#flight research

[nocternalrandomness]

Martin X-24B at the National Museum of the USAF

[moonwatchuniverse]

55 years ago... Rolex at max speed ! October 3, 1967 test pilot William "Pete" Knight wore his personal Rolex GMT-master Pepsi 1675 during X-15 flight 188 taking the hypersonic rocket aircraft to a speed of 7232 Km/hr (Mach 6.7). On October 17 he would take an X-15 to an altitude over 85 kilometers, high enough for USAF astronaut wings. Several photos show William Pete Knight wearing his Rolex GMT-master pilot watch between October 1966 and December 1988. Since 1963, the Rolex GMT-master pilot watch remains the sole timepiece strictly chosen on a personal preference basis by both Russian cosmonauts and International & American astronauts ! (Photos: USAF/NASA)

[reality-detective]

The evidence is overwhelming 🤔

[talktonytome]

bucktommy au> airline pilot Tommy x cabin crew Buck. They get caught making out in the crew bunks while they're supposed to be resting during a long haul flight

ty for the prompt! I had fun with this one 🩷 ✈️

Tommy’s nearing the end of his sleep shift, when he’s suddenly jostled awake by a warm mass of solid muscle on top of him, a head perched on his chest. Evan. He smiles before opening his eyes, then takes a moment before blinking himself fully awake. When he rubs the sleep from his eyes and he blinks into focus, Evan’s bright blue eyes and dimpled smile greet him.

“Hey, you,” he mumbles, leaning in enough to press a chaste kiss to Evan’s mouth. 

“Hey yourself, Captain Kinard,” Evan greets him, lowering his voice and tilting his head in that way he does when he flirts. Oh, he’s playing dirty, using his title like that. 

“Evan,” Tommy groans. The man gives him a shit-eating grin and Tommy should protest, he really should, but damn, he can never refuse him. “Shouldn’t you be in the cabin?”

“Eh, Ravi’s covering for me,” he shrugs. “I missed you.” Evan straddles him properly now and starts mouthing at his jaw and down his neck. There’s not much room to move; the cabin crew bunks are barely big enough for one grown man, let alone two big guys like them. Tommy settles on gripping Evan’s hips, holding on for dear life as he works to unravel him. 

“C’mere,” Tommy cups the back of Evan’s neck and brings him down for a thorough kiss, the kind that leaves him breathless and makes him feel like he’s flying, the prelude to more. It’s all teeth and tongue and desperate, knowing they don’t have much time. Anyone could come in at any time- the crew is always in and out for their turn to get some shut-eye. 

Evan leaves his mouth momentarily, on a mission to suck bruises on and beneath his clavicle; a proper pilot can’t go around visibly covered in hickies, after all. Tommy roams his hands across every part of Evan he has access to- down huge, muscled biceps, across a strong, broad chest and his sides, feeling the notch of every rib along the way.

Evan’s rutting down onto him now and oh, the friction is amazing. Tommy thrusts up, matching him in rhythm, then cups his face with two big hands, bringing him in for more kisses. Evan moans and Tommy has to remind him to keep it down. “Shh, baby,” he mouths against his lips. 

Suddenly, there’s a loud cough a few feet away and both men freeze. 

“Captain Kinard.” And of course, it’s Hen, one of his co-pilots. She clears her throat. “First Officer Han asked me to find you, wanted to go over some things before rotating, but I can see that you’re… busy,” she tries and fails to hide a smirk.

“Erm,” he says smoothly. Evan’s no help, as he shakes with laughter, hiding his face in Tommy’s chest. “I’ll uh, I’ll see him up there shortly, Captain Wilson.” 

“Sure, I’ll tell him you’re finishing up inspecting things down here,” Hen grins and Tommy knows he’ll be getting shit from both her and Howie later. With that she pivots and walks away, leaving them alone once more.

Evan lifts his head up from Tommy’s chest and gives him his signature puppy eyes. “To be fair-"

“Don’t,” Tommy cuts him off. “They’re never gonna let us live it down,” he sighs. 

“So is now a bad time to tell you everyone knows, um, about our inspections?” 

“What?!” Tommy squeaks. 

Evan leans up to kiss his nose and slots his thumb on the cleft of Tommy’s chin.

“Why do you think nobody comes down here when we’re together? Well, except for today, apparently.”

Tommy can’t help but chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief- of course this is his life. And he wouldn’t trade it for the world. 

[falconfate]

Hello ranger’s apprentice fandom can we talk real quick about the stupidest thing Flanagan ever wrote

It’s about the bows. Yanno, the rangers’ Iconique™️ main weapon. That one. You know the one.

Flanagan. Flanagan why are your rangers using longbows.

“uh well recurve arrows drop faster” BUT DO THEY. FLANAGAN. DO THEY.

the answer is no they don’t. Compared to a MODERN, COMPOUND (aka cheating) bow, yes, but compared to a longbow? Y’know, what the rangers use in canon? Yeah no a recurve actually has a FLATTER trajectory. It drops LATER.

This from an article comparing the two:

“Both a longbow and a recurve bow, when equipped with the right arrow and broadhead combination, are capable of taking down big game animals. Afterall, hunters have been doing it for centuries with both types of bows.

However, generally speaking and all things equal, a recurve bow will offer more arrow speed, creating a flatter flight trajectory and retain more kinetic energy at impact.

The archers draw length, along with the weight of the arrow also affect speed and kinetic energy. However, the curved design of the limbs on a recurve adds to its output of force.”

It doesn’t actually mention ANY distance in range! And this is from a resource for bow hunting, which, presumably, WOULD CARE ABOUT THAT SORT OF THING!

Okay so that’s just. That’s just the first thing.

The MAIN thing is that even accounting for “hur dur recurves drop faster” LONGBOWS ARE STILL THE STUPID OPTION.

Longbows, particularly and especially ENGLISH longbows, are—as their name suggests—very long. English longbows in particular are often as tall or taller than their wielder even while strung, but especially when unstrung. An unstrung longbow is a very long and expensive stick, one that will GLADLY entangle itself in nearby trees, other people’s clothes, and any doorway you’re passing through.

And yes, there are shorter longbows, but at that point if you’re shortening your longbow, just get a goddamn recurve. And Flanagan makes a point to compare his rangers’ bows to the Very Long English Longbow.

Oh, do you know how the Very Long English Longbow was mostly historically militarily used? BY ON-FOOT ARCHER UNITS. Do you know what they’re TERRIBLE for? MOUNTED ARCHERY.

Trust me. Go look up right now “mounted archery longbow.” You’ll find MAYBE one or two pictures of some guy on a horse struggling with a big stick; mostly you will actually see either mounted archers with RECURVES, or comparisons of Roman longbow archers to Mongolian horse archers (which are neat, can’t lie, I love comparing archery styles like that).

Anyway. Why are longbows terrible for mounted archery? Because they’re so damn long. Think about it: imagine you’re on a horse. You’re straddling a beast that can think for itself and moves at your command, but ultimately independently of you; if you’re both well-trained enough, you’re barely paying attention to your horse except to give it commands. And you have a bow in your hands. If your target is close enough to you that you know, from years of shooting experience, you will need to actually angle your bow down to hit it because of your equine height advantage, guess what? If you have a longbow, YOU CAN’T! YOUR HORSE IS IN THE WAY BECAUSE YOUR BOW IS TOO LONG! Worse, it’s probably going to get in the general area of your horse’s shoulder or legs, aka moving parts, which WILL injure your horse AND your bow and leave you fresh out of both a getaway vehicle and a ranged weapon. It’s stupid. Don’t do it.

A recurve, on the other hand, is short. It was literally made for horse archers. You have SO much range of motion with a recurve on horseback; and if you’re REALLY good, you know how to give yourself even more, with techniques like Jamarkee, a Turkish technique where you LITERALLY CAN AIM BACKWARDS.

For your viewing enjoyment, Serena Lynn of Texas demonstrating Jamarkee:

Yes, that’s real! This type of draw style is INCREDIBLY versatile: you can shoot backwards on horseback, straight down from a parapet or sally port without exposing yourself as a target, or from low to the ground to keep stealthy without banging your bow against the ground. And, while I’m sure you could attempt it with a longbow, I wouldn’t recommend it: a recurve’s smaller size makes it far more maneuverable up and over your head to actually get it into position for a Jamarkee shot.

A recurve just makes so much more SENSE. It’s not a baby bow! It’s not the longbow’s lesser cousin! It’s a COMPLETELY different instrument made to be used in a completely different context! For the rangers of Araluen, who put soooo much stock in being stealthy and their strong bonds with their horses, a recurve is the perfect fit! It’s small and easily transportable, it’s more maneuverable in combat and especially on horseback, it offers more power than a longbow of the same draw weight—really, truly, the only advantage in this case that a longbow has over the recurve is that longbows are quicker and easier to make. But we KNOW the rangers don’t care about that, their KNIVES use a forging technique (folding) that takes several times as long as standard Araluen forging practices at the time!

Okay.

Okay I think I’m done. For now.

[lonestarflight]

"Wheels of the Space Shuttle Atlantis touch down on the dry lakebed at Edwards Air Force Base to mark successful completion of the STS-51-J mission."

"George W.S. Abbey, bottom right, greets the five members of the STS 51-J crew as they egress the Atlantis following the successful completion of a mission in Earth orbit. Astronaut Karol J. Bobko, who led the five down the steps, shakes hands with the JSC director of flight crew operations. He is followed (bottom to top) By Astronauts Ronald J. Grabe, pilot; David C. Hilmers and Robert L. Stewart, both mission specialists; and USAF Maj. William A. Pailes, payload specialist."

Date: October 7, 1985

source, source

NASA ID: S85-41802, S85-41803

[saspitite]

flight rising mods attempting to explain their fuck ass rules for hatchling skins: yea so we wanna keep the hatchlings safe since a lot of things can sexualize them ! so we decided to ban frilly dresses (kids clothing is OBVIOUSLY just sexualized adult kink gear), scarring (because yknow scars are definitely not kid friendly and must be censored) and zombification (because even implying that the hatchling got hurt is really really bad. dont look at the fact that we have canon zombies/zombie-esque creatures). and if you have any questions we will shut you up. thanks

[gimmethemprimals]

I’m choosing to believe that the Arcanist didn’t intend for the Aethers to eat paper and was incredibly distressed when they started doing so

[wheels-of-despair]

Clown Around and Find Out Pairing: Eddie Munson x You Summary: Eddie decides to play a prank on Evil Woman, and quickly finds out just how dangerous that is. Contains: A quiet night alone, a bad idea, an Evil Woman secret, excessive cursing, panic, rage, attempted murder, happy ending. Words: 1.8k Note: This takes place in the fall of 1990.

"She's gonna murder you."

"No, she's not," Eddie grins, admiring his outfit in the mirror.

"Don't you think it's kinda mean?" Jeff asks.

"That's what makes it funny!" Grant insists.

"She is literally going to murder you," Gareth reiterates.

"She is not! It's just a jump-scare, she's gonna know it's me in like a second!"

"You're gonna give the poor girl a heart attack!" Jeff tries again.

"You guys are no fucking fun anymore," Eddie grumbles, picking up the mask he'd found in a clearance bin after Halloween and modified for this very occasion. "I'm outta here."

"It's your funeral, man," Gareth shrugs.

After a few years of living with Eddie, you learned to appreciate your alone time. You loved him with everything you had, but even (mostly) domesticated, your beloved trash panda was still a lot to handle. So somewhere along the way, a night of band practice for Eddie started to mean a quiet night alone with a book or a "chick movie" for you. You'd never admit it to him, but you enjoyed these peaceful nights.

However, about a week ago, you and Eddie sat down with a bowl of popcorn to watch the new Stephen King miniseries.

IT.

You'd both read the book when it first came out and thought it was awesome.

Seeing it in your living room, on the other hand, was not so awesome.

You hated that fucking clown.

The mile-high forehead. The nose that looked like a blood blister about to pop. The fucking fangs. The whole luring-children-into-the-sewer-and-eating-them thing. Nope, nope, nope.

Eddie had watched the whole thing with fascination. You'd focused your eyes on the dusty little houseplant that lived below the TV whenever that thing was on screen.

And still, it invaded your nightmares.

So tonight, your quiet night alone was something of a nightmare as well. It was so quiet, every little creak echoed through the house.

You put on a movie - an old favorite that calmed your nerves for its duration - but as soon as the soothing whir of the tape rewinding ended with a clunk, the house resumed its creaking. You decided to do some laundry, hoping the washing machine would drown out the little noises that kept making you jump.

You gathered the basket of dirty clothes, hauled it to the laundry room, and began sorting. Still too quiet. You started singing the first song that came to mind to combat the silence as you loaded the washer and poured in the detergent.

When you turned to reach for the cap, you gasped.

There was a fucking clown standing in the doorway. Big forehead. Round nose. Frizzy hair. Ruffled shirt with ridiculously large pom-poms down the front. White gloves.

It's not real. Remember when a cardinal flew past you the other day, and you freaked out because all you saw was a flash of red, and you thought of that fucking clown? It's not real.

And then it fucking moved.

You shrieked and jumped backward, colliding with the wall of your tiny laundry room. There's no fucking way out of here. There are no weapons. If you survive this, you're going everywhere with a machete strapped to you for the rest of your life.

It crosses its arms.

Just like you've seen someone else do on occasion.

"Edward Munson, if you don't have that fucking mask off in 3 seconds, you are in for a WORLD of fucking hurt."

The clown throws up both hands in an exaggerated shrug.

It's just Eddie, right? Fucking with his poor little chicken? He'd laughed after you told him about the first clown nightmare, giving you an "awww" and a patronizing kiss on the forehead. It's just Eddie thinking he's funny. Which he's not. He's really not.

"Eddie, I'm fucking warning you."

But what if it's not him?

It takes a leap toward you.

You grab the handle of the laundry detergent - the big value-sized kind in a jug - and hurl it at the clown with everything you've got.

As if it were traveling in slow motion, you see the blue liquid begin to spill from the spout, somehow spreading in every direction; if you lived through this, you'd probably spend the next week scrubbing laundry detergent from every square inch of this room.

The clown ducks and misses the heavy jug, which hits the wall in the hallway and falls to the floor, but still gets doused in blue. It looks down at the liquid seeping into its stupid ruffly shirt, and you reach for the jug of bleach on the floor.

"You think this is funny, motherfucker?"

The clown holds out one of its gloved hands and takes a step closer, and it fills you with rage. If this is Eddie, you're gonna kill him and bury him in the back yard. If it's NOT Eddie, you're gonna kill it and call the cops. You fling the bleach at it, and this time, it's not quick enough. The clown tries to duck out of the way again, but the bottle makes contact with its side before falling to the ground.

The clown bends over with a grunt, clutching the spot where you hit it. Its massive forehead slowly rises to look at you. All you can see are dark holes where eyes should be. You grab the bottle of fabric softener and send it flying toward the clown's face. Direct hit, and a muffled cry from the clown.

You reach for the iron and grip the handle hard. If you die tonight, at least you're gonna take that ugly-ass motherfucker down with you.

The clown grumbles something from behind the mask, but you can't understand it. It stumbles backward. You raise the iron, wishing it were hot so you could melt this motherfucker's face off.

The white glove starts fumbling with the frizzy red wig, then pulls it off. A familiar mop of brown hair comes into view.

You're relieved for half a second, and then you're back to irate.

"You fucking ASSHOLE! What is WRONG with you?!"

"I thought it would be funny," he winces, standing and rubbing the spot on his side where you'd hit him with the bleach. "When did you get so violent?"

When did you get so violent?? You can feel the rage bubbling over again, and Eddie can see that he's still in danger. You slam the iron down on top of the washer, and he jumps at the sound.

"Okay, woah, I'm sorry," he says, backing toward the door. "I didn't think you'd freak out this bad."

You slowly advance on him, filling with fury.

"Stop. Stop." He holds his still-gloved hands up in surrender. You clench your fists and prepare to strike.

He makes his move a split second before you do.

You pounce, and he escapes. The door slams in your face.

"YOU'RE A DEAD MAN, MUNSON!"

"I said I was sorry!"

You try the doorknob, but it won't turn. This door locks from the inside. He's holding onto it.

"You really think locking me in here is a good idea?" you seethe.

"You're not locked in."

You smack your hand on the door where you suspect his face is on the other side.

"Hey!" Damn, you're good.

"Let me out."

"Not until you calm down."

"Is it ever a good idea to tell a girl to calm down, Edward?"

A thump comes from the door, as if he's just banged his head against the other side.

"Look, I'm sorry. I didn't know it would freak you out that bad. You said you had a dream about the clown, and I thought it was cute, then I saw the mask and decided to fix it up and mess with you."

You feel the adrenaline draining from your body at the sound of his stupid voice. You both love and hate this power he has over you.

You sigh and lean your head against the door. "I've been dreaming about it every night," you admit, removing your hand from the knob.

"Every night?"

"Every night."

"Fuck."

You step away from the door and shimmy yourself up onto the dryer, sitting on top with your legs crossed.

"If I open the door, are you gonna murder me?"

"Only time will tell," you deadpan.

The door opens a sliver, and you see puffy red eye staring at you through the crack. He eases it open the rest of the way, but remains in the hallway.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

Your life-or-death rush has faded; you're too tired to shoot him the withering glare he deserves.

He approaches you cautiously, still not entirely convinced that he'll live to see tomorrow.

"Take that stupid shirt off."

He whips it off and throws it over his shoulder. The gloves follow.

"Are you okay?" he asks again.

You sigh, close your eyes, and lean forward. He closes the distance and wraps his arms around you.

"I really am sorry," he whispers into your hair.

"I'm sure you'll find a way to make it up to me."

He hums in acknowledgement and holds you tighter. You rest your cheek against his warm chest for a few minutes, replaying the events of tonight. You'd probably be laughing about this in a few years, and telling this story at parties. But for now, you were just glad you hadn't really killed him. You quite liked this idiot. Most of the time.

"Are you okay?" you ask. "Aside from your slow reflexes?"

"Couldn't see shit in that mask."

"Excuses, excuses. Answer the question."

"I'll be fine," he chuckles. "Just like being back in high school and fucking with the jocks. 'Cept your aim's better. And they never cuddled me after they threw shit at me."

Both of your shoulders shake in silent laughter.

When you pulled away and opened your eyes again, you were greeted by the sight of blue splatters everywhere. Everywhere. How did one jug even hold that much? How the hell did it get on the ceiling?

"Looks like somebody jerked off a Smurf in here," you observe.

Eddie snorts, which makes you snort, and then you both start laughing. And just like that… everything was okay again.

Two Days Later

The Corroded Coffin boys put down their instruments and stood together when Eddie's van roared up the driveway, waiting to hear about The Pennywise Incident. He took his time getting his guitar and approaching the garage, then walked right by them without a word. He turned his back and ignored them while he set up his gear.

The trio closed in on him.

"How'd it go, man?" Grant prompted. "Did she freak?"

"Did she make you sleep in the van?" Jeff laughed.

Eddie turned around and took off his sunglasses with an unamused huff, revealing the black eye the fabric softener had given him.

"Told you so," Gareth smirked.

[vyeoh]

Having been through the exact airport they likely flew in through makes Jimmy's customs story infinitely funnier

[nocternalrandomness]

Martin X-24B at the NASA Dryden Flight Research Center - November 30, 1972

[moonwatchuniverse]

October 17, 1967... First Rolex in space... above 50 miles ! 55 years ago, X-15 flight 190 was testpilot William Pete Knight 13th flight in the hypersonic research rocket plane and brought him above 85 kilometers so he qualified for the USAF Astronaut wings awarded to pilots who flew above 50 miles! Again, as during X-15 flight 188 two weeks earlier, Pete Knight had chosen to wear his personal Rolex 1675 GMT-master Pepsi pilot wristwatch strapped over his left forearm. Since 1963, the Rolex GMT-master pilot watch remains the sole timepiece strictly chosen on a personal preference basis by both Russian cosmonauts and International & American astronauts! (Photo: USAF/NASA)

[reality-detective]

In flight refueling 🤔

[retrocgads]

UK 1987

[thatsrightice]

What did F-14 Tomcat Pilots Wear?

Basically, you’ve got your flight suit and on top of that you’ve got your G-suit and harness.

Want to know all the parts of a flight suit worn by fighter pilots of the F-14 Tomcat and how they put them on? Check out this 6-part mini-series from Keith "Virus" Schomig, a former F-14 Tomcat pilot, as he puts on his flight suit from his time flying the F-14.

F-14 TOMCAT PILOT FLIGHT SUIT & GEAR:

PART 1 / PART 2 / PART 3 / PART 4 / PART 5/ PART 6

For context, he’s putting on the khaki desert version, worn by pilots when deployed to desert regions. He's got an awesome Instagram account where he posts all sorts of footage he'd taken during his time flying the mighty Tomcat! There are additional parts of the flight suit not shown because he doesn't have access to the PR (Parachute Riggers) Shop, but I think it really helps to show what they wear when up in a jet.

A more in-depth analysis can be found on episode 2 of the Fighter Pilot Podcast where Jell-O goes over all the gear and equipment for F/A-18 pilots. I can't guarantee it's what the Tomcat pilots wore or what is worn nowadays, but it's still an excellent way to get a better understanding! Here’s a supplemental video Jell-O and Vern made!

[lonestarflight]

"The HL-10 is shown next to the X-15A-2 in 1966. Both aircraft later went on to set records. On October 3, 1967, the X-15A-2 reached a speed of Mach 6.7, which was the highest speed achieved by a piloted aircraft until the Space Shuttles far exceeded that speed in 1981 and afterwards."

Date: May 27, 1966

NASA ID: ECN-1288