#bombadier

[tottaly-not-a-random-person]

Aaand that's why Jessie failed to become a Nurse

plot twist: jessie genuinely thinks this

[seven-skies-above]

Artificer Good Ending with some new Pups or her old Pups surviving? :D

this ask had me churning out ALL the arti pup headcanons. like im so obsessed with them now. what if they DID survive and reunited with their mum i'm so aaAAAA

also, low effort arti pup designs as a bonus cause i am brainrotting

torpedo scug and flashbang scug :>

[mantisgodsart]

so very small Worm (Wildbow), Bug Fables Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Skitter | Weaver | Taylor Hebert, Post-GM, Transmigration, Spiders, Bugs & Insects, Canon-Typical Violence

Taylor Hebert wakes up in the middle of a grassy field with an aching head, a massive blank in her memory, and approximately four more limbs than she remembers having. Approximately, of course, because one of her original four limbs appeared to be gone, and she wasn't sure how to qualify an entire abdomen suddenly spawning off of her backside. Something ingrained deeply into her skull told her she should be blaming someone, but she couldn't quite remember who.

Author's Note: Bugtober, Day 19 - Mimic. We think that Taylor would be a mimic spider if we swapped her over to BF. We have no major justification for this, but we are open to suggestions if anyone has a better idea, seeing as it's been nearly three years (we think) since we've read Worm and there are likely people on this website who are not operating on three years of character drift.

[kazsartcorner]

I've been playing some of Darkest Dungeon Black Reliquary, and boy those wildlanders sure are...intimidating, let's go with intimidating.

[alienoresimagines]

Douglass: We both look very handsome tonight. Blakely: You know, if you’d just said I look handsome, I would’ve said “so do you.” Douglass: I couldn’t take that chance.

[sexysilverstrider]

okay the shiny silver colours on his beak and claws are really cool i love this!!

[krakenfly]

I   -   T h e    M a g i c i a n

Bombadier beetle, the second card in my Tarot theme

[crystal-grotto]

"Scorch beetle? Sounds tasty."

The troll holds up a singular insect between massive claws at the mention of one, to provide the Margaven a visual of one of his 'pets'.

The creature's carapace glitters with a metallic purple and gold sheen, and long vent-like tubes along its body leak smokey fumes. It does not seem bothered by being handled by Sturm in particular, however, if its soft chittering sound and idly waving appendages are anything to go by.

'Hardly edible.' The Gumm-Gumm comments. 'Zhey are spicy, but also very, very bitter as zheir flesh is full of chemicals to deter predators.'

[siobhanromee]

I need a new icon but I'm not sure what I want to go with this time

[flittingthroughthepines]

BEER

brb gonna grab us more beers

[latibvles]

WHEN DOES A WAR END?

A collection of stories surrounding an all-female bomber crew, primarily derived from @hboww2rewatch ’s weekly prompt list + individual prompt requests. a special thanks to @basilone for letting me take inspiration from their masterpost for their own stories: the earth is run by mothers.

[Read all the works in chronological order on Archive of Our Own]

And click the Read More to meet the crew.

THE MAIN PROMPTS

Friends ( March, 1943 )

Crews ( May, 1943 )

Kinship ( May, 1943 )

Recuperation ( June, 1943 )

Injured ( October, 1943 )

Reunion ( October, 1943 )

Typewriter ( October, 1943 )

Wedding ( August, 1946 )

Bonding ( February, 1943 )

Dress Uniform ( December, 1942 )

Vivian “Viv” Savorre | Pilot, 26, Detroit, MI

Responds primarily to Viv — magazines love her, as do most reporters. Has an easy smile and a certain allure that leads people to believe that she was maybe a socialite or some type of high society girl before she joined the Army. Gives very little of herself, somehow manages to make you feel like her best friend regardless. Can throw a mean punch when prompted.

Wilhelmina “Willie” Neumann | Co-Pilot, 25, Stroudsburg, PA

Never introduces herself as anything but Willie. The “mouse” living in the bomber, a woman of very few words. Has good eyes and is very diligent about writing letters home to mom. Only ever speaks when she has something to say, a bit cold if you don’t know her well enough.

Inez Eckley | Navigator, 21, Nashville, TN

Too humble to function. Refuses to admit that she is in fact near-sighted. Her brother’s a minor league baseball player (do not ask her about it) and her mom just had another kid. First in her family to get a college degree — does not brag about this.

Fern Carmine | Radio Operator, 21, Racine, WI

Silver-spoon baby, part-time swindler. Will occasionally save the 100th from Bucky’s impromptu performances with a song of her own — unless they duet, which is tolerable. Don’t play her in darts unless you plan to lose. Loves to dance and loves when she can get the girls dancing with her.

Lena Connolly | Flight Engineer, 23, The Bronx, NY

Accepting any and all stupid nicknames derived from the fact that she is very Irish. Prides herself on being a fixer and being damn good at it. Strongly opinionated. Pretty much down for anything. Good at getting people out of trouble before the fists start flying.

Josephine “Jo” Alden | Tail Gunner, 24, Boston, MA

Also responds to Josie, Josie-Posie, and whatever other rhymes can be surmised from that. The Mom Friend. Suffers from middle kid syndrome and lived to tell the tale. Carries around a library in her footlocker and will hold your hair back when you throw up (after a mission or after a night at the bar).

Harriet “Harrie” Morgan | Ball Turret Gunner, 22, Montgomery, AL

A quintessential ray of pure sunshine. Loves a good sweet treat and lacks a knack for picking up lot of social cues. Very loud, very optimistic, undeniably and admirably fearless. Will scrunch her nose if you call her Harriet.

Carrie Hughes | Waist Gunner, 18, Denver, CO

Baby of the group. Nervous energy personified. A little bit naive and maybe not the bravest of the bunch but she’s getting there. Likes feeling pretty and getting compliments from the people she looks up to. Still finding her own bite.

Lorraine Ivanova | Waist Gunner, 20, Brooklyn, NY

Likes winning and being number one. Does not indulge in the antics unless hard-pressed to do so. Gonna get shit done no matter the cost. Doesn’t talk about herself all that much, makes it hard to know her.

June Cielinski | Bombadier, 21, Chicago, IL

Angry more often than not. Throws a mean punch. Doesn’t look like she can in fact throw that mean punch. Has two older brothers and it shows. Mouthy, opinionated, and downright degrading when you get on her bad side. An overly protective girls’ girl first and foremost.

[seven-skies-above]

send help i'm obsessed with the kaboom siblings rn i love them and i would so play a co-op campaign with them both

[usafphantom2]

Thomas Ferebee, bombadier of B-29 Bomber Enola Gay, with Norden bombsight, Tinian, Mariana Islands, 6 Aug 1945

@VoicesofWW2 via X

[millie-multifics]

Though I Yearn • Part 8

Masters of the Air x Reader

Secret Admirer (Revealed)

A string of anonymous letters causes a stir at Thorpe Abbotts. Who could be the author of the tender correspondence you have been recieving?

Warnings: Spoilers for the admirers identity if you have yet to read Part 7, mentions of death, implied nudity, and it’s a little cheesy.

Word Count: ~1.3k

Masterlist Previous Final Part- Coming soon!

Sorry for the long af wait but just got my cast off from breaking my dominant hand soo it’s been a rough go. I appreciate everyone’s support with this series 🩵💙

x x x

Everyone at Thorpe Abbotts had grown increasingly weary throughout the winter months, losing more men each mission while trying to recover from the great losses of autumn.

It seemed with each mission you rose earlier and earlier, eventually you ceased finding any sleep after that dreaded red light flashed for the men.

“Good morning, gentlemen.” You greeted Douglass and Blakely with a smile, two cups of steaming black coffee already prepared. It had become a ritual for a few of the men to skip breakfast with the replacements, settling for one of your hot cups of coffee and chain smoking cigarettes to ease their unsettled stomachs.

Everett could see the exhaustion in your eyes, the burden of serving these men with a smile, knowing a fraction will not return was taking its toll.

“Sleep at all?” He asked, his worry palpible by the way his eyebrows creased in the centre.

“Your feet being on solid ground allows me to breathe but sleep evades me.” You admit, reaching to smooth the front lock of his hair that frequently escapes his attempted neat styling.

“Does that mean I don’t qualify for a kiss from my guardian angel this morning?”

Douglass groaned, smothering his cigarette butt into the dirt with his heavy, polished boot. “Sometimes I miss when she would only talk to you because she was ignoring my ass.”

“He’s a little on edge right now, our little James is attempting commitment.” Everett explained, sending the bombadier an amused glare. “On the topic of commitment, the hut will be clear for a few hours tonight for Rosie’s 25th mission festivities. Maybe we can catch up on some sleep.”

“Yeah, sleep, I’m sure that is what will be happening in there.” Douglass rolled his eyes at your lovesick, teenage antics.

“Speaking of Rosie, where is the lucky bastard?” You asked, he usually cut out of breakfast early to clear his head of all the nervous replacements chatter.

“Luck has nothing to do with it, he is a damn good pilot.” Blakely mused, “If I didn’t fly so damn good myself, I’d want to be in his fort.”

“Speak of the devil… coffee?” You offered as the mustached pilot appeared under the rolling, grey clouds.

“Please.”

You raised your own coffee to toast, “All the best today boys, and Rosie? Give ‘em hell.”

“This it the worst part, the waiting.” Helen broke the silence in the clubmobile. You were sitting in the chairs provided, awaiting the arrival of the men before you would make your way to what had become the Interigation centre to welcome the men back, help them feel comfortable and recognize they were back on solid ground. “Do you think Rosie will make it? It feels like it has been ages since a crew has done it.”

You glanced over the spine of the book in your hands, it had been open for about an hour now but if Helen had noticed you had yet to turn the page she did not mention it. “Rosie is a great pilot, I wouldn’t start doubting his abilities now.”

You flipped your page for show, eyes drifting over the page but not reading the black ink.

“Do you truely love Everett?”

“I do.” You did not need to think as the words slipped past your lips.

“How does it feel to love someone like that?”

You shut the book, placing it on your lap as you pictured your handsome pilot in your minds eye, “It’s like having a perfect, hot cup of tea on a cold day, its a warmth that envelopes your mind, body and soul. I feel all of his emotions tenfold, when he is happy I am blessed, when he is mad I am enraged and when he struggles with sadnesss I feel his grief. I yearn for his presence when he is away and revel in it when he is near, I no longer dream of going home because Everett has become my home.”

Helen looked thoughtful for a moment, “I think I could have felt it once but I only had one marvelous evening with him, Lieutenant Nash, but he was killed on his first mission.” She confessed for the first time since it had happened. “I just hope that one day I might feel that way fully, for longer than a day.”

“And Lieutenant Nash was Rosie’s friend so you’re wandering what might have happened had he made it back that day.”

Helen nodded, solemly, opting to change the subject from the handsome young man that had swept her off her feet quite unexpectedly. “I heard some of the Red Cross Ladies may be relocated when Europe is invaded, spread the resources and morale to the men at the front.”

“Let’s not worry about that right now.”

Warmth radiated from the two wool blankets drapped over your entangled bodies, it was a stark contrast from the rain pouring down outside. You felt at peace, the harsh drops pounding on the roof above and the sounds of your calm breathing filled the silence. Everett groaned as he pulled himself to a sitting postion, reaching to the bedside table for his carton of cigarettes. You shifted lazily to rest your head on his chest, pulling the blanket with you to shield his bare torso from the chill that hung in the March air.

“There have been whispers.” You spoke quietly, afriad to break the serenity.

“About us?” Everett leaned down to place a gentle kiss on your shoulder.

You smiled, “Those whispers never stop, every time we get a new wave of replacements they love to chatter- I think Kidd will lose his head if he has to talk to us one more time about discretion.”

“What’d you hear?”

“Helen heard that some of the girls will be allocated after the invasion of Europe,” The details were unknown but it hung over the continent like an impending storm. “That could mean-“ You paused, your fingers ghosted over the chain around his neck, tracing his name etched into the cold metal. “I used to be prepared for this, when I first volenteered I had steeled myself over, I was ready to tredge through trees, mud and blood but we were placed here. Thorpe Abbotts may have its share of mud after the rain but it has been hot cups of coffee, laughter over a drink, dancing through our pain and… you. I sincerely don’t know what I would do without you by my side.”

Blakely remained silent for a moment, contemplating your worries and soft confession as he discarded his unlit cigarette and matches onto the trunk beside his small bed. “There is no shame to be scared in this world.”

“Says the brave pilot who has looked death in the eye countless times and denied its knock.”

“Would it make you think any less of me if I were to admit that I get scared? Every time that red light turns on, everytime I climbed into that Pilot seat and everytime I look at you.” He confessed, voice soft as his warm breath brushed your throat. “We should get married. Tomorrow.”

“You jest.” You met his eyes, they were wide with vulnerabilty and an unexpected sincerity.

“I am serious.” He insisted, gently manuvering your body to be seated facing him. The rough pads of his fingers caressing the soft skin of your cheeks as he pressed on, “I want to marry you, I want to spend the rest of my life with you, no matter how long that may be.”

“Everett-“

“It does not have to be tomorrow. I can accept if you want to marry tomorrow or wait however many years, just please say yes to being my betrothed.”

Emotion overwhelmed you as you nodded your head feverantly, tears slipping down your cheeks only to be wiped away ever so softly by his thumbs. “Yes, yes, I will marry you, Everett Blakely.”

x x x

@jointherebellion215 @yorkshirekiwi @gretagerwigsmuse @seoultraveller @orchiidflwer @lucyfromtheoldhouse @kpopdistoyedmylife-blog @probabydeadbynow @claireelizabeth85 @solo-pitstop-vibes @timetowastetime8 @thebenjiblackwoodexpress @beingalive1 @bunnylil-reblogs @p-polaroid @ktredshoes @winniemaywebber @ginabaker1666

[love-studying58]

happy Masters of the Air release week. In honour of the series due to release on the 26th, I wanted to list a few faces we’ll be seeing throughout the series. I want to particularly note the crewmen of the 100th in hopes this makes sense to viewers who either a) didn’t have time to read any books based on the 100th bomb group, or b) want to read Masters of the Air by Donald L. Miller during/after the tv show aires. My lovely friend on tumblr @kylaym was happy to message me on instagram regarding who’s who for most of the 100th bomb group posts. She gets that everyone in uniform looks the same; same haircut, moustaches, masks, everywhere, etc. She mentioned it is always better to remember a bunch of lads as groups and crews than as individuals!

Here we gooo..

Colonel Neil “Chick” Harding

A West Point graduate and the school’s football coach prior to the war. Harding was a seasoned aviator who truly emulated much of the 100th’s attitude. He exhibited an appreciation for his crew’s mental and emotional well-being.

Major John C. “Bucky” Egan and Major Gale “Buck” Cleven

Two of the squadron commanders, Majors John “Bucky” Egan of the 418th Bomb Squadron and Gale “Buck” Cleven of the 350th, had piloting skills which matched their personalities. (Found top row 3rd and 4th members from left to right).

Captain John D. Brady

He served as a pilot in the 418th bomb squadron and was shot down during the mission to Munster on October 10th, 1943. (Shown here on the far left). He flew overseas in A/C #42-30071 “Skipper” as 1st Lt. Pilot. 2nd Lt’s being Lt. John L. Hoerr [Co-Pilot] and Lt. Harry Crosby [Group Navigator and Captain].

M/Sgt. Kenneth A. Lemmons

He served on the 351st Bomb Squadron and was one of the first crew chiefs assigned to the 100th Bomb Group. After being a part of the U.S. Air Force's ground crew, he was subsequently promoted to the position of flight chief. (Shown above in the front).

Harry H. Crosby

Harry served as a navigator in the 418th Bomb Squadron and later became Group Navigator for the Hundredth, however, his struggle with airsickness often hindered his ability to navigate. (Found above beside Brady on the right). Harry Crosby replaced Lt. Payne on the crew of Douglass.

Payne is found above on the right, beside Harry Crosby.

Lt. Howard B. “Hambone” Hamilton

He was a bombardier mostly known for flying with Brady’s crew.

On the October 10th Munster mission, crew #32 was led by Major John C. Egan as Co-Pilot. Near the initial point “Mlle Zig Zig” was hit by Flak, resulting in the following:

- Sgt Clanton passing away

- wounding Howard Hamilton and Roland Gangwer. (Both ended up spending a long time in the hospital).

- the surviving crew members bailed out but were taken prisoner.

Hamilton is seen above on the far left. Beside him on the left is Lt. James Douglass and Captain Frank Murphy.

Captain James Douglass

Served as a bombardier in the 418th Bomb Squadron with the Everett Blakely crew. (Seen above in the first picture beside Blakely).

Major Everett E. Blakely

Was a career officer of the United States Air Force. He was a highly decorated pilot of the B-17 bomber with the Bloody Hundredth Bombardment Group of the 8th Air Force. He is most commonly known for his crew’s plane “Just a Snappin”. On a mission to Bremen on October 8th, 1943, his plane was severely damaged by flak and enemy fighters. He later became the Group Training Officer (Shown above on the right and next to Major John Egan in the second picture above).

Blakely’s Crew:

Major John Kidd- Command Pilot

1st Lt. Everett Blakely- Pilot

2nd Lt. Charles Via- Formation Officer in the tail (SWA on the mission during Black Week)

1st Lt. Harry Crosby - Navigator

2nd Lt. James Douglass - Bombadier

T/Sgt. Edmund Forkner - Radio operator

S/Sgt. William McClelland - Ball Turret Gunner (WIA on the Black Week mission)

S/Sgt. Edward Yevich - Waist Gunner (WIA on the Black Week mission)

S/Sgt. Lyle Nord - Waist Gunner

S/Sgt. Lester Saunders - Tail Gunner (KIA on the Black Week mission)

Lt Roy Claytor

Roy Claytor was part of the 350th Squadron. Above, he may be flying as a command pilot in this mission or practice with the Claytor Crew.

He is seen above on the left, beside Cleven.

Major Robert 'Rosie' Rosenthal

Rosie joins the unit in late 1943. He becomes one of the 100th's most reliable pilots.

Rosenthal's Crew:

[Shown left to right; top row than bottom row]

Sgt. Loren Darling - Waist Gunner

Sgt. Michael V. Boccuzzi - Radio Operator/Gunner

Sgt. John H. Shaffer - Waist Gunner

Sgt. Clarence C. Hall - Top turret gunner/engineer

Sgt. William J. DeBlasio - Tail Gunner

Sgt. Ray H. Robinson - Ball Turret Gunner

Lt. Ronald C. Bailey - Navigator

Lt. Robert 'Rosie' Rosenthal - Pilot

Lt. Clifford J. Milburn - Bombardier

Lt. Winifred 'Pappy' Lewis - Copilot

Lt. Curtis Biddick

Lieutenant Curtis Biddick was known as a ‘hard luck’ pilot but was recognised as exceptionally expert and courageous. ��Every time he went out something seemed to happen,’ said one of his buddies. On one raid he brought his plane back with 1,700 shell and bullet holes in it and two wounded men aboard.

He clashes due to his English colleagues embarking on night-time raids.

Richard Snyder

Biddick's co-pilot and was part of the 418th Bombardment Squadron.

Okay.... So I truly hope this helps going into Masters of the Air tomorrow. I can't wait to see all the bomber boys spread their wings and fly. This tv series is going to be an absolute wreck (in the best way possible). Thank you to everyone who enjoys my posts. Love y'all.

[mercurygray]

Water hitting the shower tile  for Marion and Colonel Hot AF

Great minds think alike - you and @shoshiwrites sent me the same prompt for the same people. I'm gonna level with you two - This is NSFW AF.

🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️, everyone. Consensual adults doing consensual things under the cut.

--

The worst part of the mission is what comes after.

In the dim light of morning, it's easy to believe that everything will go right - that the plans will work and the guns will fire and the bombs will drop and everyone will come home.

But that's never the case. In the full force of the afternoon, no one can hide from the truth - not even him. Harding doesn't fly very often, but when he does, it's the end of the mission that always catches him. He stands on the tarmac and watches the ambulances, the fire brigade, the gunners and bombadiers and navigators dragging themselves into their trucks, faces torn, souls tired. The worst part of it is that he's supposed to be responsible for them, to protect them, in whatever way he can, and yet - it is a war. He can't protect them from that.

Interrogation is next, even for him. He listens to the others recount the mission for Red and his waiting sheaf of notes, waiting until they're all finished before he speaks, agreeing with everything they've said, commending them for the fine job they've done. Red lets them go, and they troop off to the equipment room and the showers to wash the day off and change back into clothes that don't smell like exhaustion and fear.

But none of that yet - not for him. Neil waits until the very last of the crews is done with their debrief before he, too, finally leaves, shirt sticky, jacket too warm.

No equipment room for him, though - no shared shower and the playful banter of the locker room. Rank has some privileges, and the private bathroom off his room is one of them. He could leave his gear with the boys, but there are some places a commander shouldn't go, and that feels, to him, like one of them. There should be one place where they can always speak their minds and not be afraid of being overheard.

In a dim corner of his mind he can hear the door open and close, and he shuts the tap off and listens for a voice from the other room. "Neil?"

"In here."

There is a long pause, and Marion appears in the bathroom door, by some miracle of nature already in her underwear. He pulls back the shower curtain a little further as she wordlessly takes off her final layer, and reaches around him to turn the water back on and grab his soap from where it rests on the wire shelf. "Pink -" I'm dirty, he wants to say. I'm tired and filthy and you shouldn't see me like this. Come back when I'm clean and myself again.

"Shhh," she says, letting the water rush over his shoulders again, droplets drumming on tile. "Let me do this."

She turns him around and begins soaping his back, his shoulders, the hardness of the soap pressing into his skin and following the line of his back, and he cannot help but close his eyes, feeling the water on one side of him and Marion's hand and the soap on the other. She takes one arm, and then the other, hand filled with soap bubbles as she massages the muscles of his arm, sore after being at a yoke for seven hours. Her hand and the soap go lower, along the front of his legs, and he moans a little, holding out one arm to brace himself against the wall. (Her body has only barely brushed him through most of this - the tip of a breast here, the flash of a hip there.) "Turn around."

He does as she says, opening his eyes to flick droplets from his lashes, and watches, wordlessly, gratefully, as she takes a cloth and begins to do the front of him - his still-tired shoulders and his chest, rubbing his stomach, the trail of hair there. Another noise escapes when her cloth dips lower, gently stroking the length of him, softly cupping him, massaging just a little. No, Pink, you shouldn't, he thinks silently to himself, I'm tired and it's not - I won't be able to -

She shushes him again, gently. "Let me do this, Neil."

He closes his eyes again and lets her gently stroke him off, one arm still braced against the wall, his cock too ready for her hand, the noises in his mouth hardly his own. Wherever they are now is neither here not there, some place apart from England and the war, just the two of them and the warmth of the water and the smoothness of the tile. Her lips find his after he comes, her cloth gently cleaning him off a second time, limp in her hand. "Pink." It is accusation and thanks, both.

She reaches past him and shuts the water off, and for a moment, the two of them only stand there, dripping. He can feel her smile against his cheek. "I wanted to."

"I can't -"

"It doesn't matter," she promises. "Dry off and then you can hold me for a while and tell me I'm pretty."

That won't be enough, he wants to say. She's had her own long day - he knows that better than anyone. She's been waiting at the control tower tracking their progress on the radio, and comparing their charts. And then she's had to listen to all of them tell it to her, over and over and over again. Her own shoulders will be sore and she, too, should have a strong hand between her own legs helping her find release.

He reaches for the towel and dries her off first, his hands cupping her ass, thumbs caressing her breasts, knowing it's not enough against what she's just done for him. She smiles in thanks and climbs out of the shower, gathering up her clothes to lay them out on his chair while he dries himself off and turns out the light.

She's already tucked herself into his bed, and pats the pillow next to her. "You're a little insubordinate, Captain," he murmurs into her ear. "Disobeying a direct order."

"Reprimand me for it later," she replies breezily, and he realizes, in the moment, how far he is away from the man of thirty minutes ago - clean now, and content, ready to begin again. And we will, Neil thinks to himself, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her shoulder. The worst part is that we'll do it again tomorrow, too.