When She Says She Doesn’t Send Nudes

Kit and Ty 💙 The Wicked Powers

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A girl can dream of this moment finally becoming reality one day... 🥹 @cassandraclare this fanart is for you to get inspired and write a beautiful story for Kitty, okay? Love you!

Being dead will make it easier to see her at least

i would give my left kidney to date lily evans

TSC fandom: *pass a year asking for kitty content*

Cassie: *give us kitty content*

Automatically us:

Reblog if you think asexuality is a legitimate sexuality.

I’m trying to prove something.

Red, White, and Royal Blue out of context

↳ family trees + House of Neville (14th - 15th century)

the guy says "up to interpretation" when asked about his character's sexuality and then proceeds to do this okay we see u

So like. What if there were a fic of Ivan and Fedyor falling in love? Just saying. Someone could write that...(and could that someone be you?!)

Fedyor Kaminsky is brought to the Little Palace when he is nine years old. Before that, he has lived his whole life in the place he was born: a small village about twenty miles southeast of Kribirsk. It is just close enough for him to be constantly aware of the Shadow Fold, looming like a thunderstorm on a hot summer day, and to know, also, the honor that it is when the examiners arrive, he receives a sharp prick in the arm, some sort of strange result takes place, and he is formally declared to be Grisha. His parents know it too, and are eager to tell him of it. They are not well off, and Fedyor is the sixth of seven children. The payment for their patriotic service will be welcome, and while his mother hugs him tightly and tells him to make the Saints proud, he feels, somehow, that they are not that grieved to see the back of him. He is the only child from his village that has been picked, and they all assemble to see him off. Just think. One of their own, in the Second Army.

Fedyor cries himself to sleep his first night in the dormitories, as most of the children do. But he wakes fully rested, hungry for breakfast, and eager to throw himself into his new life. He has a sunny temperament, a personable nature, that serves him well here, and any talented Grisha can climb high in the ranks, almost as high as the Black General himself. Back home, what did he have to look forward to, aside from the taunts and punches of his brothers, who always saw him as more like one of their sisters than one of them? He is learning things here. Religion and medicine and geography and history. And, of course, the arcane art of the Small Science, the one thing that binds these young people from all across Ravka. Their power, their responsibility, and their upcoming effort in the endless wars.

His first few years pass rather well, all things considered. When he is thirteen, it is officially declared that he will be taken onto the Order of Corporalniks, and – somewhat to everyone’s surprise, including his – he is best suited not as a Healer, but a Heartrender. It turns out that unassuming, smiling, friendly Fedyor, who knows everyone’s name and is always given an indulgent second portion of dessert from the doting canteen ladies, packs quite a punch.

It’s here where he first puts Ivan Sakharov on his back, and his whole life changes.

Fedyor and Ivan have known of each other, ever since they arrived in the same class of recruits. Ivan is a tough, taciturn northern boy from Chernast, skinny and scowling and always displeased about something, no matter what. Fedyor once saw him brood through the whole Winter Fete, and he has taken it as a professional challenge to get Ivan to smile. Once Fedyor plays a practical joke on him, to the awe of the entire dormitory, who would not dare to even imagine such things themselves. Ivan scowls at him like the Black Heretic himself, and stomps off to have his important life problems somewhere else. But now they’re both thirteen, Ivan is shooting up like a weed and channeling all that pent-up resentment into some really effective Heartrending, and Fedyor is regretting all his previous liberties. As they face each other and bow, thus to commence the duel on Botkin’s word, he thinks, Please don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me.

Then he remembers that he’s the same Order, he has the same red kefta awaiting him when he finishes his trials, that he has as much right to be here as some tight-arse bastard from the frozen northern wastes, and that is why, thirty seconds after the duel has begun, Ivan is flat on his back and looking astonished. Everyone is applauding, and Fedyor feels somewhat confused. He strides over to his fallen adversary and offers him a hand. “Good job.”

Ivan glares at him, exquisitely sensitive to the possibility that he’s being mocked. “You’ll regret this, Kaminsky,” he says, low-voiced. “Mark my words.”

After that, for several months, Fedyor lives in terror of going anywhere in the Little Palace alone, lest Ivan suddenly leap out from behind a shrubbery and murder him. He and Ivan spar in their classes, in practice, in trying to outdo each other in Baghra’s ridiculous lessons, throwing all their effort into the sort of stupid, pointless rivalry that can only be maintained by teenage boys with too much pride and too little sense. They start to look for each other wherever they go, waste no opportunity to glare heatedly, and they are sixteen years old when Fedyor notices to his extreme vexation that during all this time spent staring at him until he has memorized his face, Ivan has gotten a little… handsome.

(What? No? Ivan? Horrifying.)

Fedyor himself isn’t exactly cursed in the face department, once a persistent bout of acne clears up. With his wavy hair, dark eyes, and easy smile, he provokes his fair share of sighs and pining among the female Corporalniks, but he is oddly uninterested in reciprocating their advances. Then he and Ivan get paired together on some training exercise that goes horribly wrong, they are trapped in the woods for hours until someone comes to find them, and with nothing else to do, they are forced to actually talk. Ivan has that northern chip on his shoulder that they all seem to, and probably started fighting Fjerdans when he was two years old, but what he says next takes Fedyor completely aback. “You’re… not that bad,” he says grudgingly. “You’re the only one who’s brave enough to actually talk to me, not just tiptoe like a mouse.”

“Well.” Fedyor throws a stick of wood at him. “Have you considered being less of a total grouch all the time?”

Ivan scoffs, lunges at him, and they end up wrestling in the leaf mold, an exercise that both of them enjoy a bit too much and take extreme care that the other not notice. By the time the search party from the Little Palace comes to retrieve them, they have forgotten all about being lost. In fact, as they were lying on the ground together, tangled up and panting and staring at the stars, Fedyor had the strangest thought that it was the best night of his life, and he doesn’t have a clue what he should make of that.

After that, an even stranger thing happens: they become friends. Well, sort of. Ivan maintains his default posture of appearing to hate everything and everyone, but Fedyor is the only person he tolerates, or allows to yank his chain in any way. And in turn, though Ivan Sakharov is the last person who would seem to need any kind of protection, the favor is returned. Once, when a city boy from Os Alta starts going on about how savage northerners are, staring pointedly at Ivan the whole time, Fedyor launches him halfway across the room. He gets in trouble, but it’s worth it. And they do undoubtedly work better together, Fedyor fighting right-handed and Ivan fighting left. They cover each other’s weak sides, learn to anticipate each other’s moves, and…

It’s a deeply inconvenient fact of life that when you are a Heartrender, and are exquisitely sensitive to pulse rates, you notice when yours starts going consistently haywire around certain people. Especially when, the year they turn eighteen, they are assigned to room together. The Little Palace is spacious, but not enough for every Grisha to have his or her own room, and since they’re no longer children, they’re not expected to share with the entire class. So Fedyor and Ivan end up in a garret room of their very own, and it is here, to his extreme consternation, that the next phase of Fedyor’s torment re: Ivan begins.

It is difficult to share a small room with Ivan and not want to look at him, and unless he is much mistaken, Ivan always seems to be concentrating a little too hard on his books whenever Fedyor is changing clothes. Fedyor is self-aware enough by this point to know that he prefers men, but he has absolutely no idea as to Ivan. Do they do this sort of thing in Chernast, or does it distract from arm-wrestling bears and shooting drüskelle? Ivan is so constantly unwilling to admit any kind of weakness or effeminacy that Fedyor figures gloomily he’s just doomed to suffer in silence. Naturally.

Except then both of them start rejecting any other romantic overtures, and they even go to the Summer Fete dance together, and Fedyor is taken aback when Zoya Nazyalensky asks bluntly the next day, “So, you and Ivan? Really?”

“What?” Fedyor is aware that Zoya and Ivan cordially hate each other, though she and Fedyor have always gotten on. “We’re not – Zoya, it’s not like that!”

He pauses.

“At least,” he adds guiltily. “It’s not like that as far as we’ve said?”

Zoya gives him a look silently agreeing that for the sake of their friendship, they will never mention Fedyor’s terrible taste in men again, though that doesn’t mean she has to like it. As for her, she’s pining after Kirigan, as almost all Grisha do at some point. Fedyor did so himself – the Black General is gorgeous, all right, shoot him – but he cares about nothing except finding the mythical Sun Summoner and engaging in a busy schedule of brooding even more intense than Ivan’s. Ivan, for that matter, seems to have struck it off with him, as Kirigan always values talent, and Fedyor has to fight down an unbecoming surge of jealousy. It’s not like they’re something. Not really.

(Though not for lack of wanting.)

After that, an even stranger thing happens, which is that people start assuming that Fedyor and Ivan are, in fact, a couple. Fedyor gets asked how his boyfriend is doing (sometimes sardonically, sometimes in a tone that turns genuinely surprised when he hastens to correct them) and he minds it less and less. Of course, for his part, Ivan is utterly oblivious. They’re sitting in a sunny hallway one day, Ivan tolerantly letting Fedyor play with his hair (though he keeps it military-short and it’s not like there’s that much of it) when Genya Safin walks by, glances at them archly, and says, “You know, Ivan, you’re much nicer now that you’re going out with him.”

Ivan turns such a deep shade of purple that Fedyor’s afraid he’s going to blow a gasket. “What?!” he splutters. “We are not – we are not – we are not going out! Never! I don’t – what are you talking – I don’t even like him!”

Fedyor’s lip quivers, despite himself. “Come on,” he says, failing to make it entirely lighthearted, wounded deeper than he wants to admit. “You don’t mean that, right?”

Ivan turns to him, flustered. “No,” he says convulsively. “Don’t look sad. Don’t look at me like that. Shh. Of course I like you.”

Fedyor brightens.

Genya gives them an obnoxiously knowing look and walks away.

By now, they’re twenty-one, old enough to be properly deployed as soldiers to the front, and Fedyor can’t help but thinking about where Ivan is, what he’s doing, if he’s all right, whenever they’re apart. He doesn’t like it, it feels wrong and unnatural, they always did better side by side anyway. Finally, they both get back to the Little Palace after a grueling campaign of many months away, Ivan against the Fjerdans and Fedyor against the Shu Han. They see each other, and it’s like lightning, rooting them to the ground. They’re dusty, dirty, banged up, bruised and bloody, but they know as a simple truth, beyond any doubt or questioning, that Fedyor will be coming to Ivan’s room tonight, and that Ivan will sit up and wait for him.

And that, therefore, is what happens. Fedyor can barely concentrate on washing up and fetching supper because he is so fixated on the knowledge of what’s coming later. He goes through the motions, barely hears his friends, barely tastes what he’s eating. He scarcely manages to wait until it’s dark. Then he gets up, slips through the corridors – they no longer bunk together, but he knows the way – and reaches the door. Fights a final attack of nerves, about how long he’s been waiting and how it might go wrong – then knocks.

“It’s open,” Ivan calls from inside, his voice dark with wanting. Of course it is.

Fedyor steps inside, and looks at him. After all this time, it feels like he should make a speech, have something more grand to say, or perhaps even an I-told-you-so. He doesn’t get around to any of that. He can’t stand it. Instead he shucks his kefta in a quick, practiced movement. Runs across the room, and climbs, claws, into Ivan’s arms.

Their kiss is rough and wet and wild, mouths open, teeth dragging, tongues scraping, trying to get as close as they possibly can, and then closer. Ivan’s hands, deft and eager, rough with calluses, spread across Fedyor’s arms and shoulders, the neat muscled column of his torso. “You should have let me do that,” he scolds between kisses, evidently referring to the business of undressing Fedyor. “I’ve been waiting long enough.”

“You’ve been waiting long enough – ?!” Fedyor Kaminsky really does love this man, but Saints help him, he is dense. “You could have said something!”

Ivan looks at him with pure wickedness in his eyes. “I thought I just did.”

Fedyor groans, grabs Ivan’s head to kiss him again, and they roll down onto the covers together, tearing at the remaining clothes in their way. It’s raw and agonized and real, this coming together, this needing, this consummation and completion, and afterward, as Fedyor lies gasping on Ivan’s chest and Ivan sleepily strokes his hair with a tenderness that seems totally inconceivable to anyone who has met him at literally any other moment, Fedyor knows, in some way, he will never truly leave this room again. That he’s here. Home.

(Later, Fedyor finds out that Ivan actually asked his boss for help with his romantic quandary, and Kirigan’s advice was evidently so terrible that Ivan decided to just give up and go for it with Fedyor rather than trying that again. Even if Aleksander Kirigan is the Black General, the Shadow Summoner, the most powerful Grisha in the world, Ivan does not intend to let him forget it. They are all fortunate that Aleksander thinks it’s funny.)