#pigeon scribbles

[inked-pigeon-feet]

A happy Ezran before the ✨️ season 7 horrors ✨️

[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.

[lovesickgoose]

The pigeon I worried earlier in the garden

[rorydrawsandwrites]

So we've all been having fun giving him bug wings right

(I gotta mention that this post in particular inspired me here... they're so little. His ass is not flying anywhere unless he's thrown)

And I do see the logic here. He has the li'l antennae after all (and him being a lightning bug would be especially fitting). But I'd like to point out that as a Fleischer-esque mix-and-match creature, he does also have a pig nose... therefore I suggest:

Pig. Hoofs.

I rest my case.

Also a little bonus... the touch-starved Luxposting has gotten to me. Pet the creature

[moonlight-mistral]

birthday gift for @pigedoodles!

[brawltogethernow]

Hold on, I should do at least one @ladynoirjuly before August.

[loomingspector]

The BatFam as Metas

Kinda generic powers but still fun

Dick: Elasticy, boy is already suspects it being a meta because of his gymnastics and abilities to twist his body around. So it would just make it perfect if he really could stretch and deform his body like a rubber. (bonus if the little weirdo began saying GumGum after Tim introduced him to OP)

Jason: Necromancy, I like both the idea that he can talk to the dead, and or revive them. I feel like it fits because of the pit’s influence as well. Getting revenge for people even when they’re in the afterlife, and getting help from them afterwards, spying/recon.

Tim: Psychometry, gaining information about an object by touching it. The little detective would use this on every single case. I feel like it would fit him perfectly.

Damian: Animal communication, our little Disney princess, I like the idea of him communicating with the birds for recon, talking to the rats for figure out the best ways through the sewers.

Cass: Mimicry, I want her to be able to turn into people for a limited time through touch. And with no time limit; I want her to be able to mimic both fighting styles, body language and even voice.

Steph: Duplication, The kid who wants to help everyone everywhere, it’ll fit perfectly. I want them to be psychically connected so they’ll not simply be mimics.

Barbara: Technopathy, Controlling and communicating with technology, think Victor but like, human form. I want her to be able to almost connect her mind to the systems she works with.

Duke is already our own little ball of light and sunshine with his photokinetics.

I saw a post about Bruce having an infinity-pocket cape. So the Robins can hide in his cape. But I like the idea that it’s also his belt that has this ability. Both to use as a like protection for the kids. And when he’s rescuing civilians he’ll just shove them into his cape and they’ll be safe there until the mission is over. And explains why he’s prepared for everything, while also having limited pockets. BOOM infinity pocket belt.

[purple-pigeon-art]

Some doodles, plus warmup scribbles lol. I need to go pick up a new sketchbook today im running out of paper 😂

[ggrimboy]

gguys . guys. im cooking

[gbirrd]

[clanging pots together] pigeon boy anyone? anyone remember my pigeon boy anyone want to see him too bad youre seeing him anyway

[inked-pigeon-feet]

Unimpressed Terry based on his expression in 7x01

[pigeonwit]

“Why’s Curie in a bottle?” Derek asks. The gelatinous body of Spencer's Reuniclus drifts absently in its protective green fluid, looking quite at home in a ridiculously large glass bottle that the good Doctor Reid absolutely stole from the lab.

“It’s a volumetric flask,” Spencer says automatically before pursing his lips, glancing at the jar on his desk, pretending as though he’d only just noticed it. “And I, uh...” He clears his throat as he scribbles more chicken-scratch. “I may have misplaced her pokéball and... Improvised a solution.”

“You have an eidetic memory,” Emily scoffs. Her Persian lifts her head from her crossed paws with a lazy elegance, staring critically through slit pupils. “How does losing things even happen to you?”

“It’s primarily for what I read, not-“

“Not what you see, yadda-yadda,” Derek cuts him off, if only to watch the way Spencer’s nose scrunches in irritation. JJ watches as Curie burbles inside her glass home, the palm-sized nuclei of her body floating like wax in a lava lamp.

“Is it really good for her to be in there? Like... Ethically?”

“She’s comfortable,” says Spencer, looking only slightly defensive. “While Reuniclus’s do adopt a slightly humanoid shape when in the wild, they can condense their cytoplasmic fluid to containers even half their size. Besides, protocol dictates that hazardous Pokémon need to be contained for workplace safety.”

The corner of his mouth jerks downwards at the word ‘hazardous’, but Derek only rolls his eyes. Plenty of agents had partner Pokémon that they had to keep out of the workplace. Clooney was six foot tall from his paws to his ears, and that was on the small side for an Arcanine – just imagining him in the bullpen made Derek wince. The bureau had given Spencer a lot of leeway in his career, but they weren’t going to let his psychic ball of poison float around the office willy-nilly.

JJ hums, but the crease in her brows doesn’t smooth. Before she can comment any further, Hotch makes his way through the glass doors, his Lucario marching a pace behind him with militaristic stature.

“I want everyone in the round table room in ten minutes,” he says sharply, and the team’s bickering is forgotten in an instant as they gather themselves. Hotch reaches the staircase to his office in no less than five powerful strides – then falters, doubling back over his shoulder.

“Reid,” he says pointedly, “you have a containment breach.”

Spencer frowns, glancing towards his stoppered flask and paling once he sees the green fluid seeping out of the cork.

“Oh-! No, Curie, stay-!”

[remitro]

i cannot stop thinking. About the freeking WEDDING. AND THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN RANBOO AND HIS GHOST

[partialentirety]

dooble of @shepscapades detroit become hermitcraft etho!! i dont consider myself a “visual artist” bc i mostly work with fabrics and yarns and threads, but i like to draw when the Spirit catches me!! and bOY HOWDY does dbhc have a big net!!!! you can thank @4sealsinatrenchcoat for my subject of brainrot.

[lincolnlogsnfrogs]

y'all what if the Dark Harvest head pigeon was just evil ratatouille

like it grabs zim by the antennae and makes him do shit

[noelbobby]

While 'angin' around wi' an associate of mine I took suggestions for scrawlings upon this Paint document (an' chose a few meself).

A few things that could be counted as fanart 'ere. The Dwarf Fortress Weregopher, a MineCraft Skeleton, a Half Life Headcrab, BB from the Of The Killer games an', of course, in the orb and in the lower left corner am references t' me associates stream.