Author's note: This is nothing but a collection of crap. Crap that should never be posted in any realm of serious writing. This is the kind of crap that would get me killed in any serious writing circle. But, you know what? Screw it, even I need a place to be random.

So, welcome to the Realm of Insanity. Here you will find nasty pairings, joke fics featuring vulgar and unfunny humor, and other things too gruesome to mention. Some of these fics are requests, some are dares, some are just fifteen-minute pieces of crap that I felt like writing to make fun of pairings. This fic will never be complete: It will last as long as I am some sick, twisted little puppy.

This is rated M for a reason: It's vulgar, nasty, and has no coherent meaning. None of the chapters link to the other. In short, it's anything that I don't want taken seriously. Okay?

That being said, flames are welcome.

Disclaimer: I don't own Fire Emblem.

How Home Brew Changed History:

Today should've been a day like any other day. Makalov awoke with the same pounding headache that accompanied his now-familiar hangovers, the same crustiness on his lips from drooling in the middle of the night, and the same urge to piss like a wyvern in heat.

What made this day so different, however, was that he was aware of not having any clothes on. This was an unusual change in his routine, because he, unlike most males, had no love for sleeping in the nude. This disturbance in his morning overrode his bladder, and he thought about it for a moment. Did he...make it?

This was highly absurd. Of course, he was a fine, upstanding drunk that could have any woman he wanted, but he did not make it a habit of having sex while hammered, mostly because he did not want to end up in bed with anyone other than his beloved Astrid. Ah, Astrid, what a lovely maiden she was. Perhaps he had scored with her last night?

Now that he was becoming more aware of his surroundings, Makalov was aware that there indeed was another person in his bed. He grinned; he HAD made it last night. Oh, jolly day! But...was it Astrid lying beside him? Further more, was it even a female? For that matter, what if they weren't even a beorc? What if he had gotten so shit-faced, that he had let some tiger give it to him in the bum? No, he decided, he would DEFINITELY remember that.

Well, nothing could be certain if he didn't take a look at who was sleep beside him. One, two, three, roll over!

Holy shit. There was someone with pink hair lying beside him. Oh, dear goddess, let it be a man, don't let be...

HOLY SHIT. Oh god, he couldn't have done it with her! He lifted up the covers, to see if it looked like...

HOLY SHIT!

Makalov sprang out of bed like a snake had bit his dinger. Marcia? Dear god, he only had twelve shots and a few highballs last night! Well, and chugged that tankard of Brom's home brew on a bet. Note to self: Never chug Brom's home brew ever again.

Makalov decided to pretend nothing was wrong for the moment. Stumbling to his feet, he positioned himself by the window, letting April Showers fall to the stones of the castle. Feeling a little better for that, he then made the hardest decision of his life. Makalov gave his sister a nudge.

"Whut?" Marcia blinked, looking around the room, then looked at Makalov. Oh, goddess! He did not like the way her eyes were looking right about now.

"HOLY PORKCHOPS ON TOAST!" She screamed. Makalov realized that he was still naked. Oh, no!

"WHY AM I NAKED?! WHY ARE YOU NAKED?!" She screamed again, grabbing a pillow and started to injured Makalov in ways he never thought possible for a feathery soft thing to hurt.

"YOU CHEESE DOODLE! YOU BACON BANGER! YOU MACKREL FACE! YOU CROCK OF BURNED BEANS!"

Oh, stop swinging that pillow at the family jewels! She was going to murder him! Out of desperation, Makalov grabbed a sheet from his bed, and dove out the window, floating to the ground as Marcia screamed and called him every culinary curse imaginable! But, his landing was safe, even though he had the misfortune of landing in front of Geoffrey and Elincia, who were in the middle of a tender moment.

But, if it were not for that unpleasent turn of events, Makalov would never have invented the parachute. Or nut-cups.

The end.