Remove ads

Belated Battleships (KanColle) [REHOST]

Reader mode
Technically useful practice, if you ever need to hide a squad somewhere no one would think to look for one. I sure as hell would be surprised if an entire squad of soldiers came charging out of the port-a-potty.
 
I count 10 going inside but there are 12 of them coming out of it. Did they reproduce in there?
 
Harry Leferts said:
Different ones actually.
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...
We are here witnessing Pentagons latest implementation of transport technology.
The potty teleporter.

P.S: Might be illegal. Judgement on if military personal that use the teleporter can be classified as chemical weapons is currently awaiting a verdict.
:V
 
Last edited:
Remove ads
Wallowing
  • Threadmarks
    • As usual, Sarah Gale was eating. It seemed like that was all she ever did nowadays. Sure, sometimes she'd do some paperwork or read some destroyers their bedtime stories while she ate. But the only time the sailor didn't have something edible within arm's reach was when she slept. And even then, she usually woke up famished and made herself a hearty breakfast before she was even fully conscious.

    That, in itself, didn't bother her. She was pregnant after all, pregnant with the child of another woman who was also a battleship. The little tyke—or tykes. Borie was certain she was having twins at least, and thus far no doctor had been able to prove the little shit wrong—was as hungry as her mother—or… her other mother, that is. Gale has happy to make sure her growing child was well-fed.

    It helped that Gale never really felt starving. True, almost the moment she stopped eating she started feeling peckish again, but it was a mere nagging feeling that she could ignore if she had to. Not like Wash, or any battleship for that matter. She'd seen shipgirl hunger pangs first-hand once, but she knew they were bad enough to reduce the normally stoic Wash to tears. Compared to that, feeling a mildly under-filled was a gentle burden to bear.

    The frustrating part was that no matter how much Gale ate, her stomach didn't change in the slightest. Her appetite had almost tripped, her tummy felt like it was perpetually full of lead shot, and she spent every waking moment munching on something or other. But her belly was still as flat as it had been the day Wash proposed!

    Mutsu had gotten obviously, visibly pregnant almost on day one! Even Wash was showing in her own refined, understated way! At this point, Gale would've settled with a bloated food-baby from all the spinach she'd been devouring if only it gave the world some unmistakable display, some message to all who looked up on her that she was indeed carrying the love of her life's child!

    But no. The universe had decided her baby would be anonymous. She knew she shouldn't be so caught up in appearances, but… dammit… she wanted the world to know!

    "Hey, Sarah." Yeoman Bowers smirked a devilish, vaguely submarine-like smirk. A far less heavily-loaded tray was balanced on one hand, with a tall mug of coffee in the other.

    "Jen," Gale stared enviously at the coffee. She'd cut herself off from the gritty brown beverage that had once made up more of her blood than actual blood. Nobody could tell her if a baby shipgirl would be harmed by caffeine—including Vestal, who was looking increasing queasier the more she read about childbirth—but Gale could never forgive herself it she accidentally harmed her and Wash's child.

    Bowers took a long, slow sip that made Gale's mouth water. "How's the kiddo?"

    "Hungry." Gale waved at the mountain of salad she was slowly working through. "How's working for Jersey?"

    Bowers shrugged. "You know her tits got bigger?"

    "Oh, goddammit." Gale ceremonially buried her face in her salad and screamed into the leaves. Jersey's figure was the unrealistic body standard feminism had railed against for so long. But at least her chest wasn't quite proportionate. Or at least it hadn't been.

    Bowers chuckled, and reached over to gently stroke Gale's hair. "There there, Sarah."

    "She's going to be insuferable," moaned Gale.

    "She wasn't already?"

    Gale slowly pulled her face out of her lunch. "Okay… that's… accurate."

    "Besides," Bowers shrugged and popped a cheese puff into her mouth. How she managed to stay so skinny when all Gale had ever seen her eat was junk was a mystery she'd been promoted too far to understand. "She's good people. You know the first order she gave me was to arrange a tour of Flying Heritage for Shina?"

    Gale cocked her eyebrows. "Really?"

    Bowers nodded. "Even made sure I knew to pick a slow day so the poor girl doesn't get spooked by the crowd."

    "She does know Musashi's on base, right?" said Gale. "Didn't even want to brag."

    "Well…" Bowers shrugged. "Yes. But she's got priorities."

    —|—|—​
    Meanwhile in the base library, battleship Musashi hunched over Military Blunders of the Imperial Japanese Navy (Volume IX, 1943-44). It was, much to her chagrin, an immense book filled with unbiased and exquisitely detailed breakdowns of each and thing her beloved country had done wrong during the war.

    Her blood boiled as she devoured the words. Her teeth grit until she tasted copper and steel, her hands balled into fists with only the sturdy leather of her finger less gloves saving her palms from the savaging her fingernails would've inflicted. It enraged her that some foreigner would spill so much ink over the failings of a country that, for all intents and purposes, had ceased to exist decades before he was even born.

    But every time she felt ready to snap, when she knew she'd tear the book into a pile of flaming confetti if she read one more word, she screwed up her eyes and thought of home. She thought of the country she loved. A country now facing an enemy far more terrible than even the mighty US Navy. A country that would fall again if they allowed the mistakes of yesterday to happen again. And this time, there would be no MacArthur to save it.

    To save her country, the fiercely patriotic battleship had to destroy it. Or at least… destroy the pedestal upon which it stood.

    "Yo, Mushi."

    Musashi's chocolate features split in a sly grin. She'd know that rough, dusky contralto anywhere. It was a voice dripping in firer oil and the stench of gunpowder and gasoline, a voice who's owner had recently become unattached in the romantic sense.

    "Mmm," Musashi slowly closed the book. "New Jersey," she said, pushing her glasses up her slender nose. "It's good to see you again."

    The towering American said something, but Musashi honestly didn't hear a word. Her crew was too busy struggling frantically to clear for action and stem the hammer of progressive flooding before half her precious oil came flowing out her nose.

    New Jersey had changed since the last time Musashi laid eyes on her. Her hair was longer than even before, the tips a more vibrant red. But that was only secondary to the singular defining change that defined the American's refit.

    Musashi and Jersey—or rather, their respective classes—were two of a kind. Not just battleships, but the battleships. The last battleships. The ultimate expression of the concept of an armored fighting ship. The be-all, end-all, last-word in total naval gunfire supremacy.

    Yes, in Musashi's personal and objectively correct opinion, the Yamato class was vastly superior to their American counterparts in every meaningful and/or conceivable way. But she would admit without reservation that the American titans had a place beside (and only slightly below) her and her sister as ships that superior to all else the oceans could offer.

    That assumption, however, had been challenged the first time she laid eyes on New Jersey in the flesh. The American was fast, yes. Strong and tall with fine lines and a monstrous propulsion plant growling away beneath her rippling middle. But her main battery let… something to be desired.

    Musashi knew the American's long-barreled sixteens were interior to her own forty-centimeter special-type rifles. But when she first saw New Jersey's rather pathetic endowment, even she couldn't believe her Type 94's were truly that much better.

    That was no longer the case, however. The American had changed on her last deployment. Musashi had to assume the healing hot springs of her home had worked magic that American industry could simply not comprehend.

    Jersey's chest had filled out magnificently. So perfect were the American's breasts, so mathematically precise was their gentle wobble and jiggle with each breath, so entrancing was their beauty, that Musashi couldn't even force herself to tear her gaze away to the Iowa's shockingly blue eyes.

    "Ay!" Jersey grabbed the zipper of Musashi's shirt and abruptly yanked it up. The Japanese battleship's rifles were too objectively and undeniably awesome for her shirt to ever close over them, of course. But the Iowa's immense strength was at least enough to get the forged steel teeth to bite painfully into Musashi's chocolate skin.

    "Ow!" Musashi shrieked in pain, but for some reason none of the sailors sharing the building with her tried to shush her. "This!" She stopped her roaring fury and sheepishly waved an apology. "Pardon," she continued at a stage whisper. "This Musashi will not tolerate such insolence."

    "Says the boat struck dumb by American tiddy," Jersey cupped her breasts with her hand and squished her mighty mark sevens together. "Not that I blame you."

    Musashi pouted, forcing her stare to bore into Jersey's icy eyes. "Have you come simply to torture me?"

    Jersey chuckled. "That's always fun, innit? But no. Shina and I are gonna hit the flight museum soon, figured you'd like to come."

    "I…" Musashi bit her lip and glanced back at the mountain of reading material she still had to get through. "Perhaps—"

    "No," Jersey planted her hands on her hips. "It's your sister, you're coming."

    "Hmm," Musashi crossed her arms and nodded. A moment later, she dipped her chin and smiled. "Thank you, Jersey. For inviting me."

    The American shrugged, now it was her time to glance at her toes. "Eh… 's the least I could do. By the way…"

    "Yes?" said Musashi.

    "Think you could talk to your admiral about something?"

    Musashi cocked a snowy eyebrow. "About what?"

    —|—|—​
    Battleship Kirishima yawned as she walked aimlessly through the base. Wash had, predictably, torn off on a direct Gale-wardly course the instant they'd finished their debrief, but Kirishima couldn't decide what she wanted to do. Unlike her best friend—or her beloved big sister, for that matter—Kirishima didn't have a lover to welcome her home.

    At least…

    Kirishima bit her lip, lazily turning to port for no particular reason. She likedCronwing, she really did. He was sweet and gentle, and always made the big battleship feel safe and secure. She might even say she loved him. Maybe. What she couldn't tell was if he loved her back. It certainly seemed like he did, but at the same time, he was as gentle and kind with all the ships at Everett!

    It was part of the reason Kirishima felt so secure when she was around him, and she would't trade it for the world. But she had to admit, it made this whole relationship game vastly harder to piece together.

    Of course, there was also—

    "'Shima!" Heavy footsteps pounded against the concrete behind her. Kirishima looked around only to see a towering American Amazon smash into her at upwards of thirty knots. She had just enough time to contemplate why this kept happening to her before she landed hard in the grass with fifty thousand tons of American iron atop her and two half-gloved hands planted squarely on her tightly-bound breasts.

    "Uh…" Jersey bit her lip and tore her hands away with a blush. "Sorry about that."

    Kirishima coughed. "W-wha?"

    "Look, I needed to catch you 'fore you and…" the big Iowa trailed off. "Anyways, I know about you and Crowning."

    Kirishima's eyes went wide. "Jersey, no—"

    "Lemme finish," said Jersey. "I know… and I don't blame you. He's a good guy, and… and I didn't want him waiting on me to get someone he loved into his bed."

    "Jersey, I swear—"

    "I said let me fucking finish!" snapped Jersey. "Do you know how fucking hard it is for me to say this? I love him, alright? I still do. But… I'm not good for him, you are. Okay? Just… be good to him." She closed her eyes with a scowl. "Or I swear to secnav I'll rape you to death with your own fucking keel."

    Kirishima blinked. She'd never been so touched by such a violent an imaginative threat. "Jersey… I… I like him, yes. I think every ship here does."

    "Hell yeah you do," said Jersey.

    "But…" Kirishima gingerly smoothed her nontraditional miko blouse. "I've known him for a few weeks. That's… that's not enough to build a relationship on. Not really."

    Jersey blinked, than flopped onto the grass next to the littlest Kongou. "Fuck," she cursed under her breath. "Stupid fucking excuse for a fast battleship."

    "Jersey?"

    "Not you," said the American. "Just… Go. I'm gonna… fucking.. wallow here for a bit."
     
  • Threadmarks
    • Wait, what? There is a Ship-girl out there who understands that there is more to a relationship then lust at first sight, and admits it to herself?
    Go Mic-Check chan.

    Also, Military Blunders of the Imperial Japanese Navy (Volume IX, 1943-44)? You might not like it Musashi, but learning from what you did wrong in order to not do it again seems to work for those who try it. Not so much death before retreat (and actually learning something.)
     
    Reader mode
    You must login or register to reply here.
    Remove ads
    Back
    Top