#wind tunnel model

[lonestarflight]

During the Boeing 299 (B-17) development, a pusher prop configuration was tested by the National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics (NACA, later became NASA).

It got as far as wind tunnel testing before it was abandoned. Not much is known.

source

#Boeing B-17 Flying Fortress #Boeing B-17 #B-17 Flying Fortress #B-17 #Flying Fortress #Bomber #NACA #wind tunnel model #wind tunnel #Wind tunnel testing #1930s

[carrosinfoco]

Aerodynamic development in Formula 1

In Formula One (F1) it is required a particular condition when it is being considered the role of the aerodynamicist. Compared to other motorsports categories, the number of people involved in the development is much higher. The team needs to be quite focused in what to do in order to get the results. The aerodynamics department structure The aero department is divided in aero development and…

View On WordPress

#Aerodynamics #cfd simulations #formula one aerodynamics #wind tunnel #wind tunnel model

[es-oh-bfo-em]

#A space shuttle model in a wind tunnel at NASA’s Ames Research Center #1975.

[ikayblythe]

*designs an iterator*

*designs a whole ass region too*

Where Seas Meet Skies is an experimental model of iterator, built vertically over the remains of an old void fluid rig. More a conventional can than an iterator can, curved sides resist strong coastal winds. It's fairly short compared to other cans, a] it's mostly underground and b] WSMS was built before the Rain became lethal. In fact he is one of the few iterators whose can actually gets rained on!

The entire superstructure is named the Ascending Spire, and is separated into ten tiers. More about each tier, and WSMS's neighboring subregions below the cut ⬇️

Horizon is the name of the ancient city atop the Spire. A domed roof was built to protect it from Rain. Only the rich and powerful could afford to live here, and it was mostly municipal and political buildings.

Tier 10 is a residential district, along with Tier 9. Within the centre of Tier 10 lies WSMS's chamber and general systems bus. Tier 9 hosts most of his other processing systems, with the power sources in the lower tiers.

Tier 8 is an agricultural district, supporting the Spire's residents. Most of the vegetation is grown via hydroponics to mske the most out of the limited space. Tier 8 also hosts the Bridge, connecting the Spire to the gate on the mainland.

Tier 7 resides at water level and serves as the industrial district. Most of the Spire's engineers and maintenance workers lived here for quick access to the facilities below. On the outside a small harbor is built around Tier 7, and naturally, Tier 7 hosts an aquaculture industry.

Tier 6 holds the Archives, a sacred place for worship and a library of living memory stores for those who passed on: via death or ascension.

Tier 5 was the original residency for engineers and industrial workers. However when the Rain caused the sea level to rise, poor structural integrity led the outer wall of glass to shatter and flood the inside, leading Tier 5 to be named The Sunken City. All access points to Tier 5 from within the Spire are locked shut, from both the Spire itself and the outside water pressure.

Tier 4 is the first of the iterator's inner processes, and is where intake vents gain water to cool WSMS's systems. The intakes are located higher in the water column, for deeper where the void sea meets the ocean, geothermal energy heats the water too high to be a useful coolant.

Tier 3 is a hydroelectric plant, reusing the water from the cooling systems to generate power. Iterators don't really use "batteries" so these generators were mainly used to power the inhabited tiers rather than WSMS himself.

WSMS doesn't produce Rain unlike other iterators, instead releasing the heated water into the deep ocean at Tier 2, or the aptly named Boiling Trench. Heat pollution has rendered the surrounding waters almost devoid of life.

The Distillery is based on the remnants of an old void fluid extraction hub that were incorporated directly into the Spire for ease of access. It sources directly from the Void Fissure, an opening in the ocean floor leading directly to the void sea.

Adjacent to the Distillery are the old Mines that predate the iterator era. Before the fissure was discovered the ancients dug into underground void fluid aquifers. When the sea rose, the initial entrances became flooded, but an access tunnel still connects the Mines to the Distillery.

#artwork #digital art #art #artists on tumblr #digital illustration #original art #worldbuilding #rainworld #rain world #rain world fanart #rain world iterator #rain world art #rain world oc #rw iterator #iterator oc #oc lore #just realized i forgot to draw the fuckin harbor #just imagine theres lil boats there guys #or theyve all sunk since its been millenia idk #rw sunshower #sunshower lore

[formlab]

A wind-tunnel model of a supersonic transport undergoing testing at NASA Langley Research Center on January 17, 1975

[thevaultoftheatomicspaceage]

A space shuttle model in a wind tunnel at NASA’s Ames Research Center, 1975.

[seat-safety-switch]

If there's a long tunnel near you, then chances are someone is trying to go fast in it for a cool noise right now. The pursuit of cool noises is as old as the automobile, although I'm sure that some folks have tried to make their horses go clippity-clop a little faster when the first horse tunnels were engineered.

The reason why it sounds rad is simple: physics. Normally, you don't get to hear how cool your car sounds because the exhaust noise is pointed away from you, and it dissipates into the air around you very quickly. A tunnel is a chance to let 'er rip. Sure, your fellow tunnel occupants won't like it, but that's because they're also trying to figure out what their engines sound like at full throttle and you're harshing their buzz.

You might think that "my car sounds cool" is an immature and antisocial position to take. And that's true: the cops will pull you over and read you the riot act for making a loud noise in an enclosed space. Some of them will even pretend to be automotive engineers and magically develop the ability to tell if your exhaust was stock or not. Courts haven't declared brap to be a freedom-of-speech thing, deserving of being protectively ensconced in the arms of the law. What is one of those freedom-of-speech things that the judges love? Casual public racism at high volume. Oh, so now my Slant Six isn't sounding so bad after all, huh? I thought not.

Ultimately, the way to make things better for all of us is for all of us to use the tunnel. If you have a base-model Dodge Caravan, roll down your window and let that Pentastar sing. It probably makes more horsepower than my own car, which for some reason made a giant hole in the side of the engine as I was trying to wind it out so it would make a cool sound.

[gallifreyanhotfive]

Random Doctor Who Facts You Might Not Know, Part 42

The Mara jumped from Tegan into the Fifth Doctor, then also affected Nyssa and Turlough. The Mara will stay with them all forever in the back of their minds. (Audio: The Cradle of the Snake)

The Brigadier has forced the Fourth Doctor to write apology and thank you letters before but always thoroughly edits them to make them more polite or completely rewrites it himself if they're too rude. (Novel: The Time Lord Letters)

Turlough had a childhood sweetheart named Deela. Since they had been teenagers, they decided to make the key to the vault of his winter palace their literal kiss. (Audio: Kiss of Death)

The Third Doctor taught Jo Venusian aikido. (Audio: The Sacrifice of Jo Grant)

While at the Academy, the Doctor wrote a paper dissecting romantic love. He concluded that love was nothing but chemicals and metabolites. His professor gave him an absolutely dreadful grade on it because the Doctor missed the point of the assignment entirely. (Audio: The Wormery)

The TARDIS recalls that the Ninth Doctor was beaten after losing a war "against Death." She misses this incarnation. (Short story: What the TARDIS thought of "Time Lord Victorious")

The TARDIS had a lot of issues trying to translate Peri's accent. (Audio: The Lost Planet)

Putting the sonic screwdriver through the laundry can result in all the dirt molecules being agitated until it forms a mud creature. (Comic: Laundro-Room of Doom)

The Eighth Doctor once became depressed with his model train set because he wanted something less perfect. After he returned from an adventure, he found that a disaster had occurred among his model trains. When he went to clean up, he saw that the miniature people in his train set had started putting things right, so he decided to let them fix it themselves and hopefully learn things from the experience. (Short story: Model Train Set)

At one point, the Doctor switched out the TARDIS stereo system for a micromodulator switch, which is capable of shrinking things, and forgot about it. The Tenth Doctor and Rose were accidentally shrunk using it, and while shrunk, he got stuck in a spider web. (Comic: Which Switch?)

Type 1 TARDISes were notoriously temperamental and sometimes attacked and consumed the scientists working on them. When the Eleventh Doctor managed to calm one down after winding up in early Gallifrey, Rassilon noticed this and had him work on developing Type 1s, taking advantage of his advanced knowledge. (Comic: The Lost Dimension)

When these scientists had asked who the Doctor was, he eventually decided to let everyone call him Theta-Sigma. (Comic: The Lost Dimension)

Vortex drillers were used by early Gallifreyans to tunnel through the time vortex. They were discontinued because of the damage this did to time. They kind of looked like castles, but instead of turrets, there were drills. There would be altars for Gallifreyan cults inside, and they had mineralic circuitry. (Audio: The Auton Infinity)

The War Master once manipulated Jo into thinking that he was her uncle. (Audio: A Quiet Night In)

"Theta Sigma" was simply a unique identifier used by the Doctor in his youth. It should not be spoken out loud outside of the Academy (not that this ever stopped many people who knew him at the time). (Novel: Falls the Shadow)

First 1 Prev 41 Next 43

#doctor who #dw #dr who #classic who #new who #big finish #big finish doctor who #big finish audios #dw eu #doctor who eu #doctor who expanded universe #fifth doctor #eighth doctor #tegan jovanka #nyssa #vislor turlough #fourth doctor #brigadier alistair gordon lethbridge stewart #brigadier #brigadier lethbridge stewart #the master #war master #jo grant #third doctor #eleventh doctor #tenth doctor #rose tyler #ninth doctor #peri brown #think about theta sigma like a barcode beep beep the scanner says its that bitch

[usafphantom2]

Wind tunnel testing was so draining using so much electricity that it would deplete the electricity for an entire town .

This one-twelfth-scale Blackbird wind tunnel test article sits proudly on display at Blackbird Airpark in Palmdale, California. It was used for initial wind tunnel testing after the CIA awarded the A-12 contract to Lockheed on September 14, 1959. I would love to “borrow” this beautiful model and hang it in my home.

The model is constructed of a rugged, heavy stainless steel. To save money, the model was developed with three interchangeable forebody sections, representing the A-12, SR-71, and YF-17. The aft body of all the Blackbird aircraft are essentially the same. All you had to do was replace the nose and you would have a different air frame.

Reading in Ben Rich‘s book, the “Skunk Works” Rich logged hundreds of ($10,000 to $15,000 an hour) wind testing the Blackbird . Wind tunnel tests help inventors and manufacturers better understand the nature of the flow of air over and around a vehicle or object, as well as the effects it causes on that object, especially aerodynamic forces. Ben would travel north to Moffett Field and test at NASA Ames Research Center” We found that running Mach 3 pressures for several hours drains so much of the electricity that was needed by local industry that we were forced to test only late at night, working until dawn.’’ In other words, the local businesses and homes would not having enough electricity. It was that draining. Ben Rich, and his group would then travel back down to the Skunk Works in Southern California. Ben literally did not have time to sleep! His hard work paid off Ben was the designer of the engine's inlets that would move backwards up to three feet to position it’s shockwave to minimize drag. Ben later designed the F117. Check out this one minute video.

TAP ARROW BUTTON TO VIEW 👇

m.youtube.com/watch?si=3sOS7…

Written by Linda Sheffield

Source, the “Skunk Works”

Habu, by Curt Mason

@Habubrats71 via Twitter

#Youtube

[totowlff]

beware the trap

➝ request: could you right a short fic of toto telling the reader everything will be okay and it will all work out, don’t beat yourself down?

➝ word count: 3,6k

➝ warnings: mental breakdown

➝ author’s notes: i haven't written a one-shot for a long time and i was particularly inspired this week. the poem toto is referring to is called beware the trap by kelly mistry. I read it this week and it touched me deeply. finally, remember: do not fall into the trap.

As you stretched after hours of being slouched in front of the computer, your eyes found the clock in the corner of the screen. You ran a hand over your face and rubbed your eyes a bit, because you were sure you weren’t reading it correctly. It was not possible that it was already this late. A second look was enough for you to make sure you weren’t seeing things.

It was past midnight.

You pressed your palms into your eyes and took a deep breath. You were supposed to have left hours ago, when the rest of your team left. But, there you were, sitting at your workstation in your cubicle in the wind tunnel building, which was part of the Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula 1 Team complex. You’d stayed late, but hadn’t meant to stay quite this late. No reason to leave now, though — it didn’t make any sense, with all of the work you had to do.

“You made us throw a whole year in the bin”, you remembered Mike, your boss, telling you that morning. You leaned back in your office chair as his voice echoed in your head. On the monitor in front of you, the dorsal view of a 3D car model made something feel tight in your chest.

When the new set of technical regulations hit your desk, you, as the chief aerodynamicist, made a point of studying them closely, along with Jordan and Giorgio, two of the best aerodynamicists on your team. Soon, you began to draft concepts, and eventually, your team narrowed it down to two radically different interpretations of the regulations. From the readings you were doing, it seemed that both of them had great potential. 

After running models through the CFD software and running numerous simulations, everything pointed to the idea that you had — the concept of a low, flat sidepod, nicknamed the ‘zeropod’ — being the most efficient from an aerodynamic point of view. It was something definitely different than expected by John Owen, the chief designer, who believed that the car would follow a similar concept to that envisioned by the FIA.

However, the idea you ended up pushing was a bold choice. Your idea of placing the air intakes vertically and more or less glued to the cockpit, with the upper area of the floor designed to direct airflow to the rear wing. In all of the modeling, simulations, and wind tunnel testing, it generated the ideal amount of downforce.

The presentation of the concept was a success. You remembered James Allison smiling as you explained the design, along with all of the calculations and results of the testing that you and your team had done. Aerodynamically, it was your best work, the fruit of many long hours in front of the computer, many cups of coffee, and even the occasional cans of energy drinks that you usually preferred to avoid.

On the day of the W13 presentation, you were sure that you’d delivered your master work, that you would finally be able to make your mark on the team’s history. 

But then, reality came crashing down.

During the shakedown, it was clear that something was wrong. The car was unstable, bouncing wildly and unpredictably. It was something that hadn’t shown up in wind tunnel testing and simulations. 

You had it wrong. Your concept required the car to be run as low to the ground as possible, which caused the floor to scrape and bounce over every miniscule bump on the track, because the suspension also had to be incredibly stiff. The issue could be alleviated by raising the ride height, but that caused the car to run with far too much drag, eliminating its straight-line speed.

 Your masterpiece had turned into a monster.

Every race weekend was torture. The questions, doubts, and stares from your team made you feel like you were in a court of law, going through the longest trial of your life. It was your decision that put the team on the back foot. As much as Toto liked to tell the press that everyone in Brackley and Brixworth was working “flat-out” to unlock the car’s performance, you could tell that your coworkers were losing motivation. Lewis was suffering, George was suffering.

It was your fault. Only you could fix it. 

You started working on the W14 by yourself, almost in complete secrecy. You would come home from work and sit in your office at home, doing calculations and making models for hours. You wanted to fix things, you wanted to offer the team a better car. You wanted to make your idea work.

When you pitched the project to Mike Elliott, he was skeptical. He didn't believe the concept was a good one, it hadn't worked up to that point in the season. You argued, you presented the differences, you showed the points you had reworked, especially on the floor. After reviewing the data and the simulations your had run with Frederik, he seemed more interested.

The presentation of the W14, with the sidepod design you had in mind, was an indication that the technical and sporting team still trusted you to create a car capable of winning championships. You had done it before, and you were sure that this time you had hit the nail on the head with the floor design.

And then, it all came crashing down again.

You took another deep breath and looked at your clock again, clenching your jaw. You hadn't eaten anything since lunch. In your mind, every minute of work counted, especially after what Mike told you that morning. At the same time, your body was begging for something, your stomach rumbling loudly.

You stood up from your chair, stretched your back and shoulders a bit, grabbed your phone and your work badge, and walked out of the aerodynamics offices, and out of the wind tunnel building. You were hoping the cool night air would refresh you, but as you walked slowly to the main building, you felt completely absent from your body. Your mind was too distracted, a swirling maelstrom of numbers from the simulation results of the new design. Your team had affectionately nicknamed the concept ‘WNewey’, as it took cues from the concept used by Red Bull’s car the year before.

Entering the main building, you nodded as you were greeted by the receptionist, and made your way towards the cafeteria, which was strangely empty. You approached the counter, where an employee was sitting, fiddling with her cell phone.

— Hi — you murmured. She stood up and slipped her phone into the pocket of her apron.

— Good evening. What can I get for you?

You looked around, trying to take in what was on offer to eat. Despite how hungry you were, everything just looked like blobs of colors to your tired eyes, and your stomach was churning too much to eat anything.

— Do you have any Monster, or any other energy drinks? — you asked quietly.

— We do. What flavor do you want?

— Dealer’s choice.

The woman went to the refrigerator on the back counter, took out a black can, and placed it on the counter. After scanning your badge and the payment terminal beeping to confirm your payment, you went to one of the tables and sat down. After opening the can and taking a sip of the sugary, syrupy drink, your gaze was lost on the table in front of you.

After a few minutes, you heard someone else walk into the canteen area, but didn’t look up until you heard a familiar voice.

— Good evening, Poppy. Could you make me an espresso, please?

You lifted your head and saw Toto Wolff, the team principal and CEO of the company, standing in front of the counter. He was holding his cell phone, in its fluro yellow case, in one hand, and his badge in another. His posture indicated that he had to be tired, too. His shoulders looked tense under the white dress shirt he was wearing. His sleeves were pushed up to the elbows, as they usually were. 

— Of course, Mr. Wolff. You’re here late. Did you want that with milk?

— No, just sugar, thank you. And you know how it is, remote meetings with Crowdstrike executives in Texas — Toto replied. He turned his head slightly to the side, which allowed you to see his face. He was scratching his forehead with one hand, and scrolling through something on his phone with the other. He seemed tired. Poppy had just set his coffee cup down on the counter as he sighed deeply.

“Another year in the bin”, you thought, as you heard the sound of his badge scanning on the payment terminal. Then, you watched as he took his coffee and turned toward you with a small smile on his lips.

— Ah, good evening, Y/N — he said, his smile fading as he looked more closely at your face — Is everything okay?

You blinked, as you snapped out of your cycle of mental self-flagellation. 

— Yeah, everything is… Fine.

He approached you, seeming to study your expression. His appraising look made you feel somewhat exposed, as if Toto was able to know exactly what you were thinking and feeling at that moment.

— What are you doing here at this hour?

You stayed silent for a few seconds.

— Working. Well, I came to get something to drink, but I'll be heading back to my office in a bit. 

— Wait, weren’t you here this — he hesitated, glancing at the black and teal watch on his wrist — I suppose, yesterday morning?

— Yes.

— What are you still doing here? Aren’t you normally finished at five?

You sighed, pursing your lips.

— I'm working on the car.

— You can do that during the day. You don’t have to stay past midnight, you know.

You looked down at the floor.

— Yes, I do.

— Why?

— Because I — you started to say, but your voice cracked. You took a deep breath to try and compose yourself before continuing. — I need to save our year.

Toto put down his coffee cup and phone next to your drink can and pulled up a chair, sitting next to you. You felt a bit sheepish as you glanced up at him, noticing the concern in his expression.

— Y/N, you're not going to save our year — he said, in a low voice — Simply because there's nothing that needs saving.

You lifted your head, feeling your throat tighten.

— But the car…

— Of course, we're facing difficulties with the car, but it's not going to be one single individual that will solve all of its problems, especially working such long hours by yourself.

You let silence hang between the two of you. You could feel the misery welling up inside you, anger and anguish filling your chest. You felt like you were a ticking time bomb.

— It's all my fault — you stammered, your voice low, your eyes brimming with tears, and your lower lip trembling. He stared at you intently, seemingly trying to process what you'd just said.

— What?

— It's my fault — you repeated, before burying your face in your hands and starting to sob. The anger you felt at yourself for screwing up was painful. It felt like hot, acidic bile in your throat. All you wanted to do was prove yourself, but you threw away all of your team’s hard work, eight years of constructor’s victories, and seven years of driver’s championships, all because you were too invested in the idea of making your damn sidepod concept work, when every race on every circuit across the world was proof that it didn’t.

You were so deep in your misery that you didn't notice the moment when you were wrapped in a pair of arms, nor when a gentle hand came to the back of your head, pressing it into a broad, firm shoulder. You were surprised when you realized that Toto had pulled you into a hug, but it felt like a lifeline, something you needed. You’d been drowning in the feeling that you’d failed for far too long.

After a few more minutes of Toto letting you cry on his shoulder, in the most literal sense, you managed to pull yourself together enough to lift your face and look at Toto again. There was concern in his dark eyes as he gently brushed a strand of hair away from your eyes

— Feeling better? — he asked. His voice was gentle and quiet.

— A little — you replied, swiping the back of your hand across your nose as you sniffled.

— Do you want to talk about it?

— About what?

— Whatever is making you cry in the factory canteen past midnight.

Your throat tightened again, but you resisted the urge to cry. “Breathe”, you told yourself, as you struggled to get air into your lungs. After some time, you managed to find your voice steady enough to start talking.

— Well, for starters, the zeropod concept was my idea. I was the one who invested all of my time and energy into it, and convinced everyone to get behind it. Worse than that, I was the one who insisted that we continue working with this concept in the W14, even though it didn't work out — you said, looking at your hands — In the end, I guess Mike is right. I threw this year into the bin.

— What? Mike said that to you?

You looked up at Toto. His expression changed from concern to what looked like irritation. It was unexpected, especially in reference to someone he worked with so closely. 

— Yeah, this morning. We were talking about Bahrain and Saudi Arabia, and he said that the results were disappointing, and that he doesn't understand my insistence on this zeropod concept. I explained that the problem wasn’t the sidepods anymore, but the rear downforce — you hesitated for a moment — He wouldn't listen. He said I threw the team's year in the bin with this and that I should start thinking about doing something different next year.

Silence hung between you again. Toto flexed his jaw, looking thoughtful. It felt a little wrong to sell your boss out to the CEO of the company like that, but your frustration and tiredness was overriding your desire to avoid further conflict with Mike.

— Well, one thing I can tell you definitively is that Mike is wrong, Y/N.

— Toto...

— I understand his frustration, as he is the technical director and everything related to the design of the car comes down on his head. But, our performance this year and last year isn't anyone's fault in particular — he continued, grasping your hands in his — We're a team, Y/N. Everything we do, we do as a team. You came up with the idea of zeropods and presented them well. We couldn’t predict the issues with suspension and ride height, which did not help.

— But if we had…

— It's no use thinking about what could have been, Y/N. Of course, we would like to be further ahead in the development of the car this year, but we made a mistake. It’s okay to make mistakes, and it’s okay to admit you’ve made mistakes. The problem is not learning from it. And clearly you've learned, so much so that you're trying to make it right in the worst way possible.

— The… worst?

— Staying so late, especially when you arrive so early, is not the way to go about this. You think you have more time, but you will just end up burning yourself out, which will cause you to make even more mistakes. No mind, no matter how brilliant, is immune to weariness.

You took a few seconds to absorb what you’d heard, like you couldn’t believe it. Toto Wolff had just called you brilliant.

But why wasn’t it making you feel any better?

— I just wanted to stop feeling like this…

— Like what?

— Guilty — you whispered, ducking your head — I feel so guilty, all the time.

He sighed, bringing his fingers to your chin and gently lifting your face to look back up at him.

— A while ago, I read a very interesting poem. I can’t remember who wrote it or what it was called, but it struck me because it was all about how guilt implies that you have the power to change the course of things when, in fact, you may not actually have the power to do so. This ends up making the emotion of guilt somewhat of a trap. It tricks you into believing that you are always in control, when in reality, you are not.

You blinked, listening to his words and the way he was talking to you. It was strangely soothing.

— What I mean, is that no one has control over the consequences or impacts of their actions. What we can control, though, is our actions and intentions. And you had the best of intentions, Y/N. You thought outside the box, came up with an innovative solution and even gave us a win last year.

— One win out of twenty-two races, after eight winning seasons. It feels like nothing.

— It’s not nothing, Y/N. It’s proof that, working together, we can achieve our goals. It makes me very proud, not only of you, but of the entire team. At the beginning of last season, nobody would have expected us to get a 1-2. We worked as a team and proved everybody wrong.

His words immediately brought tears back to your eyes, and it wasn’t long before you started to cry in earnest again. Toto just pulled you back into hug, your head nestled on his shoulder.

You had always admired him, for his own resilience and mental strength. The way Toto always saw difficulties as a comfort zone made him an inspiration. You wanted to be like him, to become an even better person under adverse conditions, like graphite under pressure becomes a diamond. 

Pulling away again, you ran your hand over your face, trying to dry the last of your tears. Then, you noticed that his shirt was wet from where you’d been crying onto it.

— Sorry — you said quietly, feeling your cheeks heat up.

— For what? — he asked, raising an eyebrow. As you pointed to the shoulder of his shirt, Toto smirked — No need to apologize, Y/N. I have a five-year old son, I've dealt with worse than a few tears on my clothes. Far worse.

His comment brought a small smile to your face.

— I can imagine — you murmured.

— Now, I want you to go to your office, get your things, and go home. And I don’t want to see you tomorrow… I mean, later today, at the office. You need to rest.

— Toto — you started, but he cut you off.

— Smashing your head against your keyboard is not the solution to our problems, Y/N. I insist. You will stay at home, off duty. If you think about showing up, you'll be stopped at the gates.

— You know that I can just work from home…

— Don't make me have IT revoke your access, Y/N.

— You wouldn't do that — you said, in a slightly indignant tone.

— Are you going to challenge me on that? — he asked, his voice teasing.

— No, Mr Wolff.

A satisfied smile appeared on Toto's face.

— Good — he said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear — Oh, and one more thing. If Mike starts again with this talk about you ‘throwing our year into the bin’, come talk to me, please.

His request made your stomach lurch. You liked Mike. He didn't seem as open to your ideas as James was when he was the team's technical director, but he had his own vision, which you respected. The relationship between you and Mike was always cordial, and he was willing to challenge you on your ideas, but it never had been so acrimonious as it had gotten that morning.

— I don't want to hurt Mike.

— You will not hurt him. He will be hurting himself if he continues with this behavior. He knows we have a zero-blame culture here, and why, and how seriously I take it. Please let me know if this happens again.

You nodded.

After a good-natured comment about his coffee, which, by that point, must have gone cold, you got up from your table and returned to the office, downing what was left of your energy drink on your way back to the wind tunnel building, feeling relieved, and strangely light.

You turned off your computer and left the factory for your flat, which wasn't far away. After taking a shower and changing into your pajamas, you laid down on your bed and became acutely aware of how tired you were. It was as if every part of your body was screaming at you to take a break, and you finally got a chance to do so.

After sleeping a good part of the next day, you took the afternoon to clean up your flat, relax, and cooked yourself a nice meal instead of getting takeaway or heating a frozen dinner. You avoided picking up your phone to even look at it, as Toto had sent you a message on the company Slack telling that he would confiscate it if he saw you online.

You felt much better the day after. You felt rested, and felt better about yourself and your work. You had hope for things to get better, for you to get more confident. You were trying your hardest, and it was being noticed. There was nothing better than that.

So you thought.

When you arrived at your desk, you noticed a cardboard to-go cup sitting in front of your keyboard. The coffee inside was still hot. There was a blue Post-It note stuck to the lid, the handwriting on it familiar to you.

“Beware the trap of believing you always have control - TW”.

You smiled as you stuck the note to the bottom edge of your computer monitor.

You would not fall into that trap again.

#toto wolff #toto wolff x reader #toto wolff x you #toto wolff fluff #f1 one shot #formula 1 one shot #formula one one shot #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 fic #f1 fic #formula one fic #f1 fanfic #formula 1 fanfic #wlffog #oneshotwlff

[lonestarflight]

"Photograph showing a one-third scaled model of the Saturn I Block II launch vehicle. Ground wind investigations form an indispensible part of the painstaking research program that lies behind successful flights of launch vehicles of all sizes, and the National Aeronautics And Space Administration Langley Research Center has specialized in such wind-tunnel studies for many years. Here, in a cooperative program with the George C. Marshall Space Flight Center, is an installation in Langley's Transonic Dynamics Tunnel of an aero-elastically scaled model of the Saturn I Block II launch vehicle with the Apollo spacecraft and its escape system. It is mounted on a turntable with the umbilical tower so that it can be rotated to receive the force of the wind stream from any direction. Before wind tunnel tests begin, the model is shaken mechanically to determine its vibration characteristics. Surface winds cause steady oscillatory deflection of free-standing launch vehicles which must be thoroughly understood to overcome problems in structural strength, guidance alignment, and instrument checkout. Wind-tunnel test results guide the design of launch pedestals to assure ample strength for any surface wind conditions."

97-732

#Saturn I Block II #Rocket #NASA #Apollo Program #wind tunnel model #Langley Research Center #Hampton #Virginia #1960s #undated #my post

[carrosinfoco]

Wind tunnel race car models: handling systems

Handling systems are necessary to provide movements of the suspensions in order to emulate the vehicle behaviors. These are braking, acceleration, high speed corner, slow speed corners and straight line movement. Hence, it is possible to change the ride heights and steering. In addition, the movements yaw and rolling are also performed by the wind tunnel model (WTM). Types of actuators Any WTM…

View On WordPress

#actuators of wind tunnel #Aerodynamics #wind tunnel for race cars #wind tunnel model

[petermorwood]

Based on reality...ish.

After seeing this post, @elizabethgoudge wondered:

"Wasn't there a real prototype like the Hydra plane in Captain America?"

TL:DR -Yes, there was. Indeed there were several, though "real" is a bit bit up in the air (or not, considering that none of these things ever flew...)

*****

"Captain America: The First Avenger" based some of its hardware on four or maybe even five Nazi-era prototypes, "real" in the sense of having a nebulous existence as sketches, blueprints, or concept / wind-tunnel models.

The film's design department clearly knew their stuff. They may have used other things instead or as well (there were so MANY), so the following is just my own speculation, based on many years of making many model kits :->

The Hydra mini-sub...

...seems based on a cross between the (real) "Seehund" midget submarine...

...and the design-concept Focke-Wulf Ta 283 ramjet aircraft.

Red Skull's escape plane, though never clearly visible...

...wasn't just based on but WAS a Focke-Wulf Triebflügel ("powered wings" - meaning the ramjet-driven rotor blades around its waist).

This was a proposed tail-sitter VTOL interceptor where taking off straight up might (?) have been possible, but landing straight down and backwards would invite all sorts of unwanted excitement.

It also made a brief background appearance in "Loki".

The Valkyrie flying wing…

…was based on, and hugely upscaled from, the Horten H.XVIII, one of many pie-in-the-sky "Amerikabomber" projects.

Resemblance to a Northrop YB-35 (props) / YB-49 (jets)...

…is coincidence based on form-follows-function, since - and rather importantly - the Northrop planes were built for use by the US Air Force, not the Luftwaffe (though given the way some plotlines went, their use by Hydra is another matter…)

The flying bombs which it carried...

...seem based partly on a Messerschmitt Me 334 project fighter...

...and partly on a Sombold So 344 bomber-destroyer, which had the same detachable-bomb arrangement.

The So 344's explosive nose was meant to be launched into a formation of Allied bombers, after which - despite aerodynamics now wildly out of whack and a bunch of angry escort fighters in hot pursuit - the piloted part would land safely.

Yeah, right...

*****

Despite "what if...?" suggestions on the "History" Channel that one or other of these contraptions could have "won WW2", they didn't even help to lose it less severely.

IMO their probable main purpose was to keep numerous engineers and designers safe(-ish) with pencil and ruler in workshops and at drawing boards, rather than very much not safe with rifle and grenade on some bomb-and-bullet-swept front line.

*****

Besides the midget submarine, there's one other exception to all this based-on-paper stuff, and that's Red Skull's car...

...whose inspiration seems to have been the Mercedes Benz W31 G4 heavy staff car and a Hispano Suiza H6A limousine custom-built in 1923 for the King of Spain.

All of which goes along with my own notion, that starting with a real - or merely "real" - object is a great way to make fantasy objects look, and sound in description, more convincing.

Or, as @dduane says, "The more truth you mix with a lie, the stronger it gets..."

:->

#captain america the first avenger #hydra vehicles #based on reality #research #mix fact with fiction #diane duane

[puzzled-pegasus]

Finch ghost design thoughts for an AU idea I have! (Cw vomit and injury mentions)

Molly: the spirit of Molly appears in her nightgown, looking tattered and dirty, and traces of vomit can be seen on the fabric. Her skin is pale and sickly, her eyes gold and slitted like a cat's, with a few streaks of black and copper in her otherwise blonde hair, reminiscent of calico cat fur.

Calvin: Calvin's spirit appears wearing his favorite space helmet, and his face is not easily seen underneath. He uses his ghostly power to float above the ground more often than not, and his mischievous nature lives on as he haunts the Finch house, closing doors and flicking the lights on and off, and creaking the old swing on which he used to play so often. Calvin has fun being a ghost; he hardly regrets his death.

Barbara: Barbara's spirit appears in the school clothes she wore on the Halloween night of her death, mysteriously torn and spattered with dark blood. A curtain of her blonde hair hides the spot where her ear is missing, torn off during the struggle that cost her her life. She is seldom seen, but if one listens closely, she can be heard practicing her famous scream on windy nights, easily mistaken for the call of a raven or the whistling gusts of wind.

Walter: The lonely spirit of Walter Finch wanders the beach where he emerged from his tunnel, searching for his family that he hasn't seen in... who knows how long. If he can be convinced to appear, for he has always been shy, he can be seen with various wounds alluding to his train incident, as well as marks on his clothes where the train's wheels trampled them. He can be convinced to appear by burning a can of peaches as an offering, or perhaps by putting together one of his model trains and turning it on.

Sam: Sam's spirit stays in his room, guarding his photos that he took of his family during his life. If a living person so much as picks up one of his precious memories, he will appear to scold them. He can be seen wearing his outdoor gear, same as the clothes he wore on his last hunting trip with Dawn, and he has a visible wound on the back of his head where it made impact with a rock, causing his death. Twigs and leaves can be seen in his clothing and hair, having stuck to him on the way down from the ledge from which he fell.

#wroef #what remains of edith finch #ghosts #ghost au #ghost angst

[catkyunie]

The Flicker of A Flame ♡

Happy Mingi Month Day 2 of 31 ✧˖°.

𝚜𝚢𝚗𝚘𝚙𝚜𝚒𝚜: After passing away in a fatal accident, your ghost lingers. Watching as Mingi falls apart at the seams, you do everything you can to try and reconnect and help your beloved remember what it means to live. 

𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: song mingi x fem!reader

𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎: a whole bunch of angst 

𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐(𝚜): car accident, ghost reader, reader death, established relationship, anxiety, depression, grief, alcohol consumption (if I missed any please let me know!)

𝚠𝚌: 4.1k

What surprised you the most about dying was how weightless you felt. That's the thing with death; no one can ever really know what to expect when that moment happens because no one ever truly returns. This wasn’t a case of seeing any light at the end of a tunnel or having a reel of your entire life play out for you in a moment that seemed to last an eternity. This was instantaneous. One moment you were alive, breathing, anchored down by the weight of Mingi’s hand on your thigh. The next, you were gone, snuffed out as quickly as a candle flame. In a blink, you went from basking in the warm afterglow of an evening with your beloved to the incredible expanse of space that left you levitating in what felt like the deepest pool of water with no beginning or end. There was no pain or clear memory of what had happened. Flashes of light quickly played behind your vision, and you could hear the scrape of metal on metal. And then, with another blink, you were standing in the middle of an intersection. 

An accident had left both cars mangled and fusing into an amalgamation of twisted and gnarled steel. Pedestrians had begun to gather on either side of the street, some vehicles stopping to assess the damage, far-off voices calling out to anyone who may have survived. In the distance, you could hear the wail of sirens as they closed in on the scene. Try as you might to peel your eyes away from the tragedy, despite the confusion and terror that seeped into your bones and rooted itself at the base of your spine, a detail kept you transfixed. The car that had received the brunt of the impact was the same make, model, and color as…

That’s when you heard it. What played the most clearly for you, like the chime of a bell down an empty hall, was Mingi’s scream. It rang and reverberated in your bones, penetrating your very spirit. You had never heard that sound come from him. And the only thing he repeatedly howled into the apex of the fused vehicles was your name. Over and over and over, he called for you, each iteration of your name becoming more desperate and helpless than the last. Finally, you peeled your eyes from the accident scene and looked down into the palms of your hands. The appendages felt alien to you as you watched the way they trembled like leaves in the wind, here yet not entirely. You knew with certainty that they were your hands as you turned them over, your eyes landing on and fixing themselves to the ring that adorned your left hand. That’s right. You and Mingi had been on your way home after a team dinner, which he had orchestrated under the guise of business to assemble your closest friends and members to ask you to be his bride. 

No. No, no, this couldn’t be right. This had to be a dream. There was no way. You felt your body begin to move before you were even sure of where it was going, your voice passing through your lips like a whisper. You were stumbling your way to Mingi, his wails of panic still just as gut-wrenching and blood-curdling. He was being pulled from the wreckage as you approached, the firemen trying their best to calm your partner’s panic while also attempting to restrain him, informing him that the more he fought them, the more he could exacerbate his injuries or even spring new ones. But Mingi was in blind hysteria, his eyes never leaving the passenger seat, a mixture of blood and fresh, hot tears contorting and twisting his face into the very definition of pain. 

“Mingki, jagi, please, I’m right here! Look, I’m fine!” you babbled, in desperate spurts, your hands reaching for him. 

You needed him to see, to understand. It was a dream. He had to wake up. Stepping to his side, then, you made the mistake of following the line of his vision and was greeted with the source of the mania he had become so lost in. In a mess of flesh and steel, your head lulled over on one shoulder, eyes sparkling with tears and happiness only an hour before, now lifeless and cold. While the scene itself wasn’t necessarily gruesome, it was the hollow expression that colored your features, the pale stretch of skin over your cheeks that were usually so vibrant and brightly colored, that genuinely sealed your fate. This wasn’t a dream. This was very much real. There, in that intersection, somewhere on the streets of Seoul, you had died. And so did Mingi. 

____________________________________________________________

The first two weeks were the hardest. Having Mingi within arms reach, extending a hand and running your knuckles over his, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek to his muscled back, and feeling his heartbeat, yet knowing he could feel none of it. The methods in which your physical touch had comforted him prior were now doing nothing. It left you feeling hopeless. There had been a few instances where he would respond to your touch, a subtle turn of the head, or a questioning gaze that lingered too long on your general direction to be a coincidence. But, each time you felt your chest blossom with the silent wish that you had made that connection, he’d simply turn away from you and fall back into his stupor.

That was the hardest. Death, in comparison, had been like the dream you had so desperately wished it to be. The death of drive, motivation, and will of your partner made it real. Seeing how he sunk in on himself and became a shell of the man you envisioned spending your life with hurt the most. Immediately following your death and with the guidance of his manager, Hongjoong, Mingi went on an indefinite leave of absence from their company. The only time he ever left the house was when he was left with scraps of food, and even then, that was only after his team members and best friends had stopped frequenting your home with delivery and takeout. At least once a week, someone from the team would come by to check on him, usually either Yunho or San, and sit with him. Words were rarely ever exchanged. It was mostly extended periods of silence with the occasional break in the form of your friends commenting on their current business proposals or the change in weather. Only once had they made the unforeseen mistake of mentioning you. 

It was a few weeks following the accident. San and Wooyoung had both visited, bringing over beer and soju. It was the first time that Mingi had done more than sit idly on the sofa, tea going cold in his hands as he stared at his reflection in the strained liquid. He was engaging, albeit quietly, and had said more than hello and goodbye. As the night continued, with more booze being introduced into everyone’s system, Wooyoung had chosen to break the silence with a thought. 

“You guys remember that one night we had taken y/n out for her promotion within the company?” he mused, eyes transfixed on the last sip of alcohol that he swished lazily at the bottom of his glass. San’s eyes immediately shifted to Wooyoung, observing him and listening closely as the younger of the two continued. “She had maybe two drinks and was already flushed and giggling at every stupid joke we told. Even the bad ones.” 

“Woo…” San spoke cautiously, his gaze now jumping between the two men seated on either side of him. 

“Even you don’t get drunk that quickly, Sannie.” Wooyoung laughed, throwing his drink back and finishing it with a quick gulp. “I’m convinced she played all of us for a fool at the team dinners and took water shots instead of soju.” 

San reached around Wooyoung then, feeling the tension as it began building in the room, his hand finding and pulling the bottle of booze away from Woo’s reach.

“Alright, buddy, I think you might have had enough–”

“You remember, don’t you, hyung?” Wooyoung said quietly.

A beat of silence permeated the room before he continued, eyes glassed over and lost in a memory. “She clung to every word we said. You could’ve told her you hung the moon, and she’d have believed you.” He turned his attention to Mingi, who had gone quiet, head lulled forward and lost at the bottom of his glass. “Then again, y/n didn’t need to be tipsy to believe that. She loved us fiercely, even when I felt we didn’t deserve it.” You had watched from Mingi’s side, your hands clinging desperately to his own, tears stinging your eyes and threatening to spill forward. What Woo said next, though, caused the thread to snap. 

“But that was nothing compared to how much she loved you, Mingki.” 

Slowly, Mingi set his drink down on the table and rose from his seated position on the floor. With a stiff bow, he thanked San and Wooyoung for the company and drinks and exited the main room. Sidestepping into your bedroom, he slammed the door behind him with enough force to shake the picture frames hanging along the walls. Without a word, San gathered up Wooyoung, whose cheeks were now stained with tears, and they saw their way out. You followed closely behind them, choking on your sob, wanting so desperately for them to understand how much their friendship had meant to you, how much it still meant to you. The exchange between them as they put on their shoes and shuffled out of the door stopped you dead in your tracks.  

“I’m sorry, Sannie. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I know, jagiya.” 

“I miss him. I miss her. It feels like we’re mourning both of them.” 

As San helped Wooyoung with his shoe ties, he thought carefully about his following words before speaking them out into the space between them. “That’s because we are, Woo.” 

Mingi stopped accepting visitors shortly after that. 

____________________________________________________________

The weeks had bled into months, the seasons changing and soon sweeping out the hot weather and introducing the cold. And with the warmer days went your confidence that you’d ever be able to bridge that invisible limbo between you and Mingi. Every night you had curled up beside him, holding him as best as your phantom limbs would allow, clinging to him and the life eddying out of him increasingly with each passing day. Admittedly, some days were better than others, especially when he resumed working with Hongjoong and the team. Any mention of you or your time with them was left strictly to quiet conversations amongst the men, clear of earshot from Mingi, which seemed to serve him just fine. He was falling back into his routine, pouring most of his time into his continued work and finding ways to keep himself busy when he didn’t have a project he was overseeing. He had started to spend more and more of his free time with the guys, once again opting into team dinners and evenings spent at someone’s home with drinks and games. But, despite the leaps and strides he made to appear as ‘normal’ and put together as he could, there were still times that the mask would falter, and he’d find himself breaking down and coming apart at the seams. It could be something as small as the smell of a woman’s perfume that he passed on the sidewalk, the brand reminiscent of the scent you favored, or the sound of a voice across the restaurant close enough to your timbre to have him snapping his neck with expectancy. While everyone noted and played into the charade that Mingi had painted for himself, every one of you knew that, eventually, the facade wouldn’t be enough to keep him together. He still refused to talk about the accident, let alone mention your name. And every night, once the quiet had settled over him and he was left alone with an empty apartment and his thoughts, he would still cry himself to sleep, clinging to the pillow that had long lost your scent. But, unbeknownst to you, and even Mingi, the falling of the year’s first snow would bring the pivotal turning point in his story. 

It was late October, a week before Halloween, and the members had decided to celebrate the end of another work week with drinks and budae jjigae at Hongjoong’s apartment. Mingi had been tasked with collecting the ingredients needed for the hotpot, as he would be the first one leaving the office for the evening. Begrudgingly, he had agreed and bundled up accordingly before grabbing his suitcase, and the scribbled list Wooyoung had put together. The walk from the office to the supermarket was relatively short, but the time he would spend collecting the food needed for the evening would give the others time to reconvene at Joong’s place. 

It was as typical an afternoon as any. Your new normal had consisted of following closely behind Mingi, amiably existing in his space as he went about his day-to-day tasks. You had long given up on the idea of him ever being able to see or feel you and, in doing so, had allowed yourself to be content with the opportunity to simply be an apparition that tagged along and watched over him. Stepping into the market with a quick bow to the attendant at the door, you walked beside him, arm crossed delicately around his, as he began pursuing the shelves and filling the small basket he had acquired. It wasn’t long before Mingi wandered into the produce aisle, bent at the waist and closely inspecting the quality and prices of the enoki and king oyster mushrooms they would need for the hotpot. As he did so, you looked around at the sea of people as they shopped. While most wore masks and weren’t necessarily decipherable from one face to the next, one woman, in particular, had caught your eye. Her stature was similar to yours, and she wore her hair long and down, bangs curtaining her face in a way that you found lovely. Absently, you reached up to your bangs and quickly fixed them, though you knew it would matter to no one but you. It wasn’t until she turned towards you and Mingi that you felt your heart drop to your feet, your fingers midstroke across your forehead. Mingi had corrected his spine then and had turned to face out into the store, and his eyes still focused on the pack of mushrooms he had selected when a quiet voice called out timidly, “Song Mingi?” 

Instantly, his head whipped up in response to his name, and it was at that moment that you knew he had recognized the young woman that stood before you. A shy smile played at the corners of her mouth as she bent forward in respect, her hands gripping the basket she held between her fingers tightly. As she corrected herself, a quick flick of her chin caused her hair to fall away from her face as she said affably, “It’s been a long time.” 

You could only watch in awe as Mingi bent at the waist and returned the bow, the tremor in his hand not passing your detection. Nodding as he stood straight, he quickly threw the pack of Enoki into his basket before responding with a clear throat, “Yes, it has. How, uh…how have you been? Are Omma and Appa doing well?”

“I’ve been well, thank you. And yes, they’re in good health. They’ve already started preparing for Christmas if you can believe that.”

With a chuckle, Mingi replied,” That doesn’t surprise me.”

There was a pause of awkward silence that filled the space before the young woman dared to take a step forward, her dark eyes cautious as she continued. “Have you been well?”

With a quick shrug of the shoulders, Mingi pulled his attention away from the woman and began scouring the shoppers. You could sense from his body language and the way his eyes darted that he was looking for an out, for any excuse to escape and avoid this conversation. 

“As well as I can be,” he said simply. 

“I see. And the members?”

“They’re in good health.”

“I’m pleased to hear it.”

You could feel the tension as it teetered on the edge, knowing and anticipating where the conversation led. He couldn’t run from it. Not this time. 

“We’ve been trying to get in touch with you. With the holidays approaching, we wanted to extend an invitation for when we visit y/n’s gravesite.” 

And there it was, the shoe you had been waiting to drop. You watched as Mingi swallowed down the anxiety you knew had been bubbling and building in his chest. It was one thing to avoid and sidestep conversations with the members and their shared friends. It was another to evade your older sister. 

Bringing a trembling hand to the back of his neck, Mingi averted his eyes and chose instead to take a particular interest in his shoes, doing whatever he could to avoid the kind gaze of your sister. “My apologies, Noona. It’s not long since I’ve returned to the office, and Hongjoong hasn’t given me any real room to breathe with the projects we have coming up.”

A nod in understanding, followed by,” I understand. It must be challenging to balance everything now with what you’ve been through.”  

“Yes…it has been.” 

Another beat of silence passed between them before your sister’s shuffling drew your attention away from Mingi. You watched the bag over her shoulder as your sister retrieved a small tea candle pack and extended it to your partner. 

“Omma poured these for us to burn for y/n over the holidays. She had poured you a set, as well. Take these, in case you aren’t able to make it.”

Pulling his eyes from the ground and finally meeting the sympathetic gaze of your sibling, Mingi’s brown eyes flitted to the pack of hand-poured candles she held outstretched to him. You stood with bated breath, your hands tangling in and fisting the cardigan that hung loosely at your sides. You knew the weight those small tea candles held for you and Mingi. Accepting this kindness would mean accepting what had happened. It would squarely place him face to face with the reality that he had spent these months so desperately trying to escape, even though it followed him in every aspect of his life. The reality that you weren’t coming home. That this would be his first Christmas without you. You weren’t there to comfort him after a hard day at work or on the nights when his anxiety had reached a particularly cataclysmic point. You weren’t there to join him and his brothers for nights of drinking and reminiscing, to laugh at their poorly times jokes. He could no longer outrun a past that included you. He had to face the present and accept that he had had a life with you. And that that chapter had ended. 

Reaching forward, Mingi took hold of those small candles and finally allowed the tears to break the well that had been collecting. He didn’t try to swipe them away or hide his vulnerability or pain at that moment. In the middle of that grocery store, face to face with the young woman that so closely resembled you, he accepted her kindness and allowed himself to feel the heaviness of it. Clutching the candles tightly to his chest, Mingi bent at the waist in a deep bow.

“Thank you, Noona…” 

___________________________________________________________

Mingi didn’t utter a word of his meeting with your sister to the boys as they progressed with their evening. As usual, he went about their time together, enjoying drinks and laughs with everyone as they gathered around the table to enjoy their dinner. There was a palpable difference in how his body moved, his limbs looser and his laugh more vibrant than they had remembered hearing it in recent weeks. None of them commented on the change, though, and reveled in the refreshed version of their brother that they had been blessed with. As the evening drug on, Yeosang and San stared out over the glittering lights of Seoul while the others took their respective turns on whatever game they had loaded up. It was then that the oldest of the two stepped forward and pulled open the sliding door of the balcony, Yeosang’s voice light as he exclaimed,” Looks like we get snow early this year.” 

At the mention of snowfall, heads flicked over to the pair, Jongho and Yunho abandoning their places on the floor to join San and Yeosong out on the balcony. Eventually, all but Hongjoong and Mingi had assembled on the deck and sipped from their drinks, taking in the sight and simply choosing to exist in the moment. Your head rested easily against Mingi’s shoulder as you watched on, a content smile playing at the corners of your mouth when you heard Hongjoong speak from your partner’s other side. 

“Maybe this is a sign of good fortune to come.”

Mingi was quiet as he looked on and simply nodded in agreement as he watched his brothers sling arms over one another, Wooyoung sticking his tongue out to attempt to catch a snowflake or two. You felt him shift beneath you shortly after that, adjusting your body into a seated position as you watched him reach around the table for his bag. Digging into the depths of it, your breath caught as he pulled forward your mother’s tea candles. Joong watched him now, not daring to speak as Mingi turned the packed candles over in his hands a few times, contemplating them. Standing then and stepping into the kitchen, Hongjoong returned with a small pack of matches and an extra glass and set them softly on the coffee table. It was an offering he would not push his brother to take but one he felt the need to extend.

After another beat, Mingi carefully peeled the plastic away from the first candle and set it on the table. Reaching for the box of matches, he quickly struck the wooden stick against the side of the box and watched as the fire licked to life and cast shadows over the planes of his face. By this point, everyone had turned their attention to the young man, the excitement of the snow paling compared to what they were witnessing. Carefully, Mingi navigated the tiny flame to the wick of the candle and waited for it to catch fire before pulling it away and flicking his wrist to extinguish it. He reached for the open bottle of soju to his right, pouring a shot into the empty glass and waiting. A moment of reflection, you realized, as all eight men watched that tiny flame dance along the candle's surface, the booze in the glass catching and refracting light back as it glittered over the table. 

To your surprise, Mingi was the first to break his silence as he lifted his glass in a toast, the lining of his eyes burning with a molten shimmer as he breathed the words you had silently wished for. 

“To y/n.”

“To y/n,” they all parroted in quiet unison, tipping their glasses back and finishing their drinks. 

The remainder of the evening felt like it had been pulled directly from your memories. Direct references to times you drank together, each of them taking their time to laugh, cry, and remember the bonds you had forged with each of them individually. You realized then, as you found yourself lost in the sounds of their friendship, your eyes only leaving that tiny flicker of a flame to gaze at the face of your beloved contentedly, that it wasn’t up to you to reconnect with your betrothed or even the brothers that sat around him. The connection had never been severed. It had simply been tangled along the way. Their patience and guidance and a single act of genuine kindness are what it took for him to find his way again. Finding himself at a crossroads and choosing to walk the path you had forged together, even if it now meant having to traverse it alone. As you leaned into Mingi’s side again, the flicker from the candle dancing behind the deep color of your eyes, you silently agreed with the sentiment Hongjoong had stated before. This was a sign of good fortune and much more fortune to come.

𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎: Hello everyone! Day 2 has defintely taken a deatour from the fluff I introduced in Day 1 but I am very pleased with the structure and how this one-shot came together. I hope you enjoy and I’ll see you tomorrow with more fluff and happy Mingki! this particular fic has not been proofread✧˖°.

#song mingi x reader #song mingi x y/n #song mingi #song mingi one shot #mingi x reader #mingi x y/n #song mingi angst #mingi angst #paige writes #ateez #ateez fic #ateez one shot #mingi one shot #mingi #happy mingi month #catkyunie fic

[thevaultoftheatomicspaceage]

Armstrong Whitworth AWP.22 M Wing SST wind-tunnel model