Stahor
BookWorm
- Location
- Russia, Moscow
If NJ's figure is the unrealistic body standard, then what about Musashi?
Belated Battleships (KanColle) [REHOST]
- Thread starter theJMPer
- Start date
owlmessenger
Parts Guy Extraordinaire
- Location
- New York
Barbie maybe? Or REALLY badly drawn porn art?
- Location
- Somewhere
I'll note that the story at least treats Musashi's.... musashies realistically in how they cause pain and potential injury. Remember the trip up north? She was genuinely suffering because of those things.If NJ's figure is the unrealistic body standard, then what about Musashi?
- Location
- National Capital Region, USA
Well, you're fatter anyway.
Bah, IJN guns needing 2 extra inches to barely exceed the performance of American 16"s?
Nonsense.
This. It's more than enough to make you realize you'd like it to be more, and to start feeling out how. And Jersey is flat out giving you a shove to try it, since she'd like both you and Crowning to be happy, and thinks you can find it together. Don't be a chicken, Kirishima. Ask him out.
They're not under 18s, so as long as it doesn't turn into porn, you can do a lot. A purple nurple of punishment shouldn't be a problem.
Yams: "And now you know why I wear shell caps under my uniform."
owlmessenger
Parts Guy Extraordinaire
- Location
- New York
Jerjer: She thinks the shell caps will save her *dark chuckle*
Foodporn
- Location
- 'Murica
"I'm sorry," Vice Admiral Samuel Williams glanced up from his paperwork in stone-faced shock. "You want what?"
Across the desk, battleship New Jersey stood at parade-ground perfect attention. Her hands were smartly by her sides, the zipper on her vest was lined up neatly with the massive buckle of her gunbelt, her eyes were locked on the horizon, and her shoulders were squared and steady. To be honest, Williams was quite pleased by how she'd shaped up after her talking to in Japan.
He'd hoped her outburst had been a one-time occurrence, an outlier cause by the extraordinary trying circumstances of learning her littlest sister had died while she was away at sea—and at Christmas no less! And thus far, he'd been right. She was still the same loud, brash battleship as before. But from what he'd heard, she'd been going above and beyond to look after her fleet—especially young Shinano.
However, all those hopes he had for his mightiest battleship had died a quick but extraordinarily painful death mere moments before. His last shred of hope that he might somehow retire with his sanity vanished when he looked at the beautifully-typed and thoroughly official-looking paperwork the Iowa had handed him.
"Sir," Jersey puffed her chest out, muscles in her monstrous thighs visibly tensing with nervous energy. "I want to fuck Musashi."
Williams scowled and glanced at the paper in his hands. A very official request—in writing—for permission to have carnal relations with a warship of an allied country. Yes, that is still what it said. "Jersey…" The admiral sighed, rubbing at the migraine that hadn't fully gone away for three years.
"Sir," Jersey bit her lip. "With all due respect, I have the libido of almost three thousand men. And she is real damn hot."
"I am aware, Jersey."
"And last time was a mistake," said the Iowa. "If you say no, that's it." She planted her hands on her hips and scowled. "If I don't get your express permission, in writing, that's it. I ignore it and never bring this up again."
Williams pursed his lips and stared at the mighty amazon before him. Under normal circumstances, he'd never have humored a request like this from one of his sailors—let alone one of his ships. But that was before sea monsters rose. Before ships were girls.
Jersey noticed his moment of hesitation. She wanted to speak, to argue her case. He could see it eating her up inside. Finally, she could hold her tongue no longer. "Sir, I've talked with Musashi. She's already cleared this with Goto."
Williams nodded, only mildly worried that one of his warships telling him she'd she'd gotten another warship's admiral to approve of a sexual relation between them didn't even register as unusual. "That so?"
"Yes, sir." Jersey fished a file from under her arm. Somehow. Williams was pretty certain it hadn't been there a moment ago. "Signed and approved."
"Mmm," Williams scanned over the paperwork. He couldn't read Japanese as good as he liked, but it did resemble official JMSDF paperwork he'd seen before, and the signature matched Goto's.
"Sir?" Jersey rocked on her heels, looking eerily more like a nervous schoolgirl than an amazonian incarnation of naval might.
"Commander," Williams scribbled his signature. "You have my permission."
The cruiser puffed out her chest and took in the distinctly naval-smelling air. Salt and oil danced together in the flavor of… of home. She was ashore under friendly guns with her squadron mates waiting for her in her room. The latter made the big cruiser the happiest.
"Mmm," Prinz Eugen licked her spoon clean and plunged it back into the single-serving cup of vanilla pudding she'd picked up on the way out. She'd never really thought of herself as a 'desert' kind of girl—not that she'd though of herself as any kind of girl until recently—but she had come to enjoy pudding very much.
She couldn't explain why, not even if you gave her a notarized form and seven colors of ink. Something about the sweet confection made her feel comfortable, it was like a cuddle from Frisco but in edible form.
Pudding was, of course, not the only thing she'd picked up. The shopping bag slung over her shoulder contained a few tubes of pringles chips—Prinz Eugen had Jane to thank for introducing her to the delightfully efficient packaging. And… and also the chips were good too—some sausages and mustard, and of course a few movies.
It seemed like half the base was convinced Prinz Eugen, Lou, and Frisco were having lesbian threesomes whenever they were left alone in a room together, but that couldn't be further from the truth. When she got back to her room, something as carnal as sex was the furthest thing from Prinz Eugen's mind.
She just wanted to cuddle under the warmth of a kotatsu with her division mates and watch a movie. Although she did admit, having Frisco use her ample—and, Frisco was always quick to point out, not treaty compliant—upperworks as a pillow made the Hipper feel even happier.
"Sup, Puddin'." The monstrously towering figure of New Jersey waved at Prinz Eugen. The immense American had an unusual spring in her usually so-lazy sashay. Her face was stuck in a lopsided grin that didn't fit very easily on her predatory face, and under her arm she had tucked—
"Mein gott!," Prinz Eugen's pudding cup fell from her hands in shock. Under normal circumstances, she tried to speak English around her friends. A show of thanks and good faith to a country that had taken her in when her own fatherland wanted nothing to do with her. But for all her attempts to assimilate, Prinz Eugen was still German at heart. Certain things were too horrifying to be discussed in anything but her mother tounge.
"Eh?" Jersey grunted and hefted the box curled under her massive arm. The big blue box with 'bud lite' printed on the side. "Picking up some beer for a thing."
"Jersey…" Prinz Eugen had to bite her tounge, lest her passions overwhelm her and she slap her commanding officer square across the mouth. "That!" She thrust a quivering finger at the bright blue case, her accent so thick you could bounce a soviet 85mm with it. "Mein Gott in Himmel! That is NOT BEER!"
"It's close enough," said Jersey with a shrug. "Just gonna—"
"NEIN!" Shrieked Prinz Eugen. Her heels clicked together in reflexive Prussian discipline, her vision a smear of red. "This!" She tore the case from Jersey's arm with a roar. "Belongs!" She pivoted on her heel and hurled the case into the nearest dumpster. "There!"
"Okay…" grumbled Jersey with through but mild annoyance. "I was gonna drink some of that."
"No," Prinz Eugen rounded on Jersey, glowering at the hugely taller American with all the virulent fury her Germanic features could muster. Which was a lot. "You have been… all of you have been…" Her accent was thick and strong enough now to invade Poland with, "This country had been good to me! I will not allow you to drink that… that piss-wasser!"
Jersey rolled her eyes, "Pringles, I'm seriously just gonna—"
"No!" Prinz Eugen would have none of it. She grabbed the battleship's wrist and tore off for the commissary at flank. Or at least tried to, her triple shafts might push her through the water at a good clip, but Jersey was a titanically heavy anchor not interested in moving. "Come…" she panted and put her back into one more herculean tug. "Ooooonn!"
"Fucking fine," Jersey allowed herself to be towed. "But you're paying."
"Come in," Musashi spun in her chair. Her meaty chocolate thighs were crossed, and she waited just a moment too long to pull her unbuckled miniskirt smooth. Her shirt hung off her shoulders, letting the finest naval rifles the world had ever seen breath free for the first time since she'd visited the States.
She understood why the prudish Americans wanted her to stay clothed while in their country. A glimpse of the unfiltered majesty of her mighty eighteens would torpedo the American birthrate as every man gave up everything to move to Japan and every woman struggled with crippling inadequacy issues, a fate Musashi would never wish on her new ally.
But against Jersey… giving the big Iowa a few inadequacy issues would be fun. If anything else, it might deflate the arrogant American's opinion of herself to something more reasonable.
Jersey didn't so much open the door as shoulder through it. She carried a case of beer under one arm—Musashi didn't recognize the brand, but the packaging looked obscure enough to be better than the usual American piss water. Musashi was certain she had help, the American's taste wasn't that refined.
Under the other she carried a box full of snacks—Doritos, the red color with dust Naka had judged "the STD of food products", and a few bottles of Gatorade. Musashi was pleased her estimation of Jersey's taste had been correct.
"Mushi," Jersey grunted and unceremoniously dumped the collection onto Musashi's heavily-reinforced bed. A king-size mattress—the only size that could fit a battleship as titanitcally massive as the second Yamato—stood on massive steel pilings that could—barely—support her weight.
"Jersey," Musashi smirked and slowly uncrossed her legs. "How long's it been for you?"
"Too long." The American rocked on her heels, rolling her massive shoulders to work out the last few knots in those admittedly envious muscles.
"Mmm," Musashi set her features in a coy smirk and slowly stood, her enormous pagodas taking a split-second to catch up with the rest of her imperially perfect figure. She let her fingers trail along the armrest of her chair for a moment before settling her hands on her hips. "Shall we…" she slowly circled the American, letting the shirt she wore like a cape trail along Jersey's bare wrist. "commence a night engagement."
"No," Jersey rolled her terrifyingly icy eyes. "Let's fuck." In an instant, her hands were on Musashi's jaw, holding the Japanese battleship in place like a cast-iron vice with a quarter-million American horsepower. Musashi had just enough time to widen her eyes when Jersey's lips crashed into hers with a brutally forceful kiss.
There was nothing romantic about the coupling. There was no love or passion in what Jersey did, just a raw imperial need to apply overwhelming force. When the two battleships' lips met, it was with an ear-shattering roar of tearing metal, buckling girders, and splintering wood.
Jersey towered over the already towering Yamato, looming over her with both hands squeezing Musashi's cheeks. But it only took a split-second for the Japanese battleship's warrior instincts to take over. She grabbed Jersey by her massive triceps, struggling against the American's vastly more powerful grasp and forcing her tongue down Jersey's throat.
The Iowa's eyes went wide and she redoubled her attack. This time, it was her tongue that was forced unbidden past Musashi's chocolate lips, but the Yamato was ready. Her jaw clamped down with a hundred-fifty thousand horsepower of quad-shifted triple-bladed might.
"Motherfucker!" Jersey tore her face away with a furious howl. Her teeth were already stained red from blood pouring from her lacerated tongue. Musashi tasted copper. She smiled, the missing sliver of Jersey's tongue held mockingly between her bloodstained teeth. She spat it out, relishing the wet squelch when it smashed into Jersey's collarbone and bounced into her immense cleavage.
"I'm sorry," Musashi put her hands on the American's broad hips. "Am I too much battleship for you?" Instantly, she leveraged Jersey's momentarily distraction to haul the Iowa's massive body in close against hers. Again, steel crashed against steel in a cacophonous roar utterly devoid of passion and romance.
Her mighty eighteens smashed into Jersey's rounder but dimentionally inferior main battery, forcing them aside with ease. The super-sixteens might be good guns, but they bowed in reverent awe before the mightiest naval rifles the world had ever or will ever see.
Musashi tore at the Iowa's clothes. Her vest zipper exploded in a shower of forged metal teeth leaving only the American's t-shirt and Musashi's sarashi separating their metal flesh. She pressed in for a kiss, slamming Jersey against the wall hard enough to utterly disintegrate drywall and shatter several joists. The two battleships tore at each other with their teeth, each in a race to savage the other until they could again open to main battery range.
Jersey grabbed Musashi by the shoulders and shoved her off with all her might, sending the Japanese battlewagon collapsing onto her bed. The American's mouth was split in a grin consisting seemingly only of razor-sharp incisors. Blood pooled between her teeth and she had to spit out a mouthful before she could speak.
"Oh…" Jersey stalked towards the bed, already lifting her shirt over her head. Eight boilers glistened in shocking relief against her pale skin, sinuous muscle backing a thin, but angled and metallurgically superb armor belt. "You're a feisty one." She spat out one of her own teeth, or maybe it was one of Musashi's…
The Japanese warship stared at the half-naked American with equal parts awe and fury. Her own bandages had come off somewhere in the fight, and now both battleships were rigged for night action. Their searchlights were mounted and manned, mighty beams tearing through the night to seek out targets.
"YAMATO!" Musashi hurled herself to her feet, propelling herself like a cannonball into Jersey. "DAMASHI!" Her hands closed around the American's chest, fingernails digging into firm American flesh deep enough to draw blood. Her lips locked with Jersey's, and again bording parties did their dance of death.
Jersey responded with a brutal punch to the gut, sending Musashi reeling. "'Murica!" She roared, grabbing a handful of Musashi's immense bosom and twisting with all her might. "Fuck yeah!"
Musashi howled in pain and fell to her knees. Which only gave her the advantage. Among the many flaws of the Iowa class—at least compared to the true exemplar of battleship perfection, the Yamato class—was a shockingly fragile torpedo defense scheme. Musashi roared and threw her fist into the American's substandard underwater protection. Her punch landed square in the Iowa's shaft galleries, eliciting a roar of agony.
Jersey grabbed Musashi by the shoulders and hauled her to her feet with near effortless ease. "Fuck." She shoved the battleship against her own bed, bending her over backwards over the foot of the mattress as she forced a kiss down Musashi's throat. "You!"
"You're trying!" Hissed Musashi, spitting a mouthful of blood that could as easily be Jersey's as hers. "Not working!"
Jersey roared and threw Musashi onto the bed proper. An instant later she was atop the Japanese boat. The massive steel bed frame gave out with a roar of metal stressed far beyond its breaking point. The bed collapse to the floor hard enough to gouge vast scars in the concrete and tint the air with dust. Jersey's arms held Musashi's down by the wrists. Her massive thighs were planted on Musashi's, her back arched at a murderous curve to bring her lips into contact.
Musashi squished her head back against her pillow, only to swing it back in a vicious headbutt. Jersey reeled, skin over her brow torn open down to the steel. Blood poured from her face, splashing against Musashi's glasses and streaking her snowy hair with red. "NIPPON!"
Jersey roared and kissed Musashi again. "AMERICA!"
Musashi tore her face away just long enough to thunder her beloved country's name with every scrap of air her lungs contained. The instant later, her lips met again in a kiss. Her back arched to bring her mighty batteries into action against the American's rippling belt. "NIPPON!"
But it was impossible to stay in the mood when she couldn't even hear herself think over what sounded exactly like two freight trains derailing, but constantly. About they only thing she could hear that wasn't the spine-shredding cacophony of crashing metal were two voices—one a dusky contralto, the other a honey-smooth alto—screaming nationalistic insults loud enough to make the walls shake. For the past four fucking hours.
"I" Gale squeezed her pillow tighter in a desperate attempt to drown out the sound. "Hate. Everything."
Across the desk, battleship New Jersey stood at parade-ground perfect attention. Her hands were smartly by her sides, the zipper on her vest was lined up neatly with the massive buckle of her gunbelt, her eyes were locked on the horizon, and her shoulders were squared and steady. To be honest, Williams was quite pleased by how she'd shaped up after her talking to in Japan.
He'd hoped her outburst had been a one-time occurrence, an outlier cause by the extraordinary trying circumstances of learning her littlest sister had died while she was away at sea—and at Christmas no less! And thus far, he'd been right. She was still the same loud, brash battleship as before. But from what he'd heard, she'd been going above and beyond to look after her fleet—especially young Shinano.
However, all those hopes he had for his mightiest battleship had died a quick but extraordinarily painful death mere moments before. His last shred of hope that he might somehow retire with his sanity vanished when he looked at the beautifully-typed and thoroughly official-looking paperwork the Iowa had handed him.
"Sir," Jersey puffed her chest out, muscles in her monstrous thighs visibly tensing with nervous energy. "I want to fuck Musashi."
Williams scowled and glanced at the paper in his hands. A very official request—in writing—for permission to have carnal relations with a warship of an allied country. Yes, that is still what it said. "Jersey…" The admiral sighed, rubbing at the migraine that hadn't fully gone away for three years.
"Sir," Jersey bit her lip. "With all due respect, I have the libido of almost three thousand men. And she is real damn hot."
"I am aware, Jersey."
"And last time was a mistake," said the Iowa. "If you say no, that's it." She planted her hands on her hips and scowled. "If I don't get your express permission, in writing, that's it. I ignore it and never bring this up again."
Williams pursed his lips and stared at the mighty amazon before him. Under normal circumstances, he'd never have humored a request like this from one of his sailors—let alone one of his ships. But that was before sea monsters rose. Before ships were girls.
Jersey noticed his moment of hesitation. She wanted to speak, to argue her case. He could see it eating her up inside. Finally, she could hold her tongue no longer. "Sir, I've talked with Musashi. She's already cleared this with Goto."
Williams nodded, only mildly worried that one of his warships telling him she'd she'd gotten another warship's admiral to approve of a sexual relation between them didn't even register as unusual. "That so?"
"Yes, sir." Jersey fished a file from under her arm. Somehow. Williams was pretty certain it hadn't been there a moment ago. "Signed and approved."
"Mmm," Williams scanned over the paperwork. He couldn't read Japanese as good as he liked, but it did resemble official JMSDF paperwork he'd seen before, and the signature matched Goto's.
"Sir?" Jersey rocked on her heels, looking eerily more like a nervous schoolgirl than an amazonian incarnation of naval might.
"Commander," Williams scribbled his signature. "You have my permission."
—|—|—
Heavy cruiser Prinz Eugen, formerly of the Kriegsmarine, but now thoroughly and happily invited into the United States Navy, walked back from the commissary with a smile on her sharply teutonic face. It was a truly gorgeous evening to be out and about. The gentle wind rustled her precisely-abbreviated microskirt like an artisnal windchime, and fat droplets of cool Washington rain kissed her bare thighs.The cruiser puffed out her chest and took in the distinctly naval-smelling air. Salt and oil danced together in the flavor of… of home. She was ashore under friendly guns with her squadron mates waiting for her in her room. The latter made the big cruiser the happiest.
"Mmm," Prinz Eugen licked her spoon clean and plunged it back into the single-serving cup of vanilla pudding she'd picked up on the way out. She'd never really thought of herself as a 'desert' kind of girl—not that she'd though of herself as any kind of girl until recently—but she had come to enjoy pudding very much.
She couldn't explain why, not even if you gave her a notarized form and seven colors of ink. Something about the sweet confection made her feel comfortable, it was like a cuddle from Frisco but in edible form.
Pudding was, of course, not the only thing she'd picked up. The shopping bag slung over her shoulder contained a few tubes of pringles chips—Prinz Eugen had Jane to thank for introducing her to the delightfully efficient packaging. And… and also the chips were good too—some sausages and mustard, and of course a few movies.
It seemed like half the base was convinced Prinz Eugen, Lou, and Frisco were having lesbian threesomes whenever they were left alone in a room together, but that couldn't be further from the truth. When she got back to her room, something as carnal as sex was the furthest thing from Prinz Eugen's mind.
She just wanted to cuddle under the warmth of a kotatsu with her division mates and watch a movie. Although she did admit, having Frisco use her ample—and, Frisco was always quick to point out, not treaty compliant—upperworks as a pillow made the Hipper feel even happier.
"Sup, Puddin'." The monstrously towering figure of New Jersey waved at Prinz Eugen. The immense American had an unusual spring in her usually so-lazy sashay. Her face was stuck in a lopsided grin that didn't fit very easily on her predatory face, and under her arm she had tucked—
"Mein gott!," Prinz Eugen's pudding cup fell from her hands in shock. Under normal circumstances, she tried to speak English around her friends. A show of thanks and good faith to a country that had taken her in when her own fatherland wanted nothing to do with her. But for all her attempts to assimilate, Prinz Eugen was still German at heart. Certain things were too horrifying to be discussed in anything but her mother tounge.
"Eh?" Jersey grunted and hefted the box curled under her massive arm. The big blue box with 'bud lite' printed on the side. "Picking up some beer for a thing."
"Jersey…" Prinz Eugen had to bite her tounge, lest her passions overwhelm her and she slap her commanding officer square across the mouth. "That!" She thrust a quivering finger at the bright blue case, her accent so thick you could bounce a soviet 85mm with it. "Mein Gott in Himmel! That is NOT BEER!"
"It's close enough," said Jersey with a shrug. "Just gonna—"
"NEIN!" Shrieked Prinz Eugen. Her heels clicked together in reflexive Prussian discipline, her vision a smear of red. "This!" She tore the case from Jersey's arm with a roar. "Belongs!" She pivoted on her heel and hurled the case into the nearest dumpster. "There!"
"Okay…" grumbled Jersey with through but mild annoyance. "I was gonna drink some of that."
"No," Prinz Eugen rounded on Jersey, glowering at the hugely taller American with all the virulent fury her Germanic features could muster. Which was a lot. "You have been… all of you have been…" Her accent was thick and strong enough now to invade Poland with, "This country had been good to me! I will not allow you to drink that… that piss-wasser!"
Jersey rolled her eyes, "Pringles, I'm seriously just gonna—"
"No!" Prinz Eugen would have none of it. She grabbed the battleship's wrist and tore off for the commissary at flank. Or at least tried to, her triple shafts might push her through the water at a good clip, but Jersey was a titanically heavy anchor not interested in moving. "Come…" she panted and put her back into one more herculean tug. "Ooooonn!"
"Fucking fine," Jersey allowed herself to be towed. "But you're paying."
—|—|—
Battleship Musashi knew Jersey was at the door even before she hammered her fist against the flimsy wood. She could hear the floor creaking and groaning under the massive American's immense weight, and smell Jersey's sweet, but gritty and ever so slightly smoky aroma. Musashi was certain even holding a gun to her head wouldn't get the Iowa to wear perfume, but that didn't matter. She smelled perfectly nice as is."Come in," Musashi spun in her chair. Her meaty chocolate thighs were crossed, and she waited just a moment too long to pull her unbuckled miniskirt smooth. Her shirt hung off her shoulders, letting the finest naval rifles the world had ever seen breath free for the first time since she'd visited the States.
She understood why the prudish Americans wanted her to stay clothed while in their country. A glimpse of the unfiltered majesty of her mighty eighteens would torpedo the American birthrate as every man gave up everything to move to Japan and every woman struggled with crippling inadequacy issues, a fate Musashi would never wish on her new ally.
But against Jersey… giving the big Iowa a few inadequacy issues would be fun. If anything else, it might deflate the arrogant American's opinion of herself to something more reasonable.
Jersey didn't so much open the door as shoulder through it. She carried a case of beer under one arm—Musashi didn't recognize the brand, but the packaging looked obscure enough to be better than the usual American piss water. Musashi was certain she had help, the American's taste wasn't that refined.
Under the other she carried a box full of snacks—Doritos, the red color with dust Naka had judged "the STD of food products", and a few bottles of Gatorade. Musashi was pleased her estimation of Jersey's taste had been correct.
"Mushi," Jersey grunted and unceremoniously dumped the collection onto Musashi's heavily-reinforced bed. A king-size mattress—the only size that could fit a battleship as titanitcally massive as the second Yamato—stood on massive steel pilings that could—barely—support her weight.
"Jersey," Musashi smirked and slowly uncrossed her legs. "How long's it been for you?"
"Too long." The American rocked on her heels, rolling her massive shoulders to work out the last few knots in those admittedly envious muscles.
"Mmm," Musashi set her features in a coy smirk and slowly stood, her enormous pagodas taking a split-second to catch up with the rest of her imperially perfect figure. She let her fingers trail along the armrest of her chair for a moment before settling her hands on her hips. "Shall we…" she slowly circled the American, letting the shirt she wore like a cape trail along Jersey's bare wrist. "commence a night engagement."
"No," Jersey rolled her terrifyingly icy eyes. "Let's fuck." In an instant, her hands were on Musashi's jaw, holding the Japanese battleship in place like a cast-iron vice with a quarter-million American horsepower. Musashi had just enough time to widen her eyes when Jersey's lips crashed into hers with a brutally forceful kiss.
There was nothing romantic about the coupling. There was no love or passion in what Jersey did, just a raw imperial need to apply overwhelming force. When the two battleships' lips met, it was with an ear-shattering roar of tearing metal, buckling girders, and splintering wood.
Jersey towered over the already towering Yamato, looming over her with both hands squeezing Musashi's cheeks. But it only took a split-second for the Japanese battleship's warrior instincts to take over. She grabbed Jersey by her massive triceps, struggling against the American's vastly more powerful grasp and forcing her tongue down Jersey's throat.
The Iowa's eyes went wide and she redoubled her attack. This time, it was her tongue that was forced unbidden past Musashi's chocolate lips, but the Yamato was ready. Her jaw clamped down with a hundred-fifty thousand horsepower of quad-shifted triple-bladed might.
"Motherfucker!" Jersey tore her face away with a furious howl. Her teeth were already stained red from blood pouring from her lacerated tongue. Musashi tasted copper. She smiled, the missing sliver of Jersey's tongue held mockingly between her bloodstained teeth. She spat it out, relishing the wet squelch when it smashed into Jersey's collarbone and bounced into her immense cleavage.
"I'm sorry," Musashi put her hands on the American's broad hips. "Am I too much battleship for you?" Instantly, she leveraged Jersey's momentarily distraction to haul the Iowa's massive body in close against hers. Again, steel crashed against steel in a cacophonous roar utterly devoid of passion and romance.
Her mighty eighteens smashed into Jersey's rounder but dimentionally inferior main battery, forcing them aside with ease. The super-sixteens might be good guns, but they bowed in reverent awe before the mightiest naval rifles the world had ever or will ever see.
Musashi tore at the Iowa's clothes. Her vest zipper exploded in a shower of forged metal teeth leaving only the American's t-shirt and Musashi's sarashi separating their metal flesh. She pressed in for a kiss, slamming Jersey against the wall hard enough to utterly disintegrate drywall and shatter several joists. The two battleships tore at each other with their teeth, each in a race to savage the other until they could again open to main battery range.
Jersey grabbed Musashi by the shoulders and shoved her off with all her might, sending the Japanese battlewagon collapsing onto her bed. The American's mouth was split in a grin consisting seemingly only of razor-sharp incisors. Blood pooled between her teeth and she had to spit out a mouthful before she could speak.
"Oh…" Jersey stalked towards the bed, already lifting her shirt over her head. Eight boilers glistened in shocking relief against her pale skin, sinuous muscle backing a thin, but angled and metallurgically superb armor belt. "You're a feisty one." She spat out one of her own teeth, or maybe it was one of Musashi's…
The Japanese warship stared at the half-naked American with equal parts awe and fury. Her own bandages had come off somewhere in the fight, and now both battleships were rigged for night action. Their searchlights were mounted and manned, mighty beams tearing through the night to seek out targets.
"YAMATO!" Musashi hurled herself to her feet, propelling herself like a cannonball into Jersey. "DAMASHI!" Her hands closed around the American's chest, fingernails digging into firm American flesh deep enough to draw blood. Her lips locked with Jersey's, and again bording parties did their dance of death.
Jersey responded with a brutal punch to the gut, sending Musashi reeling. "'Murica!" She roared, grabbing a handful of Musashi's immense bosom and twisting with all her might. "Fuck yeah!"
Musashi howled in pain and fell to her knees. Which only gave her the advantage. Among the many flaws of the Iowa class—at least compared to the true exemplar of battleship perfection, the Yamato class—was a shockingly fragile torpedo defense scheme. Musashi roared and threw her fist into the American's substandard underwater protection. Her punch landed square in the Iowa's shaft galleries, eliciting a roar of agony.
Jersey grabbed Musashi by the shoulders and hauled her to her feet with near effortless ease. "Fuck." She shoved the battleship against her own bed, bending her over backwards over the foot of the mattress as she forced a kiss down Musashi's throat. "You!"
"You're trying!" Hissed Musashi, spitting a mouthful of blood that could as easily be Jersey's as hers. "Not working!"
Jersey roared and threw Musashi onto the bed proper. An instant later she was atop the Japanese boat. The massive steel bed frame gave out with a roar of metal stressed far beyond its breaking point. The bed collapse to the floor hard enough to gouge vast scars in the concrete and tint the air with dust. Jersey's arms held Musashi's down by the wrists. Her massive thighs were planted on Musashi's, her back arched at a murderous curve to bring her lips into contact.
Musashi squished her head back against her pillow, only to swing it back in a vicious headbutt. Jersey reeled, skin over her brow torn open down to the steel. Blood poured from her face, splashing against Musashi's glasses and streaking her snowy hair with red. "NIPPON!"
Jersey roared and kissed Musashi again. "AMERICA!"
Musashi tore her face away just long enough to thunder her beloved country's name with every scrap of air her lungs contained. The instant later, her lips met again in a kiss. Her back arched to bring her mighty batteries into action against the American's rippling belt. "NIPPON!"
—|—|—
"Oh my god!" Sarah Gale rolled over in bed and squeezed her pillow against her head, hoping to somehow block out the sound. She'd been looking forwards to her reunion with Wash, to the first night they'd spend together since Wash's patrol. She'd cleaned the bedroom up, gotten some nice candles, even a pair of lacy panties she was eager to try out.But it was impossible to stay in the mood when she couldn't even hear herself think over what sounded exactly like two freight trains derailing, but constantly. About they only thing she could hear that wasn't the spine-shredding cacophony of crashing metal were two voices—one a dusky contralto, the other a honey-smooth alto—screaming nationalistic insults loud enough to make the walls shake. For the past four fucking hours.
"I" Gale squeezed her pillow tighter in a desperate attempt to drown out the sound. "Hate. Everything."
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- Location
- Arizona
OK... I'm dying here, I am proving that it is indeed possible to suffer death from laughter. JERSEY! MUSASHI! THIS IS NOT HOW YOU LESBIAN!
- Location
- Canada
Welp, now weve brought hate fucking to a whole new level. 
- Location
- Pacific NW
Meanwhile back in Japan, when Pennsylvania and Arizona hear about this, my bets are that Ari goes into prude-rage shutdown or just laughter at how they're doing it wrong. While Pennsylvania takes out a Sear-Roebuck catalog from 1925 and points out the 'Ladies' electrical massage devices and other stress relief' products section.
"THIS! Don't talk to me about unsatisfied libido. This is the 21st century. Just buy a GOD-DAMNED DILDO!!"
"THIS! Don't talk to me about unsatisfied libido. This is the 21st century. Just buy a GOD-DAMNED DILDO!!"
Probably more of the latter, but with grumbling about conduct unbecoming an officer being mixed in.
- Location
- Minot, North Dakota
Suddenly imagining one of those cartoon scenarios where one character tries to run while the other is holding them back and they end up buzz-sawing into the ground...
Adm. Williams: Where on earth does sex and beer involve digging a 5 foot deep hole in the middle of a main road?!
Jersey: (silence)
Prinz Eugen: Apparently Germany, Sir!
- Location
- Minot, North Dakota
And then the American Standards (including Texas) get tasked by SecNav to develop a SexEd course to reduce the amount of repairs needed after failed couplings that look like the Stockholm and Andrea Doria....
ijnfleetadmiral
CinC Rengo Kanmusutai
- Location
- Admiral's Bridge, HIJMS Kongo
FIRST ATTEMPT
LOCATION: YOKOSUKA, JAPAN
END RESULT: EPIC FAIL; INTERNATIONAL INCIDENT DUE TO TWITTER & INSTAGRAM POSTS; ADMIRAL GOTO'S STRESS LEVEL INCREASED BY 1000.
SECOND ATTEMPT
LOCATION: WASHINGTON, UNITED STATES
END RESULT: EPIC FAIL; SEVERE PROPERTY DAMAGE TO DORM; LOSS OF SLEEP FOR PERSONNEL IN IMMEDIATE VICINITY; VADM WILLIAMS' SANITY IN DOUBT.
Iku: Perhaps Iku can help. I can show you some things...oh, yes...Iku can show you lots of things...
Admiral Goto: Um, let's not.
Kongo: Jersey-san! I could provide you with some ideas from my own plans for Teitoku, Dess!
Admiral Goto: Urk...
LOCATION: YOKOSUKA, JAPAN
END RESULT: EPIC FAIL; INTERNATIONAL INCIDENT DUE TO TWITTER & INSTAGRAM POSTS; ADMIRAL GOTO'S STRESS LEVEL INCREASED BY 1000.
SECOND ATTEMPT
LOCATION: WASHINGTON, UNITED STATES
END RESULT: EPIC FAIL; SEVERE PROPERTY DAMAGE TO DORM; LOSS OF SLEEP FOR PERSONNEL IN IMMEDIATE VICINITY; VADM WILLIAMS' SANITY IN DOUBT.
Iku: Perhaps Iku can help. I can show you some things...oh, yes...Iku can show you lots of things...
Admiral Goto: Um, let's not.
Kongo: Jersey-san! I could provide you with some ideas from my own plans for Teitoku, Dess!
Admiral Goto: Urk...
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Pyeknu
Cross-Dimensional Magical Sith Lady
- Location
- Fort Erie, Ontario, Canada
Oh, good for you, Eugen! Saving your fleet mates from post-Prohibition beer! You deserve a Meritorious Service Medal for that one!
Well, let's hope Doc Vestal doesn't have to be called into it.
Suffer, Chief. Suffer.
rofl:rofl:Then again, once you and Wash are back together...!
- Location
- Canada
And how long are Jersey and Mushi going to end up in the docks?
Axslashel
I am a pessimist not a realist.
- Location
- Land of the Midnight Sun
Interestingly enough, budweisser is illegal to sell in Germany.
Also I need a new rating to properly sum up my reaction to this update.
A "WTF" rating or a "Holy Shit" rating.
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still_guns
For the Empire!
- Location
- Bridge of ISS Conundrum
Jersey! I thought you said you were going to fuck her, as in have sex, not fuck her up!
This image isn't sexy at all! I am thoroughly deflated.
This image isn't sexy at all! I am thoroughly deflated.
YuffieK
(Verified Ninja Princess)
Both of them have their idea of what sex is based on their crew's memories rather than personal experience. They're also both incarnations of the most hyperviolent engines of ocean-borne annihilation ever conceived by humanity. If you were expecting Barry White instead of Michael Bay...
You'd need Star League Ragnarok-proof technology at least to make one that'd last longer than few seconds. I'd actually recommend contracting out to BBFO...