viscous flow

Doumeki’s Lust in xxxHOLIC Rou Adayume (Selfish Dream)

Cages wanting to trap him, hands wanting to grab him, mouths trying to devour him, shadows wanting to possess him…  Dreams are a reflection of innermost desires of your mind.

Yes, we know Haruka.

I’ve recently re-watched xxxHolic Rou Adayume (literally translated as xxxHolic Cage: Selfish Dream) and noticed how I felt more disturbed during Doumeki’s nightmare scene than the first time I watched it. At first, I thought it had been Watanuki trying to run from danger but that didn’t fit why he looked quite disturbed when talking to Haruka afterwards. Also, why was the OAD titled ‘Selfish Dream? That could only mean Doumeki’s dream was selfish. But Doumeki and selfishness don’t go together, right? 

For me, the initial talk Haruka gave about selfish human hearts and the nightmare scene revealed the whole picture: Doumeki lusted after Watanuki but he knew his desires were selfish since acting upon them would be detrimental to Watanuki’s future. So, the later had to enter his nightmare and free himself from Doumeki’s selfish desires.

Allow me to explain why I believe it was ‘lust’.

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Gravebone Merman/Captain AU

@gravebone–hell  OK here is part 1 cause i wanna make more now

comment, reblog, and like for more <3


——–

Born with the black mark, the dark tail, smeared with a dirty white underbelly, a powerful, thrashing limb, Credence was immediately abandoned at birth.

In his world, in the fantastic, imperfect society that he’d been born into, his birth was an omen of danger, the boy himself deemed as a threat to their peaceful living. As such, he was left, moments after his birth, ditched in an open sand shallow, reef sharks encircling the young with dark, piercing eyes. Having thrashed around, able to swim, though poorly, right after being introduced to the cruel reality he was facing, Credence’s pale, thin skin broke open and seeped a reddish liquid into the water, thick and viscous, flowing in magnificent ribbons from his wound. The first animal to strike had only done so because it smelt the spill of blood, body churning so rapidly, so swiftly, that there was nothing the infant could have done to avoid the attack. The blow never arrived, the teeth never sank in, and instead a body presented itself as a barrier and defended the young man. Gnashing an array of sharp, serrated teeth, the boy’s saviour growled menacingly at the encircling group of reef sharks, a thick, tough tail of a shark swishing in a threatening motion behind him. Outcast had saved outcast, for what else were they to do for one another.

Credence was raised in an unorthodox manner for his people, transient, never staying in one location for longer than a month, constantly fleeing persecution, having to live in a world that did not want him. The one who had prevented his death, only minutes after his own mother abandoned him, was condemned simply for the fact that he was born with the tail of a shark. Having survived on his own, the vagabond shark lived on the edges of reality, damned for being different, hated for the way he was born despite the fact that he could do nothing about it. It was all explained to Credence when he was of age to comprehend.

In his world, the oceans, the water, society was sculpted by merpeople, by their traditions, customs, beliefs, even if they were outdated and critical. The orca and the shark were two of the condemned deities, and anyone born with their tail was to be killed, essentially what Credence was left for. Raised by an often aggressive, temperamental, and condemned guardian, Credence’s childhood was rough, nearly nonexistent considering the hard realities he was forced to see at such a young age. His life was difficult to say the least, and it was only made worse by the death of the only other he’d ever known. The day he found his body, sunk, bloodied, gnawed on by scavenging fish after facing against a fierce traditionalist that had simply wandered upon the shark, was the day Credence lost a part of him.

The images of the corpse would still haunt him, mostly in sleep, and he would retain the scars of the past mentally just as he did physically. For a few days, mourning the loss more than anything, Credence simply swam around in circles, his tail, scarred with multiple gashes, claw marks, all self inflicted from when he damned himself for being born with the tail of an orca, flicking in the water anxiously, pondering uselessly as to what he should do. In the end, the young man, having just become 18 a few weeks earlier, simply swam off with no direction in particular, searching for a reason to live.

—- 4 Years Later —-

Heavy boots sank into the shallow sandbar, water splashing up and wetting Graves’ pant legs. The man shook his foot from the wet and took a hard step forwards, gait awkward in the unstable sand, but determined nonetheless. Percival shook the sweat from his hair, running a rough hand through the damp locks, greying in some places to his annoyance. He squinted, turning back to the ship and horizon, the sun’s glare glinting brightly in his dark eyes. Behind him, gruff ship hands anchored down the ship, sinking the iron deep into the warm waters. Stomping unto the beach, feet leaving large boot prints in the white sand, Graves swiveled his neck, taking in his surroundings. It was here, he decided, that they would make port for at least the next couple nights.

As a cartographer by trade, buccaneer by personality and hobby, Graves was given the task to map out the islands in the more remote areas of the Caribbean by the trading company he worked for. The task was mutually beneficial, getting Graves out of the way of business, since he usually was around begging for an offshore assignment, and also allowing the man to sail as he seemingly always yearned for.

A deep breath of salty air enthralled the man, scenting not only the ocean, but the vegetation of the thick jungle ahead of him. A knowing smirk played across his lips and he huffed, lifting his feet from the sand and trudging forwards, into the lush greens, pulling out his cutlass, making a short, shrieking sound, and hacking at the inhibiting vines. He’d make his way around the island alone, returning to the crew only when he was satisfied with his venturing. No one objected.

Credence swam lazily along the shallows, following a small school of fish that skirted the edge of the shoreline. He’d been attracted to this island over and over, enticed by the small river that flowed out from the island’s center. At times the young merman would thrash his way up the shallow waters, spraying water in all directions as he powered against the currents, and gawk at the jungle and the odd creatures it held. Credence had known the inhabitants of the water all his life, and to him, it was the land that proved to be the most interesting. Humans were at the top of such list.

In the four years since living completely alone, Credence had seen many ships, odd, floating vessels that carried humans, and observed them from afar, piqued by the way that humans looked so much like he did. Yet, he never dared to try and communicate or even show himself to them, fearful of their reaction to him. If even his own people would refuse to love or accept Credence, how was he to expect compassion, sympathy, or even pity from another race? Instead, he watched the people on the ships at night, observing their silhouettes in the dark, finding what he assumed to be the males more interesting than the rare females he saw at sea. Humans were interesting, violent creatures. Credence had seen more than enough cruelties by humans, the murder of he fellow sea creatures in ruthless, bloody manners that had always left him shaking in terror and unable to sleep for days. Whales, sharks, thousands of fish, and even the occasional dolphin fell victim to the evils done by the humans, and everytime he saw a travesty, too frightened, too weak, to help, his heart broke. Yet, despite all of the death that surrounded the land-dwelling species, they also possessed an intense intellect and emotion that the exiled merman saw from afar. He’d seen humans mourn their own kind, and even other kinds of creatures in rare occasions, seen them joyous, distraught, hopeless, hopeful, and all emotions in between, and their dynamics drew his attention whenever they were present. Thus, it was rather surprising when Credence had not noticed a human that would soon impact his life greatly.

Percival had been trotting the shallows for a few hours now, wet, sweaty, tired, but still not finished. His cutlass sat at his hip, sheathed, wiped clean of plant tissue, but ready to be pulled out a moment’s notice. Graves watched the small fish flit about the water to his left, tiny, shiny bodies glimmering in the falling light. Suddenly, a large, flash of black streaked across his vision. Reflexes fast, trained to be so, Percival’s arm reached for the sword, yanked it out, and stabbed at the water all in a moment’s notice. A soft, painful ‘thunk!’ sounded, and Graves knew he’d struck something before he had even seen it.

Something sickeningly painful streaked up Credence’s tail, all the way from his fluke to his back, spreading through his body like a poison, and then returning to sting more than anything before right at the base of his black, leathery tail. A shrill, piercing scream sounded from him, raising above the water as he pushed himself up on his forearms and tried to see what had caused the pain. The stab did not register to him until he saw Graves’ cutlass embedded deep in his flesh, passing through and keeping the young merman in place in the shallows. Tears arose in his eyes, usually invisible in the water, but now blending with the sea water and dripping down his face. They came out of pain, of fear, of confusion, but mostly because of the burning sensation that set his tail afire despite being underwater. The black, shoulder-length locks of hair clung to Credence’s face and neck, an odd sensation since it was almost constantly in the water, but he barely registered it in comparison to the throb and sting that cascaded around him endlessly. Rather than more screams, his throat sounded with garbled whimpers, short wails, and general cries of confusion and pain. He wondered, for a brief moment, why he had been saved at birth if his life was only to throw hate and violence and suffering at him.

Dark red streamed from the location of Percival’s sword, the shiny metal now stained red, blood flowing freely from the wound he had made in the creature. Despite having seen the black tail, immediately thinking Orcinus orca even though orcas would not survive in such warm waters, Graves had no clue what he was looking at the moment he saw Credence. It did not take long though, for the man to discern that he had captured a merman, a creature thought to be non existent, mythical, until the moment he saw one. While a wash of pity and regret came over the captain, even greater was the voice that shouted for him to leave the thing in the shallows where Graves could easily take it captive. Mind muddled with excitement, confusion, denial, and a melangerie of sympathy clashing with self-interest, Graves left Credence to writhe and leaped through the water to pull the boy from the water and out on the beach where he could at least examine the thing better. He did so, yanking the thrashing figure so that its upper body lay upon the sand, breathing hard, still sobbing, whining pathetically, and its bloody, twitching tail, still pierced with the cutlass, anchoring him down.

“P-P-Please! T-T-Taa-Take i–it o-ow…out!” The cry was begging, Credence’s throat speaking in the air for the first time, creaky and broken, but working nonetheless. “M-Maa…Make it st-st-stop!”

A moment of hesitation washed over Graves, and he knew he must decide. Would he remain ruthless, domineering, without repentance, over this bewildering discovery, though it seemed to be but a young man gifted with a tail, or would Percival take back what he’d done and show all the compassion and regret that he was holding back? It was a quick choice, and he yanked the cutlass free, tossing it away, and immediately placed his hands over the wound. Halting the wailing of the injured and instead getting his attention. Their eyes locked, but nothing was said, Percival’s fingers hard against the fleshy, bleeding wound, and Credence’s face red, eyes sad, and lips swollen from biting them so much. None moved, or spoke, but they remained entranced by one another for a multitude of reasons.

“I’m…I’m sorry…Let me help you. I’m sorry…” The voice cracked, throaty, low, and not belonging to a man that was ruthless, only one that could pretend to be so.

08. a living cadaver

Genre: Vamp!AU || Angst.

Content: Min Yoongi. The deplorable musings of a medical student existent since the creation of the Hippocratic Oath. A downwards spiral.

Request: Vamp!Yoongi (warnings: blood, psychological decompensation, etc.)

Word Count: 2,475


This goddamn duplicity,” Yoongi muttered under his breath, tracing a delicate finger over the rendered image of the human heart.

Ziiiiing. He cringed, dragging his nails in pain across the glossy pages of his unused anatomy textbook as the cacophonous scrape of soles against the moldy, government-funded carpet in the library clashed with the resounding sting made by his rumpled bangs pricking his forehead. God, I have to get rid of these split ends before I go deaf.

Blue-green optical auras consumed the rim of his pupils as the poor boy desperately tried to counteract the searing pain by yanking on the darkened roots of his brittle, mint strands.

He was decrepit, now more than ever, and it was all because of them.

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The man coughs and gags, hand at his throat as the viscous mass flows from his mouth,  falling to the floor. Undulating at his side, the supple form of green and black wisps remains alive. Pulling a dagger from his boot, Nox slices his palm open, thrusting the open wound into the exorcised form at his side. Within seconds the taint is absorbed. Nox falls back against the tiny man who steadies him from behind. Resting on the floor where he will remain, DeLaney sucks in ragged breaths whilst the open wound in his palm seals itself closed. 

“Painting is self-discovery. Every good artist paints what he is. ” - Jackson Pollock.  

Artist Paul Jackson Pollock was born today, January 28, 1912.  Known for his “technique [which] combined the moment of his body, over which he had control, the viscous flow of paint, the force of gravity, and the absorption of paint into the canvas.” - Wikipedia.  

Photograph by Hans Namuth

 

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Today’s post continues my retrospective on mind-boggling fluid dynamics in honor of FYFD’s birthday. This video on the Kaye effect was one of the earliest submissions I ever received–if you’re reading this, thanks, Belisle!–and it completely amazed me. Judging from the frequency with which it appears in my inbox, it’s delighted a lot of you guys as well. The Kaye effect is observed in shear-thinning, non-Newtonian fluids, like shampoo or dish soap, where viscosity decreases as the fluid is deformed. Like many viscous liquids, a falling stream of these fluids creates a heap. But, when a dimple forms on the heap, a drop in the local viscosity can cause the incoming fluid jet to slip off the heap and rebound upward. As demonstrated in the video, it’s even possible to create a stable Kaye effect cascade down an incline. (Video credit: D. Lohse et al.)

A thin spout of water is drawn up through a layer of oil in the photo on the right. This simple version of the selective withdrawal experiment is illustrated in Figure A, in which a layer of viscous oil floats above a layer of water. A tube introduced in the oil sucks fluid upward. At low flow rates, only the oil will be drawn into the tube, but as the flow rate increases (or the tube’s height above the water decreases), a tiny thread of water will be pulled upward as well. The viscous outer fluid helps suppress instabilities that might break up the inner fluid, and their relative viscosities determine the thickness of the initial spout. In this example, the oil is 195 times more viscous than the water. (Photo credit: I. Cohen et al.)

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This video demonstrates one of my favorite effects: the reversibility of laminar flow. Intuition tells us that un-mixing two fluids is impossible, and, under most circumstances, that is true. But for very low Reynolds numbers, viscosity dominates the flow, and fluid particles will move due to only two effects: molecular diffusion and momentum diffusion. Molecular diffusion is an entirely random process, but it is also very slow. Momentum diffusion is the motion caused by the spinning inner cylinder dragging fluid with it. That motion, unlike most fluid motion, is exactly reversible, meaning that spinning the cylinder in reverse returns the dye to its original location (plus or minus the fuzziness caused by molecular diffusion). 

Aside from being a neat demo, this illustrates one of the challenges faced by microscopic swimmers. In order to move through a viscous fluid, they must swim asymmetrically because exactly reversing their stroke will only move the fluid around them back to is original position. (Video credit: Univ. of New Mexico Physic and Astronomy)

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It’s tough to get much closer to flowing lava than this video of freshly forming coastline in Hawaii. Lava is complex fluid, with viscous properties that vary significantly with chemical composition, temperature and deformation. Here, despite being very viscous, the lava flows quickly–perhaps even turbulently. Several times it forms a heap and even shows signs of the rope-coiling instability familiar from viscous fluids like honey. All in all, it’s quite mesmerizing. (Video credit: K. Singson; submitted by Stuart B.)

dreadfulzombies  asked:

Speaking of science question, there is onethat has been bothering me for years. Why does boiling hot water sound different than cold water when poured into a cup?

!!!! I had no idea that it did sound different, but I can tell you why! Heat is kinetic movement of molecules. Water molecules stick to each other because they’re partially positive on one side and partially negative on the other. But when they’re hotter, they move faster and thus stick to each other less and become less viscous. Hot water, thus, flows more quickly all of the little splashings and bubblings caused when you pour the water happen differently, making different noises! NEAT! 

2

Three Floyds “Moloko”

93 A-


Moloko is a seasonal Milk Stout only released in August. Moloko is Russian for milk. Aromas are malty with notes of roasted coffee, milk chocolate, oatmeal, and maple syrup.


The palate unloads a big body of caramel sweetness resembling Whoppers malted milk balls. Smooth milk chocolate fills up the middle register like a chocolate milkshake. A dull roast approaches, creating a bitter twist that tastes like coffee with vanilla syrup. As the sweetness shifts more toward brown sugar, finer complexities emerge from the rear with a fruity element akin to raisins. Hops impart a weak hint of earth and tobacco on the aftertaste. The mouthfeel delivers a medium-weight, silky body that flows viscous over soft carbonation . Sure, the alcohol may appear a tad hefty on paper, but you’d hardly know it were there at all!


Three Floyds have been known to break the rules, so you see, there are some ‘Imperial’ factors which set this apart from the standard Milk Stout… For one, the hops are a little more robust than normal. Secondly, the 8% ABV is hefty (yet respectable). In the end, agreeable balance holds everything together, so sweetness conquers bitterness, then sourness whispers a soft goodbye. There’s no doubting this is good, but it’s pushing style boundaries. Maybe that’s why I like it so much? I recommend it!


8.0%

30 IBU

Munster, Indiana

lala-kate  asked:

Prompt: Dimples Queen: Monsters under the bed

A/N #1: Happy Birthday my dear Laura! I hope it is filled with joy and laughter, for you, my friend, deserve nothing less.

A/N #2: This is probably not what you had in mind. In fact, I know it’s not. It’s not even close to the prompt. So, I apologize. I don’t know how or why this came about, but it was that or nothing, and well, after I got the idea, it was stuck in my head. I wanted to write it, even though it doesn’t make for the best birthday present.

Update August 21, 2016: Now on ffn and ao3


The blood running through her veins is cold. Frigid. Every heartbeat stings more than the previous one as more of the viscous substance flows through her body, every pump like a knife slicing through her chest, yet she does not shiver. She’s long ago gotten used to the cold. Long before the curse that befell her vital organ, her arteries were clogged by the ice in her bloodstream, making her state permanent. Incurable.

She turns in bed and pretends not to hear the cries of the child, a child with dimples and an unruly mop of brown hair. A child that isn’t hers and will never be, no matter how hard she tries to be what he needs.

There’s a grunt to her right, and the bed dips and lifts as the thief gets up, padded footsteps bringing him to his son’s makeshift bed in the other room.

Whispers are exchanged, she can hear them in the distance, can make out a word out of three, but she knows without need for confirmation what the child is asking for – who he is asking for.

Regina.

Always Regina.

She buries herself deeper in the mattress, under the blankets, and tries to shield herself from the cries and calls for help she can’t answer.

This place is unfamiliar to the child, having grown up in the forest, and he is afraid of the dark, of the monsters that lurk at night.

He doesn’t yet know of the one that shares his father’s bed and though her heart is dark, a part of her hopes he never has to find out.

(She is getting attached, warning bells blare in her head. Monsters do not get attached to their victims.)

During the year they’d forgotten, then remembered, Regina had taken Roland under her wing. She’d poof herself across the castle in a heartbeat should the boy require assistance. She’d shared laughs and dances with the little man who had given the Evil Queen a new reason to fight, though she insisted he call her Regina, for when she was with him, she preferred to pretend her alter-ego was a thing of the past.

For all the time she happily spent with the child, she ignored the irritable father twice as much, but even that didn’t stop her from running to their chambers the moment he informed her the child was asking for her. Though she tried, Regina was never able to resist the pull of motherhood, even for a boy who was not hers to care for. She was helpless in front of him, weak, and would do anything to replace his frown with winking dimples.

Whether the sun shone brightly in the sky or the moonlight filtered through the small window near the ceiling, magic would flicker at her fingertips, a demonstration for the boy’s pleasure and the father’s delight, as she chased imaginary monsters away from the room, swearing to protect the castle’s most special treasure. She’d read to him or tell a story of her own well into the night, more often than not falling asleep with his small body curled up against hers, the following slumber one of the most peaceful the two unlikely friends had known, drawn together by a common enemy and a need for comfort.

And now, Roland is asking for this woman he remembers, with warmth to share and love to give, unaware the one currently lying in the master bedroom is as cold-blooded as they come.

The voices in the other room finally come to a stop.

Robin enters the room a few minutes later, with his usual apologetic whisper of, “I’m sorry, love,” as he slips under the covers, the mattress sinking slightly under his weight.

He is always sorry, she never answers, and this time is no different.

Her silence prompts him to justify his son’s actions. “He’s not used to having you around,” Robin says, his hand finding her arm and giving it a tender stroke, a gentle caress she’s entirely undeserving of. He drops a kiss to her neck when he feels her tense under his touch and promises, “He’ll be calling out for you in no time,” even though they both know the emptiness of his words. It is unlikely his son will forget Regina any time soon, especially not when his father himself couldn’t put her out of his mind.

But she doesn’t want to make a scene tonight – doesn’t need to. She has Robin right where she wants him, wrapped around her little finger, and nodding, she scoots closer to him, accepting his apology and finding warmth in his embrace, letting herself be held as they drift asleep.

He doesn’t take long. Within minutes, he is snoring lightly at her side, but she takes a moment to herself – a quiet moment, observing him through half-lidded eyes, to savour her victory. In these arms and in this instant, she has everything she’s ever dreamed of, everything she ever wanted.

With the hustle and bustle of the city in the background, lulling her to sleep, Zelena smiles, pillows her head on Robin’s arm, and finally closes her eyes.

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Hydrophobic surfaces are great for creating some wild behaviors with water droplets, but they make neat effects with other liquids, too. The viscous honey in the first segment of this Chemical Bouillon video is a great example. Because the honey doesn’t adhere to the hydrophobic surface, the viscoelastic fluid does not maintain the form it had when drizzled on the surface. Instead, the honey contracts, with surface tension driving Plateau-Rayleigh-like instabilities that break the contracting ligaments apart to form nearly spherical droplets of honey on the surface.  (Video credit: Chemical Bouillon

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Here on FYFD, we like to show off the artistic side of fluid dynamics. But some researchers are actively studying how artists use fluid dynamics in their art. In this video, they examine one of Jackson Pollock’s painting techniques, in which filaments of paint were applied by flinging paint off a paintbrush. Getting the technique to work requires a fine balance of forces and effects. Firstly, the paint must be viscous enough to hold together in a filament when flung. Secondly, the centripetal acceleration of the rotation must be high to both form the catenary filament and throw it off the brush. And, finally, the Reynolds number needs to be high enough to add some waviness and instability to the filament so that it looks interesting once it hits the canvas. Also be sure to check out the group’s previous work exploring Siqueiros’s painting techniques. (Video credit: B. Palacios et al.)

Lava is rather fascinating as a fluid. Lava flow regimes range from extremely viscous creeping flows all the way to moderately turbulent channel flow. Lava itself also has a widely varying rheology, with its bulk properties like viscosity and its response to deformation changing strongly with temperature and composition. As lava cools, instabilities form in the fluid, causing the folding, coiling, branching, swirling, and fracturing associated with different types and classes of lava. (Image credit: E. Guddman, via Mirror)