#sabelotodo

[boxwinebaddie]

do u think we can hear a little bit of the kyle cant say i love u ask?

ugh, yes </3

so...fair warning, idk what this is. also...

why is it written in present tense? idk. anyways!

i started ~writing~ something ( bad ) that i was going to maybe slap to the end of the ask, which is not proofread or finished, but basically context is that it's the #ravesey divorce fight, the climax of it...

...where stan starts packing a bag and for one of the first times in his pleated, completed, type-a, show no mercy, no nonsense, new jersey slaughterhouse life, kyle broflovski...is paralyzed with fear.

because kyle who always has his shit together is completely losing it.

everything.

his everything.

his stan.

again.

and he's ripped at the seams, dissolving right before our very eyes: his perfect auburn tresses which usually cascade and glide effortlessly down his lithe shoulders, are fucked up, frizzy and falling all over his face which is pale, creased and gaunt...

— like he's seen a ghost.

his pupils are blown to high heaven and shot to all hell. dilated like two green distress signals. once fierce now frightened, floundering.

his special stan glasses are crooked and fogging up from how hard and uneven his breathing is with the chain nearly suffocating him from how rough and imprecise his startled, frenzied movements are.

he's shaking his head in horror, in shock, in grief, in utter disbelief. really, his whole fucking body is shaking like an addict going through withdrawals, but this is a million times worse than watching someone flush a pack of cigarettes down the toilet. it stings. it burns. it lingers.

in a way that stan won't.

but kyle needs him to, needs him to stay, needs him close, needs him forever, so he's talking fast, way, way, Way too fast, like if he can say enough other words, i love you will seem far less grand and lustrous...

but they're not.

whilist time passes achingly slow. and kyle's given hundreds of speeches, debates and lectures, but words fail him, his lips quiver, his mouth opens and closes helplessly and that booming voice is barely a whisper when he finally musters up the dis-courage to mumur;

"...b-baby? baby! where—where are you going?! w-where are YO—“

kyle darts forward and reaches for his boyfriend before he turns into a memory again, not sure where he was aiming. to please, to squeeze, to stroke his tear-slicked cheek, maybe? to dust the tips of the his trembling, unworthy fingers cross that little spot of sun just beneath his right eye. the gentle curve of his jaw, far less violent than his, or—or even just on the side of his arm where love is written in spanish. amor. like tracing the letters onto his skin would be good enough.

but it never was.

he never was.

and as proof of his inadequacy, stan sails to the left and ducks right under kyle's arm, which collides with the quilted down of their couch.

…their couch.

how long would their couch be their couch? kyle thought that their couch would always be their couch! kyle thought that—

"out."

it was a single syllable, uttered in the same bratty voice harnessed by misbehaved teenage boys everywhere, but it was different coming from stan, whose mouth was not made to start fights or draw blood. it was a horrible, harsh sound, wrought with an undercurrent of sadness.

it was then that the realization dawns on him.

stan wasn't angry with him.

stan was disappointed in him.

which was far, far worse.

kyle wants to look strong, look stable, look sturdy, so stan would look at him — god, he would do anything for stan to just look at him! and stop packing that stupid fucking bag, that dumb black jansport backpack they'd bought back to school shopping because...his stan was going back to school. and kyle was so...so proud of him.

but gerald never was, gerald was loud, so kyle was loud, so when he should have congratulated stan for doing something difficult, he criticized him for not doing something easy! like the dishes and told stan he'd stitched his name into the bag...just in case he lost it.

funny how things happen.

…not funny.

not funny at all, actually!

so then…why was he laughing?

why the Fuck was he laug—

"out? Out? O-OUTSIDE?! stan, you—ya can't be serious?! you're in a little t-shirt and—and shorts, you'll freeze to death! you'll—“

kyle clings to the thin fabric of stan's tee-shirt, admiring the myriad of sauce stains and makeup marks that, on a normal night, kyle might be livid about, but tonight...they're lovely; they're so, so lovely.

just like the boy who made them.

the boy kyle loves.

not rockstar raven of crimson dawn.

but sweet, sensitive stanley marsh.

his stan.

his...

kyle's eyes fall absentmindedly to the tattered hem of stan's shorts, where amidst a jagged, serrated sea of angry self mutilizations past, was a new beginning...the beginning of a word, a sound, a letter...a

K.

a k...for kyle.

stan had gotten it done last anti-valentine's day, as a gift, for him, but mostly...for himself. because stan cruelly hated himself, every part of his body, but he hated that part the most. his inner thighs, the valley that stretched between them...so he'd gotten kyle's name tattooed down there, so that when he was off on tour and missed his boyfriend terribly...he was with him.

always.

so that on his very worst days, when he felt the worst about himself, he could still see his super best friend. a precious skin-deep reminder that when the dysphoria hit and he felt like shit, craved a stiff drink and the razor blade winked…that when he felt falsely ugly...

...someone thought he was truly beautiful.

and he was.

he was really...and truly beautiful.

everyday. every second. even now. especially now. and god, what kyle wouldn't do to place his lips in that spot right there, anywhere, everywhere! because kyle couldn't say i love you and they weren't married, no, not in the traditional sense, but even so, kyle went to temple, a place of sacred worship & recited his vows every night.

every stroke, every sigh, every stretch of blessed skin.

i love you.

i love you.

i love—

"because you're so Worried about me, right, kyle?"

stan sneers, holding his name like a knife between teeth.

"—because you 'LOVE' me, right?"

he spit and twist it.

it was twisted. and kyle feels those spiteful syllables split him open like shrapnel. he gasps like stan had shot him, grasping the hem of his shirt so hard that it hurt, like a little kid clinging to his mother's skirt.

so scared she would leave.

so scared she would go, begging

don't go.

please don't go.

please, please, please don't g—

"NO! i—i do! stan, i do!”

kyle tries to argue but nearly breaks his neck nodding, with his shrill voice weak and watery and wanting.

“baby—BABY! i do, i DO! i really do! i—I LO—“

but the words wouldn't come.

kyle was banging on the wall, iron clad and impenetrable, he fought and shouted, kicked and screamed and still...nothing would come.

he couldn't say it. he couldn't FUCKING say it!

why...why?

Why?

WHY?!

he had never wanted to cry before but he could feel it in the back of his throat. he wants to come out. the little boy he'd trapped back there. but he couldn't be that big again, that small...that pathetic. so he bites down HARD. harder than he'd even bitten before and thrashes his cheek with his teeth, the taste of blood filling his mouth.

and for a moment...he feels dizzy...

because the blood tastes like metal.

like stan.

just like sta—

"save it, mi sabelotodo."

stan sniffs and lifts his head up slowly. his damp bangs are stuck to his forehead, the tips just barely kissed with bleach, mere whispers of the boy they wanted him, those beautiful dark roots growing with him into the man he wanted to be. whose wonderful face was flushed with frustration, whose kind, bright blue eyes were...

god, all kyle had wanted was for stan to look at him. but it gores him; it guts him. it carves him; it cuts him.

it was wrong. it was all wrong!

he took it back. he took it all back!

take me back, baby.

he wants to plead, while his lip shakes and bleeds.

stanley, PLEASE take me ba—

then, in one foul swoop, the boy with the bag shrugs his shoulders and kyle's hand crumples back down onto the couch. broken. lifeless.

"—save it for someone you ACTUALLY love."

[miracles-and-butterflies]

Isabela, storming into the room: I can’t believe that pest!

Dolores: What has Mirabel done this time?

Isabela: She watched a nature documentary!

Luisa: …And? Documentaries are Mirabel’s favourite genre. I don’t see the problem here.

Isabela: She did it to be petty, Luisa. She did it intentionally to smartass me about my one area of knowledge. This is fucking hell - Señorita Sabelotodo can now correct me on plants! Plants are my thing! I got a little fact wrong about daffodils earlier and now I’m not gonna hear the fucking end of it! It’s gonna haunt me in my sleep.

Dolores, in awe: That is honestly one of the most genius ways to annoy someone I’ve ever heard: correcting someone in their own field of expertise. I’m honestly livid that I did not think of it first.

Dolores: Luisa, can you recommend a good documentary on Greek mythology for me?

[dayque]

¿Crees que el grupo principal de TWP como Ty, Kit y Dru confiarán en Alec lo suficiente como para ir a la Clave con problemas? ¿O crees que lo harán todo en secreto como los grupos de libros pasados?

No creo que confíen, aunque Alec es maravilloso y jóvenes en el pasado han confiado en líderes justos (como cuando Julian y Emma pidieron ayuda a Robert), estoy segura de que la brecha adolescente vs adulto sabelotodo es demasiado grande para poder confiar en él. Quizá cuando no tengan más opciones acaben en su despacho, pero casi seguro que al que buscarán sea Magnus (básicamente porque Cassie no le da tregua al pobre).

¿Sabes en quién sí creo que confíen? Jem.

Kit lo conoce, es un adulto y al final sabe todo lo que hay que saber de la clave. Él puede ser el mediador entre les chiques y lo que para elles es EL CONSUL (our baby Alec)

[el-unknown-felt]

No te hagas el sabelotodo cuando en realidad no sabes nada de mi.

Los gustos y pensamientos cambian constantemente. El hecho de ser familia no te hace saber todo sobre mi.

[hosting-wordpress-peru]

Lo que su empresa necesita saber sobre SEO

En un nivel muy básico, SEO es un acrónimo de Optimización de Motores de Búsqueda. Se identifica con Google (y otros motores de búsqueda) y lo obvio que es su negocio aparezca cuando usted busca palabras relacionadas. Aunque Google puede parecer un sabelotodo autónomo, depende en gran medida de cómo se organizan los sitios para encontrar los mejores resultados para cada cliente. Entonces, ¿qué tienes que saber? … Leer más 👉 https://ecrear.com/lo-que-su-empresa-necesita-saber-sobre-seo/

[esuemmanuel]

Aprendo más de un ignorante que cita que de un sabelotodo que roba.

I learn more from an ignoramus who quotes than from a know-it-all who steals.

[mikrokosmcs]

— nombre: shin jisu

— edad: 17 años

— género: femenino

— subgénero: alfa

— esencia: caoba y cerezas

— energía: negativa

— tipo de magia: shadow walker

magos dotados con la habilidad de controlar las sombras. Pueden manipularlas al gusto, formando murallas como defensa o agujas como ofensa, dependiendo de la rama de estudio y entrenamiento. También pueden transportarse dentro de las sombras, entrando en una dimensión sin sonido, olor ni visión, solo ellos saben encontrar la “luz” al final del túnel pudiendo salir. Las sombras pueden tragarse edificios y personas enteros, si el mago decide no liberarlos, la locura espera por sus presas dentro de los interminables pasillos de oscuridad

— familiar: orza (loba negra)

orza tiene experiencia como familiar, siendo Jisu su tercer brujo. Fue en su vida pasada una bruja madura (entre 40 a 50 años) del bosque que cuidaba y sanaba los animales heridos y frágiles, aquellos que eran abandonados a su suerte por humanos o por sus propios padres al no tener posibilidades de supervivencia. De personalidad prudente y elegante, suele moverse con un aire de sabelotodo y es una gran guía para una hechicera imprudente e impulsiva como Jisu. Murió calcinada en las llamaradas de la hoguera, dándosele la oportunidad de reencarnar en un familiar guía.

— habilidad conjunta: orza se convierte en un lobo gigantesco de sombras y humo, de ojos rojos y grandes garras de ónix y azabache. Puede abrir puertas a las sombras, por donde su hechicera puede salir y/o jalar al enemigo hasta al vacío. Orza puede comerse a sus enemigos, mandándolos al vacío de igual forma.

— arma: guadaña

— habilidades extras:

Excelentes habilidades de supervivencia Sabe usar arco y ballesta Puede materializar cierto tipo de dibujos de carboncillo, convirtiéndolos en sombras

[getitoffyourchest-ness]

De Cuando Me Enamoré Despues de No Poder Amar y Escribi esta carta con Ode to Vivian en Bucle

Recuerdo bien donde empezó todo, recuerdo bien el dia en el que supe que llegabas a destruir paredes, y a perturbarme tal como ese temblor que fue el responsable de todo, recuerdo con detalle como me tire de cabeza al ¿porque no? y no dude en negarme al "si a todo" (pero contigo) Recuerdo mi falda beige y mi camisa de dragón, tu pantalon y camisa negros, el anillo que ahora es mio. Recuerdo cuando te dije que me habia rendido con el amor y el como emocionado preguntaste ¿porque? Con esa sonrisa que parecia reclamar tu lugar para hacer retractarme. (Esa determinacion a hacerme tuya, que me hizo mas facil que la tabla del cero. )

Como no recordarlo, si siento que ese dia empece a vivir (pero hey, no te des tanto credito) solo fue tu forma de mirar al mundo. De alguna manera lo que eres me hizo mejor, de alguna forma desde ti, empece a apreciar mejor la musica, a sentirla y darle sentido a sus letras, empece a ver el cine con otros ojos (y en su idioma original), empecé a disfrutar el aire en mi cara en el parque, y las calles de la ciudad. De alguna forma, desde ti, aprendi a amar, y no por amarte, sino por tu amor a todo.

Y no sé como a partir de la cuna de ese amor tan inmeso, en el que me convencia que el brillo de tus ojos al ver el atardecer de bogotá era igual que cuando me veias en vestido, e insistias por besarme bajo la lluvia; saltamos hasta aqui. Saltamos hasta ese dia en tu cama cuando te tenia en mis brazos sobre mi pecho y yo lloraba y tu me pedias que no te odiara. Ese dia en el que nos pasaban por las cabezas muchos porques. Y por eso pregunte porque me habias hecho quererte tanto. Y errada, pues esa respuesta siempre la tuve yo. Quererte fue algo que nacio de mi.

Te entregué la capacidad de regalarme buenos dias con solo saludarme, te otorgué mis noches en vela por mas que me moria por dormir, te di mi cuerpo a cambio de tu calor y mi corazon a cambio de un "mi niña". Te regale la capacidad de destruirme y reconstruirme con un beso. Te convertiste en el abrazo que espere 6 meses y no debi soltar, en la primera vez que ame realmente. (O al menos eso creo yo, ser romantica no me hace entender el amor.)

Y que ironico, aun sin entenderlo ni entenderte por completo, te quiero, te quiero inentendible, erratico, egocentrico, sabelotodo, te quiero a ti, al tatuaje que de a ratos te acompleja y a tu colonia eros versace inconfundible con la que me topo un par de veces al dia y no puedo evitar sentir que es olor a ti, te quiero aunque estes en el fondo de un abismo que se que no entiendes mejor que yo, te quiero aunque tengas dudas sobre tu capacidad de amar, te quiero a ti, a quien eras y a quien serás, a la forma en que me isnpiraste dibujarte toda una noche tan solo pensando en tu reaccion, a tu persona extrovertida a la que la ansiedad social le tiene miedo, te quiero a ti y a tu empeño por hacer todo bien, y cuidar tanto de tus crespos, Te quiero aunque seas tan coqueto que me de inseguridad, y aunque nunca me pediste ser novios pero si te empapaste trayendome un girasol.

Porque asi eres, entregado, todo lo que quieres es sumamente preciado y asi me haces sentir, por eso tenerte lejos se ha vuelto tan complicado .Por eso quiero tenerte siempre cerca de mi

Y odio pensar en la idea de que no seré yo. Pero tengo que. Talvez resignarme al hecho de que no seré yo la primer chica en caerle bien a ese gato que solo tiene ojos para ti, que no seré aquella a la que le preguntes que foto publicar o a la que tu mama y abuela quieran como su hija, ni esa con la que bailaras mientras cocinas (porque yo no se cocinar), que no seré con quien compartas pijamas de spiderman y te desveles viendo toda la saga de star wars, que no seré aquella primera con la que hagas el amor despues de un porro ni que te haga brownie con helado cuando estes bajoneado. Que no sere la persona que te escuche hablar admirandote en silencio cuando me expliques un libro. Y no quiero aceptarlo, que no seré yo... (se suponia que seria yo)

Y suena aterrador, quizas porque aun en medio de mi voz y presencia a medias, y mis ganas de aferrarme a ti como si la ultima chispa de mi vida dependiera de eso, si hubo ese algo que sabes que es, porque cuando lo sabes lo sabes.

Talvez y solo talvez ahora seguimos siendo dos, pero individuos separados. Talvez ahora ser los dos mas raros y conflictivos del parche no nos una, y solo nos distinga. Talvez que ambos nos sintamos como espectadores de una vida que no es nuestra y por eso amemos tanto observar y escribir, no nos hace realmente el tal para cual. Talvez de vez en cuando pienses en mi al ver la ciudad y yo piense en ti al ver la luna, pero nada más. (deberiamos acabar en un nada más?) (Talvez yo sea la unica de los dos que escriba sobre esto)

Quiero creer que soltandote no pierdo nada, porque si te suelto y nos volvemos a cruzar, podriamos empezar de cero. Y si te suelto, y no sucede nada, seremos amigos sin dolor de por medio. Y no hay nada que perder, no?. En serio quiero creer... Y convencerme de que el error en la ecuacion no fui yo, ni fue mi error por volar en vez de correr, por vivir mas arriba que abajo, que no es mi error por solo haber hablado de mis problemas cuando querias hablar de algo más, o cuando me pasaba de cariñosa en momentos serios, por no saber que decir cuando estabamos en silencio y llorar por todo.

Pero nada de eso importa ya, no? Que sepas que Te quiero (pero si alguien pregunta, no lo volvi a decir yo) Que eres más, mucho más de lo que crees y todos lo saben menos tú, Que no hay ni nunca habrá nada mal en ti ni en mi, Que agradezco cada momento, detalle, y mariposa que despues vomité. Que se que lastimarme no fue tu intención, y Que se que eres libre de amar aunque ese alguien no sea yo. Te suelto, y es la muestra más sincera de que contigo si fue amor, amor del raro, aunque ya no me tengas en tus manos.

PDT: Nos querremos de nuevo cuando seamos alguien más, o cuando te empiece a gustar el tomate. No sé .

Cómo pudiste haberme hecho tanto bien y al mismo tiempo tener que estar lejos por mi bien?

[izzakry]

📍𝖤𝖲𝖳𝖠𝖭𝖢𝖨𝖠𝖲 𝖭𝖮𝖡𝖫𝖤𝖲.

“esta estructura no se ve confiable… ¿alguien más quiere agregar 'desaparecido en acción' a su currículum?" @euishoi

común que cortesía sacara sus aspectos positivos, acabando semi-carcajeándose por ocurrencias de interlocutor. no deseó sonar como sabelotodo, rayos, odiaba cuando se lo decían. simplemente uno de sus pasatiempos es nutrir cerebro antes de cada actividad. ' las probabilidades de terminar debajo de los escombros del castillo son mínimas. no hablamos de cualquier construcción. ' sino del siglo xv, caracterizado por fuertes estructuras. ' ¿te da miedo explorarlo? ' cero incordio u ánimos de molestarlo, aproximándose hasta cama sin tocarla. ' además lo mantienen en excelente estado. '

[cambio-de-vida-abdl]

Parte 5

Un grito se oyó anunciando que bajaran a comer, todos se dispusieron a ir, todos excepto Romina tenían al descubierto su parte inferior, lo cual aumento la sospecha por parte de Ricardo. Mientras comían la madre le hacía preguntas a Ricardo de cómo se estaba acoplando a la situación, lo cual él no las respondía de manera sincera, hasta que esta pregunta: -¿Ya ensuciaste tu pañal hoy?-.

Ricardo sin saber responder mira disimuladamente a Miguel quien con un gesto le dice que si: -Si-.

-A qué bueno, creí que no, y que íbamos a tener que darte una ayudita, como aquí a Miguel que sufre de estreñimiento-. Dijo mientras que su hijo se ponía incomodo. -No te preocupes, eso lo seguiré haciendo yo-. Dirigiéndose a su hijo biológico.

Se terminó el almuerzo y ambos fueron a seguir jugando y viendo televisión el resto de la tarde, en la noche bajaron a cenar a soportar más preguntas incomodas de su madre, antes de dormir todos se cambiaron mutuamente a un seco desechable para tener una buena noche, se fueron a dormir temprano porque debían despertar en la mañana, para estar en toda la jugada.

Miguel y Ricardo esa noche durmieron con las cortinas levantadas, para ser levantados por los primeros destellos del alba. Se reunieron en el cuarto de Miguel, que lo habían denominado como base de operaciones, y este ya había planeado ciertos pormenores. -Necesitamos ser rápidos, pongámonos Pull Ups-. Dijo aquel sabelotodo, mientras Ricardo lo veía sin poder entender la razón, pero obedeció.

Primero lo cambió a Ricardo en la mesa, y le colocó aquel desechable tipo braga metiendo sus piernas por los orificios, para luego subirlo de un tirón. Luego el adoptado repitió el mismo procedimiento, quedando ambos cubiertos por un pañal azul con dibujos de Toy Story. -¿Qué tal te parecen?-. Preguntó Miguel.

-Es que no me lo puedo creer, se siente casi como mi ropa íntima de tela, siento como se adapta a mis movimientos-. Dijo mientras hacía ejercicios de estiramiento. Bajaron a desayunar y una vez terminado, subieron y se acostaron en el sofá de la sala de arriba, que se hallaba apenas terminaban las escaleras.

Esperaron unas horas, hasta que pasos fuertes se comenzaron a oír, se abrió la rechinante puerta café oscuro, y dentro salió la alta e imponente figura de Romina, lo cual como de costumbre, llevaba un casual vestido floral color blanco, y unas alpargatas mostaza opaco. Comenzó a bajar las escaleras para minutos después oír como su automóvil se alejaba.

Se miraron a los ojos y dijeron: -¡Ahora!-. Caminaron de manera sigilosa hasta afuera del cuarto de sus progenitores, cuando una pequeña figura fue caminando hacia ellos mientras se frotaba el ojo con su dorso del antebrazo diciendo.

-Migue, cámbiame-. Dijo la pequeña con voz de recién despierta.

Este perdiendo la paciencia dijo: -Ahora no molestes-.

-Eyy ¿Qué haces?-. Dijo Ricardo asustado. -No te puedes negar a cambiarla, solo dile que lo harás después. Ahórrate los posibles castigos-. Miró a la nena y amablemente le dijo: -Anda para tu cuarto que ya mismo voy-.

-Tu no, quiero a Migue-. Dijo protestando con los brazos cruzados. Miguel le respondió de la manera que Ricardo le aconsejó haciendo que la pequeña retrocediera hasta sus aposentos, para poder seguir con aquel plan.

Se sentían nerviosos, cosquilleos recorrían sus mejillas mientras una ligera presión causada por la exaltación se hacía presente por debajo del ombligo. Miguel recogiendo los brazos y doblado sus muñecas le pide a Ricardo que abra. Este confiado procede a girar el picaporte color cobre, cuando se dan cuenta que este no se acciona correctamente del todo, tratan de empujar la puerta, pero es inútil. Intentaron girarla hacia el otro lado, en contra de las manecillas del reloj, para acabar teniendo el mismo resultado. -Debí suponerlo, está con llave-. Dijo Miguel decepcionado mientras se daba pequeños golpecitos en las cienes.

-Descuida, tenemos toda esta semana para replantearnos, y llevar a cabo una mejor estrategia-. Dijo Ricardo. -Ahora vamos a cambiarla a Alexa-. Ambos caminaron hasta el baño de esta, donde se hallaba molesta porque habían tardado.

-Lo va a hacer tu nuevo hermano-. Dijo Miguel, mientras esta se negaba a dejarse cambiar por un extraño agitando la cabeza hacia los lados. -Si no le digo a mamá-. Ella a regañadientes se acostó de brazos cruzados, mientras Ricardo le iba practicando aquel procedimiento, lo llevó a cabo con mucho éxito, mientras recibía tips por parte de su hermano.

Miguel se dirigió a aquel cajón que tiene todos los pañales, para dejar vislumbrar un enceguecedor resplandor rosa que emanaba de ese cofre, se quedó viendo por unos instantes aquello mientras sostenía un Pull Ups de princesas. -Siempre sabes cual quiero manito-. Dijo Alexa mientras veía a su hermano sosteniendo aquel pañal en un estado de trance, que contenía a Ariel en el frente con una vieira morada en la parte inferior, este recobró el sentido y se lo paso a su hermano que se lo colocó suavemente a la niña.

Esta se puso de pie y le agradeció. -No está mal, pero sigo prefiriendo a mi manu-. Dijo balbuceando la pequeña.

Ambos salieron de la habitación, y se dirigieron a su base de operaciones. Una vez ahí comenzaron a pensar la manera de como entrar: -La llave necesitamos la llave-. Dijo Miguel, a lo que su hermano cuestionó donde encontrarla. -Mmh… Dalila es la ama de llaves, ella debe tenerlas, o puede que estén por su habitación-.

-Habrá que buscarla y seguir pensando, todavía tenemos una semana-. Dijo mientras observaba en el ventanal un auto gris acercándose, para detenerse unos segundos antes de entrar en el garaje de la casa. Ya era pasado medio día, lo cual indicaría que el almuerzo dentro de poco estaría servido.

-Voy bajando para comenzar la indagación-. Dijo Miguel mientras salía de escena, bajando las escaleras.

Casi media hora después se oyó el grito que convocaba a todos a degustar la comida, Ricardo bajó las escaleras para ver a su hermano ya posicionado en su respectivo puesto, el protagonista se sentó al lado y este le susurró a oído: -Las encontré, están en la lavandería-.

[thetiredassistant]

AIB Drug Cartel AU

— In a quiet streets of Mar de Plata, residing in a dusty yet homely bookstore— was Jordyn Parks. Or better yet known to his clients, El Sabelotodo. A man who has no loyalty to anyone except for his love for money (and other … things).

The Know-It-All. It’s said that if you enter this bookstore, and ask to see the valuable books. The ones that are meant to be kept in a quiet location, with set temperatures and no sunlight can touch them. He will lead you to the back, to his quaint little office where he had many secret compartments. Filled with everything and anything you could possibly want. And of course, if there’s nothing there you need, Jordyn is more than happy to find that out for you.

For a price, of course. And that always depends on what he’s feeling, and who you are. He’s a good ally to have, and will happily continue to feed you information (if it’s true or not, who knows?) if he is paid correctly. Does he believe in what El Sombrerero Loco has been doing to his town? Who knows. But he does know that things are happening. And Jordyn is excited to see what happens.

[boxwinebaddie]

THEY'RE SO CUTE!!!! Ninaaa!! if ur down for it u should reverse it and ravens nicknames for jersey

aaaaa! i am so glad you liked them!

maybe it's pride month, but i was feeling extremely strong #gayvesey inspiration today and yesterday, so i decided to punk rock n roll w/ it.

anyways! here are some ravenstan to jerseykyle ones. i apologize, some of these are cute, some of these are funny ( all of them are funny p much ) but some of them are a little nsfwish and out of pocket, but...i gotta live my wlw nasty girl x mlm nasty boy truth.

-( new ) jersey ( alternatively: yersey <3 )

-head ;) of the ravenstan fan club ( u kno it )

-stan's white boy of the week ( high honor )

-kyscraper ( 6ft tall and super strong )

-columbia / encykylpedia ( big brain )

-trophy husband :* ( kyle was sooo mad )

-dork diaries ( bruUuuUutal oh my god )

-mic check ( teeesting ;) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8... )

-knockout [ k.o ] ( self explanatory, fine n scary )

-freckles / pecas ( rs x spotty boys )

-mi sabelotodo ( smart ass king smh )

-backpack ( manz packin back there )

-white yagami ( r.s. was laughing so hard )

-sexy librarian boy ( stacks on stacks )

-human redwood tree ( rs fav tree )

-ky-pod ( u know...for his three legs )

-my ky tea <3 ( ily barista jersey )

-gingersnap ( he is fiesty )

-papi chulo ( started as a joke but…>.> )

-temple broan / red wine superbrova ( they r fans )

-fruit punch ( gay and will beat u up )

-the best seat in the house ( yeeeep )

-tamarindo ( ft. curb, orange boy moment )

-late nite bite xx ( a snacccc ;))) )

-mi amor, mi vida ( i’m not crying, u are )

-my kyropractor ( blowin his back out )

-supermodel un ( slaying down the law )

-four eyes ( as in 4 my eyes ONLY, bitch! )

-( put those ) green eyes ;) ( between my thighs )

-cpt. irons his underpants ( rooooasted! )

-pelirrojo ( manz red hot )

-my personal bodyguard ( stan is spoiled )

[miracles-and-butterflies]

For @female-hercules, based on the prompt: “Mirabel and Isabela bicker over which of them is Luisa’s favorite sister. Since she's the favorite sister of both of them but they think that there can be only one; which makes them ask her…”

Twisted this a little to avoid the ending being really obvious and overdone. Here you go, hope you enjoy!

Comments are always appreciated.

~~~~~~

All’s Fair In Love and Favouritism

“That’s not the point. History exists so we can take lesson from it, Isabela. See, in 1509—”

Whatever Mirabel was going to say was completely cut off by Isabela tossing carnation petals her way. Though Isabela’s usual target was someone’s mouth, she always aimed for Mirabel’s clothes. The girl would then spend several minutes picking each individual petal out of the embroidery, which brought an abrupt end to the would-be history lesson.

Isabela nodded, fully satisfied with herself.

Camilo snickered at the exchange, his mouth full of papaya, quickly swallowing as he caught sight of Dolores suddenly appearing through the doorway. The same way she always does when she hears something interesting and just can’t help but get involved.

“What are they arguing about?” She whispered.

“Favourite siblings or something like that. It sounds more like a school lesson than anything else though.”

As if she was the one with enhanced hearing, Mirabel turned away from her sister and instead to where Dolores had entered the room. To her credit, she had gotten quick with removing those petals.

“I am not arguing,” Mirabel said calmly. “I am merely trying to politely explain to Isabela that favouritism is wrong and should not be encouraged.”

“And I’m telling you how little I care.” Isabela grumbled into her hand.

“And they’ve been doing this for almost an hour. I had to refill my bowl twice, just to keep watching,” Camilo explained.

Mirabel sighed. “I didn’t want to get involved, Dolores, but someone needed to tell Isabela how she was wrong and you weren’t here.”

“Then actually have a fucking argument with me!” Isabela screeched. “I don’t want a history lesson on how favouritism affected the royal siblings of France in 13-whatever! That means nothing to me!”

Dolores shook her head, taking a seat beside the significantly calmer of her two cousins.

Admittedly, this was not a regular occurrence.

Isabela trying to start an argument? Oh no, that was common in La Casa Madrigal: she liked causing drama. But Mirabel getting involved? Not so much. The younger typically resigned to not voicing an opinion unless if it was something she knew tons about or cared deeply for - or could turn into a free history lesson.

Mirabel had retreated back to her book for the time being, while Camilo had offered Isabela his bowl of papayas as an invitation to calm down.

“Which one of your sisters do you like more then?” Dolores asked Isabela pointedly.

“Neither. I hate them both equally.” Isabela replied. Dolores raised an eyebrow.

“Luisa’s her favourite,” Camilo piped up. “She just doesn’t wanna admit it.”

“No! She was the favourite.” Isabela corrected. “But she threatened to kill my corpse flower this morning, so now she’s back on the loser side with Señorita Sabelotodo.”

“I see… and Mirabel, who is your favourite?” Dolores questioned.

“I no longer want to be part of this discussion.” Came the tiny reply from behind the pages. Then with a sigh, she gives in. “I love both my sisters - they are their own unique individuals, who should not be compared to one another because we simply share parentage. Regardless, favouritism should not be encouraged. It negatively impacts the—”

“Yeah, thank you, sis,” Isabela said, cutting her younger sister off. She turned back to Dolores. “See what I have to deal with? It’s like living with a school teacher!”

Dolores rubbed her temple, holding a hand out to stop Isabela from ranting. “Wait, wait, wait. Let me get this straight. You don’t have a favourite currently and Mirabel is against favouritism so she doesn’t have one, then what on Earth are you two arguing about?”

“Nothing at the minute because—”

“Yes, yes, Mirabel has no backbone. I know, Isa. So what were you discussing? If it’s right to have favourite siblings?”

“And it is!” Isabela yelled, just as Mirabel said, “It is not acceptable.”

With a huff, Isabela relented. “Back me up on this, primita. You have a favourite, right? Though you have way better options than I do. Who is your favourite brother?”

“Antonio.”

“Eh… That’s fair.”

“HEY!” Camilo exclaimed.

“This is what I mean,” Mirabel muttered. “It negatively—”

“Nobody asked you, textbook.” Camilo snapped, before turning his attention back to the older two.

The peaceful atmosphere of the morning had definitely been broken now.

Camilo was throwing wild accusations and insults at Dolores, who kept her hands firmly over her ears. While Isabela persisted in a new point of how annoying younger siblings were.

“Just get over it, Camilo, you’re not my favourite sibling. Why is that so surprising to you? All you do is find new ways to aggravate me.” Dolores said, eventually getting a word in edge ways. Then, clamping a hand over Isabela’s mouth for a moment, added, “And you aren’t right either. There’s nothing wrong with younger siblings.”

“Well, I know there’s nothing wrong with all younger siblings, but my sisters are the worst. I can’t pick one as a favourite because they are both so annoying. Lucky that they get to pick me as the favourite.” Isabela grumbled.

“You think you are the favourite sister of her?”

“Don’t be stupid, primita. Obviously I am—”

Isabela faltered for a moment. Dolores was grinning at her, that same mischievous smirk that complimented Camilo and Antonio when they were pranking people, but with all the not-so-subtle smugness of their mother.

Even Camilo had gone quiet, hiding his mouth behind his hands.

“I don’t have favourites for anything, except fabric and books. Nobody should have favourite people,” Mirabel answered, when Isabela turned expectantly to her.

She couldn’t argue with that, as a child Mirabel’s answer to which of her older sisters she preferred was always a claim of simply not having a favourite or liking them both equally. Even when Isabela was such a bitch to her in the past. Not that she could argue with Mirabel point blank.

So if Dolores hadn’t meant Mirabel…

“LUISA!”

When there was no reply from the next room, Isabela simply got up.

“This will be fun,” Dolores muttered, sharing a glance with Camilo, who snickered.

Mirabel gave an exasperated sigh. She hastily put her book down, sprinting after her sister. “Isa, Mama has told you countless times, you are not to be in the kitchen when Luisa is cooking. You cannot go in.”

“I can and will. I’m the eldest, I can do whatever I want.” Isabela retorted.

“The order of our birthdays is hardly an excuse for you to break the rules. Couldn’t you, just this one time, do the right thing? It’s just that.. maybe this is a not-so great idea and you shouldn’t bother Luisa with unnecessary questions. Why don’t we take a walk? It is a nice day—”

Isabela stopped walking, allowing the younger to catch up.

“Just spit it out, Mirabel.”

“Favouritism is wrong and can have consequences for both parties,” Mirabel eventually said. Realising where this was going, Isabela started walking again. “Wait, Isa! I promise I won’t use examples from history this time.”

Begrudgingly, Isabela took a step back, but didn’t turn back around. Mirabel took it as permission to continue.

“We are evidence of the consequences of favouritism, no? From Abuela? And that hurt us. Therefore, I think that…” she paused to take a deep breath, “It would be for the best if you let this go before things get out of hand.”

The older hummed, seemingly considering the idea. “You’re not wrong… but you aren’t great in an argument, so I’m not totally convinced. Besides, I’m competitive and now I need to prove Dolores wrong, so…” She continued walking into the kitchen.

Just as she expected, Luisa was still in the kitchen trying out some new recipe of brazo de reina that Tío Félix had insisted she try. The others had been watching earlier and even offered to help, but… Luisa tends to get insanely aggressive in the kitchen. It’s safer to wait until she’s finished cooking than to engage in conversation.

But this can’t wait. Besides, she can take Luisa.

“Luisa, my very dear hermana, how goes the new recipe?” Isabela asked.

Luisa snarled, not looking up from the bowl. “Leave before I break your arm like a rose stem.”

“Always fun chatting to you while you cook,” Isabela commented. Casita cleared a space for her on the counter and she hopped up to be closer to her sister. “I have a question.”

“Should you leave Colombia? Yes, brilliant idea. I’ll help clear out your cacti.”

“Come on, I haven’t even touched the bowl this time!”

Nobody had forgotten when Luisa was making cholado a couple of months ago and Isabela dared to touch the outside of the bowl to see how her sister would react. They were both banned from the kitchen for the next week by their mother.

The younger didn’t give a response. Just an annoyed grunt.

Taking the silence as tolerance, Isabela said, “It won’t take long. I just need your answer to prove Dolores wrong and then I’ll go.”

“You have a minute. What is it?” Luisa inquired, looking up at her sister for the first time since she entered the kitchen.

“Who is your favourite sis—”

“Mirabel.”

Isabela choked on her words.

“Y-you didn’t even let me finish,” she mumbled.

“Don’t need to hear it,” Luisa shrugged. “It’s a stupid question, I don’t really hide it. Honestly, for someone who claims to be such a know-it-all and doesn’t know that… anyways, have fun proving Dolores wrong. Now, get the hell out of my kitchen.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because you proved her right.”

Luisa froze. Unblinking. Then, of all the possible reactions in the world, burst into hysterical laughter. “Wait, you thought you were my favourite sister? That’s hilarious, Bela!”

As Luisa kept laughing and teasing, Isabela’s mind was still processing. However, that small petty part of her didn’t just want to walk away without having the last laugh.

She was the eldest sister. She was the one in charge. And she really wasn’t going to have Luisa treat her like this. And she couldn’t really go back to Dolores with nothing to show for herself - Dolores won’t let her live it down.

If only there was someone who would tell Luisa off for playing favourites and not picking Isabela, instead picking that little, doe-eyed owl—

Bingo.

Without another word, Isabela dropped off the counter and left the kitchen. Luisa’s cackling still echoing along the corridors. She was promptly greeted with Camilo and Dolores’ giggling when she returned the room, but she tried her best to look unaffected.

“Sis!”

“Oh no, what have you done? It’s only been two minutes since you went into the kitchen.” Mirabel paled, lowering her book.

Isabela shook her head. “Not me this time. Luisa. She has done the most awful thing.”

“Oh God, is Casita broken?”

“What? No, Casita’s not broken, it’s okay,” Isabela said, taking Mirabel’s hand into her own. And then as dramatically as she could, she continued, “Luisa was just telling me about her favourite sisters. And how she thought Queen thingy of wherever was totally right to have favourites and ruin her children’s futures, setting them on the path of war. All because Hercules once said favouritism was good or something… I stopped listening, it was so unbearable.”

Any anxious thoughts left Mirabel instantly.

“I told her she shouldn’t take moral advice from Greek mythology,” Mirabel complained.

She retracted her hand and was instantly on her feet, gracefully storming towards the kitchen. Isabela smiled as she passed her cousins, gleefully following Mirabel out.

Now, if Isabela needed any proof that Luisa had a favourite, her reaction to Mirabel entering the kitchen was proof enough.

“Hermanita, come here, I haven’t seen you all day!” Luisa set down the bowl, holding out open arms. “Why don’t you come and read in here? I can clear a space for you and you could read to me while I finish up. Then we could have the first slice.”

Yeah, no. That was a completely different person to the one who had greeted Isabela less than five minutes ago.

“Oh, and why are you back here?” Luisa then asked, catching Isabela’s wide eyes.

Isabela waved her off. “No reason. Just act like I’m not even here.”

“I was going to do that anyways,” Luisa said. She turned her focus back to Mirabel, who was now on the other side of the counter and eying the mess in disgust. “Would you like a strawberry, Mirabel? I have got a few spare.”

“No, thank you. I need to talk to you.”

Luisa nodded. “Go on. I’m listening.”

“I…” Mirabel took a breath. “I think it is completely unacceptable for anyone to have favourite people, especially in terms of children and siblings. And, well, Isabela told me you have a favourite sister—”

“Yes, you.”

“Yes, me. Regardless, it can negatively…” Mirabel trailed off.

Isabela who had been sat, holding back laughter, waiting for just the right moment to let it out, turned around. Mirabel’s expression was unreadable, as though her impressively big brain had lost its train of thought and she couldn’t quite remember what exactly it was she was here for.

“Me?” Mirabel whispered, though Isabela was too far to hear.

Luisa nodded, seemingly just as unsure of where this was going as Isabela.

There was nothing for a moment.

Then a single tear rolled down Mirabel’s cheek. “I have never been anyone’s favourite anything before.”

Mirabel slowly broke down, crying a mix of both sadness and happiness. Luisa practically tore the dirty apron off herself, so that she could hug Mirabel without the latter getting worried about flour in her embroidery.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Wait a minute,” Isabela exclaimed. “I get made to sit through a history lesson because I have a favourite sister, but Luisa just gets a pass? That is not fair! That is biased! That is favouritism! That is…” Casita might as well have smacked Isabela in the face with her door. “No. Fucking. Way. Luisa is your favourite.”

It felt like forever before someone spoke again.

Realistically, it couldn't have been that long because Mirabel was very quickly back peddling. “Only by a little, like a needle-sized difference. It doesn’t even count,” she hiccuped.

“What do you expect, Bela? You treated her like dirt under your foot for the past fifteen years.” Luisa scoffed, clearly enjoying this. “I’d be concerned if she didn’t naturally have a bias to me.”

Isabela couldn’t really argue with that.

“Fine,” she said, slipping off the counter. “We do this again in fifteen years, and then we’ll see who’s the favourite of who.”

“Deal!” Luisa grinned.

“Or maybe we could just enjoy each other’s company without playing favourites and getting competitive?” Mirabel said, but the other two weren’t paying attention.

When Isabela finally returned to the room, she expected a very smug Dolores and Camilo waiting. However, for better or worse, there was no sign of Camilo and Dolores was flicking through Mirabel’s book curiously.

“Where’s Camilo?” Isabela asked.

“He left to ask Antonio and our parents about their favourite siblings,” Dolores replied. Then she tilted her head, “Mama, Tía Julieta and Tío Bruno aren’t taking it well.”

She groaned, flopping down beside her cousin. “I guess you heard what happened?”

“I always do.”

“Ugh… I told you. Younger siblings are just the worst. I hate all of them. They are all just pests.”

“You better not mean that.”

“Why?” She spat.

Dolores scoffed. “Because, for some reason that I will never understand or forgive, God decided that you should be twenty-four days older than me.”

“Wait,” Isabela said. “You think you’re my favourite sister?”

“I consider you to be mine. You and Mirabel never limited the discussion to biological siblings only.”

Isabela sat baffled for a moment. Why hadn’t she thought of that? She was touched by the sentiment and it was true - their relationship had been on a downward spiral because of the whole Mariano thing, but time had naturally healed it. And now, they were as close as they were before either had siblings, they had just never said it out loud before.

She pulled Dolores into a hug, which Dolores gratefully returned.

“You’re mine too,” Isabela smiled. Then added, mischievously, “Now, how should we go about proving we’ve got a better sister bond than Luisa and Mirabel?”

[cheshire-shuntaro]

AIB Drug Cartel AU - Masterlist

Below you can find (almost) all of the talented people who participate in the ongoing AU I came up with. Original post explaining the premise and ways to participate is here. We're not done yet!

La Reina del Jardín by @andromedagarcia

Cheshire Cat by @prosopagn0sis

La Infiltrada by @airi-of-hearts

Hércules García being an absolute cutie working in a cocaine lab by @andromedagarcia

Cassiopeia García being an absolute cutie while painting a ominous masterpiece by @andromedagarcia

Aki the not-so-careful killer by @andromedagarcia

Vessel the unnamed assassin by @airi-of-hearts

El Sabelotodo (piece + art) by @hinataxsunshine

A piece about true love and why sometimes it isn't possible by @biggunsaguni x @andromedagarcia

Pieces about two powerful women by @andromedagarcia and @airi-of-hearts

Yalina the hidden by @fluffybrowncat

Another piece about true love and why sometimes it hurts by yours truly

A respose to said piece that broke my heart by @andromedagarcia x @biggunsaguni

More gorge El Sabelotodo (art) by @hinataxsunshine

El Genio by @somatheking

El Genio x La Infiltrada by @somatheking and @airi-of-hearts

El Genio x La Reina del Jardin by @somatheking and @andromedagarcia

[kpwx]

Los métodos y las deducciones que Vance lleva a cabo en El visitante de medianoche (más frecuentemente editado como El caso del asesinato de la Canario) son poco convincentes o científicamente cuestionables, la clave que resuelve el enigma es predecible, la historia es más bien plana y en general todo el libro carece de los elementos (ambiente opresivo, hechos extraños o aparentemente sobrenaturales, asesinatos insólitos) que me gusta encontrar en una novela policíaca, pero aun con todo eso me ha divertido mucho. Y esto es sobre todo porque, como escribí en el comentario de El dragón del estanque, me encanta lo exasperantemente sabelotodo que es el detective. En esta ocasión no diserta largamente sobre algún tema elevado ni se incluyen notas eruditas, pero sigue teniendo esos momentos de innecesaria demostración de conocimientos que tanto molestan a algunos y que tanto me gustan a mí (ahora sé, por ejemplo, que a Vance le gusta Cervantes). Es una novela poco sorprendente, más cerca de ser mala que buena, pero que entretendrá a cualquiera que le guste la clásica investigación detectivesca.

La adaptación cinematográfica de 1929 es aún peor que el libro, y esto por tres razones: la mayor parte de la investigación está resumida o directamente eliminada, se incluyen muchos cambios innecesarios que empeoran la trama y las actuaciones en su mayoría dejan mucho que desear. Pero aquí viene la magnífica interpretación de Philo Vance por el elegantísimo William Powell (quien aparece junto a S. S. van Dine en la fotografía de arriba) para salvarla y hacer que valga la pena verla. Cuando leo las novelas es la imagen de Powell la que siempre tengo en mente.

[caoticosinsentido]

―¿Crees que soy bonita? Él rueda los ojos. ―¿Lo crees? Ryan me nivela con una mirada, seria y estoica. ―Creo que eres inteligente. Oh. ―Amable. Caótica. Un poco sabelotodo y demasiado encantadora para tu propio bien.