#ahhhhh ic ant

[ohsosims]

oh mY god. thank u for following me. my heart is BURSTING. my life is complete, thank u 🥺

omgggg 🙈😘💕

[not-poignant]

I've been writing and noticed an issue with my story; a continuity problem, and fixed it, but it occurred to me that you post your chapters up pretty soon after writing them. What do you do when you notice those kinds of things after the chapter is up? Do you fix them? I'd be so scared of this happening.

Hi anon!

Yay for noticing the error and fixing it!

When it comes to continuity stuff, I have different ways of dealing with it (and even more, if you include the crying over a bottle of wine part).

I have a buffer of about 7-8 chapters re: The Ice Plague. I started writing with a buffer during The Court of Five Thrones. I only do it for that serial, but it helps me to keep up with potential continuity issues, but also to go back and add foreshadowing if I need to, or to keep things as streamlined as possible. I tend to reread pretty frequently too, which keeps certain storylines fresh in my head. (This compared to say Eversion which I didn’t reread at all, so there’s some big continuity issues).

Sometimes if I notice something later otherwise, I’ll go back and correct it. If it’s like a name or a history detail, something easy to fix, I just duck into AO3 and correct it. I also do with this typos, grammar mistakes, and basically anything else that can be fixed in a few minutes.

As to the big stuff... I’ve not noticed anything so huge it’s completely broken a story (yet), and certainly not huge enough that I’ve thought ‘ahhhhh shit I have to fix that right now otherwise no one can read this.’ Like, there’s a big continuity error in terms of characterisation in Fae Tales - Gwyn masturbates in Game Theory, when future canon completely disqualifies that being an in character action for him (I plan on deleting that chapter completely one day). And it frustrates me every time I think about it. But I don’t think it breaks the overall story to have it there. It’ll just...be vanished out of the ether one day.

(Don’t worry, I’ll save the old version of Game Theory for people who want those chapters).

Other things I’ve changed include like...going back and editing Augus’ fashion in From the Darkness We Rise / Into Shadows We Fall. Small things that were no longer congruent with the character. Gwyn’s eyes are also the wrong colour in the SAL series, so anyone drawing him based on that tend to give him bluer eyes that Fae Tales describes.

But yeah, overall when I notice continuity errors I mostly go ‘ah SHIT’ and then try and put them out of my mind if they’re not really fixable without a lot of work. That’s part of my philosophy of ���let the fic be’ once it’s finished. So fanfiction in particular is just...not touched again outside of typos/grammar/small things.

Re: original serials. That’s a lot scarier. But y’know, sometimes you’ve just got to have faith that you’ve caught the most that you can humanly catch through due diligence (and a beta or two), and then have some faith in what you’re doing. You’ll make more mistakes in the beginning, and you’ll get better at spotting them once you go. Errors are part of writing, they’re even a part of published writing (every publisher officially allows for at least 3 typos per published work because of it).

Like, some series are broken if you just ask the right (wrong) question (like that whole ‘what if Ant-man just shrunk really small and went into Thanos and then became really big’ question - or any question which solves a superhero movie in five seconds, lmao). But people aren’t always turning up because the series is perfect, they’re turning up because of story or characters or a particular plotline or the angst or the smut. And like, continuity errors aren’t the end of the world. :)

(.........even if they feel like it sometimes.)

[mygbrazil]

28032013 - Yoongi via Twitter

Quando o BigBang sunbaenim fez comeback, havia uma música chamada 'cafe'. Na letra, o 'ice coffe espresso double shot' se tornou algo tão legal. Então eu pedi um Americano na cafeteria e uma vez disse: "um café expresso expresso duplo gelado" https://twitter.com/BTS_twt/status/317421888097878016

Originalmente, o Americano era um expresso duplo, eu estava envergonhado em dizer ao balconista que 'estou pedindo assim por causa da música do BigBang', mas quantas pessoas hoje em dia devem falar assim.. syubsyub https://twitter.com/BTS_twt/status/317422695547539457

Lembro de quando apresentava nas ruas em Daegu. Entre os músicos, eu era o mais novo, então sempre me apresentava primeiro. Mesmo se não houvesse ninguém olhando para mim, por que eu me animava? A imaginação de estar no palco ainda me deixa animado https://twitter.com/BTS_twt/status/317428063136784386

Eu quero me apresentar na rua em Hongdae. Ah, claro, eu nunca fiz isso... https://twitter.com/BTS_twt/status/317426640487591936?t=NafjjZnXzeMSGkkFIz-_2A&s=19

De apresentações de rua à apresentações em clubes undergrounds, acho que há muitas apresentações. Mas ainda gosto da sensação de que meu estômago faz cócegas antes de subir no palco haha https://twitter.com/BTS_twt/status/317429595815161857

Se estrearmos, teremos muito tempo para nos encontrar com os fãs, certo? Ah, fico feliz só de imaginar. Espero que os fãs nos encham de memes (eles podem fazer piadas engraçadas). https://twitter.com/BTS_twt/status/317425040234782720

"Esse tipo de piada? http://twitpic.com/cf5zse" kkkkk ahhhhh preciso salvar isso https://twitter.com/BTS_twt/status/317428252065013760

© @mygbrazil - Por favor, dê os créditos se usar!

[henrybcwer]

Simple Minds part 2 (smut)

REQUESTS: imagine for henry x female reader where it's like Christmas and snowing and he gets in a fight with butch so you invite him over but ur parents went to go visit family so you spend it alone with eachother ? fluff or fluffy smut, dealers choice 😉 love ur writing !!!

an it imagine for henry bowers. just a lot of foreplay please!!

my request is broad but the world needs more smutty henry x reader ahhhhh

A/N: Second part of my two part series, Simple Minds. Kind of wish I saved the title Bittersweet for this one lol but I guess this title works to :Y Please don’t ask for a continuation of this because I like how I ended it.

You do very little to hide your feelings, wearing them on your sleeve for world to see—in this case the ‘world’ being, Henry Bowers. He is your whole world, but your world was dying; decomposing from the inside out through a slow erosion of the spirit and mind. Visible evidence of his father’s displeasure and scorn manifest in a patch work of bruises and lacerations upon his face.

It makes you sick.

“You should come spend Christmas with me.”

“I don’t need—“

“I need it.” You lie, preserving his ego. “My mom went to visit her family out of state and didn’t ask me if I wanted to go. I dunno I think she thinks it’s dad’s turn. But he’s out getting drunk with his friends, so I know he won’t know it’s his turn. So now the house is going to be lonely and I could use some support.”

“Your parents are shit.” He comments absently, a second later he nods to your proposal.

You manage to wring a laugh from your throat. How many times have ya’ll done this dance; projecting each other’s fears and insecurities on the other instead of talking about them head on? In the big scheme of things it doesn’t matter. “That’s why I’m lucky to have you.”

The sun was setting on Derry when the two of you head off to the grocery store, list in hand a mile long. Snow falls serenely and drifts across Henry’s vision. The civilians that riddled these streets during the day, rushing off in their own directions like ants were gone, only their footprints in a slush of snow and mud were left. All the department stores close up early for the holiday but you manage to find a variety store that still has half their merchandise in stock.

You both scavenge for the items on your list, crossing out anything unavailable; nuts, clementine, cranberry sauce, gravy, celery, carrots, parsley, basil, eggnog… All picked over.

You bite your lip. “Maybe this was a bad idea…”

“Keep lookin.” Henry shifts through assorted cans of preserved potatoes, yams, sardines, shredded spinach and beans. He visibly recoils slightly, shoving the last can to the very back of the shelf were it would be forgotten, the rest were scooped in the shopping cart. “We got the veggies, we just need the meat.”

“Uhhh…” You strain through the freezer section to sort through empty boxes, throwing them over head in hopes of finding a treasure underneath. Your efforts do not go in vain as you stumble across the last ham in the container. You squeal in delight, jumping up and down while holding the frozen meat to your chest. It was small, only a pound but plenty to split between the two of you.

You’re over reacting, you know you are. Henry tells you, you are, but it doesn’t matter. You’ve been with Henry for a little over four months. FOUR months since that horrible—and it was horrible, first date and you haven’t once made him a home cook meal. By now he probably thinks that you don’t know how to cook. This was your chance to (hypnotically) prove him wrong.

You pay for the groceries and leave, carrying them all to alleviate any addition stress to Henry’s body. A thin layer of ice crunches beneath his boots and the air is uncomfortably crisp against his tender face. He just wants to go back inside already but you stop every block to admire the decorations. Snowmen with coal eyes that rivaled his own, streamers of lights, and real Christmas trees done up more than a three dollar hooker.

“Keep it movin’!” He hollers.

“Sorry!” You run to catch up, almost slipping on a patch of ice hidden beneath the snow. Henry rushes to catch you around the waist and pulls you into his chest, your elbow jabbing him in the side on accident. He writhes weakly, hunching over, a pained expression on his face as you stare up at him.

“I’m sorry.” You breathe.

“Just keep moving. I’m starving.”

“Oh.” The remark seem to lift your spirits. You gloat, on and on of the Christmas fest you have plan for him and he listens with rapt attention, as he drags along beside you.

--

You want to cry.

The chance that you could be bad at cooking never occurred to you, especially since you’ve done so well in the past with your mother’s steady hand to guide you. Yet now, looking at a charcoaled ham swimming in the sink and the kitchen in a visible state of disarray and in need of heavy maintenance—no doubt coming out of your wages or time, it was a possibility you were willing to consider.

You eye Henry, the ham glazing sauce had splattered in a small line of stippled dots across his face and flour stuck to his forehead and chin. He looks like a mess but you no doubtfully look ten times worst.

You chortle, in a vain attempt to not cry. It was such a stupid—asinine thing to get worked up over but your teenage mind had fantasied this going so differently, you can’t stop yourself.

Henry helps himself to the freezer pulling out a potato, ham, and cheese family tv dinner and pops it in the microwave. He grabs a hand towel and throws it at your face, then leans against the counter. “Your face gets gross when you cry.”

You sniffle dabbing away stray tears. “Geez, thanks.”

He drums his finders on the counter, waiting for the microwave to beep, resets the timer and throw his dinner back in. “It’s true.”

“Fuck off.” Your tears stop now that you’re glad that he’s reduced to eating a frozen meal for Christmas. He didn’t deserve your cooking anyways.

“After I eat.” He could fell his stomach collapsing on itself, going through most of the day with nothing but a light breakfast and whatever taste testing you had him do. He takes the meal out of the microwave and grabs two forks, tossing one into your lap, his raised eyebrows telling you hurry up and eat with him.

Neither of you talk much while you eat. Henry has a vacant stare in his eyes, his mind going on vacation and never remembering to turn off the lights. This wasn’t the first time he’s done this. It’s a recurring habit that refuses to die no matter how many conversation topics you create.

Which is why it surprises you when he is the first to break the silence, fork in his mouth, “Why you always stoppin’ for those decorations? They’re the same every damn year.”

You shrug, “I dunno. I like them. They’re pretty.” Not everything needed a deep meaning or hidden motive, some people were just simple minded. You were one of those people.

“That’s stupid.” Henry resumes eating his side of the meal.

“Ok, I got a question for you.”

“Shoot.”

“You mad at me for ruin dinner?”

“Nah. So you can’t cook shit. No big deal, I’ll eat before coming over.”

“Wow, ok, one. I can cook.”

Henry shoots you a smug look, you ignore it.

“And two, not what I meant. I promised you a fest and you’re eating a tv dinner.”

“Food is food.” After fourteen years of a constant diet of beans and toast anything was an upgrade. Yet, there is a growing disappointment behind your annoyed expression, and in his brief moments of humanity he continues, “But, I’ll eat whatever you make me and pretend it’s the best damn thing I’ve ever had.”

“Geez, and how ever could I thank you for that sacrifice?”

“By letting me fuck you when I want.” He pauses, “ It’s like a marriage.”

You raise an eyebrow. The audacity of his casual remark renders toxic. It’s the canary in the mines; a sign to run and not look back. But you’re young and foolish, and he’s so laughably simple-minded—so relatable, that you barrel into the darkness with overconfidence that somehow you’re different from the rest. That somehow, you will survive. “Tell me about my cooking.”

“Huh?”

A finger swipes the glaze from his face, holding it in front of him. “How does it taste?”

He leans forward uncertain, taking in the tip of your finger and sucks. His words come slow but sure. “Best damn thing I’ve ever had.”

--

A series of sharp bites and wet kisses travel along the column of your throat. You let out a breathy moan, hips rolling into Henry’s touch underneath him. “You’re a slut.” He purrs against your ear, a shiver runs down your spine. Your nipples are firm by the time he works a hand in between your bodies to cup your breast, running his rough fingertips over your nipple.

Your hips buck against him again when he pinches your nipple, rolling it between his fingers causing you to arch your back.  His cock hardens against your stomach and he shifts his body down. He takes your other nipple in his mouth, swirling his hot wet tongue over the nub as your lewd noises encourages his behavior. Your hands card through his hair, clutching at the roots and pulling him closer into your cleavage.

He wriggles his head out of your grasp, sitting up with knees on either side of your body, taking in deep breaths as you whine at the sudden loss of his body heat. Looking up you take in his body for all it is: a wiry build and pale skin mottled by the erratic blows of his father. Eyes wide with curiosity, you prop yourself up slowly, reaching out to touch a large welt on his side.

He leans away from your touch, just barely, and your fingers curl into your hand, retreating. He’s not ready for that step yet, you understand.

Your eyes drift to your night stand drawer where you kept your condoms. Sliding off you he shifts around your drawer from the bed mumbling something about how you needed to be better organized. You laugh, crawling up behind him, draping an arm around his shoulder, using the other to retrieve a packaged rubber from the way back of your drawer.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.” With your chest pressed up against his back, you quickly remove the condom from its package, unrolling it over his prick and securing it at the base. Henry inhales sharply, melting in your touch. “Relax.” You whisper, kissing his neck, letting your hands drifts across his body with ghost touches. “Let me take care of you.”

Moving out from behind him, you let him get situated, sitting on the edge of your bed. You position your knees on either side of his thighs on the bed, hands finding balance in his shoulders, then in one fluent movement you sink down on top of him.

Henry openly moans, lolling back his head at the sensation. “Fuck”

Your thoughts exactly.

Your hands slope up to his neck, gingerly pressing your forehead to his. His breath smells like candy when it hits your face, inviting you to take a taste. For a moment you stay still, letting that fire in your belly grow as you feel him inside you. Looking into his eyes is like looking into a void, neither good nor bad, just uncertainty and it terrifies you to the point of excitement.

You plant a kiss on his lips, open mouth that turns into a harsh kiss on his part, setting a brutal rhythm that you keep in time bouncing up and down repeatedly. He replaces his mouth with his fingers, some drool escaping and dribbling down his hand. Satisfied with your work, he removes his fingers, pressing up against your clit, working in frantic, firm circles.

You tighten around him, singing his praise in a chorus of moans. Somewhere mixed in there you tell him you love him. Quick, out of nowhere, and somewhat impersonal, he ignores it like all the other times. It doesn’t bother you. You’ve never said it to him outside of sex. You’re not sure if you mean it.

He grunts your name,then attaching his lips to yours again, sucking on your lower lip. Everything he does is a rehash from previous couplings but better. The awkward talks and explanations. Once you had to draw out a map of the places you wanted to be touch. All of that time and embarrassment worth it, as he thrusts his hips up into you, claiming your body as his own.

A prickling of rush heat crashes through your belly, close to the edge, you breath heavily, voice shaking along with the rest of your body “H-Henry—”

“I know. I know.” He assures you, bucking his hips at a speed that drives you insane. “Just keep movin’. I’m almost there.”

You both undo at the same time. Upon feeling you give in he grips you by the hips and rocks himself through it. He falls back into bedsheet, letting out slow puffs of breath, and shutting his eyes. “So…” He tries to talk between ragged breaths. “Guess that’s my present.”

--

There was actually a second present waiting for him once you both came down and cleaned up. Stowed away under the floorboards of your closet, you kept a six pack of brown beer bottles, highest quality you could find. The gesture took a week of savings and bargaining and ran the risk of going unappreciated by the boy but that didn’t matter. If there are two things you know about Henry Bowers, it is that, his father’s crazy and nothing puts him in a better mood than beer.

The grin on his face proves it to be true.

He takes a swig, looking off at nothing particular. You sat nestle comfortably in the crook of his arm, head resting on his chest, critical of steering clear of any discolorment. His knuckles stroke down your side, soothingly; the two of you exchanging Christmas memories. Some good, most bad. 

You begin to drift in and out of sleep before he finishes his beer. Henry watches as your half hooded eyes, fight against the sandman. Your words shorting to inconclusive grunts. 

He snorts, telling you to go to sleep and you look up at him. You shush him playfully, placing a hand on his cheek and stroking tenderly with your thumb. The action twists his stomach in knots, similar to the first time you touched him. The control you had over his body was becoming a nuisance. It reminds him of another person, whose touches—starkly contrast with yours; hard, cold and demanding of respect—had him running into your arms. A part of him wondered if there was something else that connected you two, something other than the hormones and teenage angst; an invisible red string.

This isn’t love, he reminds himself.

Love is controlling. Love is demanding. Love quick to cut into your flesh exposing your flaws. His father has shown him the effects of love and whatever he feels towards you, that isn’t what love was supposed to be.

But he’ll cherish these moments, content to know he will never fully love you.

[onceuponatimedasminas]

Agnes — Alice — Isabella, Celeste e Chiara/Praça Principal

Era nítido que Agnes já estava sob o efeito do álcool que continuava a ingerir, pois a jovem mostrava bem menos tímida do que de costume. Claro que Angela mostrou-se alguém deveras fácil de se conversar, mas algumas frases ou perguntas não seriam feitas pela moça em seu estado lúcido. Como compartilhar algo tão íntimo como a resistência do pai para com a escolha profissional da filha, por exemplo. — Sim, eu faço. Sério que você acha que eu tenho cara de enfermeira ? Do jeito que eu sou desastrada ia acabar me costurando ao invés do paciente. Não, é melhor nem pensarmos nesta possibilidade. — Esboçou algumas caretas enquanto a imaginação fértil a fez se materializar sob trajes médicos enquanto tratava de pessoas. Ou melhor dizendo, piorava a situação delas. Angela continuou a dizer o que pensa, o que fez a moça mordiscar o lábio inferior em leve receio, apesar da injeção de ânimo aplicada pela mais velha. Virou o resto da bebida de uma vez, como se aquilo pudesse fazê-la pensar em outra coisa, o que obviamente não adiantou. Sempre se sentia na obrigação de provar ao pai que é muito mais do que ele gostaria que ela fosse, mais forte do que ele pensa e muito mais determinada do que aparenta. Ignorar um costume praticado desde criança não seria fácil, mas no fundo ela sabe que a nova amiga têm toda a razão. — Você está certa. É o que eu quero, eu sou assim, então é isso. Meu pai e todo o resto terão que me engolir. — Esticou os braços para cima, enfatizando o que falara de um jeito cômico. Abaixou-os quando viu o Pandora's Ice chegar, admirando a bebida azulada por um bom tempo antes de experimenta-la.  — Hmm, gostoso! — Exclamou, tomando um gole generoso pelo canudinho. — Não vai mais beber, Angel ? Acho que eu também deveria parar. Esse aqui será o último. — Disse, assim que viu a moça pedir água com limão. A decisão tomada pela mais nova era sensata, mas não faria muita diferença, já que ela já estava consideravelmente alta por conta da bebida anterior. Eis a consequência de quem não bebe com frequência. Percebeu que a pergunta feita para Angela a deixou desconfortável, mas o estado entorpecido a fez não ligar para isso. Encarava a mais velha profundamente, as íris verdes mais dilatadas do que o normal exalando total expectativa para com a resposta. E quando esta veio, Agnes não conteve o arregalar dos olhos e uma expressão verbal surpresa. Quer dizer, olha só para ela ? A mais velha é tão bonita quanto as moças da televisão, ou aquelas modelos de passarela. Como é possível que ela nunca tenha namorado ? A própria McKnight conseguiu ter um namorado ou outro durante a escola, o que é louvável considerando que grande parte das pessoas não tem paciência com ela. — Como isso é possível ? Angel, os rapazes provavelmente caem aos seus pés. Você deve estar esperando seu príncipe encantado, só pode. — Não conteve o comentário, mas tão logo Angela desviou o assunto, e Agnes estava entorpecida demais para não se deixar levar. Conversaram trivialidades enquanto o Pandora's Ice era ingerido pela mais nova, que gradativamente se tornava ainda mais tagarela e desengonçada, o que arrancou alguns risos da mulher que a acompanhava. Por uma fração de segundo pensou em Camélia, mas como ninguém ouviu um grito por parte da moça, tudo devia estar correndo bem. Os devaneios para com a amiga foram cortados quando Angela sugeriu que fossem ver as luzes de natal. — Weeww, boa ideia. Se bem que eu vou ver tudo borrado, porque está tudo girando..girando..girando.. — Falou, soltando uma risada quase histérica enquanto sentia-se tonta. Recobrou o foco quando a loura anunciou que iria pagar a conta. "A minha também?!" Não conteve o pensamento, sorrindo e respondendo-a em seguida. — Ahaaaaammmmmmm. — Então observou a mais velha se afastar, indo em direção ao balcão onde Pandora estava. Teria sido prudente manter-se sentada, mas Agnes resolveu levantar e caminhar até perto das duas adultas. Ou pelo menos tentar, já que cambaleou nos primeiros três passos.  Sentindo que perderia o equilíbrio, resolveu apoiar-se na ponta de uma das mesas, depositando todo o peso do corpo no móvel. Em seguida, a física fez o resto. — AHHHHH! — Gritou, enquanto caia junto a mesa que derrubara. — Caiu! — Murmurou enquanto ria sem parar. Estava caída no chão, incapaz de conter a graça inexistente que a fazia gargalhar sem controle. Não demorou até que Angela viesse ao auxílio da jovem caída. que fez shhhh para Pandora assim que a ouviu gritar seu nome. — Sim-pi-ri-rim! Mas a Pandora quer me bater, né ? — Respondeu a mulher, cochichando com a mesma sobre o stress notório na dona da taverna. Levantou-se com a ajuda de Angela e seguiu junto a ela as pressas, antes que a Pandora lhe arrancasse o couro. — P-A-N-D-O-R-A, a culpa é da mesa. Eu sou leve, foi ela que não me aguentou e.. — Falava alto para que a morena a ouvisse, encarando-a por cima do ombro da mulher que a ajudava a andar. Não olhar para a frente acabou por fazer Agnes causar outro desastre. Quando foi esticar o braço para dar tchau para a morena, esbarrou no móvel que expunha várias garrafas de bebidas na entrada do bar. — Vish..Agora eu apanho. — Falou, rindo, mas Angela a tirou de lá antes que viesse a sofrer com a fúria da Smekh. Apesar da catástrofe, ambas riam enquanto se afastavam da Taverna. McKnight conseguia caminhar sem grandes consequências graças ao apoio que Angela lhe dava. A adulta pediu atenção da mais nova, pedindo que ela não se afastasse. — Sim senhora. — Disse a loura, batendo uma continência desajeitada com a mão livre. Depois de enlaçada pelo braço, Agnes passou a admirar as luzes do festival, esta que pareciam magia enquanto a jovem não mais sabia distinguir o que era real ou ilusão. Provavelmente a moça continuaria entretida com a decoração luminosa, mas uma cabeleira loura deveras conhecida por ela a dominou de excitação e alegria. — Isabella! — Praticamente gritou, soltando-se do enlace de Angela e correndo na direção da confeiteira que tanto admira. Bom, a felicidade proveu que a jovem conseguisse se deslocar tão rápida sem cair ou causar mais do que alguns esbarrões em outras pessoas. Quando sofreu um tropeço, já estava próxima da loura e a agarrou pelo pescoço. Sim, Agnes queria abraçá-la, e aquele gesto de carinho a impediu de ir de encontro ao chão. — Isabella, Bella, Isabella, Bella. Eu estou meio bebadazinha, mas ainda te amo viu! — Falava como uma criança junto a mãe, enchendo a bochecha da mais velha de beijos. Quando deu-se por satisfeita, percebeu que a Bennet não estava sozinha. Tinha consigo uma moça ruiva, muito bonita, na qual a McKnigth já tinha visto mas agora encontrava-se incapaz de se lembrar. — Seu cabelo é tão bonito. É de verdade ? Angel, seu cabelo parece ouro, e o dela parece fogo. — Comentou, sorrindo abertamente. Que bêbado não para de rir, não é ? Tudo correria bem, caso Celeste não estivesse se aproximando das moças, o que não passou desapercebido pela jovem alcoolizada. — Ah não, você não.  — Falou, fazendo bico. Desagarrou-se de Isabella e caminhou aos tropeços acelerados em direção a morena intimidadora. — Nem venha maltratar a Isabella agora, é Natal. Você é má e..  — Agnes desafiava Celeste enquanto a coragem inabalável de alguém alcoolizado a movia. Contudo, sentiu o estômago girar e uma forte ânsia de enjoo a assolar. — Eu..acho que..vou...  — Tentou anunciar, mas não adiantou. Segundo depois, estava ela vomitando nas vestes da Boguzs.