standing pigeon

Damned If I Do Ya

Originally posted by j-miki

MATURE

“Dude, come on! It’s after ten. The rent-a-cops have disappeared until midnight. I want to take a selfie with that giant fucking pigeon before we head to the party.”

Junhong rolls his eyes at your request as he pulls his apartment door and shoves his keys in his backpack. “Why the hell is there a giant pigeon statue on campus, anyway? I get that they needed the new art building, it’s really nice in there, by the way, but that statue’s unnecessary.”

“It’s terrifying,” you laugh as you drop your board to the asphalt and wait for Junhong to do the same. “But it’s quirk and weird and it’ll get some likes on Instagram. So, you know, doing it for the internet.”

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It’s a right-wing coo

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

*gets coat*

*leaves*

Dan’s Less Good Fairy Tales: The Carrier Pigeon 

One morning, back when there were no screens on windows, and no one worried about bird flu, a woman woke up to a pigeon standing on her chest. She loved birds and birds admired her as well, so she greeted the pigeon with a smile. She looked at the bird’s foot and saw that it had been injured. She said “Oh, poor bird. I‘ll fix you.” She bandaged up the bird and sent it on its way.

The pigeon returned a day later with a message tied around its healed leg. It was from the King. “Thanks for fixing my bird. Are you DTF?” The girl immediately wrote back, “I’d rather fuck this pigeon.” and sent it along.

The pigeon returned an hour later with another message from the King who wrote: “Joke’s on you, I am the pigeon. I need a spell to be broken to turn back into a king. The only way to do it is to give me one kiss.” The king also included a dick pic of his original, human penis (not the pigeon one).

The woman was aghast, but also flattered, but also remembered this sort of behavior was not OK. Days passed, and she didn’t respond. The pigeon kept coming back to see if she would respond. She didn’t. The pigeon eventually died, and the woman felt no remorse. The pigeon didn’t even turn into a king or anything after it died. It just fell to the ground and some mice ate it.

“Good riddance” the woman thought. “It probably wasn’t even a king, anyway.”

A few years later the woman got anthrax from a sheep and died. She became a ghost and immediately was sent to Hell where the King also resided (they both went there because he was an asshole who didn’t bother feeding his own people, and she was there for the obvious bestiality). The King tried to open up a dialogue with her, but the ghost didn’t answer for all eternity. She was still mad about the unsolicited dick pic.

And that’s why when someone doesn’t text you back, we call it “ghosting.” In most cases, it is deserved.

lips .

send in requests here 

Shawn stares at you as he chews a bite of an apple, his eyes squinted and his head tilted a little to the side. He’s studying you, memorizing you - you met not even two hours ago and he’s trying to take all of you in, process all that you have to offer in such a small window of time. He feels the hours slipping away from him and in the back of his mind, he knows that he’ll have to leave you soon. He scoots his chair closer to yours.

“What are you doing?” You laugh, pushing his chair away with your foot.

“Just, you know… admiring,” he says with a shrug. He reaches down to where you’re shoving him away and holds your ankle between his two hands, adjusting your sock so it’s no longer slipping into your bootie. “You’re very pretty.”

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Life Lessons, chapter 3

In which the Angel Gabriel nearly ends up in the naughty corner…

Life Lessons masterlist

Here’s Mr Stan all ready for a day building nativity scenes and being adorable.

A/N: I’m up to my ears in work so I’m just splurging this out and not re-reading or editing or anything. Which is why it’s RUBBISH. I’m sorry.

Also, I’m aware that there’s way too much about being a parent and not enough action/Sebastian. Sorry. That sort of sums up my life. The next chapter has alcohol and kissing, which is way more fun :)


By the time Christmas was getting closer, you were convinced there was something between you and Mr Stan. But you were also convinced you were kidding yourself. He was a nice guy, in a caring profession. It wasn’t too much of a reach to assume that meant he was happy to talk and be kind, right? And you were nothing special, so it WAS too much of a reach to assume he’d be interested. You were disaster personified. Permanently covered in something sticky, it seemed. Permanently in a rush, forgetting things. You held down a difficult job but somehow outside that, chaos reigned.

But now that you worked fewer hours, there was time to be more organised, surely. You were convinced every morning that you’d got it right, that today would be the day you’d saunter through life with men and women left open-mouthed in your wake at your grace and elegance and style.

“You, um, have toothpaste on your chin”. No, not today then. Blushing bright red again (making Isabel gleefully shout ‘you look like Father Christmas’s bum!’) you scrubbed at your chin then pointed it at him to check if it was clear. It was only as he rubbed his thumb over your face and nodded that you realised that you had been maybe a little inappropriate. And you liked it.

Still, there was always tomorrow for grace and style.

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The Fire-Juggler’s Fiancee

I am the woman on the cover of “women’s fiction.” 

I think I’m a woman. Maybe I’m a girl? You can usually just see my feet. If you can see my hands, they’re clutching an umbrella, or a watering can (so much cuter than a hose!), or a single on-trend flower (a gerbera daisy, maybe? nothing tawdry like a rose). But everything you really need to know about me, you can tell by my shoes. I’m standing a bit pigeon-toed, which makes me look bashful in an endearing sort of way, I think. My shins are bare, because I’m not a pants kind of girl, and also because it’s always summer in my world. If you can see a bit of my dress, it’s yellow, or blue, and likely of the gingham persuasion. Hey, I don’t need to wear pink to prove that I’m feminine. If you could see my head, which you can’t, there is probably a daisy chain in my hair, which is definitely long.

I am the Auctioneer’s Niece.  I am the Oenologist’s Orphan.

I wear a variety of quirky shoes, but never heels. Gosh, no. Heels are for the–dare I say?–“downmarket” girls. The popular girls. You know the type. Whereas I appear mistily real (if sans head), those ladies are animated, bebaubled, and bold. How they smirk in their pink skirt-suits, one slender manicured hand on one slender jutting hip. Their careers are glamorous: Fashion editor. Wedding planner. Bespoke cupcake designer. If they have a dog, it is also glamorous (a Brazilian-blownout Afghan hound…or a teacup Yorkie enpursed in Hermès). Sometimes they carry shopping bags, those women. Enormous bags! Dangling from such dainty fingertips! I never have a shopping bag, though I might have a picnic basket. It depends on whether my story takes place in Nantucket, or a charming little midwest town where everyone knows everyone.

I am the Wigmaker’s Wife.  I am the Ditch-Digger’s Daughter.

But back to my shoes. They are quirky, not edgy.  Maybe a pair of cute green galoshes, so you know I’m an individual. If I’m at the beach, I might be barefoot. Or in espadrilles–if they aren’t too ethnic. Are they? Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Gosh, no, I have a friend who’s ethnic! She’s funny, and supportive, and gives such folksy advice.

I am the Accordianist’s Muse.  I am the Sponge-Diver’s Sister.

So many of us women’s fiction girls, we’re summed up by the shorthand of our shoes. Metonymy, I think they call it, that shorthand. Or maybe it’s synecdoche? Ask the ladies at the book club. They all majored in English and meant to be novelists; their days would be spent conjuring Serious Fiction from Underwoods, or in scandalous dissipation, or both. Now they go to book clubs to discuss my life–me!–and wine away the suburbanalities of children and husbands. Suburbanality–is that a word? Ask the book club ladies. They’ll know.

I am the Theme Park Mascot’s Mistress.  I am the Alchemist’s Concubine.

And while we’re at it, a few more questions? Ones you won’t find in the good old "Reader’s Guide.” (Because what says “fun” like a pop quiz, am I right?). The thing is…I can’t help wondering–during all those wistful moments of misty-horizon-pondering and umbrella-handle-holding–well, why must I always be somebody’s something? Is that all I am to you, the object of some possessor? I mean, how come someone else–some guy, let’s face it–gets to have the compelling vocation, and all I get is…the relationship? (And some whimsical shoes.) Just once, just once, can’t I have a face?  

Can’t I be in focus?  

Can't be the somebody? 

Okay so here is a story of why ThePeacePigeon is one heck of an awesome guy.

Yesterday I went to the League of Legends LCS Spring Finals and at 13:30 (1pm) Sp4zie was hosting a meetup. Unfortunately I got stuck in traffic and right when I got there they closed the meetup and I just had to watch him leave.
It was disappointing, but I can’t stop that.

Now after all 5 games of Fnatic vs H2K (me being in favor of Fnatic) I was completely exhausted and didn’t even want to meet any of the casters, so I let my friend Oskar go ahead to meet H2K and in the end he actually pulled me to go meet Sjokz, Deficio and Krepo (Who were all sweethearts). While we were waiting out of nowhere..
Pigeon just stands there and casually talks to us. I’m extremely anxious when it comes to talking to people so I just tried to hide behind my friend who went to get an autograph.
Soon we got to the topic of Sp4zie and in the end Pigeon said he would try and get the picture to him the next day. 

So I sit in the car for 4 hours and while I’m at the gas station I just see a notification on twitter pop up that actually made me shake and almost cry.

I can’t describe how emotional I am for the fact that he did give it and being a complete pleasure to talk to. Thank you so much, Pigeon <3

Daddy’s Little Actor

Pairing: Louis Tomlinson & Harry Styles (Larry)

Genre: Smut, Daddy Kink

Warnings: Explicit Language and Suggestive Themes. 

Word Count: 5500

Summary: Louis applies for a position at the most acclaimed porn agency in town. Although, things don’t go quite as planned. 

Author Note: Check out the alternate version here 

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for @prmntvacations and @cliffordchick‘s disney!5sos night

as a disney cast member, your favorite part of the day would have to be when you were being a character handler for the prince from snow white, prince ferdinand. however, that had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that your co-worker behind the face character was absolutely crushworthy considering…well, just about everything about him – from the hue of his impossibly blue eyes to how even as a natural blond he still looked good in his character’s brown wig to the fact that he watched science videos before bed to the way he always seemed to stand pigeon-toed, even when in character.

on days you and luke were both scheduled at the same time, you were always his handler, and even though he was usually in character, you two often spent your breaks and lunches together and you had gotten to know him well. and okay, so maybe you did have a crush on him, but you didn’t think you could really be faulted for that since you knew weren’t necessarily the only one. to your mostly amusement (and maybe a little jealousy was involved), throughout your time being luke’s handler, you’d seen many a teenage girl – even older women, some of which were definitely moms – attempt to flirt with luke or slip him their number if they were one of the bolder ones. you really couldn’t blame them; even in character, luke just had this charm to him that easily made you enamored with him. still, that didn’t mean you didn’t take a little satisfaction out of when he politely rebuffed any hopeful potential suitors, always turning them down with an excuse relating to snow white – about how he’s flattered but already happy with her, couldn’t be unfaithful to her, wouldn’t want to leave her for anyone else, etc.

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This is what happens when I actively try not to stand pigeon-toed. Also, I’m sorry skirt, that was very disrespectful to drop you on that filthy floor.

This dress is definitely shorter than what I usually do but I’m feelin’ it.

Edited to add: I’m 5'6" but wearing a small heel. I’m 22/24 and this is the 3x
Grocery Shopping ~ Hoya

This is for Anon! I hope that you like this! Thank you for being patient with me~ Please let me know what you think!

Request: Here

“There is nothing to eat” You mumbled to yourself while the light in the refrigerator highlighted your face, closing the door your eyes drifted down to your slightly ballooned belly as it rumbled in protest. 

Resting your hand on the top of your stomach and rubbing it gently you leaned against the counter as you thought about all of the things that you and the baby were craving. Chips, Banana’s, Ice cream, pickles, pretzels, chewy candies that were sweet and sour. Honestly, the list could go on for miles, yet thinking of the foods that you wished you could have made you more hungry than ever.

Turning your head to the clock in the kitchen, you read where the arms on the clock pointed to and clicked your tongue and the roof of your mouth. Wondering when Hoya, your husband, was coming home your stomach grumbled louder.

“Okay, okay. Just let me get my jacket and we will go do some shopping” You reasoned with the baby inside of you as well as your stomach before you slipped your phone into your back pocket.

Padding over to the door, you slipped your socked feet into your purple shoes that Hoya bought for you as a just married present. Lifting one of Hoya’s grey jackets from the hook, you slipped your arms through the sleeves and lifted the jacket over your shoulders before pulling your purse over your shoulder.

Turning off the lights in your small home, you unlocked the door and twisted the handle to open it. Walking through the doorway, you turned around and locked the door behind you. A pair of headlights pulled into the driveway while the lights cast a shadow against the door.

Hoya stopped the car when he saw you at the front door, putting it in park, he opened the door and watched you for a minute while the radio still played the latest Infinite album. Resting his folded arms on the top of the door frame, he watched you for a moment as you tried to lock the door from the outside. When you finally got it and you turned around and started walking down the few steps in the front of your home to the driveway, your eyes lifted when you saw the pair of headlights light up the driveway while the black shimmering car sat in it’s spot.

Tracing the curves of the sporty car up to the driver’s door, you saw Hoya smiling at you in a dreamy way while he cocked one leg while leaning on the door of the car. Shaking his head lightly, he snapped himself out of his dreamy thoughts, dropping his head, he bit his bottom lip gently out of embarrassment of being caught before he lifted his smoldering eyes back up to yours.

“Where is the beautiful mother-to-be going?” He asked softly with a kind smile pulling on the side of his lips.

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