#cantharidindeath

Birthday: October 29th!!! Sign: SCORPIO BITCHES Height: 5′6-ih Sexual orientation: *MUFFLED LAUGHTER AND SCREAMING* Favorite color: Purple and/or #CE8B4C, aka the color of Dex’s eyes Average hours of sleep: hahahaha idk maybe 5-ish???? Lucky number:13! Last thing I googled: "ohio state satellite campuses” ahaha college apps Word that comes to mind: bright Happy place: my basement probs??? Number of blankets: 1-3, depending on the season Favorite fictional character: aaaaaa i have so many fictional children but currently its probs billy kaplan rn Favorite famous person: JOSHUA CASTILLE Favorite book: oooo probs The Book Thief by Markus Zusak or Kissing Doorknobs by Terry Spencer Hesser Dream trip: Oh god I have so many. Like some eastern European country, or a Broadway show and just walking around nyc, or Sydney, Australia. Any of those would be v cool

gdi u loser <> this is actually p hard ngl

Airheads like YUM 2ND BEST CANDY

Belgium bc shes a presh babe

CHRIS EVANS THE LOVE OF MY LIFE

Dave Strider bc hes the best

Eight tracks and I know its actually 8tracks but none of you are my mom

Fanfics bc im a loser

GUMMMMMMM GUM IS MY LIFEBLOOD

Hetalia bc im a HUGE WEEB

Igloos bc lbr theyre so cool (both literally and figuratively)

Jean fucking Kirschstein like what a piece of trash i love him

Karkat Vantas bc he is just perfect

Languages like i want to learn 20 of them

Marina's Trench and/or Mariana and the Diamons

Nitori Aiichiro, the super cute silver shota

Outtakes bc HILARIOUS HAVE YOU SEEN HETALIA'S??? HAVE YOU SEEN OHSHC'S???

Pagan god au that the 'rail and i made bc its so great

Queue tag puns bc those things are hilarious lbr (coughs about the person that i follow with "dont call me harqueue-chan" as theirs)

Rei Ryugazaki my #1 anime love

Skype so i can talk to the bros

Tsukishima, my lovely trashbaby from haikyuu

Uggs theyre soft and comfy okay dont judge me

Vantas', but tbh i like Karkat better than I like 

Whipped cream like omg delish

X-tra chocolate in my frappes bc i like my starbucks like i like my men: extra sweet (yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeah)

YACHI BC WHAT A CUTIE AAAAA I LOVE THE HAIKYUU GIRLS OKAY

Gee that never happens like wow. Thanks to my tagger

Rules: Just insert your answers to the questions below. Tag at least 10 followers.

Name: Lydia

Nickname: Nerdy, NFC, hamsteak, tomato salad, pretty much anything but Lyd bc I hate that nickname

Birthday: October 29, 1998

Gender: Female

Sexuality: Hetroflexible, probably, idk

Height: 5’6.5

Time zone: EST I think. It's Ohio's timezone okay

What time and date is it there:  5:45 pm, August 26, 2014

Average hours of sleep I get each night: 5 or less. hahaha fucking insomnia

OTPs: main otps i guess. reigisa, rintori, davekat, cronkri, spamano, prucan, jeanmarco, jearmin, eremin

The last thing I Googled was: the kinsey scale bc i had to make sure that hetroflexible was the right term

First word that comes to mind: star. im listening to good girls go bad by cobra starship so

What I last said to a family member: “I said that you couldn't have any. I brought them for him.” I brought a pack of oreos and my 9yr bro was mad bc i gave some to my 5yr bro

One place that makes me happy and why: my room bc my futon is soooooo comfy omg and i have this giant frozen poster and its the best

How many blankets I sleep under: 2-3 during the winter, 1 with the fan on in the summer

Favourite beverage: Orange Fanta

The last movie I watched in the cinema was: TIFOS

Three things I can’t live without: internet, music, fanfic

Something I plan on learning: Languages (German, Italian, Spanish)

A piece of advice for all my followers: Do your homework all the time don't be like me. also you're rad okay? Don't let anyone tell you otherwise

You have to listen to this song: STUTTER AND/OR DESPERATE MEASURES BY MARINAS TRENCH, UNDERCOVER BY ALLSTAR WEEKEND, OR THAT "NOTHING COMES AS EASY AS YOU" SONG BY FOB

My blog(s): i have a bunch of urls saved, but also my post limit blog

I was tagged by echo-falls

AUTHOR: cantharidindeath

August 13th, 2014

Alfred F. Jones loves turning up early for his shift.

He doesn’t get many opportunities. When Yao finally lets him take off his suit and tie and put aside his waiter pad and check presenter, he’s generally five minutes behind instead of the five minutes ahead he needs to be to get rid of that pungent stink of Chinese food, grab his flashlight, and shrug on his jacket as he races out the door. At this point he’ll usually be stuck in evening traffic, beating an annoyed rhythm onto the dashboard of his hand-me-down Camry, praying for that God-given string of green lights—and even then, then, when everything goes his way, he’ll generally get through the glass revolving doors of the Science and History Museum mere seconds before closing time.

Up until December 21st of last year, Alfred would have gone straight for the spinning chair at the front desk and propped his feet up onto the mahogany. He would have winked at the pretty Belgian receptionist, making small talk before everyone left and he had to force himself up to lock the doors. He would have spent the entirety of his ten hour shift playing whatever videogame his fellow waiter had given him. He would have dragged himself home when the manager came in at eight and slept from nine to five before getting back to Shinatty Stir-Fry, lamenting his life with two jobs and seriously considering quitting as a museum night guard.

On December 21st, Yao had taken a day off for some Chinese festival, enabling Alfred to get tired of the game Kiku had given him and push him out of the house onto the festive, wintery streets early to take a quick look at the museum he guarded. He’d wandered for an hour, aimlessly blinking through the 1700s and 1800s and yawning through a documentary on Darwin, when he chanced a glimpse toward British History and laid eyes on what at first appeared to be an angel. Emerald eyes, pale skin, graceful movements—he seemed flawless at first glance, bleak winter sunset glinting off his golden crown of hair.

On December 21st, Alfred F. Jones learned to love turning up early for his shift through the blessing that became Arthur Kirkland.

~*~*~

Bursting through the doors, Alfred raced past the front desk, waving briefly at Michelle before taking two rights past the planetarium and dinosaur exhibit. Rounding another few corners and sliding down the handrail of a flight of stairs, Alfred dashed around a Greek Ionic column--and abruptly raced back behind it, peering out warily over his wire-rimmed glasses.

Was it just him, or did Arthur look particularly dashing in his tour guide uniform?

Alfred watched, barely blinking or breathing, as Arthur trailed his hand along the glass in front of portraits of Queen Elizabeth. He turned to smile as a child asked a question, bending down to pat him on the head before answering.

Turning abruptly, the die-hard American buried his face in a hand and cursed, trying to fight down his blush through sheer will-power despite the image of a smiling Arthur seared into his brain. Peering through his fingers, his hand abruptly dropped as the time flashed up from his (flag-shaped) watch.

“Shi--CRAP!” Hissing through his teeth, Alfred raced past the exhibit toward the locker room, completely unaware of green eyes that followed him past the entrance.

~*~*~

When Alfred reached the front desk, he was very pleasantly surprised to find that Arthur hadn’t signed out of his post yet. Trying to stop himself from glancing around wildly for a glimpse of that soft blonde hair, Alfred slowly turned his head before spying the Brit.

“Hey!” Thanking every deity in existence that he hadn’t stuttered, Alfred cupped his hands around his mouth and called to the tour guide, who was staring contemplatively at a mannequin of Theodore Roosevelt. “Arthur--Mr. Kirkland--shouldn’t you be checking out now?”

“I know that, idiot!” Whipping his head backward, the British man glared. Alfred tried not to let himself get overly starstruck, or fool himself into thinking he’d seen the trace of a blush grace Arthur’s cheeks. “I just wanted to take a look at the statue--I’m not doing this for anything specific--I just--I’m going to check out now.”

Alfred stared dumbly as Arthur drew closer, leaning across the desk and swiping his card into the scanner. He stiffened slightly, trying not to think of touching the soft skin or basking in the musty museum smell that seemed to radiate off him. Arthur leaned back, tucking his card into the pocket of his slacks, and paused.

“Y--You know,” Arthur said slowly, stuttering. “This local high-school is going to have a nighttime trip to try out our new IMax Theater next Wednesday, and I have to be here, so I was wondering if I could maybe...um, take forty winks in the night guard cots?”

Alfred stared, brain functions dropping to zero as he stared at the now fully blushing tour guide. Arthur was now refusing to meet his gaze.

“You mean...sleep in the same room as me?” Alfred blinked, barely stopping himself from covering his face as blood rushed to it.

“D-Don’t get the wrong idea, you insufferable git!” Arthur’s gaze snapped up, and the sight of his green eyes sparkling on his flushed face nearly caused Alfred to lose it. “I just need somewhere to sleep and I’m not going to waste money on buying a new sleeping bag...”

“Um, no problem!” Alfred fumbled nervously with his flashlight, training his eyes on the tips of the unruly spikes in Arthur’s hair. “I mean, there’s two cots and I’m the only one on shift, so...”

AUTHOR: cantharidindeath

February 26th, 2014

When NFL quarterback Alfred F. Jones had joined Dancing with the Stars, he’d done it because his agent had told him the publicity would help him. He hadn’t done it to meet the most gorgeous person on the fucking planet and fall in love with one of the ‘nobody’ dance instructors—after all, he was a gay guy being paired with a girl. There was supposed to be no way he was going to fall for anyone there.

Especially not world-famous fashion model Francoise Bonnefoy’s dance instructor Arthur Kirkland.

“It just isn’t fair!” Groaning, Alfred placed his head into his hands, ignoring Madeleine as she tentatively patted his head with a chuckle. “How come Bonnefoy gets to rub her hands all over Arthur while I’m stuck with you—no offense, Maddie. But seriously, how did this happen?”

“None taken,” his Canadian partner replied, although the tone of voice suggested the unintentional slight was going to be the root of a three hour rant in the future. “As for how it happened, well, we were being introduced to our partners on initiation day when you allegedly landed eyes on ‘the hottest—‘”

“It was a rhetorical question!” Jumping to his feet, the American sighed. “Well, all this moping is bringing the hero down. How about we practice that big spin again?”

“If it’s any consolation, I heard him call her ‘frog’ repeatedly in the cafeteria today,” Madeleine commented, standing and taking Alfred’s hand in silent reply. The American leaned over and pressed ‘play’ on the CD player before dragging his partner to the center of the practice floor. “Alright, so I’m going to twist my leg around yours and you’re going to kick yours out slowly, all while on tiptoe.”

“…I think this is more dangerous than football,” Alfred muttered, wincing when Madeleine elbowed him as he missed his cue. Involuntarily, his leg kicked out, the Canadian’s twisted around it.

“YOU UTTER BASTARD!” Letting out a high pitched scream, the girl fell gracelessly to the floor. Alfred’s ‘hero instincts’ overtook him and he knelt beside her quickly.

“Maddie! Are you okay?!”

“No, I am not fucking okay!” Madeleine attempted to pull in her knee and let out a slow hiss of pain. “Torn hamstring. Crap.”

“Are you going to—”

“If you legitimately ask that question, I’m stuffing that CD up your butt—no, I cannot dance anymore. Go call the medic, would you?!”

~*~*~*~

“See, this leaves us in a bit of a predicament.”

The producer twisted his cigar in his fingers, letting ash fall to the ground as he lazily blew a smoke ring. Madeleine had been sent off in a limousine earlier, flashing a sad smile and (for some reason) a knowing wink as she left.

“I don’t see why. I mean, you’ve eliminated injured pairs before. They just don’t eliminate anyone that week, right?”

“That’s what would typically happen, yes,” he replied with a sigh. “However, Francoise Bonnefoy happened to get injured today as well, and won’t be competing. Originally we were planning to eliminate her and Arthur Kirkland, but now that you’re out for the count as well…”

“…So, only one couple—essentially two people—can be out every episode?”

“Yes, but both Ms. Williams and Ms. Bonnefoy are out, and that fills the quota of ‘a couple’ being booted, despite the fact that it’s unconventional. So now that we’ve got two people out I don’t think we can afford to get rid of you and Mr. Kirkland without losing viewers, either by shortening the season or not including enough drama…”

And suddenly, the producer was grinning. “Say, you’re the gay football player, aren’t you?”

“Uh…yeah…” Alfred gave the producer a raised eyebrow, backing away slightly. “Um, why’re you looking at me like that—”

~*~*~*~*~

“This is complete and utter shit.”

“Well, I always heard that the first step to solving a problem was to approach it calmly and rationally. Unfortunately, we’ve already missed that step. So you’re screwed.”

“Thi—I just—”

“It’ll be fine, Alfred,” chuckled Madeleine. Alfred heard a thick French accent from Madeleine’s bedside in the hospital, and the Canadian responded in turn before talking into the phone again. “It’s just dancing…with Arthur.”

“I just know it’s all going to go to hell and I’m going to mess up! You gotta help me escape or something!” He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “If the producer was worried about losing viewers, adding a guy-guy couple with confirmed gay guys was not the way to go!”

“The world’s become more accepting—you’d be surprised how many people are rooting for you. People were freaking out that you’d be eliminated when they saw me. Believe me, if they had a problem with you, they’ve already said it six months ago when you first came out.” More French exchange, littered with static, took place on the other end of the phone. “Hang on, Francoise wants to talk to you.”

“Maaaaaddiiiiiiie!” Drawing out the vowels, Alfred groaned. “You know what I think of her—”

“As much as I do not care,” came the thick layered tone that could only come from high-end Paris, “I will tell you that you have been at the center of many things Arthur has said in the past weeks, both good and bad. Interpret that how you will.”

The line shut down, cutting off a stern reprimand from Maddie, and it was then that Alfred became aware of a tapping foot on the other end of the practice room.

Soft golden hair and deep green eyes. Shit.

“Glad to see you back on this end of the cell phone, Jones,” he sighed, and British accent and melodic voice and what the fuck was he doing with his life?! “Now, if you’d please, put the CD in, get your arse over here, and put your hand on my waist.” There was a pause, where both tinged slightly red. “Sometime today, preferably!”

AUTHOR: cantharidindeath

January 22nd, 2014

There was something about England in his vulnerable states, rare and adorable as they were, that endeared him to America. The fact that the ice-cold island nation was willing to show America his weaknesses and trusted him not to exploit them even though he’d done so before and as another nation had a certain likelihood of doing so touched him, and often this would result in the loudmouthed nation becoming rather clingy.

So when America walked into his bedroom one day after work and found his boyfriend in his bedroom (visiting for a business trip) sobbing quietly into the bed, he automatically shrugged off his jacket and draped it around the other before pulling England into his arms. He rocked him slightly, humming out occasional consoling phrases, digging his fingers into the leather and letting his British lover soak the shoulder of his t-shirt. The two sat in quiet companionship for a while, England’s crying gradually slowing, before finally quieting to the occasional whimper. America pulled back slightly, finally deciding his lover was emotionally ready to talk to him without re-bursting into tears.

“What’s wrong, babe?” Patting England’s back, America propped both of them up onto the bed’s headboard. The emerald-eyed gentleman coughed and hiccupped, sniffing and wiping at his eyes to clear his airway and pretend he was perfectly fine, thank you very much.

“…Nothing much. Just watched a movie while you were gone…” England stared down pathetically at a spot on the bed, giving a small cough and pulling the jacket further onto his shoulder. The overall picture prompted America to pull him into a hug again.

“A movie, hm?” The nation smiled as England sunk further into his shoulder, sucking in a deep breath of air and experimentally breathing out through his nose. It was still stuffed, judging by the light whistling noise (that made both nations chuckle lightly).

“It was a sad movie,” England mumbled, giving his own weak hums in reply to America’s. It was grudging confession, but it at least gave a reason to England’s misery.

“So you watched it and it made you this sad? Must have been a really good movie.” Stroking his back, America gave a soft smile as England nodded and stretched the jacket onto both of their shoulders and pushed them back onto the bed.

“It wasn’t. It was crappy and the characters had no depth and the plot was predictable and everything was about the damned love triangle and the special effects could have been made in Photoshop.” England gave a weak glare as America shot him an incredulous smirk and eyebrow raise. “…Well, the effects were okay. But the characters were shit and the plot was shit and the damned love triangle was also still shit.”

“Then why are you so broken up about it?” America grinned lightly.  When England mumbled an ambiguous answer, he continued. “I’ve just bought it, so I haven’t had time to take a look.”

“…The ending was really sad and the main character ended up alone because she neglected her two love interests for some shit reason and it was really depressing.” It was less than a mumble, but America heard it.

“But why would that—oh.” It was a mild suspicion, but it made America look down at the gold-spun hair in his arms with a fond mixture of tenderness and slight frustration. “Did you think about us? Did you get worried?”

“Mmm…know I can be a bit… but…” Burying himself deeper into the shoulder, England took one last sniffle to clear his nose.

“Sorry, didn’t catch that.” America grinned, pulling back so the two could face each other. England looked up at him through his eyelashes, dark green eyes glinting dimly in the moonlight.

“I said, it’s just that…we’re having a long distance relationship…and I know I can be a bit closed…but I still don’t want us to end up like that.” The confession was clearly outside of England’s comfort zone, and he pouted and lowered his eyes.

America stared for a second before his face melted into an exasperated smile, leaning backwards. “Is that what you’re worried about?”

“It’s a big deal to me, okay?!” Crossing his arms angrily, England let out a huff of breath as his eyebrows knitted in the middle of his forehead. “I—I’m perfectly happy in our current…relationship, and I’d rather it not be compromised by something!”

Grinning widely, the American pounced on his boyfriend, ignoring his indignant yelp as he wrapped his arms around the lithe body and giving him a loud kiss on the cheek. “Aw, Artie, it’s okay! We’ve all got our work, but I think your fake insults and blushiness and shit are really cute. I’m not gonna leave you over something stupid like that!”

“You fucking idiot, did I ever say I—I mean—don’t just assume that—”

Amid the sputtering protests, the American pulled away and gave his boyfriend a quick peck, silencing him. As the British man blushed profusely and continued to mumble his excuses, the American tapped him on the cheek, quieting him and catching his attention. At the questioning look, the boisterous American nation grinned.

“Love you, Arthur.”

“…I love you too, you big oaf.” Face staining red once again, England leaned up and kissed him quickly on the cheek before burying his face into his shoulder and mumbling a litany of excuses for his previous breakdown. The American simply nodded and smiled as he rested his chin on the dip in England’s collar bone.

When push comes to shove, offer your soul to a pagan god king. At least, that was Matthew Williams’ philosophy when he fell in love with the betrothed knight Francis Bonnefoy.

Unfortunately for Matthew, who just wants to forget about his mortal life, Alfred, has his heart set on being Matthew’s “hero”. Alfred rallies for Francis' help and the two rush off with the hope of saving Matthew, even if Matthew himself doesn't want to be saved.

Alternatively titled "Matthew has 99 problems and 97 of them could be solved if he made better relationship choices", Soul Searching tells you two stories for the price of one: Detailing Matthew's attempts to adjust to his afterlife, and showing the magnificent adventures of Alfred and Francis as they rush to "rescue" Matthew.

Guess who's writing a multi-chapter fic.