#god hates fags

[camojacketfag]

I can take Prozac for the OCD, I can take Adderall for the ADHD, I can practice cognitive behavioral therapy for the trauma and anxiety, but what the fuck do I do about the fact that I’m a fucking Gemini?

I’m eternally cursed….

[mynameisnottravis]

The pure rage in her face

[trump666traitor]

[derrydeer]

seeing that there is a brokeback mountain play but it’s in fucking ENGLAND

[p3rcy7bh]

emoeror i drew ffor my friend on insta💔

[grossgay]

Spiritually assaulted by the two gay boys who work at ulta

[lastmanstandin]

ПУТИН / Vladimir Putin / #vladimirputin #russia ...

[atodadotwawotmetim]

The room in which the poets sleep

Has no light inside its walls.

It has wicker chairs, wooden tables,

On the floor lie lifeless dolls.

Their faces rubbed off on his fingers

They were used and loved and tossed

But like the blood stains on his shirt

The dolls were never lost

He lounges as if he were painted

Upon the wicker chair

Redness creeps down through his eyes,

dust settles in his hair.

Beyond the walls, a constant stream

Of voices can be heard.

Stranger’s voices, a silver hum,

But not a single word.

He ignores the ever-growing,

Heavy clouds of dread

Closes his eyes, closes his mind

And they build upon his head.

His dolls are smiling up from hell

His ancestors, they laugh

He dreams of what exists in only

A long-lost photograph.

Poetry once was sunshine

Slicing a glass of water

Or blistering as a phoenix flame,

Growing brighter, ever hotter,

Poetry once held magic power

No scientist could know

Fierce as wild, bucking horses,

Gentle as a doe

It once filled his eyes with wonder

And brought butterflies he could follow.

But they left him crying in a cave

With a heart as black and hollow.

And now in the room the poets sleep,

He rarely moves his hand

His eyes are bloodshot, red, fatigued

And seldom does he stand.

But poetry, poetry,

Will you cover him with kisses?

Take him home to poetry

And remind him what he misses?

Poetry raises his limp right hand

And makes him hold a pen,

It whispers softly in his ear:

“You will write again.”

So he scratched down this poem

In the dark, dusty dawn

Before his love for the poems

Was entirely gone

[x-x-lilsadpunk-x-x]

I have fucking Covid again looool

[dipperscavern]

about to go to bed, but this post got me thinking… cregan x reader w strange interests.,… walk with me here

people have always been a bit… unaccepting, when it comes to you and the things you like. they’ll enjoy your personality well enough, laugh with you at feasts, treat you courteously at gatherings, but decide they don’t enjoy your company the moment you show a different part of yourself.

one that takes a special interest in poisonous plants, knows how to prepare a body after death, collects bones and feathers, charts astrology… and your pets are usually quite successful in labeling you as completely mad.

you understand to some extent. different is strange, and people reject the things they don’t understand. such is the games of highborns (a rather cruel dance, really.) but you found you couldn’t find it within yourself to try and change. after all, comparison is the thief of joy, as your beloved old maester would say.

you were alright with solidarity, if being alone meant being yourself — but the old gods have always been said to have a sense of humor.

it seems cregan stark is not so off put by such oddities. quite the opposite, in fact.

your pet spider doesn’t repulse him, like it does the others. while he would’ve been most content to allow you the sole responsibility of spider-handling, it didn’t take much convincing on your part. only a simple statement of reassurance, a small smile, a warmth of your cheeks at his interest, and cregan finds himself sat on the bed as you retrieve your eight-legged friend.

whatever doubts he harbors instantly vanish as you sit across from him, un-cupping your hands to reveal a much bigger spider than he previously thought. tarantula, he’s heard the maesters say (with horror.)

while one holds the maesters’ worst nightmare, your other hand reaches for his. he takes note of your warmth, the softness of your hands in comparison to his own. people usually don’t touch him without permission, and, perhaps strangely, he wishes you to never hesitate when doing so.

he uncurls his palm for you, and before you transfer the creature, you softly ask for him to “please don’t scare him.” — and cregan’s heart skips a beat, because he knows at that very moment, he would heed your every request. anything you ask of him, it is yours.

perhaps this revelation would produce a greater affect on lord stark if he wasn’t so encapsulated with staying still while your creature begins to crawl from your palm to his own.

its great work to not tense himself or pull away when it happens, but you watch him so intensely, waiting to pull your creature to safety at any indicator. so he stills. you ground him, even if unaware.

once your creature is fully in his palm, it seems comfortable. sitting itself, abdomen flush to cregan’s palm to encompass the warmth he offers. you sit like that in silence for a moment, cregan observing it’s markings, and you waiting for the warden of the north’s assessment of you and your creature.

after some time, cregan speaks, tone different from the usual one of lord stark.

“Does he have a name?”

you can’t help but smile at his words, and he can’t help the way your expression makes one of his own tug at his lips. “Bones.”

“Bones?” he repeats, face relaxing in his surprise. his words don’t contain any malice, only a question in its tone.

you nod tentatively, as if awaiting judgement. “When found in the kitchens, a cook tried killing him with a chicken bone.”

his gaze momentarily flickers to the spider as he nods his head, a sort of understanding passing between the wolf and the arachnid. something else is there, too. a fondness for you unfurling in his chest — how you can find beauty in such things; things deemed unwanted by most people.

cregan’s gaze finds you again, and you look at the spider in his hands with such reverence it makes his lips part in silent adoration.

you’ve captured him, he thinks. he’s damned.

[butch4maryoliver]

i love being an agender butch who only uses he/him pronouns but doesn’t id as a lesbian or a gay man people understand me so well haha 👹🔫

[gelarshiesprofruitboarder]

HWAT THE FUCK IS HE DOING WHATS WRONG WITH HIM WHYS HE DOING THAT

[belle--ofthebrawl]

Had such a good pasta dish for dinner (and strawberry-rose ice cream for dessert) it broke my minor writers block 👍

[derrydeer]

god really does hate little guys just trying to survive and feel alive

[dear-diary-mood-apathetic]

computer

what are you supposed to do when the yeehaw maintenance guys r in ur apartment ?

no borax, no glue

[gaylittleguys]

tis the season to have to listen to the Christmas song that straight up says faggot once again