When you think back at that story, you blame the wine of King Thranduil.
He has been generously treating his guests to it, the feast stretching for seven hours. With food delicious, music enticing and the ambience at the tables surprisingly pleasant, you have been thoroughly enjoying yourself and even caught a smile or two on the King Thorin's face. This is not your first visit to the Greenwood the Great, but you feel that finally it is nothing but a gracious social call. The presence of Elrond, wisely sitting between the silver haired Elvenking and the King Under the Mountain, seems to furthermore mollify both sides. A few polite phrases are even exchanged between the two Kings, and after a several appeasing strokes of your hand on the Dwarf's thigh, the surprised honourable guests hear the proud King Under the Mountain complimenting the food and wine. Oh, the treacherous wine of King Thranduil!
Thorin is pinning you to a wall, one of his knees lifted and indecently pressed between your legs, with you literally straddling it and lecherously rubbing your center to it. Your hands are buried in his hair, scratching the back of his head, his mouth on your throat. You are biting your lip, in desperate attempts to silence your moans. Your skin is burning head to toe, your undergarments drenched, the King's eyes half-lidded, low rumbling deep in his heaving chest.
All of a sudden the King drops his foot on the ground and you plunge down. He catches you under your arms and puts you upright. He grabs your hand and starts pulling you towards a shadowy passage. You are too dazed to protest. Obviously, you will be seen if you continue your delinquencies there, and at the back of your mind you think how unregal such behaviour would be. The King Under the Mountain caught with his trousers around his ankles, his Queen sprawled on a bench, which, to think of it, looks rather suitable for a short rough tumble, all teeth and bites, him thrusting in you with a growl, you raking his shoulders with your nails… But Thorin rushes by the bench that you have favoured and suddenly you see a row of doors in the wall, cleverly concealed as a part of intertwined branches of Mirkwood trees. He pushes one of them and giving it a quick appraising glance he pulls you in, slamming the door behind his back.
The room is thankfully empty, dim light of the night Mirkwood casting lacy shadows on the floor and walls. Inside is a table and a few chairs. It is probably a small dining room of sorts, but you have no time to investigate further, as the King quickly deposits you on the table and positions his body between your legs. Everything else forgotten, you dive in, kissing, biting, the clasps on his vest and the lacing on his shirt agape within seconds, the belt clanks hitting the floor, and the trousers plummet down. Your skirt is bunched around your waist and the undergarment is discarded on the floor. He pushes in and you drop your head back. His thrusting deliciously forceful, you meet each stroke with a returning jab of your hips, momentum gained from straining your arms, your hands positioned behind you back. He hooks up his right arm under your leg and hikes it up higher. The delicious pressure is building in you, and you are so close!
At that moment you hear steps and muffled voices behind the door, and the people on the other side halt in front of the room you are in. They are evidently arguing, fervently but keeping their voices down. The King recoils and pulls up his trousers. You only have time to grab the belt and your drawers from the floor when it becomes obvious that those quarreling in hushed voices are to come in. You freeze in dread, when the King pulls you into what turns out to be a linen pantry, with just enough room for you two to stand among the shelves of exquisite tablecloths of King Thranduil.
The two people, judging by irritated emotional tone of the conversation, are a pair of young lovers in the middle of a squabble. They are whispering, interrupting each other, voices being raised only to get shushed by the other. The King near you is coming down from the frenzy of your passionate lovemaking and you see the irritation rising in him. He silently fasten his pants and looks at you as if asking what you are supposed to do now. Since hiding in a linen closet like a pair of mischievous younglings was his idea you give him an haughty look, shrug and shove the belt into his hand. He looks down the low collar of your dress and lifts his brow. You draw your brows together and shake your head. He places his hand on your bum and rubs his thumb on the side of your buttock. You glare at him ignoring delicious tingles radiating from his hot palm. He slowly lowers his lips on your neck, and to your own disbelief you tilt your head, facilitating his dalliances.
At that moment one of the voices becomes increasingly agitated, almost reaching the normal volume and you realized that it is your younger nephew by marriage. Your King's lips falter, and he straightens up. "But, Tauriel, starlight of my life, you are being unreasonable. If my brother accepted our bond, my uncle will have to as well," Kili's voice is trembling from emotion. "I'm begging you, do not let the old forgotten animosity of our races to discourage you." "It is not long forgotten!" The Elf sounds almost angry. "You see what you want to see, Kili. Yes, your kin was invited to the house of King Thranduil but your people are hardly accepted here." "It matters not. We can leave, just you and I and live the way we want." "We discussed it many times. You do not wish it. Think about it. To leave your brother and you uncle, will you not blame me for that few years later?" "Never!" Kili is almost shouting, and you hear a dull thud. He shares the habit of slamming his palm into a table in agitation with his uncle.
You peer at Thorin, his face grave and jaws clenched. That answers the question whether he knew about the passion between these two, the clandestine affair that everyone was well aware of. Everyone but Thorin, apparently. "My brother accepted our bond," Kili repeats stubbornly, "and my uncle will understand better than anybody. His Queen is no Dwarf either!" Point Kili. The King frowns and you see that he is searching for counterarguments in his head. "But not an Elf either!" retorts the Captain of the Border Guard. Thorin nods slightly and smiles unpleasantly. Point Tauriel. Or is it point Thorin?
You jab him with your elbow between the ribs. He gives you a sideways glance and you press your fists into your hips. The gesture lacks flare since the pantry is rather narrow, but the message is there. You poke his chest with your fist and stare in his eyes. The silent dialogue is a skill you two have perfected over the many years of marriage. You make a pitiful face. "The boy is in love!" The King's nostrils flare. "She is an Elf!" You look down at your feet and up, inviting his to look over you. "You should talk. You married a woman from Men!" He shakes his head. "It is different." A lifted brow. "Different how?" A fist clenched in front of your face. "Their blood is cold, their hearts disloyal." You slap his fist away. "Nonsense. It is time to forget old grievances." A round gesture around his neck and then in front of his waist. "What do you want? Them to get married and have little mutant babies?!" Three fingers in front of his face. "You have three and seem to be rather happy!" Bared teeth. "Do not bring our children into this conversation, woman!"
At that moment you realize that nothing but silence has been coming from the other side of the door for quite a while. And then a low moan and feverish murmuring in Khuzdul. Tauriel whimpers and pride colours your King's gaze. That's my boy, he smirks, but then remembers himself and scowls. You are looking at him sceptically. He glares at the wall above your head. "See what you are putting me though," he is mutely radiating martyrdom. You poke him with a finger into a shoulder. At that moment the Captain of the Border Guard breathes out, "Please, Kili, oh please," and you hear an unmistakable sound of a buckle being unfastened. Your King tenses. His eye are shouting at you, "I will not stay here though this!" The indignation is mixed on his face with genuine terror.
You think of the young lovers and how embarrassed they would be if you stayed any longer. You sign and move to the door. At that moment you hear Kili growling, "Table," and a dull thud of a body landing on the wooden surface of the table. That seems to be the end of your King's patience. The door bursts open and you are staring at Kili perched on the table with the stunning Elven maiden wrapped around him. Their clothing is in disarray, lips pink and swollen. Tauriel's cheeks are burning from passion, but also from what you know from your personal experience is a severe case of stubble burn. The price that one has to pay for dalliances with a Dwarf, unfortunately.
"Uncle!" Kili's face is blanched, and Tauriel is hardly keeping her usual composure in check. But then they look at the belt in his hand, and the unlaced shirt, and your curls escaping the intricate braids, and may be even the undergarment you are trying to conceal behind you back. The pause hangs in the room. The lovers look at you, and you give them the smallest of encouraging nods. "Uncle," Kili jumps off the table and straightens his back. He makes a step ahead, shielding his beloved. The gesture, though slightly comical due to the height difference, makes you proud for the young Dwarf. "We need to talk. Surely as a man in love you understand..." The King lifts his hand and Kili stops in his tracks. "I do not wish to discuss it," he loops his arm and offers it to you, all regal dignity despite the disheveled hair and half naked chest. You give Kili a sympathetic look and gently pull at Thorin's arm trying to catch his eyes. "Not a word more about this, kurdu, enough discussion." He turns to the couple and sighs, "I saw enough to understand what is going on. So just..." He waves his hand dismissively and heads to the door, with you in tow. By the door he turns and smirks, "Just... Get back on that table and make me proud. Do not make your woman ask twice."
You follow him out of the room, biting your lip to contain happy squeals. In the passage he turns to you and unsuccessfully tries to look stern, "And we are not to talk about it ever again." "Yes, yes," you jump at him and pepper kisses over the bearded face, "anything for you, you old sentimental oaf!" He shakes his head and wrapping his arm around your waist he leads you towards your guest chambers. "I believe we have an unfinished matter to attend to, my Queen."