#Bribón

[astraeus-moon]

Shameless self promo since redfall has taken over my life and I'm finally gaining confidence in my writing, sorry for adding an oc to redfall there's smth wrong in my brain

[puncake-paradice]

REMI DE LA ROSA - ORIGIN STORY

[ferranhumor]

DAILY BOOMER, 20 de abril 2023

[jartita-me-teneis]

@JuanmiGG_News

El bribón emérito corrupto Juancar monta con sus hijas Elena y Cristina, a espaldas de los españoles, 1 fundación en Abu Dabi para evitar q las parásitas hagan frente a impuestos sobre la herencia (1.800 millones €) en España, fórmula para perjudicar a la Hacienda pública española.

[xochiquetza3autora]

Gracias de nuevo por la cena entre mamá e hijo, Cariño. Debo decir que has sido mi alumno favorito este semestre, solo imagina que estás saliendo con tu profesora de inglés que también es tu madrastra, que por cierto dejaste embarazada, pequeño bribón ¿Quién lo diría? Madrastra y maestra, dos fantasías en una... ¿Querías entrar, Cariño? Tu hija está muy activa esta noche, tal vez puedas calmarla. Pero no despiertes a tu padre, ¿vale? ¡Tiene trabajo temprano y tiene que descansar!

#🇺🇸

[little-worm-grant]

Jake's pov: Little Detour

Jake Lockley & Steven Grant

665 words / Masterlist.

If you like what you see, leave a like or reblog and follow me ♥

Summary: Steven's not at all pleased to discover the other alter still working for Khonshu. Jake's determined to show him he's not as bad as he seems.

Previously: Jake's pov: Night Shift

Driving home, Jake called it an early night. Couldn’t do anything while Steven was around and acting like he was the devil. “Old birds left you be, hasn’t he?” Taking a turn, the streets were quieter in the evenings but the city never slept.

“Guess someone forgot to include me on that little deal of yours, no?” Jake carried no maliciousness in his tone. More on the edge of sounding playful. Kept glancing to the rear view mirror which held the other’s face. This was his first time around someone from his head that wasn’t his own damn voice. It was interesting, to say the least. This how Marc felt? No wonder he was so strung up all the time.

He wasn’t going to focus on much else with Steven around. “This what it’s normally like in our head? Can’t say I blame Marc for wanting to use you like a stress toy.” Just making conversation. Keeping his eyes on the road. The occasional glance back to check Steven was still there.

“You don’t need to say it. I see how you look at me. Like I’d make a meal out of you si?” Jake gave a toothy grin and shrugged nonchalantly, “There’s still time.” He didn’t think he needed to justify why he hurt people, but Steven seemed to think he did so he entertained it.

“It’s because I know I have to, but I don’t do it for Khonshu.” He wrinkled his nose. Khonshu was exactly like a grizzly parent he’d have to endure over Chanukah. Be their entertainment without much say or choice. Their old lady was always worse around the holidays. “They were bad people who do worse if I don’t step in. You’d do the same, mi alma, so don’t go acting all cute on me now. Safer for everyone if I step in.”

He laughed light when he felt Steven try to shove himself to the front. A little impressed the small firecracker was still trying to overpower him. “Oh you’re a bribón, knew there was a fire in you somewhere. You want the body? All pushy and not asking. Here. You drive.” Jake pushed Steven the rest of the way into the front. Allowing the idiot to see his own mistake of wanting the body when he couldn’t drive. Jake didn’t leave him to figure it out alone, words firm but kind.

“Take a left. Need to move over the left lane. Car coming behind you. Pull in after it. There you go. You’re getting it. Red light, start to brake. The other pedal.” The car jolted to a stop and Jake chuckled from the mirror. “You did good, not your first try, no? But that’s enough.” He took over the body as easily as he’d given it up. A show of what he was capable of doing any time he wanted. Giving Steven a look in the mirror. “Just take it easy mijo. We’ll be back home before you know it. I need to make a stop first. I’ll behave.”

He parked the cab up on the streets, threw some coins into the parking meter and headed down to a local bar. Some of the smokers outside greeted him and offered him a cigarette. Jake took it and put it into the back of his ear just below his cap. Saying he was just stopping by. Stepping inside was greeted with a whole new wave of people happy to see him. Friends. People he’d helped some way or another. Networks of informants he’d been building up.

Jake was essentially pulled around the room with friends wanting to check in and say hi before he headed to the bathroom. Only two rooms he was able to lock the door and give himself a little privacy. Going to the mirror instead of the toilet. “You see it now? What I do. So go ahead and blame me. I can take it. But know I’m not your stress toy either.”

[profesor-javaloyes]

Profesor Javaloyes, “Memorias… fotográficas”.-

Capítulo IX, La muerte del viejo Profesor Javaloyes.-

"Nunca en mi vida me sentí más solo que en aquellos momentos en los que me encontré rodeado de... gente" (Profesor Javaloyes, epitafio)

La Gran Ilusión del Tiempo: ¿Realidad o Simplemente una Broma Cósmica?.-

¿Alguna vez queridos niños se han detenido a pensar en la existencia del tiempo? Si no, es probablemente porque están demasiado ocupados viviendo en él... o al menos eso creen. Vamos a desentrañar esta confusión temporal y descubrir, “Método Ponderado” por medio, que en realidad ni el presente, ni el pasado, ni el futuro existen. ¡Bienvenidos a la broma cósmica del tiempo!.

El Presente: Un Momento Inalcanzable.

Comencemos con el presente. Todo el mundo habla del "aquí y ahora", pero ¿alguien lo ha visto alguna vez? Cada vez que intentas atraparlo, ya se ha convertido en pasado. ¡Qué evasivo el tipo!. Mientras leen esta frase, cada palabra que acaban de leer ya es historia. Si el presente fuera un amigo, sería ese amigo que siempre cancela planes en el último minuto.

El Pasado: Ese Lugar Mítico.

Ahora hablemos del pasado. El pasado es como esa ex que les dejó con una nota diciendo "No eres tú, soy yo". Siempre presente en sus pensamientos, pero absolutamente inalcanzable. Es como un museo cerrado los lunes, lleno de recuerdos que no pueden volver a visitar. Además, el pasado está lleno de lagunas. ¿Recuerdan perfectamente acaso lo que tomaron como desayuno hace seis días? Probablemente no. Pero claro, ¡el pasado existe! O eso dicen, aunque parece más bien un cuento para que la historia tenga algo que contar. El Futuro: Promesas y Engaños.

Finalmente, el futuro. Ahhhhhhhhh pequeñas criaturas, el dulce y engañoso futuro, siempre prometiendo maravillas y cambios. Es como ese pariente lejano que te dice que va a visitarte y nunca llega. "El año que viene haré más ejercicio", "La próxima semana empiezo la dieta", "En el futuro seré rico y famoso". Claro, el futuro siempre está lleno de potenciales, pero cada vez que llega, se disfraza de presente y escapa hacia el pasado sin dejarnos disfrutar ni un poco.

Conclusión Ponderada: ¡Todo es una Farsa!.

Entonces, queridos niños, el viejo Profesor Javaloyes les ha desentrañado el misterio del tiempo. El presente nunca se deja atrapar, el pasado es una vaga sombra y el futuro es un bribón astuto. Si el tiempo fuera una película, no sabríamos si estamos en el tráiler, en la película o en los créditos finales. Así que la próxima vez que alguien les diga "vive el momento", pueden responder con una sonrisa irónica y decir: "Lo haría, si tan solo pudiera encontrarlo y/o congelarlo".

¡Hagan lo que puedan!

[bitacoradeunadialover]

ANOTACIONES ELEMENTALES SOBRE EL CHICO ESMERALDA

El verde siempre me ha parecido un color hermoso. Es el color de la vida y de la naturaleza; luminoso, fuerte, y en cada una de sus representaciones e interpretaciones posibles para la mente se halla colmado por una significación de vitalidad etérea; abstracta, poética. 

Pero eso cambió cuando lo vi a él. 

Debí haber notado, en mi costumbre por dotarlo todo con cualidades bellas, que tan maravilloso color podría ser concebido como algo propio de la podredumbre. Y eso noté en el chico esmeralda. Que estaba podrido.

Podrido y mal pulido. 

Las esmeraldas siempre fueron mis piedras preciosas favoritas por el simple hecho de ser verdes. El verde siempre fue mi color favorito por todas las significaciones que tenía idealizadas en mi cabeza. 

Cabeza de novia hueca en la que no cabía posibilidad alguna de que algo tan precioso como una esmeralda resultara desagradable a la vista. 

No obstante, nuestro chico esmeralda en cuestión, estaba mal pulido. 

Parecía ser que, en su afán por encajar en su miserable existencia eterna, había tomado una daga e intentado pulirse a sí mismo, tratando de recrear la imagen fidedigna de una esmeralda propiamente dicha. 

Pero la esmeralda estaba muy dañada. Estaba quebrada en el centro y cristalizada por el golpe. Tal parecía a simple vista que alguien le había hecho algo terrible a la pobre esmeralda. 

Sin embargo, no estaba precisamente rota. 

Creo que el chico esmeralda no entendía este punto fundamental de los hechos, sólo sentía la profunda rotura en su centro y nada más. Y creo que, en afán por desvanecerla —ocultarla, tal vez, de la vista de otros o, ¿por qué no?, de su propia vista—, pulió en sí mismo una forma y mil caras que no le correspondía. 

Y ahora el chico esmeralda vivía de esa manera: siendo una pantomima eterna y apegado a un personaje que nunca le sentó del todo bien; apropiándose de un carácter y una personalidad ajena a sí mismo y completamente hundido en el más obsceno de los hedonismos. 

¡Pobre chico esmeralda! ¡Ay de él! 

A veces quisiera saber, durante algunas noches inquietas, quién habrá sido el bribón que astilló y pudrió tan hermosa esmeralda.

→ Introducción a Pierres précieuses series

[waltfrasescazadordepalabras]

Un bribón no ríe de igual forma que un hombre honesto, un hipócrita no llora con las lágrimas que un hombre de buena fe. Toda falsedad es una máscara, y por bien hecha que esté la máscara, siempre se llega, con un poco de atención, a distinguirla del rostro".

"Los tres mosqueteros", Alejandro Dumas

[astraeus-moon]

Ok, so I've compiled assorted canon facts about each redfall protag via finding 4 separate walkthroughs that utilized each character and the semi shady redfall wiki that's up. All things are subject to change should I find contradicting information. I'd also love to hear what other people discovered!

Jacob

Had some kind of partner in the military

Foster kid

Probably joined the military out of high-school

Likes guitars and animals

Can play guitar and apparently learned to play fairly young

Introverted

Hates caves

Blood type is A-

Thinks Salt and pepper counts as seasoning

Southern

Plays guitar

Bellwether was watching him for some reason

Probably came from low income foster homes and family

Receives the least warmth from the npcs (due to Bellwether association?)

Has the strongest reaction to the hollow man's backstory out of all 4

Layla

Biomedical student

Horror enthusiast

Lofi

Sea food

Dad died when she was young

Strained relationship with mom

Extroverted

Had a vampire boyfriend

Blood type is O-

Youngest of the protags

Worked with Dr. Hunt

Felt the strongest about bloody Tom's crimes

Devinder

Cryptzoologist

Mystery fan

Travels alot

British.

Doesn't like Cats

Love hate relationship with vampires

Author

Streamer

Blood type is B+

Can't Swim (?)

Iikes doctor who

Has some kind of intrest in the mothman

Possibly wealthy?

Remi

Graduated from MIT

Combat engineer

Has siblings

In the Navy

Oldest child

Doesn't like bullies

Bribón means rascal

Blood type is AB+

Taught Rebbecca Mitchell

Npcs seem the most friendly with her overall

[unversodenso]

"Un bribón no ríe de igual forma que un hombre honesto, un hipócrita no llora con las lágrimas que un hombre de buena fe. Toda falsedad es una máscara, y por bien hecha que esté la máscara, siempre se llega, con un poco de atención, a distinguirla del rostro".

"Los tres mosqueteros", Alejandro Dumas.

[seldomscilence16]

Whumptober day 29:

"I only sink deeper the deeper I think."

Scented candles | troubled past resurfacing | "What happened to me?"

Fandom: Voltron

Prompts used: all

Oof so this ones a little rough, but it was what I could come up with. Yell at me if you will :)

TW for implied abuse, injuries, blood mentions but not major.

…

The candle is oddly shaped- though he couldn't tell you what he thought it was supposed to be shaped like- and sat innocently in the center of the dining table. It was a gift, for some reason, and Lance felt like it was a test of some kind. It wouldn't be first.

Lance doesn't lite it, not today, he'll wait until HE says it's okay. Just to be safe.

The candle is lit, HE is gone again, and Lance has just awoken, the smell is new and fills the space so fully it's suffocating. He feels a headache building and turns to bury his face in his pillow.

/

"Leandro! Don't go too far! Pequeño bribón, Lancito!" The voice is worried but fond. (Little rascal)

"I'm fine mama! I'm gonna-" a shriek, cuts off the sentence, blurred view of tumbling down a rocky hill.

"LEANDRO!"

Something snaps, and pain erupts up his arm, there's blood- his arm?

/

Lance wakes from the light doze confused, a phantom ache in his arm. He sits up, cautiously dragging his sleeve up, he stares like he'd never seen it before, and wonders if he had. Scars litter the tan skin, old and newer, healing bruises doing little to hide them.

He presses on one-

/

The boy beside him holds his arm tenderly beneath cool sink water,

"Hermano, it's not that big a deal, I burn myself all the time, so do you!"

"But I burned you! I didn't-"

"Didn't mean to? I know, I was in the way and the pan was bigger than I thought. Give me a cookie and we're all good."

/

He gasps, the teen burned into his eyelids. His heart aches and his head pounds, as he tries to place where he knows him from. He'd looked like Lance, not like HIM, or the weird people on TV, he looked like Lance-

Human.

He had been human, like Lance. Lance was a human, who knew other humans at some point. He stumbles to his feet, dizzy as he makes his way to the bathroom, he splashes water on his face and meets his own eyes in the mirror. One Brown, one Blue.

/

"Think the team will notice, beautiful?"

Perhaps, if they can look up for a moment.

"Ha! You are not wrong there… maybe I can find contacts, switch back and forth and see who notices first…"

Amusing, they do claim to be observant.

The mocking in her mental voice makes Lance chuckle again.

"Don't worry Blue, I'll always appreciate you even if they don't."

And I you.

/

He stumbles back, hands in his hair as his head seems fit to burst with how harshly it pounds-

/

Cub, breathe.

"I shouldn't be c-cold. Why is it s-so c-c-cold?"

I have raised the temperature, you are within the safety of my walls, I will not let any harm come.

"R-red, why m-me? W-why is i-it always m-me?"

I wish I knew cub… you do not deserve it. I am here.

/

Blue, Red, voices, presences in his mind, how could he forget about two whole presences in his MIND! What is going on?!

He struggles to dress himself, the clothes ill fitting- HE likes them loose- but he manages, he doesn't have shoes- he doesn't leave this place- but the cloth on his feet resembles socks. SOCKS how did he forget what SOCKS were!? He slides into the main part of the building, his eyes fall on the candle and the purple flame-

/

Seventh wheel.

Too many paladins.

Leave the math to Pidge.

Not now Lance!

I told you to stay out of this!

Lance! Don't ever scare me like that again!

Lance, I'm sure you can find something to do without getting into trouble hm?

Mighty paladin, fallen before my feet, mine I shall make you, my quite the feat!

/

"What happened to me?" He's curled up on the floor, tears tracking down his face.

His heart thumps heavily in his chest, longing for something, he needs to get out of here. He had a life before this- however complicated it seemed- but if he stayed, he may not have a life after.

The Alien that had been parading around here, talking about some life they had together, making up quiznaking BS about life long mates, was a phonier phony than he thought.

Lance had not lost his memory in some weird accident, it had been on purpose! Maybe…. he still didn't know, but HE would be back eventually, and HE would surely be mad again. Lance needed a way out.

"Alright memories… I only sink deeper the deeper I think. So chill out for a minute, bueno? Bueno…"

He drags himself over to the table, snuffing the candle-

/

Burning.

Burned flesh.

It fills his nose.

Everything's bURNING!

HELP!

/

"Mierda!" Blood dribbles down his chin, lip sore and throbbing where teeth had bitten through skin.

Out. A way out. Come on Lance, you've been cleaning this place as long as you can remember- ha- there's gotta be a way out!

He starts with the front door; biometric lock, Lance can't find a panel to open.

The windows; thick, tinted, none openable, does not break with a chair, no ground in sight.

No back door. No laundry chute, no neighbors he can hear, no skylight, Garbage chut-

Garbage chute!

Disgusting, but his only option.

The thing is large, to fit the large bags he assumes, it does not smell, it seems pretty clean considering, but Lance can only assume what's at the bottom. Rotting food, alien bugs, an incinerator!? This could be a terrible idea.

But… it's his only one. He grabs the biggest knife from the kitchen, wraps it up to hopefully avoid stabbing himself, and stares at the chute. He sits in it awkwardly, his brain niggling on the idea of a 'slide' but Lance doubts this will be fun.

His scream is a squeaky breathy thing, to remain as quiet as possible and still release his terror as he goes down into the dark unknown. Falling for several long moments before a light appears and he slows his descent with protesting skin burning all the while.

His chest heaves as he stares at the opening, a pile of trash bags, no heat, he sends a prayer to whoever's listening, and falls.

.

.

.

He must look like a loonatic, running around as he is with no idea where he is or why. But he stops for no one, no rushing memories coming to him at anything he registers before him. He runs, he doesn't look back, everything aches, but he pushes, he's been through worse-

Gods he's been through worse.

He only slows as he reaches some sort of port, spaceships coming and going. He has no money, but he will be leaving this place, if it's the last thing he does.

He doesn't see the screen beside him light up with his face:

Missing:

Paladin of Voltron

*image*

"What happened to me?"

Tips or info sent to xxxxx

He doesn't look back.

[trogo-auto-egocratico]

Todas las impresiones repercuten en él de modo ligero. En la juventud es un bebé y un bribón. Les dice groserías a los maestros, no se corta el cabello, no se afeita, usa lentes y mancha las paredes. Estudia mal, pero termina los cursos. No obedece a los padres. Cuando es rico, es un petimetre; siendo ya pobre, vive como un cerdo. Duerme hasta las doce, se acuesta a una hora indefinida. Escribe con faltas. La naturaleza lo trajo al mundo solo para el amor. Nunca está en contra de beber hasta perder el sentido; tras embriagarse por la noche hasta los diablitos verdes, se levanta animado, con una pesadez en la cabeza apenas notable, sin necesitar de la similia similibus curantur [“lo similar cura lo similar”]. Se casa sin intención. Lucha con la suegra eternamente. Se pelea con la parentela. Miente a lo loco. Ama terriblemente los escándalos y los espectáculos aficionados. En la orquesta, es el primer violín. Siendo ligero, es liberal. O nada lee en absoluto, o lee con pasión. Le gustan los periódicos, y él mismo no está en contra de ser un poco periodista. El buzón de correo de las revistas humorísticas ha sido inventado, exclusivamente, para los sanguíneos. Es constante en su inconstancia. En el servicio, es un funcionario de encargos especiales, o algo semejante. En el gimnasio, enseña literatura. Rara vez sirve hasta consejero civil activo; si sirve hasta eso, se hace flemático y a veces colérico. Los granujas, los bribones y los tunantes son sanguíneos. Dormir en una habitación con un sanguíneo no se recomienda: cuenta chistes toda la noche y, si no hay chistes, censura a los allegados o miente. Muere de enfermedad de los órganos de digestión y de extenuación prematura.

Anton Chejov.

El sanguíneo.

[la-semillera]

CAROL RAMA & HILDA HILST

Juana

Enaltéceme con tus bagatelas. 

Interprétame despacio 

De modo que nunca lo note. 

Desordena estas líneas que te escribo 

Como si un bribón escoliasta

 Resolviera 

Burlar la muerte de su propio texto. 

Entrégame pobreza y fealdad y miedo. 

Y alejamiento de todas las respuestas 

Que darían luz 

A mi eterna inteligencia ciega 

Concédeme rodillas dolientes. 

Para que pueda hincarlas en un poco de tierra 

Y allí subsistir como tu más olvidado prisionero. 

Facilítame la mudez. Y un caminar 

atropellado. Ningún perro. 

Sabes que amo a los animales 

Por eso me sentiría aliviado. Y de ti, 

Innombrable 

No deseo consuelo. Sólo penuria y fardel. 

Tal vez así te maravilles de tan abundante necesidad. 

Tal vez así me ames: desnudo hasta los huesos 

Igual que un muerto.

- Hilda Hilst. traducción de Pedro Sevylla de Juana.

[callaitomaswapito]

If you receive this you make somebody happy. Go and spread the love🌈

Hope this brightens your day :)

Gracias @yannakissecae !!! Que se que eres tú! Bribón!!! Yo también tqm. Gno homo.

[gatutor]

Michael Sarracin-Sue Lyon "Un fabuloso bribón" (The flim-flam man) 1967, de Irvin Kershner.