Heterosexual Aro/ace People Are Still A Part Of The Lgbt+ Community

you reblogging this just reminded me but — everyone talks about how Ivan has his hand on Fedyor’s knee when he asks him if he’s alright during the carriage attack scene, but there’s not enough spotlight on the fact that Fedyor briefly grabs Ivan’s hand too (to reassure Ivan? Comfort himself? Maybe both?)

anyways just a PSA i’d like to scream into the void

Look. There is NOTHING about that scene that is not totally hilarious and/or delightful from a Fivan perspective. It's all solid gold.

Ivan grumpily ordering Alina to stay put and Fedyor pausing to be like "I promise you that my boo means well, he just has the worst people skills in the history of time?" Gold.

The synchronized husband heartrending? Gold.

Ivan absolutely flipping his shit/having his life flash before his eyes when Fedyor gets hit, rushing out into heavy gunfire to get to him, sliding up as close as possible to ask if he is all right, and grabbing his husband's barely wounded knee with both hands? Gold.

Ivan demanding of the nearest Heartrender to do a very, very basic job of counting the number of enemy heartbeats? Because I guess he can't do that while clinging to Fedyor? Gold.

Ivan yelling, "GET BACK TO THE CARRIAGE AND PROTECT THE GIRL" like it's only NOW occurred to him that that's what he was supposed to be doing the whole fucking time, while he himself is in fact doing dum dum diddlysquat, and of course he's not going anywhere because Fedyor has an owie? GOLD.

Kirigan charging in there like SAINTS I GUESS I HAVE TO DO THIS MYSELF, THANKS FOR ABSOLUTELY NOTHING YOU USELESS ASS GAY HENCHMAN? GOLD.

Because truly, how UTTERLY USELESS Ivan, the most feared Heartrender in the entire Second Army, becomes in that entire scene from the moment Fedyor is hit? GOLD, I SAY, GOLD.

(And yes Fedyor does reach out and grab Ivan's hand for a second there, ack.)

Anyway. They're idiots. I love them.

who is doing it like him

Check out my ongoing comic Crow Time. It has crows, and also neat pantheons of epic beasties.

We were fucking robbed of Hunter Husbands Dean and Cas. Imagine Dean getting nabbed and tied up by the bad guys. With every punch to the face or twist of the knife, Dean’s grin just gets wider and wider.

“When my boyfriend gets here, you’re toast,” he laughs even while spitting up blood.

The ominous crack of thunder and the flickering of the lights makes the bad guys look up.

Dean chuckles. “Right on time.”

Then the door flies off the hinges, the frame shattering into splinters, and a wrathful angel comes barreling in, angel blade raised and eyes blazing with grace. The baddies are shitting their pants with fear.

“Hey, babe,” Dean says, almost nonchalantly.

Castiel dispatches the bad guys in a fearsome display of power and finesse. As soon as the last one falls, Cas’s eyes fade to normal and he rushes to Dean’s side, wrath faded to worry. “Dean,” he breathes, pressing his hand gently to his love’s bloodied cheek to heal him.

In a second Dean is stitched back together and cleaned up. Cas slices the ropes tying him to the chair and the second Dean’s wrists are free he’s pulling Cas into a kiss.

“Next time, try to be a little faster?” Dean laughs against Cas’s lips. But really it’s fine. He knows his angel’s always got him.

Nico: Why aren’t there any gay movies out there? Gods, I’m sick of watching hetero romcoms

Will: I’ve been asking the same question for years

You ever think about how they made the minions immortal so that they wouldn’t have to explain how they reproduce

“So you’ve heard, then?”

“That our parents want us to get married? Yes, I’ve heard.”

The protagonist lounged in their travelling tent, a glass of wine in hand. They were, in their mind, the very picture of regal despondency. 

“You don’t seem happy about it,” said the protagonist’s friend – their fiancé, now, they supposed.

“Are you?”

Their friend meandered further into the tent, looking over the protagonist’s books. “I don’t know. I guess if I have to be with someone …” A shrug. “It may be my best option for it to be you.”

“Your passion is overwhelming,” the protagonist deadpanned.

Their friend gave a wan smile. “I’m just trying to face facts.”

“Do you love me?”

Their friend looked up in surprise. 

It normally would have been embarrassing, to ask such a question so bluntly. But now, more than ever, was the time to have all their cards on the table.

To their friend’s credit, they didn’t shy away. “No,” they said. “Or … yes. But not how you mean.”

The protagonist took in a breath. “Explain.”

Their friend settled onto the sedan across from them, and was silent. The protagonist thought for a moment that they wouldn’t answer at all. But then they said, “If I could love anyone like that, it would be you.”

“But you can’t.”

Their friend cast their eyes over. “I’ve long suspected you of being the same.”

The protagonist leaned back, staring at the tarp ceiling. “Somewhat. I don’t feel romantic love, this is true. But I do feel …” They smiled to themself. “I find people sexually interesting, you could say.”

Their friend stilled. “Oh.”

“Do you think me a whore, for this?”

“No.” Their friend’s response was quick, and certain. It startled the protagonist.

A small lock of dread released in their heart. They smiled. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Their friend cleared their throat. “Do you find me … interesting?”

The protagonist raised their brows. But, well, fair enough. Cards on the table.

“Yes,” they said, in all honesty.

Their friend nodded, seeming to pay close attention to the woven rugs splayed on the grass.

“I take it the feeling is not mutual.”

Their friend rubbed the back of their neck. “Do you think me cold, for not being able to feel any of it?”

“Never.”

Their friend nodded again.

But that did leave one question …

“Marriages usually involve sex,” the protagonist said. They placed their wine on the end table, leaning forward. “How were you planning to deal with that?”

Their friend shrugged. “Every station comes with its chores, I suppose.”

Horror washed over the protagonist.

“The wedding isn’t happening,” they said, bursting upwards. “I will speak with my father, I will – ”

“You will bring your country to ruin,” their friend said, rising to meet them. “Your kingdom needs this alliance even more than mine.”

“I will not take someone who is unwilling.”

Their friend stepped closer, and took the protagonist’s hand. “I would be willing.”

“Would you? Would you truly?”

Their friend faltered.

“I could not do that,” the protagonist said. “Not to anyone.” They squeezed their friend’s fingers. “And never to you.”

“So what, then?” Their friend met their gaze. “You’ll resign yourself to a life of celibacy? Because this marriage is happening, whether we like it or not.”

Now it was the protagonist’s turn to falter for words.

They both stayed like that for a time, stuck.

Then, a light flicked on in their friend’s eyes. “What if we got married, but as friends?”

The protagonist huffed out a laugh. “That’s an oxymoron, if I’ve ever heard one.”

“No, I’m serious.” Their friend took their other hand. “A marriage in name, but in practice …”

They dropped down to one knee, grinning. “[Protagonist], will you do me the honour of being my friend?”

The protagonist had to smile, in spite of themself. “What are you even suggesting?”

“We do the ceremony. Our kingdoms join. But we have separate beds. Separate rooms, even. And you can have a harem, with as many interesting people as you’d like. And I …” Their smile changed from scheming to sincere. “I get to spend the rest of my life with my best friend.”

The protagonist blinked. The idea sounded crazy, but …

“It could work.”

The next day, the two of them informed their parents the betrothal was happily accepted.

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.)

Allison getting stuck in the 60s as a WOC:

Yeah guys, I'm this cruel :-)