#yoke steering wheel

[chic-a-gigot]

Les Modes : revue mensuelle illustrée des arts décoratifs appliqués à la femme, no. 6, vol. 1, juin 1901, Paris. Aux Courses. Bibliothèque nationale de France

No. 1. Robe en foulard bleu ciel. No. 2. Robe en voile rouge. No. 3. Robe en batiste blanche. No. 4. Robe en voile blanc. No. 5. Robe de mousseline brodée. Cliché Boyer.

Robe en mousseline de soie noire. Robe en mousseline de l'inde. Cliché Boyer.

Robe en foulard. Robe en voile gris argent. Cliché Boyer.

Robe de louisine "champagne". Robe en louisine rayée. Cliché Boyer.

(1.) ROBE EN FOULARD BLEU CIEL, à dessin blanc. Au bas du volant, petites franges blanches. Corsage blouse. Grand col de dentelles.

(1.) SKY BLUE FOULARD DRESS, with white design. At the bottom of the ruffle, small white fringes. Blouse bodice. Large lace collar.

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(2.) ROBE EN VOILE ROUGE. Col de guipure et fichu de mousseline de soie blanche. Choux de comètes noires.

(2.) RED VOILE DRESS. Guipure collar and white silk chiffon scarf. Cabbages of black comets.

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(3.) ROBE EN BATISTE BLANCHE. A petits pois roses. Comètes de velours noir au bas des volants. Broderie au plumetis figurant le boléro.

(3.) WHITE BATISTE DRESS. With little pink polka dots. Black velvet comets at the bottom of the ruffles. Plumetis embroidery depicting the bolero.

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(4.) ROBE EN VOILE BLANC, avec incrustations de grosse broderie.

(4.) WHITE VOILE DRESS, with large embroidery inlays.

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(5.) ROBE DE MOUSSELINE BRODÉE. Forme droite. Corsage blousé avec grand col.

(5.) EMBROIDERED CHIFFON DRESS. Straight shape. Bloused bodice with large collar.

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ROBE EN MOUSSELINE DE SOIE NOIRE. Rayée de velours noir sur transparent blanc. Incrustations de chantilly noir et blanc sur le volant. Corsage avec les mêmes incrustations décolleté sur empiècement blanc.

BLACK SILK CHIFFON DRESS. Striped with black velvet on transparent white. Black and white whipped cream inlays on the steering wheel. Bodice with the same neckline inlays on white yoke.

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ROBE EN MOUSSELINE DE L’INDE, avec fleurs brodées nuancées.

INDIAN CHIFFON DRESS, with nuanced embroidered flowers.

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ROBE EN FOULARD. Dessin cachemire avec bandes de taffetas blanc piqué. Grand col de taffetas blanc piqué.

FOULARD DRESS. Paisley design with strips of white pique taffeta. Large white quilted taffeta collar.

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ROBE EN VOILE GRIS ARGENT. Avec grand col de gui pure.

SILVER GRAY VOILE DRESS. With large pure mistletoe collar.

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ROBE DE LOUISINE CHAMPAGNE (Écru rosé). Incrustée d’entre-deux de cluny. Boléro court en louisine, bordé d’une légère broderie d’or sur une chemisette de cluny. Haute ceinture en galon d’or.

LOUISINE CHAMPAGNE DRESS (Ecru pink). Inlaid with cluny insertions. Short louisine bolero, bordered with light gold embroidery on a cluny shirt. High gold braid belt.

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ROBE EN LOUISINE RAYÉE. Incrustée de guipure, grand col Marion de Lorme en guipure.

STRIPED LOUISINE DRESS. Inlaid with guipure, large Marion de Lorme collar in guipure.

[blurredcolour]

What If We Just Fall?

Oh my goodness @supervalcsi this has been the hardest secret to keep! 'Tis I, your summer exchange gift writer! Thank you for all your hard work as the moderator of HBO War Daily, we deeply appreciate you!! It's been a pleasure getting to know you and I hope you enjoy your summer as well as this lovely interlude with sweet Rosie!!!

Robert "Rosie" Rosenthal x ATA!Female Reader

Flying with the Air Transport Auxiliary has taught you many lessons – including the importance of guarding your heart carefully. It seems fate, however, has much more to teach you when you are forced to make an emergency landing in East Anglia.

Warnings: Language, Era Typical Sexism, Fear, Crying, Kissing, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Rating - T.

Author's note: No descriptions of reader other than the fact that she is not British. This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 5729

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October 1944

Meeting a man like Robert “Rosie” Rosenthal was not something you had expected when you volunteered for the Air Transport Auxiliary. In fact, you were not even supposed to land at Thorpe Abbotts Airfield until fate, or more accurately faulty wiring, intervened. Ferrying a Wellington bomber from its repair depot back to the RAF in Norfolk for use in their nighttime bombing runs, you were piloting the five-man aircraft alone – standard practice in the ATA. There was no radio, no navigator, and most definitely no guns. You were a civilian non-combatant and if any Luftwaffe fighter pilots happened to get onto your tail, you simply had to outfly them.

This was not your first Wellington, not by a long stretch, and while you preferred Spitfires for their speed and manoeuverability, these mid-sized bombers were usually fairly docile once they got off the ground. This particular aircraft, however, had been displaying a bad attitude from the moment it took to the air. How it had passed quality control inspection was beyond you. The wonders the mechanics were able to work in short turn arounds were usually feats of precision and skill, but almost immediately you noticed the rudder seemed reluctant to obey your steering commands.

A cascade of instrumentation issues followed before the left engine quit. There was a reason, however, that the ‘Wimpy’ as it was affectionately called by the boys who took the aircraft into combat, was still relied upon by the RAF despite the arrival of four-engine heavies like the Halifax and Lancaster. The Wellington could take a great deal of punishment; lose great chunks of its aluminium and linen airframe, be down one engine, and still get the crew to its destination. It was this reputation you were banking on as you pressed forward to your assigned airfield, hoping the ground crew there would treat this plane better than whomever had done it such a disservice at the repair depot.

You were, by your best guess of the landscape and quick glance at your maps, roughly twenty minutes out when the right engine began to choke and sputter.

“Shit.” You hissed under your breath, pleased no one could overhear you, and dropped your altitude to scan for a safe place to land.

During your pre-flight preparations, you had noted this area was dotted with American airfields as well as RAF; surely you could find a stretch of tarmac to keep both you and this precious piece of war material in one piece. The telltale ‘V’ of concrete, surrounded by still-lush grass waving in the autumn breeze, could not have come into view at a better time. Exhaling in relief as the indicator lights confirmed the wheels had descended at your command, you checked visually that the left was down and had to trust the right and rear were also – with no co-pilot to look for you, there was most definitely no way you could release the yoke and glance out the window yourself.

Hoping the allies would recognize you for a friendly, you lined up to make your landing, the right engine quitting on you as you decreased your speed. Holding your eyes open wide with focus, you leaned forward in your seat, gripping the yoke almost painfully, willing the aircraft to stay aloft to meet the first few inches of runway. The silence in the cockpit was agonizing, a tense ringing in your ears replacing the normal, companionable thrum of the engines, sweat stinging at your eyes and prickling in your armpits. Seconds drew out into hours until at last your tires – all three of them – bumped down to land on the runway.

With a sigh of relief, you quickly pulled up on the flaps, frowning deeply as, with no engines to throw into reverse, the large object in motion seemed reluctant to come to a stop. Mortifyingly, you overshot the end of the runway, skidding to a halt some one hundred meters in the grass like a wet-behind-the-ears trainee, and yet…and yet both you and the plane that you had been charged with delivering were still in one piece. Not at all where you were intended to be, but landed safely, for now.

The sound of several vehicles approaching from down the runway refocused your attention and you pulled off your leather flying helmet, smoothing your hair before gathering your things into your flight bag. Climbing from the dead aircraft, you were greeted by a host of astonished male faces.

“Jesus Christ, she’s a dame!” One of the younger men exclaimed, not so quietly, from the back of the crowd and you did your best to keep a straight face.

“I’m so sorry to intrude on your airfield, gentlemen, ran into a little trouble during my flight. I appreciated the safe place to land.”

Several eyebrows shot up at your distinct lack of British accent, at least one astute gaze dropping to the gold wire weave badge bearing the name of your home country just below your shoulders.

“Well, we’re just glad you’re alright, ma’am. We got very nervous when we couldn’t raise you on the radio.” The owner of said astute, piercing blue gaze spoke, a hint of…New York, was it?...colouring his tone.

“Ah, of course, we aren’t connected to radio in the Air Transport Auxiliary, sorry for the confusion that must have caused.” Stepping forward you offered your hand as you introduced yourself. “Second Officer, ATA.”

“Robert Rosental, Major, United States Army Air Force. What happened up there?”

It took a moment to register that he had asked you a question, the feel of his palm pressing against yours as he shook your hand in greeting more than a little distracting. Inhaling sharply, you turned back to look at the troublesome aircraft.

“Rudder was slow to respond, then I started losing my instruments one-by-one before the left engine cut out. I was hoping to make it on the right, but when it started to go, I knew I had no choice to put it down as soon as possible.”

“You flew that all by yourself?” Another member of the crowd piped up and you nodded patiently.

“Standard practice in the ATA, just me.”

“Maybe that was the real problem.” It was hard to tell where exactly the snide comment, spoken under some ignorant boy’s breath, had originated from.

You noted a flash of anger in Major Rosenthal’s eyes before he started to scan the crowd for the source of it, but this sort of response was something you had certainly encountered before.

“I’m sorry I didn’t quite catch that, could whoever said that please repeat it? I’d really appreciate the opportunity to improve on the over seven hundred ferry flights I’ve made since 1941, including one hundred with this very type of plane, so please, speak up.” A sort of stunned silence overtook the group, several of the men wearing bemused smiles, others a look of shock, while the rest shuffled their feet awkwardly in the grass. “Hn. My loss, I suppose.”

“I’m assuming you’re a long ways from where you ought to be?” Major Rosenthal chimed in, the luscious thatch of hair of his upper lip highlighting the way his mouth hitched up at the corner in amusement.

“You would be correct, Major, might I impose upon you for the use of a telephone?”

Some directions were shouted to tow your aircraft to a spare hardstand as it seemed there were replacements planes of their own expected in a few hours and you turned to address the same man Rosenthal was giving orders to – Lemmons, you believed.

“Please be careful, its not a metal skin, it’s linen.”

The look of shock on the boy’s cherubic face framed by copious curls spilling from beneath his knit cap finally broke your control, a small grin sneaking onto your lips as Major Rosenthal led you over to his jeep. Unclipping your parachute from your waist, you tossed it and your flight bag into the back, sliding into your passenger’s seat and finally feeling the ability to relax somewhat.

“Over seven hundred flights?” He glanced at you as he drove, and you nodded softly.

“There are a lot of planes needing to be moved around this island.”

“And here I thought my boys had it rough needing to hit thirty…” He shook his head, driving past the control toward a sea of the all-too-familiar Nissen huts that populated every airfield you had ever visited.

“Ferry flights and combat missions are in no way comparable, Major, the worst thing I face up there is usually English weather.”

The pair of you shared a laugh as he pulled up in front of a long row of buildings. “My CO will want to talk with you, unexpected guest and all.”

“Of course, caused quite the ruckus didn’t I.” You laughed ruefully, sliding from the jeep to collect your gear, startled as he beat you to it.

“Follow me.” He nodded warmly, holding open the door to lead you inside.

After a brief meeting with a very busy Colonel Jeffrey where he put ‘Rosie’ at your disposal, you were ushered into an empty office to use the telephone and contact your superiors. Providing a detailed report of your flight, you were instructed to sit tight pending further directions – most likely an RAF repair crew would be dispatched to try and get the plane operational, but they were also loathe to keep you grounded and out of the rotation for too long. Providing them with Jeffrey’s secretary’s number as the point of contact, you stepped out of the office to find Major Rosenthal waiting patiently in the hallway.

“You must be starving…”

“I would not say no to some food, by any means.” You smirked and followed him back out to the jeep for the short drive to the officer’s mess. “You sure its alright for me to eat in here? RAF doesn’t usually…”

“I insist.” He nodded and opened the door for you once more.

With a grateful nod, you stepped into the space flooded with natural light where row on row of tables covered in crisp white linens stood empty. Given that it was an odd hour for a meal, somewhere between breakfast and lunch, it was no surprise that you were practically alone in there. A server in a white coat quickly approached and Major Rosenthal looked to you to place your order from the choices on offer before requesting just a coffee for himself, pulling out a chair for you to sit before setting your kit in the empty chair beside you.

“This is really quite civilized, thank you again. I apologize that I’m not really dressed for the occasion…”

He chuckled warmly and shook his head. “You look prettier than me after I fly, though I’m quite confident you start out that way, too.” He winked and you smiled shyly, busying yourself with laying your napkin across your lap.

Major Rosenthal was not the first handsome airman to cross your path in your line of work, there had been countless men who had either jeered or flattered you. But after opening your heart to several early on and promptly losing them to a ruthless enemy, you had learned better than to let yourself fall for such girlish stupidity again.

“Having a second breakfast Rosie? Oh…oh I’m sorry I didn’t see you were entertaining…”

“No apologies Croz, one of the lovely ladies of the Air Transport Auxiliary dropped in for a visit.” He grinned and introduced you properly to his friend and Group Navigator Harry Crosby who was apparently only finishing his breakfast now.

“A pleasure, well I’ll leave you two to it. Make sure Rosie tells you about his love of jazz.” His knowing grin at his friend drew an exasperated exhale from Rosenthal, but before he could protest, the server was returning with food and hot beverages that were fit to make your mouth water and Crosby had disappeared.

“I don’t think I realized quite how hungry I was…” You murmured, fixing your drink to your liking before seizing your utensils to dive in.

“Well then, please, enjoy.” He leaned back, cradling his cup in his hands to allow you to enjoy your meal.

After a few bites, once you were feeling somewhat less ravenous, you tilted your head. “Artie Shaw or Benny Goodman?”

He raised an eyebrow slowly before huffing an incredulous laugh. “Artie Shaw, if I must.”

You nodded thoughtfully as you took a deep sip of your beverage.

“What other planes have you flown in your seven hundred ferry flights?” He parried with a question of his own.

“Oh, all sorts - Tiger Moths, Hurricanes, Mosquitos, Spitfires.”

He nodded thoughtfully, smoothing the edge of his moustache with his forefinger. “Favorite plane to fly?” He inquired.

“To fly? Spitfire, without a doubt.” You answered easily, licking a bit of food from your upper lip. “That plane knows what I want it to do before I even think it. Landing however…one the test pilots famously said, ‘she’s a lady in the air but a bi–’” you quickly cut yourself off with a rueful twist of your lips “she’s something else ‘on the ground.’” You finished the quote with more appropriate language inserted.

Rosenthal’s eyes danced with mirth as he enjoyed a hearty laugh at that and you could not help but notice the reddish hue to the whiskers on his upper lip, highlighted by the sunlight streaming in the windows. You wondered if that was where he had gotten the nickname ‘Rosie.’ Jarring yourself from such dangerous thoughts, you quickly turned back to your meal and peppered him with more questions about American jazz greats, enjoying the way he enthusiastically and engagingly spoke about the various band leaders he preferred and why before turning back to you with further questions about your service in the ATA and life before that. Conversation came dangerously easy between the two of you, an undeniable overlap of interests and motivation to contribute.

You were admittedly attracted to the man as well, but for the sake of your sanity, that was something you were going to have to set aside for as long as he continued his brave yet perilous missions over enemy territory. The mess gradually began to fill as true lunch time arrived, your meal and his coffee long finished, and you were about to get up and find somewhere else to wait out the repair crew when one of the servers approached with a message that they had already arrived and were looking for you.

A short drive to the hardstand revealed the four RAF men hard at work on the Wellington under the curious eye of Lemmons and others who were occasionally drifting by.

“When I get my hands on whatever git did this to this poor Wimpy…” You could hear the threats and grumblings emanating from inside the fuselage and pressed your lips together, hoping it was the previous repairperson they had it out for and not you.

“Gentlemen?” You popped your head into the bomber and were greeted by several flustered men.

“Ah there you are Ma’am, how on earth did you keep this lobotomized plane in the air for so long?!”

“Well you know, a good old Wimpy can always get you home…or at least a friendly field.”

“We’ve got…a good few hours ahead of us but then I think you’ll be able to finish the last leg of the journey.”

“Thank you very much, I’m sorry to take you away from your more pressing work. Can I get you anything?”

“Crew Chief Lemmons has been very helpful, Ma’am, but thank you.”

You offered the young man a smile of thanks over your shoulder before shuffling over to set your belongings on the grass. The afternoon was fair, the weather still warm, so you figured it was as good a place as any to wait it out. To your surprise and pleasure, Rosenthal settled onto the ground beside you, picking up your conversation right where you left off as you listened to the men work through the thin skin of the aircraft, watching the sun make its way to the western sky to sink toward the horizon.

“You know, Major, you really ought to come visit London some time. We may not have Artie Shaw or Benny Goodman live in concert but there’s still a great deal of jazz to be enjoyed.”

“Please, you can call me Rosie if you’d like.” He smiled softly and you nodded in response, not wanting to have been so bold without his permission. “You stationed that close that you can just pop into the jazz clubs?”

You nodded quickly. “White Waltham, near Windsor Castle. Very short train ride. Used to fly with the Spitfire girls out of Southampton but I wanted a chance to fly the twin engines…maybe even someday I’ll get inside a Halifax or a Lanc…but that was definitely not going to happen in a ferry pool right next to the Spitfire factory flying only short-range flights.”

“These four engine beasts are definitely a whole other ball game,” He gestured with a thumb over his shoulder towards a B-17 looming behind him, dwarfing the Wellington with is height and breadth “would you still be alone?”

“ATA sends a flight engineer on four engine flights, but no co-pilot.”

He nodded thoughtfully, looking about to add something when the RAF repair crew suddenly emerged, grinning in satisfaction.

“Should be all set Ma’am, care to give it a whirl?”

Nodding quickly, you looked to your companion softly. “Thank you very much for an unexpectedly pleasant standby, Rosie.”

“My pleasure.” He responded with a grin, sliding to his feet and holding out his hand to pull you to yours.

Clipping your parachute in place on the back of your thighs, you slid on your helmet before climbing into the aircraft to try starting the engines. Running through an extended pre-flight check with one of the maintenance crew, they cleared you for take off, Rosie waving to you before driving off in the direction of the control tower. Beginning to taxi out, you could not help the grin as he returned to guide you down the runway, pulling off into the grass and waving once again from where he stood in the driver’s seat of his jeep.

Opening the cockpit window you shouted down to him, “See you in London, Rosie!” before taking off to the sound of his laughter.

To your delight, Rosie heeded your suggestion and made the trip to London – several times in fact, over the course of the winter, otherwise keeping in touch with you via letter. Despite the logical, cautious part of your brain demanding that you keep your feelings for him at bay, feelings that constantly threatened to swell and overwhelm you with each passing meeting and letter, you still found yourself constantly fretting for his safety. Awaiting his next contact, the next proof of life, with bated breath and firmly denied distraction whenever a friend or colleague would tease you about it.

How utterly rude it was of fate to throw such a perfect specimen in your path. Particularly one that could so very easily be taken away with the same rapidity. For not only was he breathtakingly handsome, but his understated confidence and capability in all things so far encountered simply made you yearn to discover his more hidden talents. To have survived so long in an occupation where the life expectancy was six-weeks, just forty-two days, and then sign up for a second tour after meeting his mission quota – yes, he’d had luck on his side thus far, but you had seen luck abandon far too many in the last few years.

The driving pace of your own worked helped distract you, undertaking training in the four engine Halifax bomber in December before the calendar turned to January 1945, and then onto February. Your commanding officer soon indicated you had nearly accumulated enough hours to begin flying Lancasters – much to your delight and eager anticipation. The pace of the production and demand on the frontlines required more ferry pilots for the British answer to the B-17 and you were more than ready to meet the challenge head on.

Not far into the month, however, you found yourself stranded near Diss on a weather delay, unable to fly back to White Waltham. With no trains until the next morning, you decided to hitch a ride to Thorpe Abbotts to take Rosie up on his standing offer to ‘drop by anytime.’ What greeted you, however, was a very concerned looking Crosby and no Rosie in sight. Sitting you down in the same spare office you had used to call in your emergency landing last October, the obviously under-slept man seemed to be having some difficulty getting down to the point.

“Major Crosby, I can assure you I am no stranger to the variety of outcomes of aerial combat, would you mind telling me as much as you are able before you asphyxiate from lack of oxygen?” You coaxed firmly, quite certain he had not taken a breath in over a minute as he paced anxiously in front of you.

His head jerked up at the sound of your voice and he nodded once before sinking heavily into the chair opposite you before taking a deep breath, to your minor relief, and beginning to speak.

“Rosie went up on a mission on the 3rd and we’ve had no news of him since he dropped out of formation.”

Your spine went completely rigid, snapping you almost painfully upright in your chair as you nodded in a cool, detached manner at the news. This. This was precisely the reason why you had been guarding your heart and fighting your feelings and putting every moment of wonderment and each smile of adoration you felt for the man in a small internal box for safe keeping. Because this very situation had seemed so very inevitable.

So why did it still hurt so damn much.

“No news is, is usually good news in these cases but it takes a while for us to hear…. well anything.”

You gulped once, twice in rapid succession as you nodded again before clearing your throat forcefully. “Well, Major, I have to go but,” grabbing a piece of paper from the desk, you scrawled the contact number for Ferry Pool No. 1, rapidly blinking as your eyes threatened to cloud over with tears “will you call if you hear anything? That you can share of course.”

“Of course I will, did you need a ride somewhere?”

You shook your head almost violently, looking forward to the walk to the pub in Diss, a good roadside cry would fix everything surely, before you had to show your face in public. Practically dashing out of there and off the base, you barely made it out of earshot of the gatehouse before your tears bubbled over. Fine lot of good all your cautious and careful planning had done you – you had been half a person in Rosie’s presence only to have the very emotions you willfully denied snap back at you tenfold now that he might very well be…and you never once got to see how his eyes might light up if you had told him how you really felt. Feel.

All the logic in the world could not save you now as you blindly sobbed your way towards town, stubbornly wiping at your nose with your handkerchief. If you had really lost him, a very real possibility that twisted your gut painfully and drew an extremely dramatic series of hitching sobs from your breast, he had deserved better. He had deserved to know that he was cherished and admired rather than just a friend to you, and on that front, you had failed so miserably you just might never forgive yourself.

The weeks of watchful waiting were long and painful. No news came, no messages awaited you at Pool Headquarters, no gossip on the bases you visited. Until the morning of the 26th when, to your great relief, and amusement, you learned that the man was alive and well, enjoying a hero’s stay in Moscow, of all places. The newspaper article quoting the absurd volume of vodka he had endured consuming brought a long-absent smile to your face and lightness to your chest, the news beating Major Crosby’s phone call by, at most, thirty minutes. All as you were on your way with your flight engineer to your first routine Lancaster ferry flight.

Climbing into the cockpit, you took the brief moment of solitude to close your eyes, inhaling deeply as you whispered words of gratitude to whatever higher entities had clearly been watching over him. Perhaps luck was never going to run out for Robert Rosenthal. Clearly you were a fool for thinking that was the eventuality here.

“Ma’am?” The timid voice of your flight engineer, Naylor – though everyone called him Tiny Tim for the young man hardly ever spoke above a whisper, pierced through your thoughts and you jolted back to reality quickly, offering him a reassuring smile.

“Let’s pop over to Wales and deliver this bird, shall we?” You did your best to display nothing but confidence in the task before you.

He smiled back with a nod, just as eager as you to get this great beast of a plane into the air. To say that heavies became the primary planes on your delivery roster would have been an overstatement, but they were most definitely a constant. As was the ever-present thought that someday soon you would find yourself face-to-face with Rosie once again and just how to handle that day of reckoning was certainly something you found impossible to decide upon.

Should you confess and apologize on sight? Wait for a few weeks for him to settle back into life on base before unloading your feelings onto him? Or continue on as you had before? The way your stomach plummeted like a wounded bird at the last option was a clear illustration of how impossible it would be to pretend you simply regarded him as a friend. But there was a growing fear as well. For all of your focus on concealing and compartmentalizing your own feelings, you had not once allowed yourself to consider how he might feel for you. Aside from some flattering comments that may have been construed as flirtatious, he had never displayed anything but the highest calibre of warmth and social graces towards you. But you found yourself constantly pondering just how Rosie might react to a confession of what had flickered into an irrepressible blaze in your chest.

In the end, you spent more time sitting with those concerns than those for his very well being, the unseasonable warmth of February continuing on into March, with more sunny days than you had grown accustomed to after living in England for so long. April was only a few days away on the calendar when your next ferry run took to you St. Mawgan to deliver a Lancaster to the RAF Overseas Aircraft Despatch Unit. Where exactly the aircraft’s journey would end was a point of mystery and you were admittedly envious of the pilot who would sit in the lefthand seat next and take it beyond the relative safety of England’s shores – territory that was strictly off limits to you as both a civilian and especially as a woman.

Parting with your flight Engineer Martens in the all-female WAAF mess, the girl avidly ensconced in a conversation comparing beaus with the girls stationed in Cornwall, you headed back out to pick up a damaged Spitfire that had just arrived from France, desperately in need of a visit to the repair depot. In the process of inspecting the aircraft, to ensure you knew precisely what damage you would be needing to overcome, a remarkably familiar voice broke through your concentration.

“She certainly still looks like a lady on the ground…rather mistreated, but definitely a lady nonetheless.”

Straightening and turning far too quickly, you cracked your head on the underside of the fuselage, earning a look of sympathy as his hands cupped your shoulders to pull you closer, out of danger of inflicting further harm to yourself.

“Rosie…” You whispered, staring at him, unable to stop your fingers from reaching out to brush his cheek, to confirm he was real.

The muscles of his face crinkled beneath your touch as he broke out into a smile, an expression you immediately echoed despite the unbidden prick of tears in the corners of your eyes.

“Hi there.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed sharply, face growing slightly solemn as he lay his hand atop yours, pressing your palm fully against his warm skin. “I’ve been a complete fool, and I’m not sure if you can forgive me.” You tilted your head, brows furrowing in bewilderment. “The world out there is dead set on tearing itself apart and I…” His tongue darted out to wet his lips nervously, an emotion you were quite confident you had never seen overcome him before. “The entire time I was struggling to get back here just to tell you. To tell you how much I care for you. You are much more than just a friend to me, and I was an idiot to think I was okay with putting this off until the war was over.”

Eyes widening as the man seemed to be stealing the very thoughts from your head and putting them into words before you even had the chance, you sniffled playful and wiped at a stray tear that had managed to sneak down your cheek. “Don’t you go taking all the credit now, Robert.” You chided warmly, earning a stunned look from him in return. “It has taken two complete fools to deny what we’ve become, wouldn’t you say?”

Huffing a soft laugh, Rosie conceded your point with a nod as he grasped the unbuckled ends of your leather flying helmet, tugging your face closer. “I love you, you incredible woman.”

Taking a notably shaky inhale, you nodded quickly, a few more tears spilling over. “I love you, too, Rosie.” You struggled to speak around the knot of emotions in your throat, fully intending to reciprocate with some sweet term of endearment, not quite certain you could manage.

Mercifully, his lips had the grace to press against yours and save you from trying to say anything more. Grasping the fleece collar of his bomber jacket, you pressed closer in the shadow of the plane you ought to be inspecting, but the Spitfire was doing a fine job of shielding you from prying eyes and five more minutes in the arms of the man you loved – yes, it was love – and had been separated from could easily be made up courtesy of the stiff tail wind you expected on your flight to Southampton.

The rasp of his facial hair made you shiver at the slightly ticklish sensation as he maintained a firm grip on your straps, delivering kiss after kiss as if to make up for lost time. An uncontrollable grin stretched across your lips, making it nearly impossible for him to continue and so he shifted to focus on erasing any trace of tears from your cheeks, only encouraging your grin to curl wider until you were simultaneously giggling and trembling at the feel of his moustache against your jaw.

“Someday, we’ll have a lot more time, and I’m going to spend every second of it kissing you…” His eyes were filled with a fiery intensity that made it awfully difficult to draw breath and you shifted forward to press your lips to his flushed cheek in turn.

“I’m going to hold you to that, Robert Rosenthal.” You nodded firmly as you pulled back, arching sharply as his hands slid to rest against your shoulder blades, his mouth landing on yours fiercely.

“First Officer, are you quite ready?!” The shrill bark of an encroaching member of St. Mawgan’s ground crew wrenched the pair of you apart as effectively as a physical intervention, a shared look of reluctance passing between you as you quickly straightened your clothing.

You noticed his eyes flick to your shoulders to admire your new rank badges.

“You’ve been busy.” He murmured and you smiled with quiet pride.

“Fly Lancasters now, too.” You nodded and pointed over his shoulder to the plane you had flown in that morning before turning to address your intruder as he called your name once more. “Nearly ready, thank you so much for your patience!” You poured on the sweetness in your tone, noting the way Rosie’s eyes narrowed slightly as they returned to your face.

Biting back a giggle you blew him a kiss before emerging around the nose to greet the harried RAF man. “Major Rosenthal of the USAAF has never seen a Spitfire before, he asked me to show him around.”

“Thank you again for your indulgence, Ma’am, they are definitely fine planes. But I will let you get on with it.” Rosie played his part admirably, the set of the intruder’s shoulders easing somewhat.

“Yes, yes, well we need you out of here in five.” He turned to look at the clipboard in his hand and your gaze met Rosie’s once more.

“It was my pleasure, Major. I’d best be off.”

“Of course.” He nodded firmly, eyes remaining locked on yours as he mouthed ‘love you’ making your heart lurch erratically for a few beats as you mouthed it back. “Safe flight.” You spoke aloud.

“You as well.”

Noting the RAF man was once again paying attention to his surroundings, you turned to finish your quick once over of the plane before stepping up onto the wing and slotting into the narrow cockpit before pulling the side flap closed and starting the engine. Once the coast was clear, you blew one last kiss to Rosie, laughing brightly as he made quite a show of catching it and tucking it into his pocket.

“Until next time!” He shouted and you nodded brightly, pulling the canopy closed.

Because there most definitely would be a next time for you and your man of endless luck, and that was something that you no longer wished to deny.

-------------------------

Masters of the Air Masterlist

Postscript - thank you ever so much to @precious-little-scoundrel for proofreading this for me!!

[bcolfanfic]

still in a writing slump but was back in the off roading doc today. major tw for suicidal thoughts/suicide attempt via car crash under the read more.

It was October in Wyoming. The trees were pretty and the foliage from the trees lining the mountains looked warm- a mishmash of orange and yellows and reds reminding Gale of what he imagined the sun looked like up close. Some days the site seared his retina like he was a mere ten miles from the sun too.

It was October in Wyoming and Gale Cleven wanted to die. 

But he’d told John and the girls that he’d grab bread from the store. 

It was Tuesday and he couldn’t get his head out of the trees. They all seemed far away, except for the one on the last left hand corner before he hit their street. The tree on the corner seemed to sprout arms from its bark and hands that wrapped around his throat and squeezed. Squeezed so tight his vision blurred, and he could see Biddick and all the rest of them standing in the road, watching him drive off of it waiting to see what happened next. 

The tires screeched and screamed, the force of it all slamming his body against the steering wheel, head barely missing the window when it lolled forward, back and forward again.

He saw his father and yanked as hard as he could on the steering wheel like a yoke yank that would change the attitude out of harm's way. 

The tree remained untouched, Gale’s truck skidding to a stop back on the road. Blood dripped down his forehead from what he could surmise was a gash on his forehead and he realized with some amount of regret he couldn’t die even when he went out of his way to try.

He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and wiped the blood off on his jeans. He drove home.

[son1c]

under the weather

falling stars fic masterpost

Outside, it was storming, the kind of storm that flips trash cans and rattles windows. The dark clouds had rolled in with the dawn, but there was no daylight, only flashes from lightning strikes. Sonic had his full attention focused on the controls now. Keeping the manta ray from flying into a bolt of lightning was his top priority.

Rain pelted the windshield like artillery. It was hard to see anything through the soaked glass, but as he brought the ship closer to the ground, the pulsing lights of Night Babylon cut through the storm like a neon blade. There was just one thing left to do: land the ship.

Rouge clutched the back of the pilot's chair. "Don't let those dreadful clouds fool you," she said. "This is actually the richest city around. It's a shame you had to meet it like this!"

Shadow examined the radar on the dashboard. It revealed a swirling vortex of wind and rain, highlighted in green pixels. "With the vast desert, weather like this shouldn't be possible."

Suddenly, the three Mobians’ fur stood on end. A second later, a streak of white hot electricity tore through the air directly in front of them, and the manta ray swerved like a van on an icy highway.

Sonic gripped the controls with white knuckles. "Aw, lighten up, guys!” His face was stretched in a tense, everything-is-fine grin. “A little rain won't drag us down. Not when we're this close!"

Another streak of lightning slashed across the sky, and Sonic was forced to yank the yoke in a hard turn. With his foot, Sonic kept Buggy from sliding across the floor, and when he flipped a switch on the ceiling, it looked like he was playing a game of Twister. But the lightning faded quickly, and the ship righted itself just as fast.

Rouge looked a little green. "Another roll like that and I'll be one stomach lighter," she said. "So let's not go there."

Shadow turned to Sonic. "That 'good feeling' of yours has carried us this far. But what of landing the ship? The roads are sure to be flooded from the storm, so an alternate route may be our--"

"No way," Sonic interrupted. "I'm not fittin' a detour into the flight plan now. We're skippin’ the scenic route–it’s city streets all the way!"

The nose of the manta ray tilted downward. It broke through the bottom of the clouds, and the blurry lights of Night Babylon came into sharper focus. Even though rain was still lashing at the windshield, everyone could see the buildings surrounding the ship, creating a maze of cold steel for Sonic to navigate through.

One wrong move and the manta ray would crash through the pyramid building, or slice the top off the globe-like concert hall. And then there was the ferris wheel, still spinning from the gale force winds, its glistening silver body like a spider web waiting for its prey.

Sonic steered the ship away from all of them. His reflexes were fast--just as fast as the rest of him. And his heart was kicked up to high gear, thumping in his ears in time with the rain.

He thought of the badniks in the cabin, and Omega by the doorway, and Rouge and Shadow right next to him. Then, a feeling so strong it would've knocked him on his seat if he wasn't already sitting down took hold of him, and he knew.

He had to keep them safe.

He wouldn't let them down.

Sometime soon he would have to think over the suddenness of this feeling, but not yet. And sometime eventually he’d have to look at himself in the mirror. But there was no time for that now.

The manta ray ducked under an archway, its belly brushing up against the tops of trees. Then, the ship exploded through the wall of water that was cascading down the other side, and it burst out onto the street. It was the street Rouge's casino was on. Sonic could see the bat-shaped billboard from here.

“That landing gear isn't going to drop itself, Blue," Rouge hissed into Sonic's ear. "Or were you planning on a crash landing? I'll have you know, anything of mine you break comes with interest!"

The storm had turned the street into a river. The drains were clogged from generous helpings of sky vomit, and the clouds just kept piling it on, flooding the pavement faster than the city's sewer system could suck it away. Cars floated down the sidewalk, the water depositing them on the steps of buildings or at the foot of grassy hills.

"It's no good," Sonic said with a shake of his head. "This thing hits the water, it'll flip like a coin. Then I'll really owe ya your weight in interest!"

Sonic’s thoughts swirled like the storm. How could he keep everyone safe? The street couldn’t serve as a landing strip, and the grassy knolls scattered down the block were too small to park the battleship on. That left only one option: the golden roof of Rouge’s casino.

Rouge didn’t like the look on Sonic’s face. And when she saw what he was looking at, she liked it even less. “Oh, no, you don't!” she said. “You better not rough up my casino. Not one scratch!”

Sonic leaned forward. His gaze was determined as he stared straight ahead, his grip on the yoke steady. “Trust me,” Sonic said. “I got this!”

There was a blinding flash, and then a jaw-rattling boom. Shadow staggered, reached out to grab Sonic’s arm, and steadied himself. The lights in the cabin flickered. When they returned, every alarm began blaring at once, signaling that the engine had stalled.

Sonic kept his eyes locked on the roof of the casino. The adrenaline coursing through his veins made his head buzz, his thoughts racing as he tried to figure out how he was going to turn this crash landing into a not-one-scratch landing. And then he had a crazy idea.

The wind howled, lashing against the outside of the ship like a feral animal.

"That’s the ticket!" Sonic said.

Before Shadow or Rouge could ask him what he meant by that, Sonic did something that most other people would think too daring or improbable: he performed a slip, turning the gale force winds of the storm into brakes for the manta ray battleship.

It worked. Somehow.

Sonic landed the ship on the roof of Club Rouge. The wings of the manta ray were supported by the tall golden points of the roof. The balance was perfect. It didn’t even wobble.

Ten seconds later, the storm changed to a light drizzle, and then dried up completely. The dark clouds faded and the sun returned, bathing the rain-soaked streets of Night Babylon in its warm yellow rays. People poked their heads out of their windows and looked up at the sky, baffled.

Shadow finally released Sonic’s arm. He examined the radar on the dashboard. “It’s gone,” he said. “Vanished into thin air. Like it was never here.”

“Let me see that,” Rouge said. She moved to stand next to Shadow, her eyes narrowed as they peered down at the tiny screen. But Shadow was right: the storm was gone.

Rouge turned away from the dashboard. “How dramatic,” she huffed. “All that fuss and nothing to show for it. Although…” She paused, tapping a finger to her lip. “It’s not every day an Eggman battleship flies into town. Without the rain, this delightful little barge would’ve turned heads from here to Central City!”

“Sounds like we owe the storm a thank you,” Sonic said as he peeled his hands off the yoke. If his fingers were shaking, it was only because of the adrenaline.

Rouge pinched the bridge of her nose. “I wouldn’t go that far,” she said. “After all, you chose just about the worst spot you could’ve to park! I’ll have you know, I’m one of the few casinos in this town that hasn’t been bought out by the mad Doctor.”

Rouge's lips thinned until they were the size of a dime set on its side.

“Now what will people think?" she continued. "I’ve become a sell-out? Hardly! I can’t have this ramshackle ray pretending to be a hat for my esteemed club. It’s bad for business!”

Suddenly, the door to the cabin opened. Omega poked his head inside. “THAT WAS EXHILARATING,” he said, ignoring Rouge’s agitated glare. “NOTIFY ME SO THE NEXT TIME YOU FLY, I CAN BE ON BOARD, BLUE HEDGEHOG.”

Sonic rubbed the back of his neck. He wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be a compliment or not. “Glad you enjoyed yourself, Omega.”

Shadow started inching toward the door.

Rouge sighed. "Hopefully there won't be a next time," she said. "And if there is, it'll be far away from my precious things!" She joined Shadow at the door to the cabin, but paused before going through it. With one hand on the door frame, she glanced back over her shoulder at Sonic. "But enough griping. You really came through in the end, Blue. I won't forget it."

Then, Rouge squeezed past Omega and joined Shadow in the cabin. She was followed by Buggy, who beeped excitedly before zooming between the large robot's legs, and Omega, not one to be left behind, quickly followed after them.

And so it was that Sonic stood alone in the cockpit. He grinned, his brain humming with a sense of satisfaction. An immense happiness at having successfully protected his friends filled his chest. Because it meant he'd fulfilled his primary directive, and Doctor Eggman would be pleased with--

Sonic's expression fell so fast it would've set a new world record for "emotional whiplash," if there was such a thing. He clutched at his chest with one hand, suddenly all too aware of himself.

Where had that thought come from?

It didn't sound like him. It couldn't have been him. He wasn't a Robian anymore, so why was he still thinking like one? The warm feeling in his chest lingered, but it made him sick. Happy. Nauseous. Happy. Uncomfortable.

Sonic gritted his teeth. Whatever was going on inside of his head could wait. The confusing mishmash of feelings faded, and he dashed out of the cockpit to join the rest of Team Dark on the roof of the casino.

Rouge was inspecting the golden tiles for marks. When she saw Sonic, she shot him a sly look. "It's your lucky day," she said. "It's spotless."

Sonic puffed up. The only thing off about his expression now was his uncanny eyes. "You expect anything less?"

"Not really. Your reputation precedes you, hero," she said.

Sonic stiffened, but played it off with a shrug. "Wouldn't make us a very good team if I trashed your place day one!"

"We'll need to do something about Eggy's ship, though," Rouge said, her nose crinkling in distaste. "It totally clashes with the decor. I'm thinking after we all get settled inside, we talk color schemes. Redecorating seems like the way to go, since there's no way it'll fit in the parking lot."

Omega piped up, "SUGGESTION: DESTROY THE EGGMAN BATTLESHIP?"

Rouge wagged a finger. "I don't think so, tough guy. My casino isn't acceptable collateral for your demolition spree! Besides, those badniks are gonna need someplace to stay that's out of sight from customers."

Omega wilted.

But it was for the best.

[collapsedsquid]

For well over a decade, touchscreens have spread like a rash across dashboards. As with other dangerous trends in car design (see the steering yoke), this one can be traced back to Tesla, which has for years positioned its vehicles as “tablets on wheels.” As a result, touchscreens were seen as representing tech-infused modernity. But cost has been a factor, too. “These screens are presented as this avant garde, minimalist design,” said Matt Farah, a car reviewer and host of The Smoking Tire, an auto-focused YouTube channel and podcast. “But really, it’s the cheapest way possible of building an interior.” Although they look fancy, Farah said that carmakers can purchase screens for less than $50, making them significantly less expensive than tactile controls.

I accept and believe this uncritically, bring back buttons

[bellygunnr]

Daedalus

KR spoilers for "Chariot of Gold." Kitt and Bonnie come to terms.

Bonnie arranged her tools. She organized them alphabetically, by size, by function, and by color, rending the functionality of her garage asunder. A plain black box leers at her from her work table, unmoved, sealed, and untouched. Within it lies her reason for working, secondary only to the binder of papers stamped with the Foundation Knight.

The sound of tires shuffling against metal draws her attention. Her grip loosens on the handful of ten millimeter wrenches she'd been fussing with, causing them to slide to the floor with a clatter. She flinches at the sound.

"Bonnie."

Tires shuffle again, back and forth, giving the sleek black car nestled in the rear of the semi-trailer a nervous appearance. She watches his steering yoke waggle back and forth through the windshield.

"Yeah, Kitt?"

His wheels should be chocked in place. He trembles violently in time with the semi as it crosses over broken asphalt. Her skin crawls with the unseen gaze of the car.

"When will we be installing the new component?"

He speaks softly. The gentleness is not lost on her, so different from his confident inquisitiveness. She can tell he doesn't want to overstep-- but what is there to overstep?

He didn't do anything wrong.

"…I'm sorry, Kitt," Bonnie says.

"You didn't do anything--" Kitt starts.

"Yes, I did, Kitt. And I know you've forgiven me, and I'm very grateful, but it's still-- it's hard, Kitt," she wrenches out. "I never want to do that to you again."

Before she can think better of it, she pulls the metal tabs keeping the box together. The lid falls open, revealing a knot of plastic that she delicately pulls apart. The component within-- a security upgrade.

Kitt pops open his door without a word.

Bonnie lingers at his side.

"I'm scared, too, Bonnie," Kitt says, just as she pulls open the door handle.

His cabin, usually so inviting and familiar, terrifies her. Only the gently pulsing light indicating his voice encourages her to slide into the driver's seat, already warm to the touch.

"But I know it will never happen again. It was not your fault. But the logic loop may never go away."

Bonnie swallows against a lump in her throat. Her hands shake as she unseals the control panel beneath Kitt's dash, lowering it slowly to the floor with her fingertips. Here, everything. The three daughter cards that support the microprocessor.

They'd shocked her as she ripped them out.

"You can do it, Bonnie," Kitt says gently.

"You're scared?" She asks.

Kitt's CRT monitors warm up slowly. Instructions and blueprints coax her into beginning the arduous process of modification.

"It is the only… reasonable… conclusion to the kind of processes I have been experiencing. I do not relish it, nor do I enjoy it. Emotions are beyond my scope. What use is a car that gets scared? Angry?"

His voice is a soothing vibration from the speakers. Her fingers memorize the texture of hard plastic and high-end alloy as she draws measurements and ideas.

"It's okay to be scared," Bonnie murmurs.

There's a brain inches from her hands. She's lobotomized him once. There's a person she can cut holes into and solder new connections and thread wires through. Blood and wine and electricity flows beyond her vision, a nervous system only she understands.

And is that not the issue?

"We can be scared together," she says.

"I have found that things are easier to face with a friend," Kitt says thoughtfully. "But is it alright that I feel?"

Bonnie breathes in, holds it within her chest.

"Always, Kitt."

[ghetsis-a]

cursed aviation facts:

some airplanes flying today have no electrical system and need to be started by spinning the propeller like it's 19-fucking-10.

you can build a whole-ass airplane from plans or a kit. yes, you. right now. you can do that. many people have and continue to do so.

some airports have no air traffic control tower.

MOST airports have no air traffic control tower.

you don't have to keep your hands on the yoke (steering wheel) when flying.

you don't have to file a flight plan for every flight.

you can fly without being able to see outside if you have a properly equipped plane.

[sullustangin]

Fluffy February Day 19: Loop

Fandom: SWTOR

TIme:  Intro to the Smuggler story (landing on Coruscant)

Pairing: None (gen fic)

Words:  ~700

~~

Eva Corolastor glared up at the public transport listing at Coruscant spaceport.

Corso watched the pilot as she got more annoyed at the constant delays.  He’d only known Eva for a few days, but he knew she had a temper on her.  Granted, some guy had just stolen her ship, ditched her on Ord Mantell, and nearly got her cat killed when the critter abandoned ship to go to his master.

Hylo the Cat sat on his haunches, also glaring up at the public transport listings.  Unacceptable.

Eva seemed to reach the same conclusion.  Eva turned to Corso abruptly.  “You got a speeder license?”

“Yeah, been drivin’ farm vehicles since I was … ten?  Got it all official the day I –”

“Great!  You got a criminal record yet?” Eva startled him with her enthusiasm as well as the follow-up question.  

“Uh…no?” Corso barely had enough time to reply before Eva grabbed his arm and dragged him over to the speeder rental booth.

“Viidu had a deadman’s switch, so I got some credits from him – bet you did too,” Eva said.  “And I’d rather spend it on actually getting somewhere in this city rather than waiting around for some old converted garbage scow.”

~~

“Move over.”  Eva motioned to Corso.   As if to add emphasis, Hylo jumped on the dashboard, right in front of the steering yoke.

“Seriously?”  Corso said, not moving out of the driver’s seat yet. “I’m the legal driver of this here vehicle – you didn’t want to get your chaincode scanned –”  Then something struck him. “Hey, you didn’t get scanned at the port authority – you had Hylo snatch that guard’s lunch and then the pair of you chased him all over the port –"

“--I’m the better driver,” Eva cut him off as she opened the speeder door on the driver’s side.

Corso looked at her as if she was crazy.  “Now how do I know that?”

Eva gestured to herself with open hands.  “Did I not dodge that separatist blockade?  Did I not land under fire?”

Corso shook a finger at her. “Now hang on here – that’s a starship, this is a speeder –”

“If I’m good at the big stuff, don’t you think I’d be even better at the small craft?”  Eva squared up to him, hands on her hips.  “Or is this a ‘the man should drive’ situation, because that’s sooooo last century and is an expression of your latent insecurities.”

Corso worked his jaw a couple of times. “Ain’t got nothing to be insecure about!  The swoop’s in my name and I’m responsible for it –”

“And don’t we have a meeting with that Darmas?  Isn’t he busy?”  Eva pointedly looked at her chrono on her wrist.  “Don’t want to miss the opportunity to catch Skavak.”  

Corso squeezed the steering wheel in his hands.  Then he made a disgusted noise.  “Just don’t total it.”  Then he moved over to sit on the passenger side.

~~

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAY VVVVVVAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”  Corso stared ahead at the oncoming freighter, howling the entire time.

Eva let out a whoop as she pulled back on the yoke and weaved back into the correct lane of traffic. “Kriff, the exit to that sector is back up there.”    Her eyes bounced between the lane in front of her and the review mirror, where the exit sign now was.    

Then she reached to pat Hylo.  “You might wanna hold on tight.’

With a mreep, Hylo jumped off the dash and sank his claws into the carseat.

“Ah, come on, you two, the speeder is in my NAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAME ---”

Eva had executed a loop in order to get herself into the upper lane going into the opposite direction.

Except now they were flying upside down.

And that’s exactly how they entered into the speeder port, with Eva flipping them back over at the absolute last second.  

Eva and Hylo jumped out of the speeder as if it was no big deal.

Corso remained hunched over in the passenger seat for a few minutes.  “Eva,” he finally said as he sat up.  He let his hand hang over the side of the speeder door and motioned for her to come over.

Eva meandered over, some smug expression on her face.

“Give me the keys, woman. We ain’t doin’ that again.”

....but they absolutely did it again.  A lot of times.

And Corso missed it when they didn’t.

~~

@fluffyfebruary @ayresis @starlightcleric @bluephoenix1347 @ermingarden

[tesery]

Yoke Steering Wheel for Tesla Model 3/Y | Tesla Interior Mods

Get Ready to Experience a Tesla ModsUpgrade your Tesla and experience a transformation in comfort and style!🔥 The Tesery yoke steering wheel comes with Nappa leather, carbon fiber finish, and metal buttons to give you the best in class.🔧 Simple and easy installation ensures you're on the road faster.✨ Mods your Tesla today with this unique Yoke Steering Wheel!👉https://www.tesery.com/collections/tesla-steering-wheel?ref=uC56lb37

[loislane-ana]

Tesla Model X Yoke Steering Wheel Replacement: Wife's Hilarious Reaction! #shorts#memes#tesla#fyp

[chic-a-gigot]

La Mode nationale, no. 10, 8 mars 1902, Paris. No. 1. — Groupe de toilettes pour dames et jeunes filles. Bibliothèque nationale de France

(1) Toilette de visites pour jeune femme ou jeune fille, en voile paille. La jupe courte et arrondie est plissée tout autour à repincés qui dans le bas restent libres; elle est dentelée et brodée en grosse laine et en soie de même ton. Elle tombe sur un très haut volant plissé et brodé simulant une seconde jupe. Ce volant est plus haut derrière que devant.

Boléro carré plissé et brodé comme la jupe ouvert sur un gilet croisé et drapé en satin liberty capucine rentré dans une ceinture drapée et en pointe. Grand col découpé en forme d'empiècement où se retrouve la même broderie. La manche est plissée jusqu'au coude pour fournir un haut volant également dentelé et brodé.

(1) Visiting ensemble for young women or girls, in straw veil. The short, rounded skirt is pleated all around with darts which remain free at the bottom; it is laced and embroidered in coarse wool and silk of the same tone. It falls on a very high pleated and embroidered ruffle simulating a second skirt. This steering wheel is higher behind than in front.

Square bolero, pleated and embroidered like the skirt, open over a double-breasted and draped cardigan in nasturtium liberty satin tucked into a draped, pointed belt. Large collar cut in the shape of a yoke where the same embroidery is found. The sleeve is pleated to the elbow to provide a ruffled top that is also laced and embroidered.

Matériaux: 8 mètres de voile; 1m,50 de satin liberty.

Chapeau en paille satin nuance blé à calotte haute, entouré de deux amazones blanches.

Wheat-colored satin straw hat with high crown, surrounded by two white Amazons.

—

(2) Robe de promenade pour jeune femme ou dame d'un certain âge, en drap satin noir. Jupe en forme garnie de straps à dépassants de velours. Veste façon Louis XV tout cerclée de velours noir, avec longue basque rapportée garnie de même. Manche à coude ornée de velours et terminée par un volant plissé en mousseline de soie noire. Col haut orné d'une ruche en mousseline de soie noire chenillée au bord jabotant jusqu'à la taille et finissant par un long pan avec petit volant.

(2) Walking dress for young women or ladies of a certain age, in black satin cloth. Shaped skirt trimmed with straps with velvet overhangs. Louis Elbow sleeve decorated with velvet and finished with a pleated ruffle in black silk chiffon. High collar decorated with a ruffle in black chenille silk chiffon with a ruffled edge reaching to the waist and ending in a long panel with a small ruffle.

Matériaux: 6 mètres de drap; 4 mètres de mousseline de soie.

Toque en dentelle de crin avec piquet de cerises.

Horsehair lace hat with cherry stake.

—

(3) Toilette de visites pour jeune femme, en étamine cordée rouge étrusque. Jupe en forme bordée d'un entre-deux de Cluny noir sur transparent blanc, tombant sur trois volants froncés en liberty noir. Corsage rentré dans la taille fermé de côté par des boutons noirs. Col montant de Cluny sur transparent blanc et grand col rond composé de trois volants en liberty rappelant ceux de la jupe. La manche est plissée à l'épaule et au bas et terminée par trois petits volants de liberty noir.

(3) Visiting ensemble for young women, in Etruscan red corded stamen. Shaped skirt bordered with a black Cluny in-between on transparent white, falling on three gathered ruffles in black liberty. Bodice tucked into the waist closed on the side with black buttons. Cluny stand-up collar on transparent white and large round collar made up of three liberty ruffles reminiscent of those on the skirt. The sleeve is pleated at the shoulder and at the bottom and finished with three small black liberty frills.

Matériaux: 6 mètres d'étamine; 7 mètres de liberty; 1 mètres de taffetas blanc.

Chapeau marquis en paille satin bordé de dentelle blanche et orné de choux en mousseline de soie ciel.

Marquis hat in satin straw edged with white lace and adorned with sky chiffon puffs.

[californiaphantom]

Tesla Model Y New Style Yoke Steering Wheel chatgpt| Hansshow

🚗✨ Upgrade your Tesla Model Y with the Hansshow Version 2 Yoke Steering Wheel! In this video, we walk you through the entire installation process, highlighting tips and tricks to make it a breeze. Whether you’re looking to enhance your driving experience or simply want to add a sleek new look to your Tesla, this guide is for you! 🔧 Timestamps: 00:56- Tools Included / What’s Needed 03:13 –…

[ukdamo]

The Ballad of the Bolivar

Rudyard Kipling

Seven men from all the world, back to Docks again,

Rolling down the Ratcliffe Road drunk and raising Cain:

Give the girls another drink ‘fore we sign away—

We that took the “Bolivar” out across the Bay!

We put out from Sunderland loaded down with rails;

We put back to Sunderland ’cause our cargo shifted;

We put out from Sunderland—met the winter gales—

Seven days and seven nights to the Start we drifted.

Racketing her rivets loose, smoke-stack white as snow,

All the coals adrift adeck, half the rails below,

Leaking like a lobster-pot, steering like a dray—

Out we took the Bolivar, out across the Bay!

One by one the Lights came up, winked and let us by;

Mile by mile we waddled on, coal and fo’c’sle short;

Met a blow that laid us down, heard a bulkhead fly;

Left the Wolf behind us with a two-foot list to port.

Trailing like a wounded duck, working out her soul;

Clanging like a smithy-shop after every roll;

Just a funnel and a mast lurching through the spray—

So we threshed the Bolivar out across the Bay!

’Felt her hog and felt her sag, betted when she’d break;

Wondered every time she raced if she’d stand the shock;

Heard the seas like drunken men pounding at her strake;

Hoped the Lord ’ud keep his thumb on the plummer-block.

Banged against the iron decks, bilges choked with coal;

Flayed and frozen foot and hand, sick of heart and soul;

Last we prayed she’d buck herself into Judgment Day—

Hi! we cursed the Bolivar knocking round the Bay!

O her nose flung up to sky, groaning to be still—

Up and down and back we went, never time for breath;

Then the money paid at Lloyd’s caught her by the keel,

And the stars ran round and round dancin’ at our death.

Aching for an hour’s sleep, dozing off between;

’Heard the rotten rivets draw when she took it green;

’Watched the compass chase its tail like a cat at play—

That was on the Bolivar, south across the Bay.

Once we saw between the squalls, lyin’ head to swell—

Mad with work and weariness, wishin’ they was we—

Some damned Liner’s lights go by like a long hotel;

Cheered her from the Bolivar swampin’ in the sea.

Then a greybeard cleared us out, then the skipper laughed;

“Boys, the wheel has gone to Hell—rig the winches aft!

Yoke the kicking rudder-head–get her under way!”

So we steered her, pulley-haul, out across the Bay!

Just a pack o’ rotten plates puttied up with tar,

In we came, an’ time enough, ‘cross Bilbao Bar.

Overloaded, undermanned, meant to founder, we

Euchred God Almighty’s storm, bluffed the Eternal Sea!

Seven men from all the world, back to town again,

Rollin’ down the Ratcliffe Road drunk and raising Cain:

Seven men from out of Hell. Ain’t the owners gay,

’Cause we took the “Bolivar” safe across the Bay?

[cartrimz]

Tesla’s yoke steering wheel is really cool,this is the complete installation process

[teslaproducts]

Upgrade Your Ride with the Yoke Steering Wheel for Tesla Model 3-Y #tesl...