass, watching the full red color lap up the sides. "Cabs cost quite a bit at this hour, yeah? The last lad Legolas sent back to the university got quite angry to know he'd been sent home from the bar, even without footing the bill, so usually your lot end up here. On my couch, if my son is being generous. On the floor, if not. At least he was aiming for the couch with you."
Faramir is studying him closely, his eyes scanning his face. It's likely for the same reasons Legolas's other friends stare at him; they think him too young to have fathered the boy. They're right, of course. He was too young, and too naive to have known better, but when the paternity tests came back a match, he very well couldn't send his little boy off. He offers his own mock shrug to the boy on the other side of his counter. "I was fourteen, and no his mother's not in the picture. Finish your glass and stop thinking about it."
"I wasn't thinking about it," Faramir says, but he does as he's told and takes another sip of wine, running the glass low, though Thranduil can't tell if it's for eagerness to depart, or because he… inexplicably truly like wine. "I can't promise you won't see Aragorn again, but I won't be invited out again after this, so I can promise you won't see me."
Thranduil says nothing, refilling his glass and topping off his own before he walks to the couch, leaving the bottle well within reach. In the kitchen, Faramir is clearly having some sort of internal debate as to whether or not he'll join. In the end, his manners win out, and he joins Thranduil on the couch.
"How often do you fake your sensitivities?"
Faramir chuckles. "I… faked it for the first two months. Long enough to stop being invited out so frequently. Now it's only on these occasions, every four months or so, when Aragorn gets it into his head that 'family bonding' is important, or that he can improve upon my tolerance through sheer force of will."
"But your tolerance is high, and your own cousin does not know it?" Thranduil shifts in his seat, resting his elbow on the back of the couch so he can study the handsome, young Faramir just a little more directly.
"My brother inherited the family legacy of a world-class winery and brewery, I am merely the spare child who got sent away to boarding schools." Faramir smiles, and it's quite handsome upon his face. "That's the only reason I can pass off the lie of being unable to hold my alcohol."
Thranduil laughs. "That's quite clever. I take it you recognize those bottles, then?"
"I will choose very wisely not to give my opinions on your collection, for I will end up delivering an unwanted presentation about the composition of wines and the process of making them." Another smile, and this time he turns to face Thranduil as he takes another sip of his wine. "This one isn't terrible, though."
Of all the things to be chastised about… but Faramir doesn't seem as if he's doing anything more than ribbing. His smile is not so coy as Aragorn's, but there's a hint of the same wicked sense of humor. It's almost charming.
"Right, well you'll be picking the next bottle."
Thranduil holds his gaze over the rim of his next sip, as if daring him to decline. Claim he needs to be on, to be returning to his studies—scamper home, little boy, it's too late for you to be out. Faramir doesn't take the bait. He takes another sip of his wine and a dragging look down Thranduil's body before smiling, almost to himself.
"Are you not tired from your shift?" He asks, and in his voice there is a gentle, almost unnoticeably teasing lilt. "Have you no work in the morning? I'd hate to take your time."
He shouldn't. He should send Faramir back to his dormitory. He should have nothing to do with such a young man, still in university.
"The work doesn't start until I arrive."
"That's very presumptuous of you." He shifts closer, leaning into this little game that Thranduil has started. Not a little mouse, then; a cat who knows well when to pounce. "You must be quite an important man, if that is the case."
He's just a boy, Thranduil reminds himself. He's Legolas's friend.
"I must be," Thranduil agrees. "But we weren't talking about me."
"You don't want to hear about university, you have a son for that." Gods, he knows what he's doing. He knows he's charming, knows he's handsome, knows, quite unfortunately, that Thranduil agrees, and would quite like to know the taste of the wine coming from his tongue. "And I don't work beneath my father at the winery any longer, so I'm not the one to be giving lectures on wine."
"By your choice, or by his?" When did they get so close? Thranduil swears he can smell the undertones of some musky cologne, carelessly sprayed over his sweater. "I can't imagine any smart man would let a handsome, silver-tongued young man like yourself run from his rightful legacy."
"I'm not the heir apparent." Faramir's index is brushing a line over his knuckles, and for a moment, both of them stop to watch the movement. And then Faramir's gentle grey eyes, turned a wicked silver in his wanting, flicker back up to Thranduil's, and in his wine-soften breath, he breathes, "I should be returning to my studies."
"You should be," Thranduil agrees. There's a soft russet dancing through his beard, too, that wouldn't be found in Aragorn's. "It's a little late for you to be sitting on some strange old man's couch, letting him get you drunk."
"'Old man?'" Faramir's gaze is flickering, now, to his lips, smiling at the imagined scenario. His finger is crawling up, coming to rest under the hem of Thranduil's robe, just above his pulse point on the inside of his wrist. "Shall I tell you what I see?"
All he would need to do is lean in. They can blame it on the wine, or never speak of it again, either would be acceptable, and Legolas need not know. They're grown men, for gods' sake!
"Not if you run your mouth as much as my son does."
"I could be persuaded to keep my mouth occupied with other pursuits." He's biting his lip, drawing closer by the second, and- And he stops, a certain doubt and severity flickering through his eyes as he draws back just slightly. "Unless I've been mistaken…?"
Thranduil finishes what's left in his glass, and without hesitation, takes the rest of Faramir's, downing it, too. How improper he must look guzzling wine like so before a little winery brat, but with the glasses on the coffee table, it frees his hands to take Faramir's sweater in his hands and pull him close.
"Not mistaken," Thranduil reassures him, holding him steady as he leans back in. "Just cautious."
"Ah, well to quote your son against you, 'Caution is for old people and hazard signs.'"
Faramir closes the gap, leaning in and pressing his lips to Thranduil's with all the reckless abandon of youth. There's a scrape of teeth and the catching of noses, and the scratch of his whiskers before they find their frantic pace together. He reaches up, threading his fingers through Thranduil's hair and pulling him closer. In turn, Thranduil slips his hands to Faramir's hips, pulling him into his lap.
His waist is slender, yet muscular, still untouched by the pull of old age, smooth where Thranduil traces the knobs of his spine as they support his back. As much as he roams Faramir's body with his hands, Faramir roams the shape of his mouth with his tongue. He's warm, and it is not wine alone that he tastes on the young man, but as Faramir nips at his lower lip, he hasn't a thought as to what's beyond the sweetness of the wine. Faramir's tugging his hair by the roots, pulling his head back to get a different angle at the way he flicks his tongue into Thranduil's mouth with every bruising, eager kiss.
Every harried breath is shared, moved from one set of lungs to the next, and Thranduil pulls him down, pressing upwards against Faramir. A sweet, low moan rumbles it's way up his chest, and he gets the idea well enough on his own to rock his hips over Thranduil's growing erection. At the feeling of the fabric shifting and dragging over his cock, he hisses, and Faramir takes the opportunity to lick a stripe up his neck, to the curve of his jaw.
"Don't be shy now that you've drawn me into your lap," Faramir murmurs, dragging the pad of just finger just below where Thranduil has his lip caught in his teeth. "Handsome, powerful man like you; don't you want to sing for me?"
"I am not so narcissistic as to enjoy the sound of my- ah, fuck!" He throws his head back as Faramir nibbles on his ear, somehow freeing the knot around his waist in a single, fluid motion.
"Sensitive? Oh, I'll remember that." Faramir presses a few quick kisses against the side of his jaw before drawing him into another heated kiss. "Where else are you sensitive?"
"You're a researcher, do your job," Thranduil pants, and the hot kisses begin to trail back down his throat, with just a hint of his scruff scratching at his skin. "And stop talking, fuck's sake-"
"Asking questions is an essential part of researching, I'll have you know." Faramir tugs him again, forcing his head to the back of the couch. With his other hand, he pushes open the robe and slips one side off of Thranduil's shoulder. "For example, how do you feel about this-?"
He cranes, dragging a flat tongue over his nipple, and Thranduil cannot help but to hold his hips a little tighter as he bites his lip, stifling a moan. Faramir smiles and blows softly on the trail of spit, making his nipple peak in response. "I'll take that as a yes."
"And you'll take your shoes off of my very nice, very expensive couch-"
"Fool's money, and the wingtips stay on during sex." Faramir slips off of his lap and onto the floor, not giving him a chance to recover before he's pushing his knees apart and making himself comfortable right there between them. "They cost more than your couch, you know."
Thranduil's eyes widen as Faramir takes hold of his hips with a shockingly firm grip. "You're a mouthy little sot. I should've sent you off in a cab-"
"You should have, but you didn't." Faramir's smile grows quite wicked as he drags him lower on the couch, making a mess of his hair and leaving him to scramble for hold on the back cushions. Thranduil's breath hitches when Faramir stretches upwards, pressing his hardness against his ass. Just inches away, Faramir is torn between watching his lips, and meeting his eyes. "You're distracting me from my studies. I don't take kindly to that. Enough so that I haven't done this in years. So tell me now, 'old man,' if you'd see me out the door and into a cab."
"I'd see your mouth occupied with other pursuits, little boy," Thranduil hisses.
And there's that pretty smile again. Faramir seems pleased with his answer. "I thought so. Take my hair when the time comes. Until then, I do recommend holding onto the couch, unless you'd like to be bitten. And do sing for me, I like to know I'm doing a good job."
"Bitten?" Thranduil has no more time to demand answers. Faramir is lowering his mouth down to his chest, skillfully making use of his tongue and teeth while his hands busy themselves between his thighs. Thranduil gasps at the sensation of teeth on his nipples, and the tantalizing scrape of his scruff, and much to his dismay, he does find himself holding on to the couch cushion as Faramir wreaks a trail of havoc down his body.
His hands are soft as they stroke down his hips, and firm when they take hold of his thighs, kneading the flesh in time with the way he drags his tongue over and sucks at Thranduil's chest, leaving harsh marks in his wake that paint an image of lust over his pale skin. He presses firmly down on the insistent tenting of Thranduil's joggers, earning him a groan and a rocking of hips beneath his palm. Faramir smiles against his ribs, nipping sharply and listening to the gasp it draws. There below his kiss-wet lips, the bite mark is already forming over alabaster skin.
"You smell fresh," Faramir comments, nuzzling against the soft flesh of his stomach, watching the way it makes Thranduil's abdomen flutter. "I've caught you just out of the shower?"
"My homecoming is always the same: restroom, shower, wine, meal, bed." Thranduil reaches for the waistband of his pants, only to feel the piercing pain of teeth digging into his side. He shouts and grabs the cushion, only to find Faramir giving him an innocent smile. "What the bloody hell was that!?"
"I warned you." He presses a soft kiss over the bright red bite mark and sinks lower down, flicking his tongue into the divot of Thranduil's belly button. "Not until I'm down. You've… got a clean bill of health, yeah?"
Thranduil shudders at the sensation, and decides it's not entirely unpleasant. "Y-Yes, I'm tested regularly at w-work—needles and all, it's a- it's a dangerous job."
"Accidentally sticks don't happen if you follow protocol." Faramir hooks his fingers in the waistband and chuckles. "What, are you a doctor? Is little 'Las' following in your footsteps? You have a nice apartment, what's your specialty?"
"Faramir," he warns, feeling the fabric of his pants dragging over his aching cock.
"Is it the mention of work or the mention of your son?" Another nip to his hip bone, and his cock springs free, landing harshly back on his lower stomach. Faramir takes it in hand and gives it a firm squeeze, watching the beading of precum at the head. "Or is it that you haven't been fucked properly in years, just like me? And you're desperate to-"
Thranduil jerks up, roughly grabbing his face and pulling him close. "The only thing I'm desperate for," he growls, "Is for you to shut the fuck up and suck my cock, or get the hell out of my apartment so I can handle myself and go to bed. Do you understand?"
Faramir whines, his pretty eyelashes fluttering rapidly against his cheeks as every ounce of cockiness leaves his body, and he melts to the perfect picture of submission. "Yes, sir. I understand."
Thranduil narrows his eyes at the sudden, immediate submission of the boy, but says nothing and lets him go. Faramir is quick to lower his head, and Thranduil has only the briefest regret that he hasn't tied his hair up, before there is a tongue laving at his cock from root to tip. His breath catches in his throat, and then the most beautiful thing happens. Faramir, knelt between his legs, looks up with the saddest eyes possible, already shining with tears. "Take my hair."
Already, Faramir is guiding one of his hands to the back of his head as he lowers himself down, his tongue flicking out to make his path down Thranduil's cock that much easier. His mouth is warm, and entirely engulfing, and Thranduil obliges his request to hold his hair back while he works. There is the scrape of scruff on the insides of his thighs, and come morning, he's certain he'll regret the chafing, but for now, Thranduil finds that he doesn't quite mind. Faramir's free hand is back to kneading the softness of Thranduil's thigh; when it is not there, his fingers wander up to trace the shape of the bite marks, or to lightly pinch his nipples. Every caress is timed with the bob of his head, or the stroke of his hand where he cannot reach.
Thranduil leans back against the couch and watches him work, granting him the sighs and moans he cannot hold back. As he predicted, it's been years since Thranduil took anyone to bed, and the last attempt left him needing a protection order. Still, that was a lone night out with Legolas yet a boy, sleeping in the room over; he'd had to silence himself for years while taking matters into his own hands. This—moaning out loud—is an entirely new experience, and a welcome one at that.
Faramir seems to be ignoring him, wholly set on the task at hand; it seems he's taking the order to do his research to heart—if one touch draws a headier moan or a deeper whimper, he's chasing after it until he runs that well dry. After a near catastrophic play at his sensitive nipples, Thranduil grabs his hand and pins it to his chest, rendering him frozen.
"Gentle, unless you want me to spill into your mouth," Thranduil warns, tugging his hair and lifting him far enough back that they can make eye contact.
Something dark flashes through Faramir's eyes beneath the flutter of his eyelashes, and he pulls off of Thranduil's cock, giving clear sight to the spit coating his chin and his stubble. He's panting harshly, a soft smile coming to his lips as he looks up at him. "I want that," he breathes. "I want you to fuck my throat. Hold my face down, please."
"And if you need a breath?" Thranduil asks, leaning up enough to wipe the spit from his mouth.
"I'll tap." He cranes his head, only whining when he finds himself held in place by Thranduil's tightening grip. "Please-"
"You're doing a very good job, Faramir," Thranduil purs. Just as he suspected, Faramir's breathing grows shallow, and he begins to rock his hips into nothingness as he reaches once more for Thranduil's cock. "You're such a good boy. Did you know that?"
His eyes go hazy, and he hums noncommittally, and when Thranduil pulls him closer, he does not fight it. It is with willingness that he takes Thranduil into his mouth once again, and this time he lets the hand in his hair direct him. This pace, it's less eager, but infinitely more pleasing, and being in control of Faramir's pace, Thranduil is all too happy to draw it out. He draws his mouth back until Faramir begins to whimper, and pushes his head down until he begins to gag, and after a while be begins to thrust upwards in time with every lowering of Faramir's head.
"You're so quiet now, little researcher," Thranduil murmurs, stroking his cheek with his freehand. "Is this what you wanted?"
Faramir hums, and this one is agreeable, and the next gag sounds almost exaggerated with need. Thranduil pushes him further down, and he seems to vibrate with the approval, his cheeks growing bright red and utterly delectable. He wants to pull him up, wants to suck on those pretty red apples of his cheeks, wants to leave him just as needy as he's making Thranduil feel.
He thrusts upwards into his mouth, listening to him gag, and it's a startlingly beautiful sound. It makes the discomfort of the wet scrape of his stubble worth it. And almost in anticipation of his thrusts, and his guiding hand, Faramir flicks his tongue over the head of Thranduil's cock nearly every time he draws him back, right up until his thrusting grows impatient, and he gives in to the quicker pace.
"Faramir," Thranduil pants, rocking into his mouth, trying so desperately to be mindful of his breathing. "I'm right there-"
By his own liberty, Faramir presses his face down, his nose crushing into the short-clipped hair at the base of Thranduil's cock, swallowing around him. Thranduil spills harshly down his throat, holding tight to his hair less in desire to push him down, and more in desire to stable himself through the shuddering orgasm. He moans, feeling Faramir's hands squeezing his bare thighs, and when he stops twitching in the boy's mouth, he tugs his hair, pulling him off. The scrape of his scruff is far less distracting now that he has found release, and there between Thranduil's thighs is the tale tell pink of a friction burn. Faramir pulls off of him, swallowing down whatever's left of Thranduil's taste, resting his forehead against the crux of his hip as they both catch their breaths.
Thranduil combs his fingers through Faramir's hair, watching the way the sensation of the knots catching makes his eyelashes flutter. It brings him a small chuckle. "You're such a pretty boy-"
Faramir whines lowly, pressing his face against Thranduil's hip as a heavy shudder courses through his body. There's a final jerk of his hips before the whine silences itself and Faramir stiffens. So does Thranduil's hand in his hair, and he watches, knowing exactly what has happened, but not wanting to risk embarrassing the young man.
"Um." Faramir clears his throat, though he keeps his face pressed to Thranduil's thigh. It feels warm, almost feverish, and internally, Thranduil curses to himself for not having offered up his own mouth first. Or other amenities. "This was spectacular. Please say nothing to Legolas. I'll be heading back now."
He turns away, not meeting Thranduil's eyes as he gets to his feet with the awkwardness of someone who's just found release in their pants. Though he does an admirable job of hiding it, but it's still there in the way he walks stiffly towards the door, and how he tries to hide his beet red face.
Thranduil pushes himself from the couch, pulling his joggers back up before he follows, catching Faramir's elbow and pulling him to a stop. "Please, wait a minute."
"Thank you, but I've got studying-"
"It's a thirty-minute drive, not including the wait for a cab," Thranduil informs him. "And at this hour, it'll be a while before anyone's here. Don't be stubborn. At least wash yourself so you're not uncomfortable and reeking on the ride back. I'll call your cab."
Faramir can hardly stand to look up, and for now, Thranduil will not make him. "I- Thank you."
"Down the hall, first door to the left." Thranduil points, stepping back so that he may pass.
True to his word, Thranduil calls for a cab as he's washing the wine glasses. Out of the corner of his eye, he keeps watch for Faramir while he roots through his pantry and attempts to find something edible on the shelves; it's a necessary distraction from the burn between his thighs and poorly thoughts running through his head. After all to quick of an analysis, he steps back and reaches for his drawer of takeaway menus. Just after he's selected something—only because it's the nearest open location at this hour—Faramir emerges from the hall, looking as if he's just a touch less red of face.
"Your cab should be here within the next few minutes." Thranduil pulls himself another bottle of wine, not even bothering to look at the rack. On a night like tonight, he's half tempted to call in tomorrow. Now that his cock isn't being so thoroughly worked, the realization that he's just fucked his son's sort-of friend in the mouth is settling heavy on his shoulders. And him being a sort-of friend feels a lot more offensive than if Thranduil had actually fucked one of his friends.
"Thanks." Faramir tucks his hands in his pockets and keeps his head down. "And, um. Th-Thank you for the wine."
"Of course." Thranduil drums his fingers on the counter and watches the young man, looking for anything else to say. "I'll show you out?"
"Ah, alright." Faramir steps out of his way, and this time when he walks towards the door, his movements are not so hindered by the mess he's made of himself. "Again, I'm sorry about the interruption-"
Thranduil takes his arms and pulls him in, pressing their lips quite harshly together. It's aching, and painful, and almost ridiculous with how one-sided it is. But after a moment, Faramir softens, kissing him back. Thranduil strokes his arms, reaching to take hold of his hands, and there Thranduil presses a folded sheet of paper into them.
"When you are ready for me to return the favor," Thranduil murmurs against his lips, ignoring the scruff, "Call. Text. Doesn't matter when."
"But Legolas-"
"Doesn't need to know if you don't want him to." Thranduil steps back, reaching for the door handle. "But I would so like to return the favor. If you'll let me."
Faramir scratches his chin absently as he steps out into the hallway, seeming at a loss for words, and in his other hand, he spins the folded note relentlessly. "Good night, I suppose."
"Good night."
And only once Faramir is down the hall does Thranduil shut the door and lower himself to sit on the tile.
What the hell has he just done?