ohai this is a big ‘un
and like, what
that logs all of the Google search queries I make while I’m writing fanfic / origfic
because goodness they are random and amusing to me.
some of the queries I’ve been running today: “how to track animals,” “how to track people,” “how to run with a sword,” “deer hunting blog,” ”how long of a coma would you be in after losing lots of blood,” “sex positions,” “angry sex,” “what did people eat in the 1700s,” “horse tack”
((I’m sober now? Maybe?))
Rafiel had been fretting over the same tattered bouquet for hours now—standing tall in the wildflowers, turning over in his hand first a tulip, then a daisy, then a rhododendron, his expression pinched and anxious as he scrutinized each in turn.
Volug tilted his chin slightly upward, watching the heron from afar—watching for a long while, the slight smile on his face betraying his amusement.
“Chrysanthemum,” he said at last, and Rafiel turned, startled to find the wolf standing there: “the queen likes chrysanthemum.”
((consider this my premature apology for quality. i am ten drinks in tonight.))
“You’re from Daein,” Stefan called over the keening, ringing clash of their swords, and Ziahrk pulled back—wondering what part of his swordplay had given it away, what misstep he’d made that betrayed his origin.
“i understand why Ike fights, I think. But you…” Stefan’s lips curled back into a smile—a vaguely twisted smile, a lion’s smile—”you’re a puzzle, Zihark.”
Zihark swallowed, the wind sharp in his ears; Stefan’s smile told him that he’d already guessed the answer to that puzzle.
When Reyson left the palace for Castle Kilvas (left of his own accord, left for good, according to the note he’d lain on the nightstand), Leonardo did not see his king grieve—did not see him at all, for he’d shuttered himself away in the deepest chamber of the palace, and took no visitors.
Leonardo thought of Sir Edward, slain months ago alongside him, among the rocks by cavernous lair of the dragon they’d set out to slay, his corpse too burnt and mangled to even grant a proper burial.
When Leonardo went to his king now, he wondered what was worse—losing a love to the grave, losing a love to another—but either way, he could abide by this silence no longer: he’d defended his king all his life, and now he would be the one to console him.
Ever since they’d started backpacking up the west coast, Soren had grown used to their standing out, as dirty and rugged-looking as they often were, wandering from town to town—but once they started hiking through Seattle’s Capitol Hill district, he found they had an irritatingly different problem: they blended in too well.
Soren knew that Ike’s thick-rimmed glasses were simply a result of his being too lazy to put his contacts in, and his plaid shirt was more a reflection of his southern-born sensibilities rather than his being trendy, and his tacky faux-cowboy boots were a simple matter of practicality, but that didn’t stop some skinny-jeaned blonde from sauntering up to him in the street: “Hey, handsome, you coming to the Aesop Rock concert tonight?”
“Don’t bother,” Soren hissed, sidling up beside Ike and glaring at her, “he doesn’t listen to that pretentious white-rapper windbag.”
Innes saw the crash coming before anyone—he’d run the numbers a thousand times, compiled a report complex enough to shame any economics Ph.D., ran over a dozen simulations—but at the end of his hours-long appeal to the president of the Morgan Frelia itself, the answer came back loud and clear: yes, there’s something crooked here, and no, we won’t stop it.
“You should get out while you can, kid,” Innes muttered hotly to the young trader riding the elevator with him, squeezing the handle of his briefcase so tightly it nearly snapped in his hands, “this firm’s rotten to the core.”
Cormag considered carefully, watching Innes—thinking that there was something noble in the way the gray-haired suit held himself, something that reminded him of old president of Grado Sachs, before asking: “Where are you headed, then—can I go there?”
because everyone else is doing it
and i’m nothing if not a sheeple
(even if I sort of fail at writing shortfic, but whateva, shits & giggles & such)
1) Give me a pairing in my ask (does not need to be romantic).
2) Give me an AU setting.
3) I will write a three-sentence fic.
I can do FE8, 9, 10, and sort-of 7.
it’s all like
“ugh what the hell was I thinking when i wrote that simile”
“did i just have this bit character change their freaking accent mid-conversation oh god yes i did”
“why did I think that scene was a good idea. it was a terrible idea. forever.”
it’s actually a lot like trying to remember what the hell you were thinking the morning after a night of heavy drinking. not that i would know anything about that.