Disclaimer: I own 0 of these characters (but the moronic situations belong to me)

To my reviewers:

Sadli'lsally - Thanks for the support, glad you enjoyed it!

Dawn Felagund - I've never hung out with drunk elves; would have loved to have been around after Feanor kicked back a few, though! My idea was that he had little or no respect for anyone, and the presence of alcohol would, of course, amplify that to the millionth power. Chapter 2 is on its way!

Summary: A drunken Feanor and Co. crash an otherwise lame wedding reception, and when a certain reviled Vala swings by uninvited, things go from bad to worse. Rated for language, innuendo (including slash) and much drunkenness. Wrote a lot of this after a rough day at work, so...


Nerdanel rushed into the bedroom in a mad whirl of ruffled skirts. "What in blazes are you ranting about?" she exclaimed, quite irritable.

Feanor fumed as he regarded his dark, imposing outfit in the full-length mirror. "Where...is...my...scabbard?"

She snorted in disdain. "We're going to a wedding, dearest, not some frivolous showdown with your next of kin!"

Feanor shot his wife a righteously indignant look. "If I am to be dragged against my will to this insipid event, then at the very least I shall be prepared! Now wife, my sword and scabbard!" he commanded arrogantly, sticking his perfect nose in the air and dramatically extending his hand.

"Oh, shut up and put this on you lout!" Nerdanel spat, tossing him a diamond-studded choker before rushing out of the room to attend to her sons' own preparations.

Moments later, Feanor strode impatiently to the foot of the grand staircase. "Wife! Offspring!" he shouted in his most authoritarian voice, clapping twice rapidly for emphasis. "We leave for the wedding!" Abruptly, he turned on his diamond-studded heel and stalked out of the house, muttering darkly to himself.

The thunder of footsteps echoed off the walls as the small parade of young elves hurried down the steps.

"All right, hold 'yer horses, Pops!" Caranthir muttered under his breath, avoiding the reach of Maedhros's arm.

"Why the hell does he call us 'offspring'?" Celegorm quipped, stirring a round of snickers from his younger brothers, including the twins, who basically laughed at everything he said. Maedhros aimed a stiff slug at his head, glaring menacingly.

"I do hope he chooses to behave and not make a fool of himself," Maglor remarked quietly to his elder brother.

Maedhros sighed and gave him a pointed look. "Maglor. He's our father," he retorted ruefully as he ushered the younger ones out of the door.

Anaire stood, unmoving, and stared out the window in horrified disbelief. "Fingolfin."

The harried father of the groom rushed into the room, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Now what?" he asked with irritation.

"They're here." Fingolfin followed her gaze and his expression matched his wife's.

There was a great deal of noise and commotion as the large carriage made its way up the road. In the driver's seat sat Feanor and Nerdanel, who were gesturing and bickering loudly in Quenya, oblivious to the chaos inside the carriage. Celegorm, Curufin and Caranthir were singing a purposefully loud and obnoxious version of "99 Bottles of Rum," laughing as they avoided repeated blows from a glowering Maedhros. The twins' high-pitched shrieks could be heard from where they wrestled on the carriage floor. Maglor sat huddled in one corner, plugging his ears and singing loudly to himself.

"Bloody hell," Fingolfin muttered, turning and stalking into the bathroom in search of a sedative.

Elenwe closed her eyes and made the backwards throw. The lavender bouquet sailed through the air above the many garlanded heads. Countless maidens (and not a few confused elf lads) squealed and tittered as they jostled and elbowed one another, jockeying for prime position in the midst of the large, garishly decorated hall.

Suddenly, a tall, blond maiden pushed her way through the throng, effectively clearing the way with her athletic strength and leaving many slender bodies in her wake. The bouquet landed softly in her strong hands. A great collective groan went up from the crowd. "Blasted she-man," one angry voice huffed.

"YES!" Galadriel exulted, beaming and pumping her fists into the air. Not far away, Celegorm and Curufin laughed derisively.

"Poor pathetic sap," Curufin remarked with amusement, nodding his head in the direction of their cousin's hapless lover, Celeborn, who currently was hiding behind a large yew tree.

"Talk about being strong-armed, look at the carnage!" Celegorm chuckled, shaking his head at the sight of several young elves helping one another up and shooting dirty glares in Galadriel's direction. The minstrels started up a merry tune, and many in attendance began to dance and frolic about the room, knocking about plates and goblets along the way. The newly married couple took advantage of the distraction to steal a little 'quality time' behind some thick bushes (way to go, Turgon!). Little Amrod and Amras skipped by, pulling processional rice out of each other's hair and then sticking it in each other's noses.

"This party really deteriorated fast," Curufin observed, wrinkling his nose in disdain at all the barefoot merriment. "So much for the Vanyarin notion of a good time! Mother and Father's fights are more fun than this," he complained.

"Not for long, not unless we give the proceedings a little helping hand," Celegorm murmured meaningfully, discreetly pulling him over to an elaborately decorated beverage table with a three-tiered punch bowl. "Did you bring it?" he whispered.

"What do you think?" Curufin whispered back, discreetly reaching into a small knapsack and retrieving a mysteriously veiled bottle. The brothers worked quickly and silently, emptying its potent contents into the bowl.

The pair could barely contain their devious mirth. "Are you certain about this?" Curufin whispered. "You know that Father can't hold his liquor, and his mood is already foul."

Celegorm grinned evilly. "Exactly, dear brother. So I advise you to sit back and enjoy the show!" Then the brothers tiptoed out of sight.

The roar of inane chatter and merry laughter echoed off the walls as the ravenous guests feasted on the bountiful buffet of gamehens, fruits, vegetables, cheeses, pastries, pheasant and sour taffy to top it all off. Each long banquet table provided a lively mixture of Vanyar and Noldor folk, with some Teleri and even a few Valar thrown in for good measure, all consuming equally astounding amounts of punch. At the head table, Fingolfin bit his nails anxiously and leaned over to his wife. The sedative had worn off shortly after the ceremony, and his entire body practically shook.

"This marriage had better take!" he whispered to her, eyes wide and darting around the hall. "He's our last hope for an heir and I'm at my wits' end!"

"Will you calm down, you ninny!" Anaire whispered back. "You'll break out in hives and give yourself an attack!"

"We need a grandson, Anaire!" Fingolfin hissed, unconsciously beginning to scratch under his heavily brocaded neck collar. "With our eldest son having chosen an...alternative path and Aredhel not yet of age, Turgon is my last chance for vindication! We cannot let the Evil Stepson succeed in supplanting our line!"

"Stop fidgeting, you're rattling my fine porcelain!" she chastised, slapping him on the knee. The resulting jerk of his leg caused significant clanging of glass and wine spillage, making them the target of many a nasty glare. "Do something, Fingolfin! Get up and make your speech!" she whispered nervously, giving her husband a hearty push.

Fingolfin stood up quickly, rather quickly, as he had to steady himself while waiting for the head rush to pass. He cleared his throat and raised his hand. "If I could have everyone's attention for a moment" he announced. But the raucous merriment continued, and in vain the elf tried to whistle and waved his arms like a madman. The questionable goings-on continued still, which included a rather heavy make-out session at the newlyweds' table. Shouts of "chug! chug! chug!" could be heard from the always noble House of Finarfin table where Galadriel and Finrod tried to best one another at a game of endurance.

Fingolfin shook his head in exasperation and turned to the quiet young elf on his right. "Findekano!" he commanded, snapping his fingers and pointing for him to stand.

Sighing, Fingon rose slowly and took a deep breath. "Everybody SHUT UUUUPP!" he bellowed in a great voice.

All fell dead silent, save for the residual giggling of an inebriated Feanor and Nerdanel's whispered admonishings at the far end of the hall.

Fingolfin nodded his thanks at his son before facing his public. Knew that boy would be good for something, he thought. "My lords and ladies! Anaire and I want to thank you all for sharing this most anticipated and joyous and event with our family today," he began, trying desperately not to scratch beneath his collar. "I know you all share our feelings as I tell you how anxiously and expectantly we await the first of what will be many grandchildren!" he said emphatically, staring pointedly in Turgon's direction. "Even Fingon can hardly wait to become a doting uncle to that first bundle of joy," he exclaimed, glancing dubiously at the slouching young elf.

"Good, maybe he'll find a hobby other than making midnight visits to my eldest son and waking the entire house!" shouted a cheerfully obnoxious voice, which was unmistakably Feanor's. Nerdanel slapped him on the arm. "Whaaat? Broken branches don't lie!" he retorted, taking a swig of his goblet.

A great murmur went up among the guests. Fingolfin clenched his fists and glared in Feanor's direction, his face growing hot. Both Fingon and Maedhros slouched deep in their seats, hiding their faces in embarrassment. Celegorm and Curufin nudged one another meaningfully, their eyes and mouths wide.

Fingolfin closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, trying to control his temper and a potentially embarrassing hive outbreak. "As I was saying, we are all here tonight to honor the newly married couple, so let us make a toast!" he exclaimed, raising his glass and giving poor Fingon a strong nudge to stand up. Boy, don't you dare make me look like a fool, he thought anxiously, shooting him a warning look.

There was much clamor and scraping of chairs as the tittering party guests staggered to their feet. When at last all was calm (except for Feanor's idiotic giggling), Fingolfin proclaimed, "To the bride and groom! May their union be prosperous and everlasting, may they bring pride and honor to the family, and may their numerous offspring," he said emphatically, smiling pointedly at Turgon once more, "keep the mighty House of Fingolfin alive for years to come! Cheers!"

"Hear hear!" everyone yelled, merrily clinking glasses and downing the contents in one gulp. Turgon and Elenwe managed to unglue themselves from one another long enough to take a swig from their goblets before getting back at it again.

"Whoooooo! Well spoken, laddie!" Feanor crowed, clapping clumsily and rising unsteadily to his feet. "You know, in keeping with the spirit of merrying, or making out or whatever," he began, waving his hand dismissively, "I'd like to say a few words. Well, not just a few, 'cuz I got a lot to say to you people!" he giggled hysterically, trying to shake off Nerdanel's attempts to sit him down. "Heeyyyyyy, woman! Watch the hair," he whined belligerently, lazily pushing her away.

Fingolfin felt his temper rising again and rose to his feet, but Anaire held him back. "He's not going to make my son's wedding a laughingstock!" he hissed, struggling to free himself.

"Inviting them was your idea," she retorted through gritted teeth, tightening her grip. The hall had quieted considerably and all watched in dreadful anticipation as an extremely loaded Feanor swaggered around to the front of the table, goblet in hand.

"Well! First I just want to thank Fingolfin, the Supremely Inferior half-spawn, and his wife, Miss Holier-Than-Thou Anaire, for their generous hospitality," Feanor said loudly, smirking. "The ceremony was laborious, the dress and decorations were hideous, the bread was stale and oh yes, the meat was undercooked, which will ensure that not a single soul in this place shall sleep well tonight! Well done, half-brother!" he exclaimed, tipping his glass toward Fingolfin before taking a deep drink.

There was loud murmuring among the guests, and several made as if to walk over to confront Feanor, yet were restrained by a relative or someone else who was taking sadistic pleasure in watching this train wreck.

Feanor looked around him in disgust. "This is without a doubt, hands down, the worst party I've ever attended," he remarked. "I mean, sparring with the old lady is more exciting than this racket - hey, ice cream! Gimme some o'that!" he exclaimed, thrusting his goblet in the servant's face, who quickly dropped a scoop into his glass before scurrying over to where Feanor's family sat. Everyone, even a red-faced and itchy Fingolfin, seemed to welcome this pleasant diversion and soon began stuffing their faces.

"Oh, nooooo! 'Scuse me, sir! Hey, boy!" Feanor yelled to the servant, waving his arms. "None of that stuff for little Maglor, he's lactose intolerant!"

Everyone stopped eating just as quickly as they had begun, many with full mouths as evident by the sound of melted ice cream slapping the floor as it was spat out. Much snickering broke out, mostly from Celegorm, Curufin and Caranthir, which earned them a murderous glare from Maedhros. Maglor buried his face in his hands as a frazzled Nerdanel tried to console him.

"Mmmm-mm-mm!" Feanor smacked his lips after a long drink, wearing ice cream on his upper lip and chin. "You know, this bloody fantastic rum punch is the only thing making this torturous event bearable," he giggled, turning around and pointing to where his family sat. "And I've probably got my devilishly clever Celegorm and Curufin to thank for that!" His giggling increased at the wide-eyed, petrified looks frozen on his sons' faces, and he wagged his finger mockingly at them. "Yeesssss, little offspring, Daddy knows how naughty you've been! And tomorrow he's going to throttle you both within an inch of your lives!" he declared in a sing-song manner, laughing heartily at the thought. Celegorm and Curufin slunk deep in their seats, avoiding their mother's blazing eyes.

"Oh, what am I doing! Hello, Feanaro, you're supposed to be thanking people, not plotting your sons' deaths!" Feanor exclaimed cheekily, rolling his eyes and slapping his forehead.

"Oh, no," Fingolfin muttered, scratching his neck absently.

"Well, I would also like to thank my poor sap of a father, Finwe, who's been living in his own private hell ever since he took up with that...homewrecker and her brainless family," Feanor snorted, shaking his head in disdain. Finwe, sitting at Fingolfin's table, sighed and shook his head sadly while an icy Indis shot daggers at Feanor. "I mean, look what happened when they mated! You got Fingolfin the Wanna-Be and Finarfin the Soft!" he laughed derisively, pointing in their direction.

Fingolfin once again had to be restrained by Anaire, and now scratched his face earnestly. "Damn you, spawn of Miriel!" he shouted angrily. At another table, a weepy Finarfin was being gently rocked in his wife's arms. Celegorm's and Curufin's drunken laughter was only a few shades quieter than their father's.

Feanor, drunk beyond caring about the chaos he was creating, belched and blew Fingolfin a loud kiss. "Right back at you, slime of Indis!" he cooed loudly.

"Nevertheless," he continued, raising his glass toward Finwe, "we do owe the king a debt of gratitude, for by changing one itty-bitty consonant of our once-eloquent language, except in my noble house, he single-handedly reduced the mighty folk of Valinor to a bunch of blithering idiots!" he crowed, laughing riotously at his own joke. "Here's to you, Pops!" He gave Finwe a cheeky grin and downed another gulp of ice cream and punch mixture. Again Finwe sighed and shook his head.

Now there was much dissonance within the hall. In great frustration, Fingolfin shook his fists at the sky and mouthed, "Will you please kill him?"

Feanor shaded his eyes and squinted at something in the distance. "Crikey, are they still going at it?" he exclaimed loudly, gesturing to the ever-amorous Turgon and Elenwe, who had stopped sucking face at the interruption and froze, eyes wide.

"Hey, who wants to wager that the first grandchild has already been conceived, eh? Atta boy!" Feanor laughed mischievously, winking at an extremely red-faced Turgon. Though pretending to appear outraged, Fingolfin secretly smiled in joyous triumph at the thought as everyone else threw a holy fit. Several Noldo men rose to their feet, clenching their fists. Most of the Vanya men just sulked in their seats, a la Finarfin.

"All right, all right, I have just one more thing I wanna say before I go vomit," Feanor pronounced, holding up two fingers. "I wanna propell...eh, proposition...I mean, propose a toast." He thrust his drinking arm into the air. "Come, come! Raise a glass!" he exclaimed, gesturing for all to join him. The angry Noldolis had walked out from behind their tables and stepped ever closer to the oblivious Feanor, who then spoke the following:

May the newly married couple have no sons and lots of hot daughters (naughty giggle),

May the Vanyar learn to cook a meal that doesn't make me violently ill,

May the Teleri compose a song that doesn't make me want to jump off a cliff,

"And!" Feanor paused dramatically, smiling with grim satisfaction. "May Morgoth the Supreme Slime burn in hell for all eternity! Bottoms up!" He tipped his head back and finished what remained in his goblet, stumbling backward and plopping into a nearby chair.

The place was in a total uproar. Celegorm and Curufin giggled deliriously while Nerdanel peppered her semi-conscious husband with an onslaught of curses.

Fingolfin was practically jumping up and down in fury. "Now will someone kill him!" he shrieked, scratching like mad.

The menacing sound of swords being drawn seemed to bring Feanor back to reality. "Aha! See now, wench! What did I tell you!" he screeched at Nerdanel, pointing accusingly at the many irate Noldolis pointing their swords at him. "I told you I should have come prepa-"

Sudden, rolling thunder cut him off and silenced all in the hall. Many gazed about with fearful eyes as the walls shook, the silverware clattered, why, even Turgon and Elenwe peeled themselves off of each other for three seconds.

There was a sudden, loud crash of dishes and cookware from the kitchen. "Whoa! That's gonna cost some shmuck a pretty penny!" came a laughing voice dripping with arrogant malice.

Fingolfin froze where he stood, his jaw dropping open in horror. "Oh, no. Please, no more...," he mumbled, slowly turning his wide-eyed gaze to where a tall, imposing shadow loomed in the archway:

"Hey, peeps, whaddup!"


A/N: A bit long for a comedy, but once I got Feanor's tongue loose, it was hard to stop! And yes, the degradation of Feanor's language from formal to slang was purposeful, as he is...drunk. Please let me know what you think!