Follow the story of a sponge pigeon called Bob, living into a papaya with his pear Gary and follow his amazing adventures with his friends !
I can tell you I laughed hard while making all of this, hoping it will have the same effect on you and will bring you a smile ! The first time I saw the title in english, I asked some english friends about the name and they laughed cause I wrote : Sponge Bob Square Pantsu instead of pants … that’s how I remember the title now ^^
In french it’s : Bob l’éponge carré ! and Squidward’s name is Carlo !
I really like this cartoon and when I see a sponge I think about it fast !
Hope you will enjoy this and again, thank you very much for all of your support, it’s unbelievable !! I still can’t believe how many of you follow me and my world of bouncing birds and other little animals, never excepted so much feedbacks and messages telling me how my little animations helps to bring happiness, it’s amazing, you rock ! Merci beaucoup tout le monde x’) !! Will never stop !!
My 63 year old mum wrote a letter to her doctor after a recent physical that she asked if I would be willing to share online. It is regarding the experience of being overweight and how doctors, and the world at large, treat you when you are. It’s a bit lengthy, but please give it a read if you have the time!
The next in my Nesta saga. I can’t really call it a Nessian as Cassian is MIA while Mor and Nesta have an issue. No smut in this one, sorry! Will make more sense if you’ve read the rest: 1234567
Nesta was stretched out on the couch, flipping through a book, trying to snatch another hour of peace before the rest of the family arrived. Cassian had brought her here a day early, since he had to inspect a nearby training camp and wanted them have a night to enjoy the cabin before everyone else arrived for a few days of forced bonding. Enjoy it they had, which was probably a good thing since there were only two bedrooms and as far as she knew there would be eight people sharing. She debated whether she wanted to go outside and read on the porch, but settled for staring out the window at the lake, daydreaming about flying over it with Cassian, swooping through the air with the waterfowl that were currently dabbling at the water’s edge. Her reverie was broken by Mor banging through the door, clearly brimming with news. She pulled up abruptly when she realized Nesta was the only occupant. “Where is everyone?”
Nesta gave an insolent shrug, pretending to be engrossed in the story. “Not here.”
“Thanks,” Mor said in a voice dripping with venom.
“Forgive me, Miss Morrigan. Cassian is at some camp doing an inspection and nobody else has arrived.”
Mor slumped in a chair facing Nesta, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. “What the fuck is your problem?” Cool gray-blue eyes looked levelly into golden brown ones for a moment, then returned to the book. Mor sighed. “I love your sisters, you know.”
Nesta turned the page, focusing on maintaining her nonchalance as she replied, “Everyone loves my sisters.”
“Your sisters love me, too.”
Nesta stuck her finger in her book and closed it. She could feel her pulse increasing; the last thing she wanted to do was get into a fight, especially when the two of them were here alone. “What do you want me to say?”
“I want to know why you treat me with such disdain.”
“I treat everyone with disdain, it’s not just you.”
“You don’t treat Cassian with disdain,” Mor snarled.
“You don’t know what we do behind closed doors.”
Mor huffed and tossed her hands in the air before standing abruptly. “I give up. I give up! I have tried and tried to be friends with you, for Feyre’s sake. But it’s hopeless. Utterly hopeless.”
Nesta put her book down and slowly sat up, tucking her feet underneath her. If she wanted to have it out, fine. “You’ve been trying to be friends with me? When? I must have blinked and missed it.”
“Oh, get over yourself,” Mor snapped. “Everyone dances around you like you’re some dangerous creature, some mighty queen whose favor we have to curry, but you’re nothing but a petty little bitch. And that’s fine, I don’t care what you think you deserve, but when you drag Cassian into your ridiculous drama-“
“Why would you give a shit about Cassian now?” Nesta interrupted hotly.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Nesta leaned in, pressing a hand against the coffee table between them, the movement predatory. “You got what you needed from him all those years ago, but what have you ever done for him? You let Rhys beat the shit out of him -“
“I was in no condition to stop that -“
“-and what have you done for him since? He’s been tormented by what went on for the past five hundred years. He thinks he failed you, even as he saved you. Have you ever spared a thought for what he risked?” Mor was shaking her head slowly, eyes blazing, hands clenched, but Nesta plowed on. “He risked the trust of his brothers, hell, he risked his life once your family found out, but what have you ever risked for him?” She gave a mirthless laugh. “No, you’ve just kept using him. First you used him to save yourself, now you use him as a buffer to prevent everyone from knowing what you really are, isn’t that right?”
“And what would that be?” Mor’s voice was cold, vicious, the voice of the Queen of the Hewn City, but Nesta could hear a note of fear behind it and went in for the kill.
“A liar who uses her friends as a mask. A coward who can’t admit who she is, even to people who will love her no matter what.”
“What are you talking about?” Mor queried, the tone implying Nesta’s sanity was in question, but she couldn’t hide the slight tremor in her hands. Nesta sat back again, crossing her arms, raising her chin in that haughty way she knew drove Mor insane.
“Are you ever going to tell them that you prefer females, or are you going to continue to fuck Helion and whoever else crosses your path to keep up this ridiculous facade?”
Mor sank back into her chair, grasping the arms, eyes wide in shock. “Feyre,” she said tremulously, “Feyre told you?”
“Feyre? No.” Nesta made a disgusted noise. “Like Feyre would ever sell you out.”
Nesta shrugged. “When we were at Rita’s for your birthday, some female came up and asked me if I’d introduce her to you, and I just…realized.” Mor’s hands covered her mouth and nose as Nesta went on. “I’d been trying to figure out why you kept pushing between Cassian and me, especially during the war. It almost worked, you know.” She shook her head. “I thought you still cared for him at first, that he cared too. But it was never about him, you just didn’t want to lose your cover.” She sat back and made to return to her book, pressing down on the guilt that pricked her at the devastation she could see on Mor’s face.
“Does he know?” Mor whispered, not denying the truth of Nesta’s words.
“Why…why did you tell him?”
“I didn’t. Why would I bother? It’s not my concern, you can be with anyone you want. But I’m pretty sure he knows anyway. You’re a terrible liar.”
“And you are a bitch of the first order,” Mor snapped, partially recovering her composure.
“Well, that’s a relief. I’d hate to be a bitch of the second order,” Nesta retorted.
Mor’s mouth quirked into an involuntary smile. “Don’t make me start liking you, Nesta,” she warned.
“Is that what I’m doing? Good to know, I’ll stop.”
“Gah! I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”
“That sounds like a personal problem,” Nesta parried, trying but failing to swallow her chuckle. Mor stared at her in disbelief.
“You…You have a sense of humor.”
“And you are spectacularly unobservant if you’re just figuring this out now.”
Mor burst out laughing, falling helplessly against the back of her chair while Nesta watched her, smile playing on her lips. Slowly, Mor regained control and met Nesta’s steady gaze. “Does Cassian get to see this side of you?”
“Of course. Why else would he put up with me?” A kernel of truth, embedded in the joke.
Mor shrugged her elegant shoulders. “I just figured it was the sex.”
“Well, naturally. But sometimes we need to take breaks to eat and I like to keep him entertained.”
“Speaking of which…” A box of pastries appeared on the low table between them. “Help yourself.”
Nesta leaned forward and selected one, a delicate flaky concoction with chocolate oozing from the center. Mor grabbed one and vanished the box, then settled back into her chair, taking a huge bite of her fruit-filled square of dough and studying her adversary while she chewed. Nesta nibbled daintily on a corner of her own, pretending not to notice Mor’s assessment even as she could feel heat spread up her neck. “Can I ask you something?” Mor’s tone had gentled so much that Nesta bristled internally, anticipating the knife wound of sympathy that would no doubt accompany that change.
“If you must.”
“Why haven’t you acknowledged the mating bond?” Mor asked softly.
Nesta kept her eyes down, fighting the burning in them, until she trusted her control enough to hold Mor’s gaze. “There is no mating bond.”
An incredulous snort. “What do you mean? We were all there, we saw you pull him from the Cauldron’s path. Hell, we can all smell it!”
Biting her lip hard enough to taste blood, Nesta shook her head. “I can’t feel it, can’t find it.” She had never admitted this to anyone except Cassian. “I know he thinks there’s something, he tries to pull on it, but there’s just…nothing on my end. Like he’s knocking on the door of an empty house.”
“It took Feyre a year to recognize it,” Mor reminded her gently. “Sometimes it just takes time.”
“And sometimes we want something so badly we can fool ourselves into thinking it’s there.”
“Are you referring to Cassian or yourself?” Nesta shrugged again, looking away, unable to meet Mor’s eyes as she asked the inevitable next question. “Do you love him?”
Nesta didn’t answer for so long Mor stood and walked into the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of water and standing at the sink, looking out the window. Nesta pulled her knees to her chest and rested her chin on them, hugging her shins, trying to find that distance she relied on, that ice that had always protected her. But hadn’t she forced Mor’s hand? Wasn’t it only fair that she give her a truth of her own? Yet only Fae ears would have heard her as she breathed, “Yes. Yes, I love him.” She couldn’t keep the pain from her voice. Mor turned back to her, fresh tears in her eyes, then walked over and brushed a hand over her arm before sitting on the couch at her feet.
“That’s enough, you know,” Mor reassured her. “Love…love is enough.”
They sat in silence for a while before Mor suddenly remembered something from the beginning of their conversation. “What did you say to her?”
Nesta came out of her reverie and blinked at her, confused. “To who?”
“To that female at Rita’s, who asked you to introduce us. You obviously never did, so what did you say?”
A smile tugged at Nesta’s mouth, but her voice was flat as she replied, “I told her to go introduce herself.”
“Did you say it like that?”
“Huh.” Mor’s face was contemplative. “I never considered ‘introduce’ as a substitute for ‘fuck’ until now.”
Nesta’s smile turned wicked. “Many words can have similar meanings, you know. It’s all in how you say them. Inflection is important.”
“So I see,” Mor grinned. “I can’t wait to try that one out on Cassian the next time he pisses me off.”
“Try it on Rhys instead. Or Lucien. It may not work on Cassian at this point, at least not how you intend.”
Mor rested her head against the back of the couch for a moment, staring without really seeing the mantel Feyre had painted. “Why did you get me that necklace?” she asked abruptly, turning to face her. Hurt flickered across Nesta’s features and Mor must have recognized it because she added, “Don’t get me wrong, I love it. It’s probably my favorite piece of jewelry, to be honest. It’s just…I hadn’t…earned it.”
“I guess I wanted you to know that I wasn’t…angry.” Why were words so hard? “About how things are between us. We’re not that different, you know. I think I wanted to let you know that I understood.”
“What it’s like to wear a mask all the time.”
“But I thought you didn’t figure it out until that night?”
Nesta propped her elbow on the back of the couch and rested her face on her hand. “I only figured out what you were hiding that night. But it’s pretty easy when you’ve always worn a mask to recognize it in someone else.”
Mor rolled her head back and studied the ceiling. “What am I going to say to them?” she murmured.
“You don’t have to actually say anything, you know.” Nesta’s voice was uncharacteristically gentle. “There doesn’t need to be some grand announcement. You could just stop lying, stop hiding.”
“I suppose. It’s just -“
Voices and footsteps sounded outside. They could hear Rhys and Feyre bickering about something, then Lucien’s barking laugh. A glance out the window showed the group of them - the whole family except Cassian and Amren - crossing the yard, Willow squirming in Elain’s arms. Both females smiled at the sight.
Mor tilted her head to look at Nesta. “I still hate you, you know.”
“And I still don’t care,” Nesta replied, opening her book once again as her hair slid down, blocking her expression as she pulled her mask back on.
Two years into the five year mission, Spock realized he didn’t know what’s in those colorful cubes that everyone eats. Vaguely disturbed, he spent months in the lab attempting to determine what they were. At first he thought they were jello (which would have been bad, since he is a vegetarian). However, they aren’t. Nor are they fruit squares, nor dyed protein. According to his scans they are nothing real at all. Whatever they are does not exist in this universe. He attempted to publish a paper on the cubes and got a visit from Section 31. He elected not to publish the paper.
prompt: ‘Bellamy and Clarke meet on a cruise, Clarke is there with her mom who she doesn’t get along with and Bellamy is there with his friends.’ for anonymous
word count: 5661
Clarke is exhausted, which is sort of the opposite purpose of an all-inclusive cruise.
To be fair, it’s hardly the cruise’s fault that Clarke is stuck with her mom for two weeks. On a giant boat. In the middle of the ocean, where there’s no real escape.
She supposes she could fake her death or something, but that might come across as a little over dramatic.
And it isn’t her mom’s fault either, Clarke knows, which just makes her even more aggravated, because it means she has no one to blame. Her mom is just always on , she had been even when Jake was still alive, but he’d been able to temper her a bit, relaxing the situation. But once he was gone, there was no one to balance Abby’s constant stream of itineraries and to-do lists.
Honestly, Clarke might just hate that she has a day planner at home that looked scarily similar to her mother’s. But that was the point of the cruise, wasn’t it? To relax, and forget about her responsibilities? Wells has explicitly given her the time off, so that she won’t be bothered with issues at the gallery, and she doesn’t have another showing until next month. She should be laying out on a lawn chair with some shitty young adult para-romance novel, pretending that she might get a tan.
But instead, here she is, hiding at the tiki bar, while her mom’s in the gift shop looking at the throw pillows with cross-stitched dolphins saying ridiculous things, like you’re fin-tastic!
Bartz Klauser was a normal human traveler who made a new friend named
Branch who was a little being known as a Troll, known as the happiest
creatures you could ever met. As he was relaxing while camping in the
forest, he spotted a strange fruit in the tree he was resting against.
He checked if it was poisonous and seeing how it wasn’t, he popped it in
his mouth, chewed it and swallow. He started to feel drowsy due to the
side effect of it being only used as a alcoholic drink by the Trolls for
parties and things, he didn’t realize however that it was a magical
fruit that can affect Humans in many different ways..one being to change
their form into the one Trolls have. Now Bartz is stuck in the forest,
smaller than the grass and flowers, can he make it through this and
become a human again? His new friends are willing to help!
[[ based on the roleplay I’m currently having with @better-safe-than-eaten :’D Edit: Colored version added!! :’3 ]]
Alfred likes to visit Ivan when he’s feeling tired and just wants to sleep. Apparently in Russia they have no set schedule, because Ivan sure as hell does not do anything by the clock. Sometimes he gets up during the night from sleep and reads, and then goes back to bed.
It can take all day for him to decide they should eat shchi, some kind of comfort food for him, Alfred thinks. He labors over each detail and it takes him forever to make it. It’s like a vegetable potato soup with beef in it. Alfred thinks it’s okay, but not worthy of crazy platitudes.
Mostly when he doesn’t read [and they’re not looking at the stars together], Ivan likes to sit and talk to him as he pours himself drinks. He always has those fruit square gummy candies on hand for Alfred, who eats them and has hot chocolate if it’s cold out [and lemonade he makes himself if not].
They talk about everything, but not recent events or the news.
Ivan likes to stay home most of the time, rarely suggesting they go anywhere. He’s never asked Alfred about how he just ‘drops in’ whenever he feels like it–and Alfred had a long list of excuses ready, too. It makes him feel like a kid in the bad way, like he’s just a random passer-though in Ivan’s house. Nothing special.
[Alfred had a whole speech planned about how much he likes to spend time with him and everything, and never got to use it. He’s still waiting.]
Ivan rarely seems interested in anything outside his own Slavic cultural arena, and never asks about anything American. Alfred thinks he’s almost never left his own country, probably due to his [presumable] feelings of distain for other places or foreign food or something–but the truth is that Ivan visits Antonio a lot. [He wants advice on how to secure a lover a fraction of your age, advice Ivan doesn’t have–not that that daunts Antonio.]
He hates to be in such a hot climate, and Antonio is not here for snow and ice, so they meet up Austria. It’s easy, since he can claim he was here to speak with Gilbert but ran into Ivan. And Ivan has always gotten letters from Vash’s sister, who is trying to find him new friends.
[Vash is okay, but a bit hyper-ly paranoid and uncommunicative. He is in a lot of clubs, though, and Ivan accompanies him to one or two once in a while. The sister tells him Vash was pleased and had fun–even though his own people liked Ivan better. It’s a weird sensation to be liked ‘better’, Ivan thinks].
Alfred is aware that most older immortals rarely leave their countries, being unsatisfied with what is ‘other’. And everyone only has words of degradation for America, like it’s the worst place in the world or something. Whatever, Alfred thinks passionately. It’s fine, being by myself. All the time.
He and Ivan never talk about politics, so he can only assume he’d never want to see decadent capitalist nirvana anyway. The immortals always want Alfred to come and ‘learn’ in their ‘better’ culture, in their older, cooler country.
It’s like they can’t take a moment without reminding him how great their epic cultures are and how worthless, new, empty and hollow his is. Alfred never says anything about it.
He’s always going to be the child, not an equal. No matter what. Ivan never asks him to stay longer if he pops by for a day in Moscow. Only Arthur will stay with him in America, complaining all the while.
Sometimes he feels like a child raised by a village that ultimately lives alone. Other times he feels like a minor going out with an adult–is he a momentary diversion for Ivan? He must have been with hundreds of people. And in the pre-modern world, people didn’t even treat sleeping together with the same feelings or attitudes. Everything was different.
Alfred gets tired of having to take what he can get. He thinks over and over again, Arthur is only one who loves me. The only one who always wants me in his house forever, who never wants me to leave.
Is that what love is? Or is it something else? Alfred doesn’t know what he wants.
Henry De Groux - Le Visage de la Victoire (1914-1916)
Liège. August 23, 1914. Sunday.
A day of rest in Liège. My barber told me the following: during the shooting on Thursday a good acquaintance of his, who was executed, had certainly been innocent. He had been a good upstanding citizen who had had a tropical fruit business on the square before the university. Above his shop on the first floor there was a club for Russian students. It was from here that shots were fired [at the occupiers]. The soldiers stormed the house and along with the other inhabitants the shopkeeper was bundled out and shot. He had perhaps not even known that there was a student club above him.
(Journey to the Abyss: The Diaries of Count Harry Kessler)