#miscibility

[fuckyeahfluiddynamics]

Mocha Diffusion

These firework-like patterns spread when dyes are added atop a viscous but miscible lower fluid layer. Here, researchers use lower layers like corn syrup and xanthan gum; then they spread dye mixtures including ammonia and vinegar atop those layers.  (Image credit: T. Watson and J. Burton) Read the full article

[whats-in-a-sentence]

Ionic liquids (figure 12.37) are increasingly being advocated as green solvents for electrochemical applications in metal deposition, battery electrolytes and electrosynthesis.

"Chemistry" 2e - Blackman, A., Bottle, S., Schmid, S., Mocerino, M., Wille, U.

[utilitycaster]

You know what's really revealing to me? How many people really don't want Ashton to engage at all with the Luxon in any capacity. I think it's an entirely valid choice, to be clear, if Ashton doesn't engage, and everyone's entitled to their personal preferences... but it has come up during the memory probes and it's an intriguing possibility (especially as a source of power outside the prime and betrayer pantheon) and I don't see why, at least if you like Ashton as a character, you wouldn't be at least interested unless you're holding a grudge against campaign 2 or the mere concept of the divine. It feels so incurious. Aren't you curious?

[arctic-hands]

Oils dissolve silicone, right? If I got a silicone bowel to hold the water that cleans my paintbrushes, I wouldn't be able to use my (water miscible, meaning I don't need paint thinner or mineral spirits) oil paints in it, yeah?

[cumulo-stratus]

Why the fuck is there a c in miscible 😐😐😐😐

[johnsonholme]

[space-mouse]

depending how much sodium, potassium, and/or calcium is available, you can get different feldspars! labradorite is my favorite.

remember: stay OUT of the miscibility gap.

there are NO FELDSPARS in the gap. you can't fit that much calcium and potassium in one feldspar. it's not done.

[pennysanford-mi]

[gtbt7ymmlabs1s]

black pussy in Kampala Desi hotwife from Chandigarh getting fucked on sofa Big Booty Fuck Fat Cock and Sucking Swallow Cum Dry humping my bestie / lesbian seduction BLONDE TEEN FUCKED IN THE ALL HOLES WITH STUDY Amateur Lesbian Foursome Nerd retardado comendo a branquinha Hot japanese tgirl chick ass fucked Beautiful girl fuck with male toy Hot melodie milf wife sucking a huge dick and then takes a load on her tits

[today-i-am-thinking-about]

the words mixable and miscible

[whats-in-a-sentence]

For example, we find that ethanol and water mix completely in all proportions – we say they are miscible – while hexane and water are essentially immiscible and form two layers on addition of one liquid to the other (figure 10.7).

"Chemistry" 2e - Blackman, A., Bottle, S., Schmid, S., Mocerino, M., Wille, U.

[megumri]

GOOD GOOD - PART I

ISAGI YOICHI  X  AFAB READER  X  ITOSHI RIN

 ↬   you’re careful to never sleep with your pro-footballer boyfriends at the same time; but, all that changes when rin comes home unexpectedly early…

wc: ~2.1k | genre: porn with tiny plot

cw: established poly relationship; unprotected sex; isagi has a thigh fetish; pussy job; cum play; hickies; biting; edging; fingering (fem receiving); vaginal sex; (super) minor spoilers; please lmk if i missed something

All characters are +21. Minors don’t interact.

notes: my tumblr writing swan song; named after tanerelle’s “good good” more at the end !

series masterlist  |  part ii

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Balancing Rin and Yoichi is your own subconscious state of flow. The act evokes memories of mind-numbing rainy days huddled in a makeshift fort aglow with buttery lamplight. There you concocted masterpieces to satiate your thirst for entertainment: bottles filled with oil and water. An experiment rooted in patience, observation, and curiosity.

The relationship itself felt often like the construction of your make-shift toy. The process was simple: portioning equal amounts of both liquids with surgeon-like precision, a few squirts of food coloring, and testing ensued.

Rippling waves from gentle cants of your wrist. Furious bubbles with a few pumps of your hand. An explosion of riotous emulsion when dropped to the floor. Perfect stillness from a gentle grip.

It took practice to settle into your roles: Rin, bitterly fluid; Yoichi, bracingly adaptive; and you, resolutely miscible. It wasn’t easy to intervene, passively and occasionally aggressively. You often felt like a small wedge of wood shimmying below their enormously powerful legs to bring everyone back to even ground. Nowadays, equilibrium reigns supreme.

Their time with you is a calculated cycle beginning with their between season homecomings. First Yoichi, sweet and affable; second Rin, scintillating and emphatic. And substitution upon Rin's arrival is seamless. Yoichi slips out for a meandering stroll while a weary, slightly grumpy, Rin presents himself.

It's as if they reached a prior agreement before returning to your side. A deal to ensure minimum intrusion… although, you know better than to believe that. No, more likely you solidified their established habits. Or, likelier still, they wordlessly arrived at the same conclusion, much like their relationship on the field. Forever caught in an undulating dance of unspoken wills. Oil and water indeed.

A muted click sounds like an alarm through the halls. You lick your lips, a flutter of anticipation alights in your stomach. He fills the doorway with a bashful smile, marred only by the wedging of his teeth in one corner of his lower lip. His presence permeates the room like a peaceful sigh, a glimmer of delight amasses in your chest.

In a few short paces, Yoichi greets you with pliant lips.

Feather-light kisses dot your face until they coalesce into the firm honey-sweet press of his mouth against yours. A warm hand grasps the nape of your neck, anchoring you to him. His tongue sneaks between your lips and flicks against yours as he stretches alongside you on the bed. Warmth seeps from his body into yours and like a flower starved for the light of day, you soak it in.

“How was it?” you sneak in as his lips brush down your neck.

“Won ‘em all,” he replies, breath tickling your collarbone. His hand slides into yours, squeezing your fingers. He pulls away revealing his signature sunshine smile you automatically reflect.

“Glad you’re back,” you hum, leg hooking around his waist.

Snuggling closer, his lips tickle their way to your ear. You catch the fresh scent of his shampoo still clinging to the damp tips of hair prickling your cheek.

“Glad to be back,” he hums.

You pull him closer and rub against the bulge in his pants. His hips rock with yours, matching you swell for swell. Arousal springs like a fever throughout your body. Hands mold around the curve of your thighs. Lightly chapped lips graze along your jaw as he careens his head, gaze cementing on his fingers pressing into your bare skin.

"Can I… mind if I put it between them?"

"Do it," you breathe.

A gleam, too quick for diagnosis, shoots across his eyes. He stands, shucking off his pants. Eyes greedily glued to your hands, he watches as you wiggle out of your bottoms.

Scooting down the bed he parts your legs, laying his cheek against the skin of your inner thigh. A heavy exhale skitters straight to your exposed, leaking cunt. He nuzzles his face in the plush muscle.

A scrape of teeth—and scorching open mouth kisses weave down to the inside of your knee. A shiny sheen of spit follows his snail-like descent.

His arms encircle your outer thighs, scooping them into the circle of his embrace. He buries himself in the crevasse of their union. Moans shoot a pitiless hunger through your body. He peeks at you with an ill-concealed drunken desire.

“Can we do that new way I wanted to try?”

��Yeah, yeah let’s do it,” you don’t bother masking the excitement in your voice.

He settles behind you, legs propping up your back, chest warming your legs. Wedging a hand between your thighs, he lifts your legs as if parting a divine sea of flesh, and lays his cock against your slick center. Your breath titters, and you fight the urge to snap your legs shut.

He lowers your leg, crossing one shin over the other, sandwiching his cock. Only his pink tip protrudes from the makeshift cocoon. You pillow an arm under your head and get comfortable.

Lazily, he ruts, adjusting his angle with each movement. The bed begins to creak as he anchors a hand on your lower thigh. Each roll of his hips further saturates his cock. Each glide nurtures the acute ardor simmering in your hips.

He catches on your clit, your muscles twitch. He picks up his pace. Sweat and a faint trace of Isagi's soap taint the air. A curl of white-hot fervor unfurls in your stomach.

"Close, I'm close–" He grits out.

You focus on withholding a smirk. He never lasts long in the beginning; but, it’s not like you have much ground to stand on either.

"Uh, mhm, m–me too.”

Teeth prick the tender skin of your Achilles's heel. A sharp sting shoots tremors from the tips of your toes to the top of your head. You curl inward, fighting not to bend at the knees, and pinch your legs around his erection. Your arms gather the sheets to your chest in a clammy embrace as your muscles spasm in release.

His hand descends lighting fast to cup his tip as it spits hot ropes cum. An erotic thrill shoots through your relaxing muscles as you watch it pool in the palm of his hand. Release drips onto the curve of your thigh. He slows his pumping, panting filling the air.

"I want to, can I still—"

“Yeah,” you sigh.

Slipping an arm between your shins, he lathers the inside of your thighs with his seed. It's warm and runny, coating your tacky skin in an egg-white jelly.

His cock twitches from its perch below your cunt as he carves a path of swoops and swirls with his thumbs. The air thickens with the sweet musk of sex. His tongue darts out, licking your calf as if in anticipation of his next meal.

With a gentle push, you flop onto your back and Yoichi settles himself between your thighs. Sucking, licking, slurping—his mouth inhales his self-portrait. Lewd wet pants, absent of shame, cause blistering want to bloom in your center.

Two rogue fingers scoop up a congealing stripe of cum and seamlessly glide it to your clit. His tongue follows. It picks up the residuals, parts sticky slopes of skin, and reveals your dripping cunt.

His fingers stain your throbbing heat: one teases your aching center; another timidly dips inside; a third drags against your clit. They coat you in his seed and voracious weeds spring in its wake. They thicken, tangle, and twine. You squirm. Mouth returning to your leg, he bestows bruising kisses.

Your patience splinters. Fingers fisting in his blue-black locks, you yank his head. A bleary, intoxicated Yoichi greets you.

"Fuck me," you demand.

A wickedly content smile shines through the fluids coating the bottom half of his face. He raises himself from the bed and pulls you onto his lap. His cock, coated in your slick, smears against your hip.

A soft expression at odds with his vicelike grip on your thighs encompasses his face. His eyes grow into twin navy mesmeric marbles reflecting back a deep-seated longing as his face looms over you. Suddenly, you feel small under his gentle scrutiny. You shrink back, nerves preparing for whatever may come next.

“Must’ve missed me quite a lot…” he murmurs, nose tapping your cheekbone.

“Yeah, I missed you,” you petulantly admit.

He hums with delight, pecking the corner of your mouth.

“How much did you miss me?”

Gnawing on your bottom lip, you wind a hand between your feverish bodies, you find his cock. Your fingers pitter-patter along his shaft. He shivers.

“Thought about you everyday,” you whisper, “saw all your games.”

You hesitate. His mouth parts as if to draw out your next confession. You drag a finger up to his soft mushroom tip. Brushing your lips against his, you breathe into his mouth.

“Touched myself everytime you scored.”

A wide, devilish smile swallows his saccharine seduction. His mouth slams into yours knocking your teeth. The momentum sends you reeling into the bedsheets.

You scramble for the back of his shirt, clawing your way underneath, hands tingling at the electric hum that emanates from his damp skin. You lift your hips and wrap your legs around his waist. The tip of his cock grazes your pussy.

He draws back, eyes two pinpricks of desire in the center of your tunneling vision. Smearing his leaky tip against you, a prickling heat tickles the back of your neck. You shiver, every fiber of your body screaming with esperance. He leans down, lips hovering over yours. Your breath falters.

Nipping your lower lip, his mouth slothfully slides against yours. Tongue molding, lips dancing—each movement settles like sand in an hourglass. Granules stack, lying in wait until one of you breaks and sends the grains flowing once again.

Grasping your hands, he intertwines your fingers and pins them against the sheets. His nose skims your cheekbone. Your legs loosen around his waist.

Slowly, he guides his cock into your throbbing heat until his pelvis presses against you. Adapting to the intrusion in a gleeful shudder, you squeeze his hands. Bliss sloshes through your body, filling you to the brim until it precariously plateaus at the rim. Leveraging the hold on your hands, he pushes up, lofting himself. The shift in angle drives him a little deeper, creating a delicious friction.

Languidly he rolls his hips, settling into a steady pace. Pleasure drips like a leaky faucet, adding to the cohesion in your brimming cup. He releases one of your hands, and you plant it between his pecs. A light sheen of sweat greets you.

"How does that feel?"

"Perfect," you sigh.

A pleased rumble vibrates against the flat of your palm.

He picks up his pace, each stroke chipping away at your rapidly dwindling composure. Your legs clamp back around his waist. Black devours the indigo of his eyes. Slick fingers rub your clit. Mouth falling open, you overflow, releasing with unbridled euphoria.

He trades precision for speed. His pelvis rams into yours, making your thighs quake from the force of his thrusts. Lifting the hood of your clit, his finger runs tight circular laps. You writhe beneath him, hand fisting against his chest. Wet, skin-slapping squelches fill the room. You groan, toes curling, legs trembling.

He continues to bully your clit, to drive deep inside you until the edges of your vision blur. You spasm around him again, losing any sense of direction, and tumble down into an abyss, gasping and whimpering.

"Y-Yoichi—too much," you splutter.

Engaging your core, you hook your arm around his neck. You try to anchor yourself to ride it out with him. An ache blooms in your hips.

His hips jolt. Tossing back his head, he exposes the pale length of his throat as he releases deep inside you. Groaning, he hangs his head. Intermittent thrusts ease you both into a disjointed gasping heap. Listless blinks cloud your misty eyes. You deflate into the mattress, body buzzing.

Yoichi bows into your hold. The room quiets—save the faint pounding of your slowing heartbeat. Puffs of air ease into deeper, longer exhales. You pulse your arms around him and he pulls back to give you a shy, sweet smile. You return it with a fatigue-ridden one of your own.

"Tapped out already?"

Rin's flat baritone, off-key and unsettling, punctures the membrane of your haze like an egg splattering on the ground.

You start, cunt involuntarily constricting at the sound of Rin's voice as you twist. He slouches against the doorframe, hands tucked carelessly in the pockets of his shorts.

"Didn’t expect anything less from a second rate striker."

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

a/n: hellloooo welcome to the first installment ~ these two are my unhinged favs and there is absolute filth coming, reblogs/ comments appreciated :)

disclaimer: I don’t own any of the characters or people mentioned in this piece & all characters are +21 plus regardless of published canon

please do not copy, translate, nor repost this work nor other work belonging to @megumri

masterlist  ⎸  series masterlist 

[arctic-hands]

Damn, the oil painting reddit is still closed in boycott (people are still posting in it but not getting any notes), which I don't mind in itself but it's midly inconvenient to me personally lol

Anyway, anyone know of any fume-less oil paint varnish? I have asthma and I get migraines from powerful scents and fumes, so I use water miscible oil paints so I don't have to use turpentine or mineral spirits. But once the arduous drying process is done, how do I safely varnish the painting? My paints and Winsor & Newton and they have varnishes for WMOPs, but I couldn't decipher from the safety sheet if they were fumey or not. I can't use acrylic varnish over oil, it'll crack off over time.

[apas-95]

While it is certainly true that, historically, the roles of 'witch' and 'wizard' were gendered ones (to say nothing of warlocks!), this does not necessarily hold true in the modern era.

A comparative analysis of the composition of self-described witches and wizards demonstrates a clear breakdown in gender delineation. The rate of this breakdown, however, is not steady, and cannot be explained simply by an inter-miscibility of the two. Rather, the composition remains fairly static since the advent of the two roles, and experiences a rupture during the years 1848-1887, with a sudden and massive decrease in homogeneity. Following this has been a generally steady equalisation of gender makeup, without any shifts holding nearly significant. Notably, the second derivation of the general trend of both makeups shows a slowing, towards an asymptotic value of complete equalisation, 50-50.

While the recent data could be explained partially by the notion of evolving social attitudes and permissibility, said approach cannot explain the complete stagnation in the early period, nor the sudden leap during the 19th century, without resorting to crude misconstruals of historical society. Nor could such an explanation give a concrete answer to the source of said social attitudes and their evolution. Rather, the explanation supported by both material evidence, as well as accepted theoretical models, is an economic one. The breakdown in the domestic sphere of production, and its replacement during the 19th century with industrial division of labour, coincides with the breakdown of the social basis for gender delineation between witches and wizards. While this delineation survived the slow shift towards artisanal batch- and shop-production over the 18th century, it was debased entirely by the advent of innovations such as lithigraphic sigil printing during the 1810s and potion production plants during the 1840s. As occult manufacture became proletarianised and deskilled, the gendered division was dissolved in favour of greater economic efficiency.

Ultimately, the service-nature of on-demand potion production remains, from the nascent days of village witches, along with the corresponding attitude of personal enrichment for court wizards, and consequently reproduces 'gendered' attitudes and dynamics across different lines, while maintaining gender stratification within these new categorisations. While short-lived attempts towards reformulating traditional genders in the occult industry exist - 'sorcerers' and 'sorcoresses' - they have not persisted. Doctors and nurses, witches and wizards, managers and line-cooks - these are the genders of the modern age, while the genders of the past flounder and fade within professions.

Excerpt. Journal of Occultism and Magic - Economics, October 1997 issue

[inlocusmads]

second languages ~ trystan thorne (crimes of passion) > part 3

Series Summary: How Trystan forgets his mother tongue - the trials and tribulations, the consequences and the guilt that follows and how he struggles to learn it back again.

Chapter 3: "explosions on TV, and all the girls with heads inside a dream" Chapter Summary: Trystan tries to piece together the crumbling faith he's carried since childhood.

wc: 1.5k | teen and up audiences

read it on ao3 here

title from 'buzzcut season' by lorde.

“It’s like I’m stuck in the shadow of fucking romance.” says the character on screen.

‘Says’ because Trystan’s mind kept playing it over and over again. The film was past its halfway mark and yet he was stuck at 20:40. The popcorn in his bucket had soaked up all the butter, a few movie-goers had already stood up to leave - perhaps hopping between two showings. The theatre was hot and gloomy; the pungent odour of everyone’s body sprays collectively nauseating Trystan. They had this unknown loyalty to a city - street clothes, tightly tied bandannas - a shade of yellow, a follower of whatever made them be among the good people.

There were plenty of films with even more memorable dialogue and yet Trystan thought the same as the character on screen. It was different compared to what he watched at home. Movies were seldom shot from one perspective and through one contemplation. You followed different footprints, you saw their angry faces slowly transform into kindness and plea. You followed them as they dropped their children off to school with many a blood on their hands. Good people. The kind of people you took comfort in, not people you aspired to be.

In a way it was like looking into a mirror.

Trystan saw what the character saw. He sang praises about them. He would walk out of the theatre a new person - transformed. Give a review, tell them how much you looked up to the character. Toss in a memorable dialogue or two as you struggle with its verbatim. Buy the same clothes as they do, wear their personality until it wears off like shoes. Adopt their way of speaking because you’re miscible that way. Remember that - you’re cooperative. You’re here to scrub the dirt off your body. You’re here to wake up anew. They sent you here to come back as a foreigner.

As Trystan watched the film, there seemed to be a sharp disconnect with how he’d managed to register a character’s role in the story. Figure of speeches differed constantly, much like how certain oxymorons were concurrent and how tautological sentences had a precise edge as you went from one place to another - perhaps on a slow-moving, chartered flight. A faithless husk of a person wandering from place to place - once asked a long time ago - “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

So you turned to the gods on your screen. Somehow there’s a kinship there. It tells you, even if at the end of the day nobody understands the fiercest words you can spit from the corner of your mouth, it cares. A multi-billion dollar industry and it cares. A sad reality for some - as they sit tight in their little square boxes and look up for hope; craning their neck and singing their eyeballs. A comforting bliss for many - you keep going back. You’d see anything - a fleeting subtitle’s length. Trystan could only hear the character whisper their discontentment, and yet the words - “It’s like I’m stuck in the shadow of fucking romance.” felt like a chant someone who no longer believes, would still remember.

He was sick of staying in the shadows of romance. Sick of being kept in the dark. 

The character on screen had felt some sun on their face. Some clever bit of Chekhov’s Gun from the filmmakers. The wind ruffled the top of their hair, the way a parent might. Armed with new clarity and what they truly were destined for, they picked up a tool to assist them throughout their new journey. It was always different. Sometimes there was a bird. Sometimes it was a piece of advice from a mentor figure. It was funny how it was somehow oddly exaggerated and romantic. The movie would end with them recollecting a crucial piece of information - a new cinema hero moulded from a two-year long project. Posters everywhere he walked, only to be replaced with more of the same slop. Bedazzling everyone for a few months, keeping them engaged until the next story came by that kept their faith on moving wheels and the cinematic language on the top of their lips.

You’re inspired, right? It threatens you at gunpoint to be inspired. It is a good movie. It can resonate with anyone at any time. It’s translated into fifteen different languages, but it all sounds derived. It doesn’t have the same strength, the same weight as it used to be, but you still go for it. They encourage you to get your little copies, your pocket-sized bits and pieces to carry it with you. You’re inspired, right? You want to pick up a sword like the character? You want the wind to tell you you did a good job, right? 

Drakovian films had a raw sense of pragmatism you couldn’t simply translate anywhere else. They didn’t tell you you did a good job just for picking up a sword and following your dreams, and yet they were shadowed with this practical sense of romance to encourage people to believe. Unlike here, there was a basket of things to pick and choose from. None of it went into Trystan’s skin and bones, because figure of speeches consistently differed, much like how you’d find something contradictory about concurrent themes of love and loss, how precise pragmatism carried a different meaning as you went from one place to another - perhaps on a fast-moving, one-way flight.

Trystan’s phone lit up with a call; the blue light was distracting on its own. They were going to have to hum.

Vasili had a soft-spoken voice to him. Patient; inherited from his mother. All he’d ever wanted to be was someone people craned their necks to look up to - be it on a screen, on a throne, at a podium. A height of respectability.

“Trystan, I understand you are not pleased after the family excluded you from the council meeting. But taking a rash decision as to -- collaborate with Markarov --”

“I have not.”

“Right. That answers everything. I am supposed to take it as a meet-up then? Not as a ‘meeting’ to perhaps subvert opinion over the Heir of Equity?”

“I would do no such thing.”

“That is very comforting. I will take your word for it. Because I trust you, my brother. Unlike the other part of the family. You are with us.”

“Ask me whatever you want to ask.”

“No intentions. I hope the next time I call, you are more certain about your faith in me as I am about you. Your tone seems blunt. Like um - glass. I do hope when I can count on you, you will not back away.”

“Ask me whatever you wish to ask.”

“Why don’t I come to New York?”

Trystan was tired of the humming, yet remained respectful over wishing to not disturb the others. “Ask me now.”

“Do you think so little of my intelligence? Let me talk to you. Somewhere in your new home. I sure hope you haven’t forgotten your language. What I ask of you is too -- important to be- erm, anglicised. The most important question I have to ask that precedes that is - this is a huge undertaking -”

“A blessing?”

“Something of that sort. Perhaps it’s written somewhere you can’t be king but - you do know what it is to take upon pain, with a mother who’s strict with her approval so to speak. You understand them better than any of us will; you have seen enough. You could call them a million things and yet, father carries something in his heart for you.”

“Aiming for the greater heights already, Vasili?”

“Not a king. I have plans. I just - want to know your thoughts on this matter. You are easier to approach. We care. We do, right? We want the best for ourselves, right? We want you to come home - at least before the next generation is born.” - a dry chuckle.

“And how will you take care of yourself? When I am a walking target?”

“You care. They will understand. You’ve cared enough to leave home and forget who you are. I think that is a fate worse than death, perhaps worthy of forgiveness.”

“What do you expect from me?”

“Have a little faith in family. I can offer you my trust, my faith in you. I have no doubt this is difficult for you - when everyone has ostracised you. But I implore you to try.  In return you do the same for me--”

The theatre beamed to life. The credits rolled. People slumped out of the hall with dejected shoulders. They had no energy to discuss the film at length; such was its grappling power that it almost made people believe in themselves and the people next to them for one hour and fifty minutes. The gods they viewed on the big screens were nothing more than a fleeting afterthought; no more realistic than their seat neighbours. Parents dragged their noisy children away, the lesson of compassion from the film lost on them. Their tongues were nothing but sources of kindness before the film’s abrupt ending. 

“Can we allow ourselves to trust each other?”

Now what to do? Pick and choose something to take away? Deem it as unpleasant fiction? Let it fall on deaf ears because a movie - much like learning a new language, was only as good as its range - the themes caught in between conjugations, no lesson to take home because why bother? Why bother trusting gods that were fleeting to the eye and the tongue?

“Yes.”

____

A/N: Thank you for reading! If you want to be tagged/removed please let me know <3

Tagging (new list):

perma: @stars-are-within-me @thosehallowedhalls @tessa-liam @jerzwriter @quixoticdreamer16 @dutifullynuttywitch

crimes only: @trappedinfanfiction @moominofthevalley