#but never pigeons

[sodacowboy]

saw a pigeon irl for the first time

[nuka-rockit]

saw a pigeon scratching itself with its foot like a doggie at the bus stop today. delightful

[pigeon-princess]

The lineup of our beloved ASOIAF ttrpg campaign characters!⚔️

Our amazing GM @oneirotect has set us in 207 AC between the first and second Blackfyre Rebellions (around 90 years before Game of Thrones and 50 years after the death of the last known dragon). So far we've travelled across the Narrow Sea, partied in Braavos, escaped an assassination attempt by the Golden Company, made some difficult political decisions and started romantic entanglements with likely very dire consequences.

[thelovers-thedreamers-and-me]

great news, pigeon has discovered that sometimes when i hold a bag and it makes noise it's treats

bad news, she got a brain the size of a walnut and does not understand the difference between a tasty little salmon filled morsel and a spoonful of fucken turmeric, but she doesn't care, she fucken WANTS it

[ahollowgrave]

ugh i'm just obsessed

[pigeonstab]

cracking down on my bullshit

[makenna-made-this]

Feel like shit just want them back

[singlepigeon]

see the world spinning round

[dovesick]

the fish get their own back

[aphidclan-clangen]

omg waittt, can I ask the kittypet that gave us lilacpaw? if so :

how many kits do you have? what are their names? what's YOUR name?? can we meet your partner? your very silly!!!!

[spooky-activity]

Commission of Hella and Hecate from Path to Nowhere and a pigeon-ified Chief

[l3irdl3rain]

people love to joke about the cat distribution system and how if you find a cat outside you have to keep it, but i actually have no problem finding a new home for cats I catch outside. However we’ve had a number of clients at the clinic who find pigeons outside and I am soooo jealous of them. When is it my turn to find a pigeon outside?

[couchtaro]

It’s so hard being a single father with no kids who keeps going into cursed caves…..

Welcome back to Father Kilter Friday/Pigeon Paturday where we hfhgdhgdggdgshhshs..,,,, fhghdh…, hhhhhhh,,,,,,,

They’re fine they’re fine. Went for a swim in corrosive mystery goo and got briefly possessed. And it is about to get worse. But it’s fine.

[theswedishpajas]

The energy of that one section towards the end or something

[pigeonstab]

[pigeonwit]

David felt too much.

He had his whole life. He had always been called a ‘sensitive child’; if anyone changed their tone at him or raised their voice ever so slightly, he’d burst into tears, begging them not to be angry with him or asking if they were disappointed. As he grew, he learned that that wasn’t allowed anymore (the mocking from Oscar and Morris in middle school saw to that), and so, David learned to camouflage himself. If someone rolled their eyes at him, or if his joke didn’t land, he’d take the pain he felt and shove it deep, deep down in his stomach, wait for the storm of ‘they hate you they hate you just shut up why are you like this no one wants you SHUT UP’ in his head to calm, and then wait until he was safe in the nearest bathroom stall to hyperventilate into his sleeve. He’d always talk himself down eventually, once all the feelings had leaked out, leaving burning trails on his face and bruises in his chest. And then, he would feel blissfully numb. Tired and deflated and wonderfully empty, for the rest of the day. Everything would blur into the background, leaving him in a peaceful fuzzy euphoria, until he got back to his room and collapsed into his bed, and let the world around him fade away.

As he grew older, though, it was harder to disappear. The house grew louder, and more invasive. His mother would loudly crash around in the kitchen or the laundry room or wherever, desperately searching for some chore she could distract herself with. Les would whine that he was bored, or that he needed help with his homework, or that he was hungry, until David forced himself out of bed to satisfy him. His sister would yell at Les to get out of her room, yell at their mother that she was being unfair, yell at David for doing nothing but hide in his room all day instead of helping the rest of them. Their father never got yelled at, though. Not when he’d shuffle into their rooms without knocking to call them for dinner, not when he shuffled and groaned almost constantly as he tried to find a comfortable position on his new bed on the couch, not when he always looked so bored no matter what was happening, no matter how badly David wanted to scream at him to shut up, stop it, do something, no one ever yelled at their father. And it hurt. It hurt, and ached, and stung, and David felt, felt, felt with nowhere and no way for him to let it out.

The first time he ever spoke to Albert DaSilva, he was sixteen. He’d made it through middle school and almost through high school without ever having to cross the boy’s path, but he supposed that luck ran out over time. David had been trembling, the ten dollars of carefully counted change burning against his palm, and he distinctly remembered shoving his hand out and asking for ‘one weed, please’ with the world’s most perfectly timed voice-crack. Albert had laughed so hard he wound up letting David take the bag for five. David tried to think of it as an act of generosity rather than pity.

David wouldn’t call himself a pothead. He definitely wouldn’t say he was addicted. Technically, he would always remind himself, you couldn’t get addicted to weed. He knew it was a stupid argument – it didn’t matter if something was addictive or not, anyone could get addicted to anything. Still, it made him feel a little less anxious about smoking it, those rare occasions when his feelings were just too much for him and he didn’t have any other way of getting rid of them.

Today is one of those occasions.

David yells a half-hearted ‘going to Albert’s’ into the chaos of the Jacobs’ household, and swings the door closed before anyone can respond – not that anyone ever did. He doubts that they mind, really; he knows it annoys them when he leaves at random points of the day, since that meant one less pair of hands to do chores and deal with their father’s episodes, but he knows they’re also grateful to have one less person to snap at. The winter wind hits him like a thousand tiny needles piercing his face, and David grimaces, pulling his scarf over his mouth. Just a few minutes, he swears to himself. Just a few minutes, and he wouldn’t feel anything at all.

The path into the woods is beaten and muddy, and the number of weeds and bracken coating its edges makes it almost indistinguishable from the forest floor. But for those gifted few, the hikers and the dog walkers and the emotionally stunted teenagers who needed some place quiet to get high, walking the path was as easy as breathing. It wound and twisted its way around the gnarled trees, over the knolls and through the overgrowth, until you found yourself walking along a ledge of ferns and shrubbery. David had it down to a perfect art – he would identify the wild cherry sapling poking its way out of the shrubbery, walk exactly seven paces, find the tiny hollow where some animal had wriggled its way through the shrubbery (David assumes it was a fox, given the tracks and the strands of fur in the brambles), and manage to shove his way between them until he was through the wall of shrubbery and on the bank of a small stream. From there, David would perch himself on a rock, roll his joint, take a drag, and lose himself in the sound of sweet, sweet nothingness.

David groans in relief as the stress begins to seep out of his body; a loud, obnoxious sound that he makes purely for the sake of making it. For being loud without having to worry about someone yelling at him to shut up. The phenomenon of inconsequentiality is a rare one, and David relishes it. He stretches out on his rock and bathes in the silence for no one knows how long. Who’s keeping track? The birds certainly aren’t judging him.

His joint burns down, bit by bit – he blows smoke rings and smiles dopily as they melted away on the wind. He toes the water, splashing at it rhythmically, and then bursts into a giggling fit. Singing water. Babbling brook. Babble was a fun word. Babble. Babblabblabble.

God, his mother would throw a fit if she could see him here.

David giggles again.