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messwriting · 4 years

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Written for The Smut Pile Collab: Western AU | MASTERLIST HERE.

(i'm gonna make you) feel it

a.k.a. ✨ MAKKI’S ADVENTURE TIME ✨

Hanamaki “Big Tease” Takahiro x Female Reader

Rating: E for explicit | Don’t read this if under eighteen.

Warnings: Porn With Plot. Corruption Kink. Reader’s engaged to be married - a bride. Cheating. Highly inappropriate touching and dancing moves (that’s their job tho). Alcohol. Completely unresearched strippers industry. Lowkey exhibitionism. Fucking in a public space (private room). Fingering. Oral sex. SMUT: Doggy style over a sofa. Makki’s a little shit. Overuse of the word “cute” (for real, so many times omg).

Word count: ~7.3k

Note: Saint Dymphna and poor little me would like to introduce you all to the: 🤠 LAWBREAKERS MULTIVERSE 🤠

So, @dymphnasprose basically came at me with: “what about we take cowboys and make them skskskskskssk like magic mike style strippers” and thus was born the wicked duo newest adventure. We had a lot of fun (and a lot of panic) but here it is! Anyone asks why I’m doing two once again it’s also dymph’s fault and my sheer love for Iwaizumi. Also, dymph I love u and I’ve had lots of fun doing this little group project together🥺💕

That being said I’d also like to thanks @mixedhell who once again is a mage of dialogue and helped me several times; Tay, my love @deathcab4daddy, who helped beta part of this and also @xmyshya who was kind enough to beta this too <3

Makki’s songs: Cowboy Casanova (dymph’s courtesy) + Feel it

You can also read: IWAIZUMI | MATTSUN

Hanamaki is focused.

He surveys the screaming crowd inside the packed nightclub, sees the different groups occupying the big booths, the pretty decorations that never fail to distinguish his targets inside the dimly lit room.

Makki likes the meaning behind the different outfits and colors; the details merging into the allegory of remarkability, crafting the idea of uniqueness in their special day where screams of freedom swimming inside intoxicated heads build a tendency into wildness. In building lasting memories of a singlehood that doesn’t really exist anymore, into falling prey of sexy, large men who could take them into a one-time intoxicating memory that they can savor into the end of times.

Marriages can end, Makki thinks, but memories like the ones he makes are forever.

And tonight he has already found the one.

You must be the prettiest little thing he has seen in months, all beautifully clad in a sparkling white party dress, a sexy slit that shows the classical frilly garter adorning your thigh, with a golden black banner that announces for the whole world that you’re taken, soon to be married and enjoying your bachelorette party. It’s almost a challenge, really.

Great. That’s exactly how he likes it.

A brilliant and ridiculous white cowboy hat decorated to leave a tacky gown falling from your head is perched on the table where your small group sits, about eight women dressed in black and a beautiful entourage of bridesmaids if he ever saw one, but it’s you; cute, happy little you who blushed at the very first look at his partially naked torso when all Hanamaki did was pass by your table in his low cut jeans and open flannel shirt, a tilt of his cowboy hat made with half a mind to compliment the ladies until his eyes laid on you.

Your bright eyes had shined with embarrassment at your interest, chest filling with a renewed pull of air at the mere sight of him, a burning in your face that he could notice even in the poorly lit room, flashing lights giving him just the best of peeks -- your plush lips punished by the row of white teeth that closed around the soft muscle and pulled.

That was all he needed, the smallest of sights and still, the biggest of hints.

You were going to be his tonight. He’ll taint that pristine white and you’ll beg for his every move, he knows it just as he knows the women will scream for him as soon as he steps on the stage.

And, in fact, that will be sooner rather than later.

He’ll make sure of it.

The loud music is pulsing through his body, like waves crashing against his skin, his heart seemingly beating alongside the bass in deep, sexy strokes of the R&B music echoing through the club. The youngsters are doing their dance, a coordinated thing between the six newbies of the Club, while Makki and Mattsun wait by the side of the backdoor of the stage, ready to take their places in the next performance.

“Anyone in your sights yet?” Issei asks him as he passes him the bottle of water, which Takahiro puts on top of one of the structures before sending a small grin at the dark-haired man. They’ve been here for four years now, and they have joined the place together, looking to make a good buck while going to College. Stripping is fun, easy, and profitable when you’re young and hot and Matsukawa and Hanamaki are nothing else but.

“The one by the left, the table with the tacky cowboy hat and the golden balloons.”

“A fan of the work, I see.” Matsukawa pulls the curtain to the side just an inch, his eyes quickly surveying the space and centering on the acquired target. Makki knows exactly what he’s seeing, a table filled with a group of beautiful women and you in white shining over them all, the balloons above the wall seeming way more ridiculous once he knows about Makki’s plan of action.

One dick for life. Ha.

“Poor little thing doesn’t know what she’s in for tonight.” Mattsun’s grin is mischievous and all-knowing. Hanamaki has a type, it’s a running joke, but every good joke starts from a glimmer of truth. And in Makki’s case, it may as well be the truth itself.

“And that’s a sexy little group.”

“Yeah, it is. But you already have plans for tonight, don’t you. I’ve heard about it from Oikawa.”

Mattsun doesn’t answer, only a chuckle and a lopsided grin marking his face as he keeps studying the crowd.

The group performance wraps up quickly, being one without public interaction and soon enough Oikawa is making a show, threading between the public with his mic, hyping the crew out with just the right few words.

The lights start going down, softly casting the audience in shadows while the stage is tinged in bright colors before becoming red and by the time people’s eyes are focusing at the center again, Hanamaki and Matsukawa have taken their places.

The music starts to play, soft and calm, pulsing through the bodies of everyone as their eyes focus on the attractive duo in center stage. They’re not supposed to end up naked yet, that’s saved for the end, but as the choreography flows, sharp hip movements, thrusting motions like ocean waves crashing on rocky shores, still get women screaming at the top of their lungs enough for it all to merge with the song as if it’s part of the original bass.

Makki’s wearing a half-opened plaid flannel shirt with nothing under it, and he pops every remaining button open along to the song, the screams getting louder. His jeans are tight enough that every plane of muscle is noticeable, and his belt is black and striking, with a big, bull-shaped buckle. Later he’ll change his outfit to leather chaps and a vest, but right now, he’s more laid back. He looks good, he knows it, but the appreciation in your eyes as you coily drink his from from across the room is like a fucking golden star on his pride.

On top of his head, locked tight, it’s his pinched front cowboy hat. As Makki throws it in the air and catches in the middle of dancing, the screams engulf him from all sides.

But everything else is fading to the back of his mind as his eyes find yours in the dark, the appreciative, enthralled shine in them not lost to Makki. Could never be lost to Makki, who holds onto it as if it’s a life-line; You’re interested.

Ok, that’s good. But it’s also the basics.

Makki twirls and fall on the floor, hips fucking into nothing as the crowd goes insane. He kneels on stage, his shirt flying to the spectators; two women take hold of it, pulling in contrary directions until it rips.

Makki throws you a wink, every woman in that direction claiming it as theirs. You, however, shrug into yourself, eyes looking away as your hands tight their hold around the champagne glass they’re holding. You’re so cute, hands in front of your face as if that would keep you from staring. Makki feels himself glowing, growing excited at the mere sight of your scurrying eyes as they choose the floor instead of his body.

So fucking pure.

Takahiro wants to force you to look up and revel in the guilty desire he’s bound to find there. There’s no need to avoid him if he doesn’t charm you, that’s the beauty of soon-to-be brides. There’s such a deep will inside them to be faithful to the allegory of a husband they do not have yet, lost in a daydream of happiness in finding the one when they haven’t even tasted anything but. Makki eyes the golden balloons floating around the table while he dances -- one dick forever.

Poor little thing. He can’t let that happen, can he?

When Makki hops off the stage and walks over to your table between deafening screamings and pleads for him to take them, instead, his hand closes around your dainty little one, adorned with pretty french nails and just a single golden ring and even the soft, smooth skin of your hand against his rugged palm is a thrill inside his veins.

Your eyes are shining, nervousness sweeping from them as they lock with his. Hanamaki tries to be lowkey, giving you a reassuring smile supposed to be nice, to be trusting -- a complete disconnect of the way his guts stirs in the excitement of your touch.

He lowers his lips to your ears, pretends the way his nose runs over the shell is a mere accident. “Let’s go for a ride, sweetheart.”

Your lips fall open by the side of his face and Makki can feel the way you suck a breath, a little gasp ruining your efforts when he lets his lips brush against your jaw. Another accident, whoops. He’s such a careless boy, isn’t he?

Your teeth punish your bottom lip as your eyes seem to look anywhere but him, trembling hands as you seem half-way into telling him no. Makki can't have that, though. He brings his face to look deep in your eyes, a lopsided smile he can manoeuvre into being just the right amount of kind by now.

"You're not gonna let me go up there alone, will you?" He almost pouts, big hands finding their way on your arms in up and down motions that drag just the right amount of trembles from you for him to know he's winning. "There's no fun without you, sweet girl."

He dips his lips onto the shell of your ear once again, just in time to hide his mischief. "You're the star of the show. I'm just your ride."

That seems to make you giggle and Makki uses that to bring his grin into your view, palms sliding down your arms to clasp your hands and - finally - guide you up with him.

One thing Makki knows is that he likes his brides sweet.

Pliant.

And as you get up and follow him quietly and sheepish, clumsy tripping over yourself when some of your bridesmaids erupt in cheers, he knows he is right once again -- you’re just his type.

Thing is, Makki doesn’t waste time. He makes you twirl in your high heels just to have you falling in his arms, he picks you up without effort, a little gasp breaching your lips as your hands plant against his chest.

Makki just has to grin at the way in which you close your palms and retreat them back to yourself, quick, burning up in a beautiful, delicious expression of shame. Fuck, he wants to make you beg.

When he’s at the stage, he drops you on your feet with enough aggression to get you to slide straight to the floor, unsteady knees opening under you until your ass is planted on the stage.

Makki thinks your open mouthed expression, little breaths breaking through your lips as your anxious eyes stare up at him, have to be the best thing he’s seen in a while. And he’s just starting.

He bends at the waist, his hands to reach your knees and push them open, your bright little white dress sliding up so much he can steal a peek at your fancy underwear.

Such a vixen, aren’t you? All wrapped in lace.

Makki lets himself fall on top of you and you gasp, even as he stays holding himself in a plank, not one bit of skin touching yours. The song is pumping, slow and sexy even if the screams sound louder in the close space. He twists his hips, the rolling motion has them right between your juicy thighs. You’re forced to keep them wide open and the way in which you look mortified just may be what ends him.

Makki drops his knees in the ground, lets the screams wash over him as he drags his hips against your center, soft, then hard. His hands by the side of your head, his toned chest right in front of your face. He knows by the way his skin burns that you’re staring at him -- good, he wants to be the center of all your attention tonight.

Your hands are in front of yourself as if you’re afraid at your own excitement, eager eyes looking for his in a wirlwind of emotions and it makes his fucking skin erupt with goosebumps that the most noticiable one is desire.

Oh, Makki’s going to wreck you. The song turns frantic just as he comes to slide over your body, nose trailing along your collarbone and chest, teeth nipping at your clothes as if he would prefer to be doing it to your skin instead, and he feels the way your shame almost consumes you, body shaking as he finally reaches destination: right above your beautiful open thighs, so close he can almost taste you.

Unfortunately, it doesn't last. And Makki is forced by the choreography to climb back up your body even as he lets his hands linger a bit too close to your clothed center, every woman around screaming as if they can read his mind.

He gets back up and kneels between your open legs, thrusting in time with the music as if he’s actually still thinking about choreography and not in doing this to you later. You’re growing more embarrassed by the moment, your whole body burning and tense, but responsive to his movements and, better yet, his smiles.

His body is used to the motions, to swirling and grinding and thrusting in a wave motion, crashing over your hips time and time again until your lips fall open, and he knows he hit the jackpot.

Makki holds himself in a plank again, his skin turning clammy with the exertion, but he angles his crotch just right and has you singing a groan for him again -- then turning bright with shame in sequence.

Such a precious little thing indeed.

The ground choreo ends way too soon for Makki’s wishes, but he’s soothed by the way in which you let yourself be picked up, hands clinging to his shoulders with such a fierce hold he almost wants to test it out. He throws you up for a moment, relishes in your nails at his back, and his forearms hold you by the underside of your knee, closing on your hips.

And that makes your pretty little clothed cunt roll right against his semi-hard on. There’s a ripping sound, probably your slit getting wider to acomodate your open legs and thus, him.

Lovely.

Makki rolls his hips, right against your center once, and the crowd erupts in screams just as he starts mimicking fucking you standing. A beautiful option he saves in the back of his mind for later.

You let out a yelp, then proceed to try and hide your head against his neck, your pretty mouth gliding against his skin gives him such a high he almost loses the tempo of the song. He tells you to hold on and plants his hands on your bare ass, lifting you until he can have you in front of his face, a bit uncomfortable move but one that has every single woman in the club wet -- it’s in the air by now, and he can smell it. The idea makes his skin prickle, your hands holding his hair for dear life as if you’re afraid to fall, but your clothed cunt is right there, and he can’t pass the opportunity to steal a little touch as he pretends your hold is what pushes his head flush against your pussy.

You let out a beautiful sound almost in time with the song, and he is letting you fall once again on his arms, the smile on his lips the last nail on your pure coffin.

And unfortunately that means time’s up.

Makki lets your legs fall but holds you by your waist, depositing you on your own two feet at the stage and snickering at how your legs falter to hold you up on the high heels. So, as a gentleman, he takes your hand in his, helps you down the few steps on the stage, almost groans at how your hand seems to not want to let him go.

Before he leaves you, he pulls your hand into his lips, absolutely glowing at how breathless you look from the little action after he literally ravished you on stage. It physically pains him that he needs to pick up another bride into his show.

“See you later, pretty one.”

Under you, your legs are faltering, knees trembling like a newborn deer as you’re left alone to fend for yourself in the long path back to your table. Women congratulate you, screaming on your sides at the men who was almost fucking you dumb on stage and his friend, as they continue their show.

Your heart is beating in your ears, leaving you stupid and lost as you’re finally - finally - rescued by your friend, who brings you back to the table with loud congratulations and happy cheers. You feel your body sweating and throbbing, weirdly pulsating for something you can’t name.

Recognizing it would make it real and you cannot believe that after five years in a nice relationship with your only boyfriend and soon-to-be-husband, this is the first time you feel this wet.

You plop down on the closest seat, hands pressing to your chest as you try to both fan yourself and hide behind them. It proves, as expected, a hard task.

Your childhood friend has arrived and you hug her sideways, the short conversation you two exchange somehow lost to your poor heated brain as your eyes keep sliding to center once again at the stage.

The way he dances on stage feels overwhelming, this bride-to-be suffering way less touching and grinding than you, as “Big Tease Makki” stays standing up, his hands groping everywhere in his sculpted body as he dances to the sensual song, including the considerable bulge in his pants.

Something flashes and he turns his head your way so sharply you feel the need to melt further on the sofa, poorly hiding away as everyone around you cheers once again.

His eyes on you were burning a hot trail that slithers over your warm skin even in the dark, the ghost of a feeling of touch, erupting goosebumps along their way as they circle your neck and dip down your side, strutting over your chest to end by your face. Even in the distance, you swear you can feel the way those lips slip into an easy grin, satisfied at the way they have you breathless and weak by thought alone.

The idle chatting of your friends, excited and drunk are dulled by the pounding of your heart inside your chest, and you feel constricted by their presence on your sides at the booth, both ways filled with testimony to your inner turmoils-- can they see your sinful thoughts while they stay that close to you? Can the pounding of your heart and the heat in your face be felt at such a short distance?

The mere idea that they can pry inside your skull and discover the sinful dreams unfolding is too much for you right now, your spine shooting up while you balance yourself in your pretty heels and ask in a meek, nervous voice for the girls to let you pass. Some ask if you need help or if you’re going to the bathroom, and in both options it feels like you’re going to be flanked immediately, so you deny it and say you have to make a quick phone call about something you forgot to confirm and they all nod away, drunkenly squealing for you to be quick.

You’re almost free when one of your bridesmaids, your childhood friend, looks up at you with puzzled eyes.

“Hey, everything's okay?” She’s not drunk, only happily buzzed with sparkling wine, but her eyes are attentive when they lay on your face, worry etched in her brow as she looks for hints hidden in your dolled up face.

“Yeah, just need to take a breather.” You give her what you hope is a reassuring smile even as sweat drips down your back, but the place is dark and loud and she lets you go without much prodding. The place is full and swarming with women, groups of men present but fewer, waiters clad in skimpy clothing as they work the tables full of drinks, shots and champagne. Some are flirtatious, charming smiles along with muscles as they sweep women off their feet and leave their wallets thinner; others are pretty serious, and the mysterious aura has their pull, the ecstasy of conquest working as an aphrodisiac.

You pull past the bodies, feeling a bit light headed as your chest pounds and the booze traverse your body, clumsy steps on too-high-heels you’re not used to, but your bridesmaids had pushed you to wear along with screams to live a little and say hello to the last night before you’re a proper married lady. You’ve never really felt the weight of those words as the last two days, tasting for the first time the sweetness of night as you’ve never before.

If brown, bored eyes make a appearance in your mind as you flee to the corridor leading to the private rooms and women’s bathroom, you’re quick to stop the train of thought before it leads down a muscular torso clad in a tight jeans with a firm ass and a hot, big cock that humped against you in every opportunity while he took you to the stage.

A drop makes it way past your cunt lips to stain your fancy underwear and you groan, ashamed. You’ve never felt this unbecoming need before, the arousal so thick your breasts seem to be heavy against your ribcage, dress feeling too tight on your heated, oversensitive skin.

You’re reaching the curve left that will take you to the bathroom when big hands engulf your frame, palm over your mouth and you’re pulled inside one of the private rooms, too breathless to even make a sound.

“Howdy,” his voice sounds right by your ear, as you’re caged against a burly body and the closed, probably sound-proof door. “Got a fugitive here.”

“Uhh, sir, I--”

“Sir?” He laughs, head thrown back prettily as you drink the arch of his throat. “Oh my god, call me Makki, pretty one.”

The petname makes you flush, tongue heavy and clumsy in your mouth around words. “Uh… Makki, I’m sorry but I, ah…” You fumble with your hands, avoiding touching him, eyes downcast as you try to also avoid even looking at him. It’s too much, he seems everywhere.

“You’re engaged? I can see that, love. You have a banner right there.” He sounds so nice, mischief and boyish glee as he stands way too close to you.

“Then you understand…”

“I understand this is your last night of freedom, right? The last chance for you to be bad,” He breathes against your jaw as he noses along your skin to your ear, his cowboy hat gliding softly against the side of your face, “To be wild.”

Your mouth opens and closes but not a single sound comes out, your brain completely lost to the science of mixing letters into words. All you can think about is how your blood seems to be galloping in your veins, the pounding of your heart so oppressingly loud the beat of the song seems to mimic it and not the contrary.

You are lost to everything but the unbelievable feeling of painful arousal, so sharp and deep your bones seem to be melting out of their places and dripping into the outside by your cunt.

“But,” Leaves your lips dumbly and Makki’s fingers silence you, his lips so close you can taste his every exhale, the flap of his hat managing to blind your vision to anything past his face.

“You’re going to be married to the exact same man forever, sweetheart. You can let go one night. One night for you to feel good.” Makki licks at your throat and your lips fall open with a shameless moan as you burn with shame. “Has he ever made you feel this hot, sweetie? Hm? Have you ever even felt like this? It’s your last chance tonight, right? Don’t lose it.”

Makki’s hands massage their way down your sides, grabbing at the flesh of your hips, brushing your ass, and you’re dead silent as you drool away in your panties. Unable to think, unable to speak, embarrassment clogging your throat together with an impossible, unacceptable yes.

“C’mon, sweetie, let me take care of you.” It’s a plea, and he knows your chest will hurt with the same need that is in his tone. “Just this one time, so you can know what it feels like… how great it can be.”

“One time.” He promises you, earnest eyes boring into yours and, dumbly, enchanted, you nod… and agree.

Well, Makki ain’t waiting around for you to change your mind.

His hands loop around your thighs immediately, pressing you against the door until he can press his body between your open legs. The slit of your dress gives in just the little bit needed to allow his hips to make their way against your core, his lips busying themselves with planting kisses along the arch of your neck, teeth nibbling at the lobe of your ear, tongue gliding over the shell.

His breathing is soft, but so close it feels like it engulfs the room, slithering inside your head and scrambling your thoughts. His crotch presses against your center enough to hold you high and open, one of his hands relieved of their place as it climbs your side and closes around your jaw, angling your head back until you’re trapped between his face and his chest.

You shudder, eyes fluttering closed as if you cannot hold them open, and Makki feels his skin prickling, warmth spreading from his limbs to his chest and down his hips to center themselves at his burning length. You’re such a little vixen, all big eyes and open mouthed staring at him while he has hardly done anything.

He can barely wait to see how you’ll burn when he buries his face in your pussy.

Right now, though, Makki reigns in his excitement, fingers caressing your cheeks until your pretty eyes open up again, dazed. There’s just something about getting pretty little things like you to yield, to breathe out as his lips plant themselves carefully, softly, against your cheek, then the line of your jaw, your chin and your nose.

Every little kiss has you getting restless, trembling in his arms while your hands close around his shoulders, painful little welts that he loves to see. Such desperation.

It’s really the best.

His lips press against the corner of your wobbling plush lips and you shudder, but they push it back, and when Makki finally decides to kiss you, you’re opening your mouth in your eagerness, tongue lapping awkwardly at his lips as he chuckles and decides it’s time to stop playing.

When he kisses you then, you gasp, precious little sound leaving you as if you had no idea you could even make it, and then you’re melting against him, pressing against his chest as his mouth works its wonders on yours, tongue circling, searching, sucking. He nips at your lips, steals all the short bits of breath from your lungs until you’re writing against him, pressing sinful hips against his crotch in such a desperate way it’s endearing.

The hand on your thigh dips further under your dress, finds the plush meat of your ass and engulf it in its palm, delighted at how inexistent is the small little thing you’re wearing and how fucking delicious it feels. His fingers dig into your bottom until you break the kiss to gasp at how easily he can slip his long indicator from your ass to your pussy.

It’s his time to lose his air at how fucking wet you are, ruined fancy panties and moist thighs.

“Oh god, look at that. Little bride is so wet for this cowboy.”

You make a face, lips pursing in an awkward turn and coily shifting to look down, appraising looks on his chiseled chest. “Okay this one was bad!” Makki offers with an easy smile, the hand on your neck dipping into your breasts, palms pressing on your chest as he turns his focus on circling the hard nipple through your clothes, closing around the plush meat until your offending honest little lips part once again to him. He can see in the turbilion of your eyes how you’re still swirling against guilt, holding back from him.

“But can you blame me? Look at me.” He makes a mention with his head towards the big bulge straining his tight jeans, which have you unconsciously looking down, his hand sliding over your jaw to tilt your head up to meet his eyes, charming, easy-going smile in his lips. “Look at you.”

He rolls his hips once against your sex, feels the blistering heat even through layers of clothes but he’s done this enough to know exactly where to aim, having a moan escaping through the tight cage of your lips before you can hold everything else in by the lock of your teeth.

He can’t have that, though. He thrives on applause after all.

“Now, beautiful, I’ll need you to stop that right there.” His fingers dip under you to slide against the soiled fabric clinging to your folds and you all but tense, melting after as if you cannot conceive how good is his mere touch. “I want to hear you, c’mon.” Your eyes drop on his in hurt, but you free your bottom lip, mouth imediatelly falling open around a groan as Makki presses aimless around the entrance of your sex. Damn, Makki likes this.

“Yes, like that. You’re such a good girl, aren’t you?” His cock is straining against his boxers already, length rolling in perfect aimed strokes over the apex of your sex as his fingers thread on the outline of your beautiful cunt and when he dips inside a single fingertip, your sex and hands cling to him, all the beautiful curves of your body against his and he just-- He wants to see.

“Ok, dinner time!” Makki chuckles as he brings his hands once again to hold you firmly by your thighs, fingers spread enough to keep rolling against the edges of your cunt.

“Wha-What?” You give a charming yelp at the way he holds you effortlessly while abandoning the door to walk over to the couch. It’s just a cheap upholstered thing in front of the circular stage with the pole hanging from the ceiling, but it’s just the perfect length for what he needs.

He lets you fall, open and disheveled over it, legs spread to show the lace he saw earlier, stained and soiled after just a bit of makeout.

“You’re so cute.” It’s mockingly, really; meant to be a jab at how you’re so hazed and undone by just a few moves of his, but the way in which your doe eyes thread up to him, shiny and unfocussed; your hands closing around your frame as a hand plants in front of your breasts is just… cute. There’s no other word. You’re just a cute little thing and he wants your demise.

Makki groans and pulls you to the edge of the sofa by your legs, easily dropping between your thighs in a wave move, face planting itself on your breasts to suck at sweaty clothes, teeth pulling the fabric down until your nipples peek through and he sucks them inside his mouth, too.

You tremble so easily, even worse when he abandons it to nose his way down your body tightly clad in the white dress, kisses over your belly until he’s nosing at your clothed cunt, open mouth kisses adding to the moistness in your poor underwear.

“Delicious.” Makki says for no reason other than to state his thoughts, tongue rolling over the clothed slit as if its skin, reveling in how your poor legs start to shake, needing the aid from his hands spreading them to finally stop. “Tell me, honey, have your fiancé ever fucked you good? Hm?”

The mention makes you stiff, head pressing to the side of the sofa as if you’re fighting a battle inside your own mind, triggered by the piece of trivia question.

“I bet he hasn’t,” Makki laughs, nosing at your pussy with such pressure his whole face gets smeared in your juices. “Is he your first boyfriend? Tell me more.”

“I--how do you--” You stutter through bitten lips, truth tipping out once he easily spreads you open with his thumbs on each side. “Yes.”

“What a waste, such a wet fucking pussy and not one single effort from your hubby to-” Makki pulls your underwear aside, tongue lolling out to lick a long strip from your entrance to your clit, “lick”, once, it”, twice, “clean.” and thrice.

You let out a cute little noise and he gets impatient, pulling the lace at the side with enough force it rips easily under his hand. Your indignant noise doesn’t even sound right, lost in a moan at the way he closes his lips around your clit and brings his tongue to play with it fast. His hand presses harder on the skin of your thighs, leaving you open as a present, ripe and wide.

If Makki says he eats pussy as a fucking meal, it’s not out of vanity. He doesn’t like to stroke his own ego, it’s just the plain truth. He works his tongue around your cunt, licks at your puffy lips, slither his way over the labia, gathers all the dripping …. and lets it drip over your pussy, just to suck it up and spit on it, after all he never understood the whole don’t spit on the plate you eat. If it’s pussy, he’s sure it’s the fucking other way around.

You’re writhing and moving around, a symphony of gasps and moans fighting their way past your tight lips. Makki doesn’t mind. As he brings his thumbs to stroke up and down the sides of your cunt, he knows you’ll be screaming in no time. It’s just too much. It’s clear you’ve never had anything like this just by the frantic way you’re humping his face, hands grabbing at anything and everything they can, unable to hold on. His only shame is how busy his mouth is, unable to tease his way into the pure debauchery you’re demonstrating.

He pauses a bit to angle himself back, eyes trained at your pussy, dripping fucking wet all over the dress and the sofa. His thumbs spread at the sides of your entrance, pull it open just to see it blink and gap, begging for his cock without a word leaving your lips. Shit. His cock is straining against the tight jeans in such a painful way he has to let one hand go, open his button and fly, let the poor warrior fight its way past the band of his calvin kleins.

Then he’s back at his work, one thumb keeping you open as his hand returns to plunge his indicator inside slowly. Makki’s mouth almost falls open at the bewitching way your walls give in, letting him sink inside the velvety wet inside with ease. You’re clenching around him, groaning above and begging below, so he lets a second one inside at the retreat and advance of his wrist.

“Have your little husband ever made you feel like this, huh? Have he eaten this little pussy so good you make a mess?”

“Jesus Christ!” You moan above and Makki laughs. He loves this. Loves the little religious bout he gets from tight little brides when they actually taste heaven amidst sin. You try to ride his fingers, but he presses the back of your knees higher, and you let out a breathless “God!” at the new angle.

Then he starts the real game, fingers moving around your heat in search of a specific spot he finds with little prodding and then abuses until you’re begging.

“Oh my god! I, fuck--Jesus!”

“Yes, just like that sweetheart. If you beg for me real pretty I’ll give you what you want.” He says as his fingers keep plunging in and out of your heat in an upwards motion, strong but slow, dragging the feeling of his thick digits inside your walls. It’s close, he can feel it in the way you’re swelling around him, restless kicking out legs and praying for God as if it isn’t Makki who’s giving you all this.

“My name, sweetie. Beg for it, c’mon. Say it out very loud, how you want my cock to fuck you nice and hard as you’ve never had before, huh? Just--”

“Fuck!”

“Just tell me more how you had no idea it could be so good and how you need me to show you how fucking good a man can actually fuck.”

“Oh my god,” you all but yelp, but then sighs a, “yes, please.”

“Hmmm? Couldn’t hear you.”

“Oh fuck, Makki please fuck me!” There’s a breathless, outstandly maniac laugh breaching your lips after that, a flow of quick words falling from your lips as a train of thought, “Jesus I’ve never felt like this, oh my god I think I’ll actually die without--”

“There we go!” Makki laughs, voice loud as he stops everything to get up and once again bends down to pick you up.

“Wha--Wait!” You squeak, body tense and trembling at the loss as Makki only kisses around your tearstained face and makes his way around the upholstered couch. “Makki!” That has to be the needier, whinier tone he has ever heard his name in.

And he loves it.

He lets you slide through his hands, bends you over the back of the couch, your ripped panties sliding to the floor by one of your legs. One of Makki’s hands descends hard on your ass with a loud slap, your lips opening around a beautiful moan. The other does the same, both circling and massing the plump flesh as your ass and pussy blinks seductively at him.

That does it. Makki curses as he pulls his pants and underwear down, his hard, bloody-red cock slapping up against his navel; he closes his hand around it to slap it between the crack of your pretty behind and feels everything in him tingling at how wanton you sound in your moan, angling your back so that your ass can climb higher, head against the seat cushions.

“Yes, baby, just like that.” Makki praises you as he tilts his cockhead on your slit, up and down, up and down against your clit, labia and entrance. It’s absolutely delicious how you clench to try and hold his cockhead, but it slips up to bob against your ass. “Ops, let’s try again.”

He does the same thing a second time but then you groan and whine once again, “Makki, please!”

Well, fuck, who’s he to deny you, right?

He pats your ass and supports his weight at the back of his feet, cockhead right against the beautiful hole weeping for him and, carefully, slowly, deliciously starts dipping inside. Your pussy sucks him in as a vice, muscle clenching and releasing; loud, satisfacted moans in your lips. It’s almost choking to him that the loud noise in the room comes from him, too, mouth falling open in a growl.

When his hips are nested against your ass, Makki has the urge to kiss you but squatches it down in favor of holding you strongly and fucking you throughly. Motioning himself in waves as he had on the stage, his cock slides in and out of you with such delicious, timed precision he thinks you’ll come twice on him before he’s done.

Your tight heat is velvety wet around him, squelching sounds sinful in the room as he grinds his hips against your ass, cockhead nestled against the firm pressure of your cervix. There’s babbles tipping from your lips, as if your mind has broken and you have to pronounce your mess of thoughts out loud. It’s cute.

Maybe he'd appreciate it more if his mind wasn't falling him also; his whole body feels constricted, strained, hips rolling in long, deep, strong strokes that make his cock into a pleasure antena, broadcasting to his whole being, blistering heat spreading through his veins and turning sharp at his spine and to start pooling at his balls.

He is about to dip his hand to your clit and end you when your body seizes, legs kicking while dangling from the backrest of the couch and your pussy starts creaming hard like a vice around his cock.

“Fuck!” He groans, tensing his whole body before you bring him over with you, hand slithering to hold the base of his cock, hard. Then he laughs, no breath to spare. “Wow, baby, no heads up? Now you gonna have to give me one more, I’m not done with you yet.”

You let out an indignant groan, but rest boneless under him. Makki retreats his hips from your snug grip and starts pistoning his way inside your heat, unforgiving even as you yelp and whine, oversensitivity probably making you burn. Makki lets one of his hands let go of your hips and fall hard on your ass, in time to feel the way your pussy grips at him, yelp turning into a moan. Makki lets his hands slide down the side and curve his wrist so your fingers can find your clit, rubbing him frantically as he angles his hips just right, every wave of his body aimed against your precious spot.

“Yup,” Makki groans, growing exhausted. “Just like this.”

Your eyes snap open, hands frantically reaching to hold on anything by them as you look back at Makki with shiny, big, dazed eyes in absolute terror at the fact you are, indeed, going to keep cumming on his dick, second orgasm hitting you so hard and fast Makki actually tips over with you, the pressure in his balls releasing in one blissful climax at the incessant contracting of your cunt and the wave of your orgasm gushing out of your pussy in the closest thing to a squirt he could pull out of you amidst a unending orgasm.

Makki stays inside you as he rides his high, grinding his hips even as you cry from the oversensitivity. When he pulls out, he’s careful with the condom and also has half a mind to hold your body, throwing the used thing somewhere to be cleaned after. Almost as if perceiving the breach, his cellphone starts ringing somewhere, loud as fuck in the closed room.

“Damn, fuck,” Makki scrambles to the sound, his legs almost giving out under him and his fingers so numb it takes three tries to actually accept the call. Which he didn’t read who from.

“MAKKI! WHERE ARE YOU, WE’RE STARTING IN FIVE.” Iwaizumi nags at him, stern and loud, piercing through his haze enough to make his brain drop some adrenaline into his bloodstream, suddenly alert and kicking, muscles straining but holding as he pulls his underwear and jeans quick over his ass and searches for his cowboy hat in time to dip and run to the presentation.

“Sorry baby, gotta go.” He saunters to you, plants a kiss on your sweaty head and another at your swollen lips and smiles the same sinful smile that ended up bringing you here, along with a tilt of his cowboy hat. “Duty calls.”

#hanamaki x reader #hanamaki smut #hanamaki takahiro smut #haikyuu smut #thesmutpilecollab

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swynlake-spill · 4 years

Note

Screw Robinson’s ranking. What’s your ranking of the secondary students?

Oooooo yes, I think it’s about time we get a more objective point of view around here don’t we? Now, my sources tell me that the Ashleys’ ranking system was based on a combination of style, looks, and...personality or cool points or something like that. I’m assuming that Wilbur is using about the same system and so I will honor it, but I’ll add it all up to a score out of 30 in the end!

also this took so long will someone please venmo me a quid for coffee or something

Bae “Nemo” Nam-min

Looks: 8/10 he’s legit hottie when he actually puts effort in

Style: 4/10 leaves MUCH to be desired. He has two looks-- sweatpants or skinny jeans. With a friend like Finn, you’d think he’d be more educated

Personality: 7/10 He’s very easy to be friends with, but an airhead and drama magnet. Don’t be fooled by the smile-- he’s more trouble than he looks!

Overall score: 19/30, or about a 6.33 on the old scale.

Ferbs Fletcher

Looks: 9/10 LEGS LEGS LEGS LEGS LEGS. points off for hair rip

Style: 4/10 why are all men fashion-challenged, why are all boys addicted to the skinny

Personality: 5/10 I honestly don’t know what to make out of Ferb b/c he’s more of a tall, mysterious type, so I’m giving him a very neutral score here. If he opened his mouth more, I might like him less.

Overall score: 18/30! 6 even!

Mei Kusakabe

Looks: 8/10 EEEE she’s a real cutie with serious selfie game!

Style: 9/10 As you all know, I’m super obsessed with her look! Point deducted for those misses, which are SERIOUS misses. Miss Mei needs to float some of those looks past a panel before strutting into school and embarrassing herself.

Personality: 6/10 Here’s where she’s losing points and it’s because she talks to ghosts. Mei! Ignore them, jfc! Save it for your free time!

Overall score: 23/30-- a 7.6!

Jack-Jack Parr

Looks: 5/10 oh boy does JJ Parr need an intervention. I just don’t understand why so many boys’ mothers don’t teach them how to properly care for their hair. Honey, you need to be using a special shampoo and a mousse for those curls!! ldsajflk let me help you

Style: 2/10 ooooh boy does JJ Par need an invention. Everything he wears looks like hand-me-downs from Dash. It was cool when Dash wore it... several years ago!

Personality: 6/10 I think he’s funny! He’s nice! He’s um, creative! Like if I went to secondary and got paired with him on a group project, I would absolutely be doing most of the work but at least he’d probably try. Maybe? Well. I could think of people who I would want to work with less.

Overall score: 14/30 --4.6!

Su Qin

Looks: 7/10. My problem here has everything to do with the weird staring thing. We all know the weird staring thing. None of us like the weird staring thing.

Style: 7/10. I like her style as I’ve said before! I think she’s super unique, but I also think she could go just that extra step further.

Personality: 2/10. Oh honey. I hate having to score you so low, but right now your personality is if Mei’s personality was a sandwich, you’d be the crusts that no one wants to eat.

Overall score: 16/30-- 5.3

Brandon “Barrel” Adamson

Looks: 5/10. PLEASE CUT UR HAIR CUT UR HAIR CUT UR HAIR. There’s a cute boy under there somewhere!

Style: 2/10 Barrel knows one colour and that colour is black. His clothes also don’t seem to fit him very well. Hey Wilbur, can you do something about this?

Personality: 2/10. It’s only fair to give him a similar score as Su, since they like each other so much. He is also the leftover crusts to Lock’s personality sandwich.

Overall score: 9/30-- a 3. Ouch.

Romeo “Roo” DeRosa

Looks: 8/10. He is extremely good-looking! Like that’s a smile that is doing him every favour in the world. I can certainly see why he lured an Ashley in.

Style: 6/10. ugh all these teenage boys exhaust me with their lack of style why even bother having this as a category. what kills me is Roo’s shoes are never clean, like they’re caked with mud. Wash off your shoes!!

Personality: 8/10. I have almost no complaints with Romeo. He’s a sweet boy, he’s hardworking, he’s funny and even talented! I also think he’s kind of gullible...might even go with stupid. You’d have to be to knock up Ashley A.

Overall score: 22/30-- 7.3!

Finn Flounder

Looks: 9/10 hELLO face personally i dont understand why we have not talked about Finn’s face sooner and also more, like we just have dedicated Finn Face Appreciation Time, like, I’m talking artistically speaking is anyone else with me or

Style: 10/10 Colour! Variety! Texture! Pattern! Finn knows how to pick a concept and nail it, and he makes so much of his own clothes!

Personality: 1/10 oh right this is why we don’t talk about his face, it’s because his personality is the equivalent of the puddle of water you squeeze out of a dishrag. He is such a sweet boy with no spine whatsoever. It drive me CRaZY.

Overall score: 20/30-- 6.6

Phineas Flynn

Looks: 7/10. He is cute! He has a perfectly pleasant face with nice features. He is tall, though not as tall as Ferb. He looks, in a word, harmless.

Style: 5/10. Once again, he looks like his mother dresses him, and I mean sometimes that’s a blessing because who knows what he’d look like if his mother didn’t dress him, but way to look like 95% of the teenage male population.

Personality: 6/10. Phineas is charming, but only if you talk to him for about 20 minutes. After twenty minutes, there’s this quality in his voice that will worm inside your head and get stuck there. It’s like nails on the chalkboard. Once you hit forty minutes, you’ll realize he’s still talking (though you haven’t said anything in over twenty minutes), and that he really loves to hear himself talk so then it just becomes an exercise in watching Phineas impress himself.

Overall score: 18/30--6, like his brother. Appropriate!

Haley Long

Looks: 8/10. She’s hella cute! She’s got to be, sharing the genes of one hottie Jake Long!

Style: 8/10. She’s got the whole ‘am i gay’ vibe going for her, which I love. I love when I can’t tell, when it’s like, does she like flannel, or is an avid fan of Lost Girl? She went with Ashley A to prom, so I mean we know she’s at least a LITTLE wlw--I’m getting off track, the point is, I’m into her masculine-feminine energies.

Personality: 5/10. Hayley confuses me. Like, on one hand--she went to prom with Ashley A so maybe she’s an insane person. On the other hand, she ended up with Vee at the end of prom, so maybe...oh yeah, she’s still an insane person. She feels unpredictable, and maybe in a good way, but also maybe I need to run for my life. Haven’t decided!

Overall score: 21/30-- 7!

Dewford “Dewey” Mallard

Looks: 5/10. The Mallard boys are very interesting looking to me, like they have some of the most beautiful hair in Secondary but they prove time and time again they have absolutely no idea what to do with it. They’re also tall, but so skinny, like slendermen. Would like to enroll them all in a zumba class, maybe even yoga.

Style: 5/10. I’ll be honest, my eyes glaze over when I look at Dewey/Huey b/c the only difference between them is the general colour scheme. I like that they do TRY for some individuality.

Personality: 4/10. Dewey is...quiet. And weird. And alone a lot. He actually concerns me a little bit, like is he okay...? It’s not really my job to know, but it should be someone’s!

Overall score: 14/30-- 4.6

Hubert “Huey” Mallard

Looks: 5/10 please see above

Style: 5/10 please see above

Personality: 8/10. I like to think of Huey as the capable, family-friendly Mallard. He’s like a glass of milk with a chocolate biscuit. Everyone likes it, even if it’s not everyone’s favourite dessert. I mean, he’s smart, interesting, he has a wide group of friends! If I had to choose anyone to be put on a group project with, it would be Huey Mallard

Overall score: 18/30-- 6!

Llewellyn “Louie” Mallard

Looks: 5/10. u know what to do

Style: 7/10. GASP. Yes! A decent score! I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Louie tries to have a unique style. He experiments, he’s not scared of looking like an idiot--he often looks like an idiot-- but he at least intrigues me. And next to so many boys who literally don’t know what they’re doing, he really stands out from the pack.

Personality: 6/10. While Huey is family-friendly, Louie is an acquired taste. You might really like all those wacky Louie antics, or maybe you’re allergic! He’s definitely trouble all the way around, so my personal opinion is that he’s best in small doses.

Overall score: 18/30-- 6!

Moon Yeongtae

Looks: 7/10. He pisses me off actually because he’s genuinely quite a handsome boy who is genuinely trying to look as un-handsome as possible. I should put this way lower out of sheer spite, but I want to encourage the rest of the teen population to exercise because at least Tae has that going for himself. Take the Mallards to the gym, Tae!

Style: 3/10. He also only knows the colour black and I think I’ve seen him in jeans three times in my life. I’ve never seen a boy so dedicated to sweatpants as a personality trait

Personality: 5/10. Speaking of personality, sweatpants isnt a personality trait! What’s his other personality trait? Arguing with people? Grunting?

Overall score: 15/30-- 5.

Pearl Park

Looks: 10/10. YES our first perfect score! But is there any question when you have a face like that? Just check out her insta. The likes speak for themselves. She’s GLOWING, she’s RADIANT, she’s going to bring this school to its knees

Style: 8/10. Obviously she has more style than 80 percent of this list. It’s only this low because we haven’t seen her full potential yet, or so I like to think. She’s playing it very safe, even if she’s playing it in her own league. I would like to see her push the envelope!

Personality: 7/10. Once again, this is low because we are still getting to know the alluring Miss Park. She seems to be super nice! No enemies yet. But I know there’s something spicy hiding under all the new girl niceties. I would also like to see it!

Overall score: 25/30-- 8.3

Pip Seville

Looks: 7/10. Personally, I like he’s adorable! He might not be topping any Most Handsome Buzzfeed lists anytime soon nor is he anyone’s secret crush but we love a boy who had good hygiene and perfect skin!

Style: 9/10. Yes yes yes!!! He might be a theatre kid cliche, but I’ll take one of those over another awful pair of joggers! Pip would never wear all black unless he’s in tech rehearsal, and we respect that.

Personality: 6/10. Soooo he’s pretty loud and a bit of a risk, like if you partnered with him on a school project, the odds of you getting an A are very high, but the odds of you crying by the end of it because you didn’t meet his expectations are also very high. So you know....take your chances.

Overall score: 23/30-- 7.6!

Wilbur Robinson

Looks: 8/10. Well OBVIOUSly Wilbur is a hottie. Did I deduct points for his new hair. Maybe I did.

Style: 9/10. FINALLYYYY Yet another boy who can dress and dress well! It helps that he can afford nice things of course, but you also have to know how to WEAR the nice things, and Wilbur does.

Personality: 7/10. Wilbur is funny, opinionated, stubborn, a go-getter, generous, and these days, even charitable (those are two different things). Does Wilbur have flaws? Sure. But from what I’ve seen in my ask box, people can’t decide what those flaws are. Is he ... too nice? No wait, he’s actually too mean! He’s an asshole, oh wait, he’s a simp for Barrel. Bla bla bla. Point is, if you add everything up, he’s a decent dude. I don’t agree with all his choices, but I’d also rather hang out with Wilbur than most people on this list!

Overall score: 24/30-- an 8!

Ariel Triton

Looks: 4/10. Boy did the Tritons really mess it up on this one!! I love the pixie cut, but Ariel always lets it grow too long and doesn’t keep up with it. It’s like at this point just shave your head-- tbh, i bet you’d look pretty good.

Style: 4/10. BOY of all the girls she really has no idea what she’s doing either. I admire Alana and Adella deeply for letting Ariel find herself in her own time. I’m just hoping it’s going to work out at this point, maybe we’ll transition from Dumpster Girl to punk rock when they actually get the band going.

Personality: 6/10. You know, I have a healthy level of respect for Ariel. Some people will say she is too fightey, but she stands up for her friends and her beliefs! I’m into that. I mean, she’s usually wrong, but at least she has conviction.

Overall score: 14/30-- 4.6

#Anonymous #i do not want to tag everyone #taste test

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ruthlessribbons · 6 years

Text

The Martyr

Chapter 3: The Dance

Also on Ao3

First chapter from Marinette's point of view! Will be switching POV's throughout the story but it will primarily be between Marinette and Adrien's point of view.

Hope you enjoy!

Marinette was panicked.

Adrien’s party was amazingly well planned. Nino had really pulled all the stops, although she knew, that he had secretly worked with Chloe to get it all done. Not that that was a problem, it was all to make Adrien happy after all. So why was Marinette panicked? Well its not everyday you’re at the first real party your crush has ever had, and that you were wearing a dress that took eight days to make by hand, in an effort to make it perfect for him. Not that he would notice. Why would he after all? He’s Adrien Agreste. The kindest, hardest working, most selfless guy she had ever met in her life. Not to mention incredibly handsome. Not that she cared too much about his looks, it was just a giant bonus that ended up making it almost impossible to talk to him without sounding like she was gargling on water. That’s why she was hiding behind a marble column.

“Girl get out from behind there,” said Alya, rather loudly. Nino chuckled next to her.

“Alya!” Marinette screeched. “I am NOT hiding.”

“Then explain to us why you have done your best to stay out of Adrien’s eyesight all night?” Alya asked her, eyebrow raised.

“I have not!” Marinette squeaked.

“Sure dude,” Nino cut in, smiling smugly. “You’re just hiding behind that because its warm.”

Marinette glared at Nino, who was obviously enjoying this far too much.

“Dude, you do realize he’s looking for you right?” Nino said.

“W-what? No, he isn’t,” Marinette stammered.

“Oh really? Then why is he standing alone scanning the room as if looking for someone?” Nino asked.

“He could be looking for anyone Nino,” rebutted Marinette.

“He’s spoken to and mingled with everyone at this party,” interrupted Alya. “Except you girl.”

“S-so? D-doesn’t mean he’s looking for me,” Marinette stuttered. Alya rolled her eyes.

“Fine, then we’ll do it my way,” Alya said, walking besides Marinette, softly placing a hand on the middle of her back.

“Alya what are you-”

Marinette never got to finish her sentence, as Alya shoved Marinette out from behind the column, out into the open view. Regaining her composure and straightening up, she turned to face Alya, ready to berate her, until she saw the amused look on Alya’s face, who was looking over Marinette’s shoulder. Marinette turned to see what it was that had Alya so amused, and that’s when she saw Adrien, staring at her.

“Told you,” Nino whispered, walking away, winking at Alya.

Marinette stared back at Adrien, until she realised that they had made eye contact. Feeling her cheeks burn she quickly turned away in an attempt to hide the blush that came alive onn her cheeks.

“What’s the matter girl?” giggled Alya. “Embarrassed?”

“Why is he staring at me?” Marinette asked nervously.

“Cause you look stunning girl!” Alya squealed delightfully. “And I guarantee he noticed.”

“B-but-”

“No buts girl,” Alya said, cutting her off. “You look amazing, and he seems to agree.”

“H-how would you know th-that?” Marinette stuttered.

Alya’s mouth twitched into an evil smile as she took a few steps towards Marinette, leaning in towards her just a few millimetres from her ear.

“Because he’s heading right over here,” she whispered into Marinette’s ear.

Marinette gasped, as she turned to see it with her own eyes. Sure enough, Adrien Agreste, was making a B-Line straight towards them, or more like, her, as Alya had disappeared whilst she was distracted.

Dammit Alya, thought Marinette. Of course, you abandon me now!

“Hey Marinette!” beamed Adrien, cutting into her thoughts. “You look amazing.”

“Th-thanks A-Adrien,” Marinette stammered, heat rising in her cheeks. “Y-you good l-look too.”

Adrien smiled sweetly, slightly amused at how flustered Marinette was. This just caused Marinette to blush even more furiously. Marinette cursed her nervousness and her inability to speak coherently around Adrien. She cursed Alya even more.

Why must she always do this to me?

“Marinette?” Adrien’s voice cut in. “You okay?”

Marinette snapped back into focus.

“U-um yes, I-I’m okay,” Marinette replied. Adrien smiled worriedly at her. “S-Seriously Adrien. I’m good.”

“In that case,” Adrien began. “Would you like to dance?”

Marinette froze in place. Was he asking her to dance? No… wait, yes, he was. Adrien Agreste was asking was asking her to dance. What should she say? No? Wait no that would be insane. Yes? Could she even manage to stay up straight long enough to do that?

“Marinette?”

“Huh? What?” Marinette snapped back into focus again.

“Would you like to dance?” Adrien asked again.

“Y-yes, of course!” Marinette squeaked.

Adrien smiled a perfect smile, causing Marinette’s heart to flutter. He raised his hand, offering it to Marinette. After staring at it for a few seconds, Marinette looked up at Adrien, who was still smiling brightly, his face hopeful. She smiled at him, placing her hand in his, and he led her to the middle of the room, where everyone was dancing to a slow, yet beautiful song. Facing each other, Adrien put his arms on her waste, whilst she looped hers around his neck. They slowly swayed to music, eyes locked on each other. Adrien was still smiling, and Marinette was praying that the dark lighting was hiding the blush that was burning brightly on her cheeks. If he noticed, he gave no indication.

“Your dress is beautiful, I’m assuming you made it?” Adrien asked.

“Y-Yes I did,” Marinette responded nervously. “Nino t-told me about the party and I wanted to help make it a g-good night. Th-this was what I c-came up with.”

“Well you certainly succeeded,” Adrien remarked. “You are by far, the most beautiful girl at this party.”

Marinette’s heart skipped a beat at the compliment.

“Th-thank you Adrien,” Marinette stammered in response. “That means a lot c-coming from y-you.”

“Red really suits,” Adrien continued smiling. “Reminds me of a certain Super Heroine we all know.”

“I’m sure I don’t look anywhere as good as that,” Marinette said, smiling sweetly.

“I wouldn’t sell yourself short, you are, after all, our everyday Ladybug,” Adrien replied, sincerity swelling in his voice.

Marinette could barely focus. Adrien was once again comparing her to Ladybug in a positive way, like she was somehow equal to her. She could barely breathe.

Dammit, why did this boy have to be so sweet… and cute.

Unable to think of a response, Marinette unconsciously lifted herself onto her toes, and leaned forward, kissing Adrien on the cheek in thanks. Realizing what she had just done, Marinette slowly pulled back, worried that she may have made things awkward. Relief washed over her when she saw him smiling even more brightly than before, just to pull her closer, completely wrapping his arms around her waist. She leaned into his embraced, closing her eyes, feeling more comfortable than she had in years.

This feels good, she thought. This feels right.

His body was warm and comforting, and she could feel his heart beating in his chest as her head rest against it.

“Thank you for being here Marinette,” Adrien whispered.

“You’re welcome Adrien,” she whispered in response. “I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

Adrien squeezed her softly in response, obviously pleased with her words. Marinette squeezed him back, as they continued to sway to the music, oblivious to the fact that the song had changed and that they were now the only two people dancing on the dance floor. Nothing could ruin this moment, and there was no place Marinette would rather be.

Then the phone rang.

Marinette’s eyes snapped open. It was her Mum’s ringtone, and she would only have called if it was an emergency. Apologizing, Marinette pulled away from Adrien and pulled out her phone, walking out into the foyer to answer.

“Hey Maman, is everything okay?” Marinette asked.

“No, my dear, something has happened at the bakery,” croaked her Mum’s voice.

Adrien followed Marinette out into foyer, brow furrowed with concern. Marinette was talking quietly into her phone, and her body language indicated that something was wrong.

I hope her family is okay, he thought.

He heard Marinette sigh as she promised to be home. Marinette was leaving? So soon. The thought disappointed him, making his stomach turn. His worry far outweighed his disappointment though, as he knew that they wouldn’t call her home unless it was an emergency.

He slowly approached her, placing his hand on her shoulder, accidentally startling her and causing her to trip.

“I’m so sorry!” he gasped, quickly catching her and steadying her on her feet. “I was just worried about you.”

“I-It’s okay A-Adrien,” she replied blushing furiously.

“Is everything okay?” Adrien inquired, worry filling his face.

“E-everything’s fine, I just have to go h-home,” she replied, looking down at her feet.

“Mari what happened?” he asked, rubbing her shoulder slightly.

“It’s your b-birthday, you don’t n-need to worry,” Marinette stammered.

“Marinette,” Adrien said sternly. “I can’t help but worry about you.”

“Okay,” Marinette sighed. “The bakery was broken into… including the area we live in. Everything was trashed. Including my room.”

Adrien’s jaw dropped slightly, appalled that anyone could do anything so terrible to the Dupain-Chengs’s.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked hurriedly. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“N-No!” Marinette said. “I can’t ask you to leave your party. Trust me, I’ll be okay.”

“But-”

“No buts Adrien,” Marinette said, cutting him off. “Its your night. Please just enjoy it.”

“If I do, you have to make me a promise,” Adrien said. Marinette looked at him curiously.

“Go to coffee, or a movie with me sometime soon?” he asked. “You know, to, make up for not getting to spend the rest of the night with me.”

Marinette was blushing furiously, her lip quivering slightly, but slowly turning into a smile.

“O-okay,” Marinette stuttered. “It’s a promise.”

Adrien smiled, taking her hand and lifting it to his lips and kissing her knuckles. The blush on her face intensified beyond a safe capacity. Adrien smiled with satisfaction.

“Be safe, Mari,” he said. “I hope to see you soon.”

Smiling she head out the front door, leaving Adrien standing alone.

“Seriously?” piped up a familiar sarcastic tone. "That's it?"

Adrien’s eyes flicked towards the small black cat-like figure who was poking his head out of Adrien’s jacket.

“What do you mean, Plagg?” Adrien asked.

“After all that charm and how much you obviously liked being with her, you’re going to let her walk home on her own at night?” Plagg said.

“You know I don’t like the idea either, but I can’t just leave my own party, especially after the all the work Nino did,” replied Adrien.

“Adrien,” Plagg said, sternly. “Your Princess is out there, and she needs your help.”

“But I promised her I’d stay,” Adrien responded with regret in his voice.

“Adrien promised yes,” smirked Plagg. “Cat Noir did not.”

Adrien smiled for a second, before quickly looking at the ground, realizing he would still have to ditch Nino and his friends.

“How would I explain ditching my own party?” Adrien asked still looking at the ground.

“Trust me kid,” Plagg chuckled, winking at something over Adrien’s shoulder, aware that Adrien didn’t notice as he was still staring at the ground. “It’ll find a way to work itself out.”

Adrien looked up at Plagg, who was smiling extremely confidently. Strong enough to fill Adrien with the same confidence.

“Now put on your Armour kid,” Plagg ordered. “There’s a damsel in distress who needs a black knight to save her.”

Adrien smiled nodding. Raising his fist, he called out those three familiar words.

“Plagg, Claws out!”

Adrien, now Cat Noir, smiled and raced out his front door, jumping off into the night, unaware of a familiar blonde figure standing in the distance, watching him with a smile on her face.

Chloe watched as her best friend transformed into Paris’ second greatest super hero, jumping out into Paris from rooftop to rooftop, off to chase his Princess. She smiled, thinking about how Plagg had spotted her over Adrien’s shoulder when he wasn’t looking, shooting her a knowing wink, that was code for “Please cover for us.” It wasn’t the first time Plagg had needed her to cover for Adrien’s sudden disappearances after all.

“What’s going on?” Nino’s voice cut in from behind her.

“Marinette got a call from her parents,” replied Chloe calmly. “It seemed like it was an emergency. She went home alone.”

“At night?” Nino asked. “I’m assuming the local Black Cat of the Agreste household didn’t like that idea too much.”

Chloe turned to Nino, smiling. It always amused her how both she and Nino knew the truth of Adrien’s double life, yet how Adrien had no idea of this knowledge. Both of them promised to keep it amongst themselves until Adrien was ready to tell them, or when the moment allowed for it. Nino even promised to keep it from Alya, to whom he told everything. It was one of the few things the two of them had that bonded them as Adrien’s friends, whilst not entirely being friends themselves.

“Well, Carapace,” Chloe began, chuckling slightly. “His Princess is in need of a rescue. And our favourite cat isn’t exactly one to let her brave the path on her own.”

“Then I suggest we go back into the party and cover for him then, eh, Queen Bee?” Nino said with a smirk. “Let’s at least try and make it believable.”

With a smile they both went back into the party, ready to cover for their best friend, who was out to save a Princess.

#adrienette #ml fanfic #fluff #adrien x marinette #adrien agreste #marinette dupain cheng #ml post season 2 #ml spoilers #miraculous ladybug #ml fandom

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20sep1847 · 6 years

Text

@whispereddreams

To say that the previous month had been arduous was an understatement. Funny's interest in Blackmore had not abated one bit, if anything, it had been sharpened to a piercing point. So much time spent together in the roomy office that often felt like a small cell. Time mostly spent bent over documents, dealing with frazzled clerks and hastily planned meetings. And all the time, Blackmore followed quietly as a shadow, but emphatically present in a way he had not been before.

Although the load was never light, work had piled high ever since their night together. Funny's inbox had been unusually full of a morning and the clerks that came to collects what he had dealt with were more often than not leaving bigger stacks of paper than they took with them. As if directed by Satan's hoary paw, the source of relaxation the president had found in his employee remained always out of reach in the face of his overly busy days. Out of reach yet not out of sight, dangling in front of Funny like a carrot before a horse.

Kisses had been aplenty the first few days, small diversions that took up no more than a few brief seconds. By the time the first week has passed, they had become something more akin to torture, every taste of Blackmore's lips begging for another. Yet as hurried as they had thought themselves that first morning, it was nothing in comparison to the frenzied pace at which days seemed to pass now.

Unfortunately, the day did not contain enough hours for lazy kisses, much less for activities that might be more invigorating. Somehow, it managed to contain enough for temptation, small, nagging thoughts ever nibbling at the edges of Funny's mind. In his frustration, Funny had dropped his tin of pastilles when he had intended to place it close at hand yet out of the way on the edge of his desk. And how helpful Blackmore had been to offer to retrieve it from where it had hitched up, the flavorful, sugary pills rattling as it rolled beneath a low cabinet.

Hardly had Funny noticed the sound of the chair's legs scraping harshly along the wooden floor as he stood up in reflexive response to Blackmore's bent over form. This had been his interest from the beginning, had it not? The assassin's behind, so well hidden, yet always tantalizingly on display when the winds caught his coat. No breeze was needed then when his coat fell just so, displaying all that Funny knew his employee had to offer. An unknown to all but him, but that only made the sight more enchanting.

Nothing could be more rewarding than the little intake of breath when Blackmore detected his presence behind him. Holding the tin in both hands in front like a precious offering, the assassin's eyes had had a hopefulness to them that was infinitely endearing and deviously alluring. Their eyes were connected by some electrical current for long, breathless seconds full of promise. Funny's hand rose… and took his pastilles from resisting fingers, the short trip back to his desk filled with bitter regret.

Kisses had been in short supply since then, eventually tapering off into nothing. And with them, the hint of hopefulness in Blackmore's gaze. For the last week or so, everything was as it had once been. Almost. A note of sourness had set into Funny's demeanor, making him short, responding to every deferential request as curtly as he could. Blackmore, meanwhile, seemed to have retreated to some glum inner world, hardly acknowledging the president's presence unless he was spoken to.

Funny could not blame the lack of interest. The unpleasant ennui seemed to fill the office to capacity. Blackmore was a free man, after all. Funny could not force him to fawn over him, to pine and respond to his every whim with the eagerness of a puppy. Oh, but how he wished it to be so. How he wished for Blackmore to be as he had that morning, vulnerable and affectionate. Sheer foolishness, but he could not shake the feeling. It had almost been a relief when the assassin excused himself today if the solitary silence was not so deafening. No worries, Blackmore would surely be back soon. He always was, fretting over Funny's well-being even in the private safety of his office. The president was a grown man, he could stand a few minutes without the comforting presence of his beguiling shadow.

The barely there drone of voices — one of which he instantly picked out as Blackmore's slightly unsteady one — outside his door awoke a minor note of anticipation that was much too anxious. Funny could not keep his eyes from flitting to the door, expecting to see it swing open at any moment and reveal the slim and slightly drab shape of his subordinate. However, no matter how many times his eyes were drawn to it, the door stayed decidedly shut. The buzz of voices grew more deafening by the second and made it hard to concentrate on anything else.

By the time Funny realized he had read the same sentence seven times, Funny had had enough. Cading might be an adequate secretary, but the president was not paying him to sit around chatting. Nor Blackmore, for that matter, although besides serving as a bodyguard, his job description was a bit more ambiguous. Malcontents could be climbing in through his office windows at the very moment, for Christ's sake! D4C would be more than enough to deal with most threats, yet the entire point of having hired the man was that it should not have to. This could not stand.

Abruptly, Funny threw down his pen and pushed back his chair, rising with terrible purpose. His gait was stiff as he marched to the door, irritation putting an edge on his already sour mood. Forgetting elegance and good breeding, the president did not so much pull open the door as yank it open, his mood not at all improved by the scene playing out in the antechamber that served as his secretary's office.

Cading's desk was empty, the small sign that let all comers he was out placed on it with the same neat precision Funny had come to expect from the man. Instead, Blackmore's companion was a young man whose name escaped the president. Some junior aide or some such that he was only passingly familiar with. A face he'd seen before, bright eyes, dark hair, passingly handsome if one had a preference for that roundness of clean-shaven jaw.

A face that hovered much too close to Blackmore's, those shining eyes showing an interest that bordered on inappropriate. As did the young man's stance, bent slightly at the waist to bring the already too close distance between the two men to a minimum. At least the fellow had the good graces to straighten when faced with the man who employed him, but only slightly so, a display of indolence if Funny ever saw one. Even his quiet “Good afternoon, Mr. President” was no more than a token effort.

“Excuse me,” Funny returned his greeting, using a tone similar to the one he might have used when giving the order to deal with some unfortunate lethally. The annoyance had had plenty of time to wax during the few brief seconds he had used to take the sight in. The small spark now crackled, a hot and tight feeling behind his eyes. It threatened to spill over, the barely check rage that churned in the president's stomach suffusing his mind with a searing sting on the verge of overtaking him.

How dare he? Here? Right outside the door to the president's domain? How dare he display such shameless intimacy towards something that was Funny's? The absolute gall of it! Ignorance was no excuse, none was possible for this egregious breach of territory. Perhaps the president should make himself clear in no uncertain terms. Blackmore's upturned face, tinged with guilt-ridden worry gave him the perfect opportunity. Even pressed together anxiously, his lips looked endlessly soft and inviting, ripe to be taken without reservation. That should show this… this… interloper!

Before he knew it, Funny's hand was already on the assassin's arm, gripping with domineering strength. But as strong as the urge was to kiss him and show the young trespasser the error of his ways, he could not. Instead, he contented himself with pulling the assassin away from the usurper, closer to the president's own protective presence. Somewhat assuaged, Funny peered over Blackmore's head at the invading scoundrel in brazen victory, noting his look of disappointment with cold approval. “Young man, if you have any business with Mr. Cading, you are free to take a seat and wait for him. However, I am afraid we have things to attend to.”

The gaze he reserved for Blackmore with was much warmer, if edged with a dangerous passion that bordered on insanity. The assassin could not be blamed, surely. He only needed to be reminded of his place. His rightful place beneath his president. Funny’s hand tightened ever so slightly, dragging the assassin so close one stumble would put his face in Funny’s broad chest. “Is that not so, Mr. Blackmore? Say goodbye your… new friend, I am afraid there are some matters I wish to discuss with you alone.”

#「Hail to the Chief」 (IC)#whispereddreams

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magic-magpie · 7 years

Text

Say You Love Me

Hey, so I wrote a lil’ UsUk oneshot. ^^ You can find it (and my other fanfics) on my Fanfiction account - AA Addict. Although, I did make that account when I was eleven meaning that most of its content is actual trash. I did a review of my first ever fanfic... I might post it here. I’m good at cringe reviews, but only when the cringe is my own cringe.

It’s 4,304 words, just to let ya know.

“Hey, Artie?”

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

“Likewise.”

“...Aren’t you ever gonna say it back?”

Arthur slumped down into his chair, head in hands. Alfred F. Jones, his American boyfriend, had just stormed out of the apartment after an argument, leaving it feeling rather large, empty, and quiet.

It was an argument over the stupidest of things. Honestly, who cared if Arthur had never uttered the words ‘I love you’?

Alfred did, apparently. And to an extent, so did Arthur.

The first time Alfred had declared his love was five months ago, after four months of dating. They had just come back from dinner at a swish restaurant, and after a round of sweet sex Alfred had blurted it out – ‘I think I love you’. He’d blushed, laid his head on Arthur’s chest so that they weren’t maintaining eye contact, then said in a bit of a whisper, ‘Actually, I definitely love you’. Arthur remembered feeling like he was higher than Cloud Nine, a giddy sensation arising within him and his heart pounding a million beats per minute. He didn’t like to admit it, but he was fairly certain he had abandonment issues (probably due to his past relationships), and hearing Alfred proclaim his love had given him full assurance that Alfred was the one.

At that point, Arthur definitely loved Alfred too. He was happiest when with him, not to mention he felt safe and secure, even when they were doing completely wild activities such as skydiving and bungee-jumping. However, he just couldn’t say it. The words got stuck in his throat every time he tried to say them, he choked on them, his lips refused to allow them to form. He wanted so badly to say it, but failed whenever he tried. And so he only said words akin to ‘likewise’ in response to Alfred’s frequent declarations of love. He felt terrible whenever he did so, for Alfred’s sunny disposition would always become slightly clouded, but what could he do? Alfred had seemed to understand, until now.

“Why do I need to say it back? I’m sure you understand what I mean perfectly.”

“I DO, but it’d still be nice to hear you say it.”

“It’d be nice to hear me say a lot of things, but I won’t say them, will I?”

“Come on! What’s so bad about saying ‘I love you’?!”

“Nothing’s BAD about saying it, I just don’t want to!”

“...You don’t want to?”

“Exactly. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to finish this embroidery.”

“Say it.”

“For God’s sake Alfred!”

“Say it!”

“No, alright?”

“Just say it, PLEASE! It’s not HARD!”

“It is bloody well hard, I’ll have you know!”

“It’s not hard to say the truth, Arthur! Unless it’s-”

“You know perfectly well that it’s the truth, Alfred, so don’t even go there.”

“Then SAY IT!”

“Life’s not Hollywood, Alfred! We don’t need to give extravagant declarations of love in order to show that it’s there!”

“Come on, just SAY it! For me, then! Say it for the Hollywood sap who’s stuck by you!”

“You don’t get to order me to say anything, git. I don’t want to say it, so get that through your thick skull.”

“...Fine. Later, loser.”

“WHERE are you going?”

“Takin’ a walk. Love ya. Even if you don’t return the feeling.”

Arthur would never forget that expression Alfred had. Disappointment, sadness, anger, all in one. Tears had welled up in his blue eyes.

The first time either of them had made the other cry.

He willed himself not to burst into tears, but it was hard. They’d argued before, but never to the extent that either of them had walked out. The last time he’d had a partner walk out on him, they’d split up the next day. The time before that, his partner had cheated on him. And the first time it happened, he’d never seen the man again. He’d never loved any of them the way he loved Alfred, but it had still hurt.

A wave of panic crashed down on him. What if Alfred did the same?

No, Alfred couldn’t possibly leave him. He’d said ‘I love you’, for crying out loud! And even when walking out he’d reiterated it! There was no way Alfred would break up with him.

Right?

Horrible, terrible images flashed through his mind; Alfred chatting up some bloke at the pub, taking him to a sleazy motel, hands that caressed Arthur’s body tugging at the other man’s belt instead; Alfred deleting all the sneaky pictures he’d taken of Arthur and sending him a break-up text; Alfred never contacting him again; the worst image, however, had to be that awful, ghastly one where Alfred, in his anger and despair, ran out onto the road without looking both left and right and was thrown into the air like a rag doll by a speeding car, dead before he hit the ground.

And that was the image that wouldn’t leave his mind.

Taken over by an overwhelming sense of fear, he reached for his phone and brought up Alfred’s number.

-Alfred?

-Are you there?

He waited with bated breath, his heart in his mouth. Deep down he knew it was stupid to be worrying like this, but there was a minute chance of his imagination becoming reality.

“Come on, reply...” he willed. Arthur didn’t have an iPhone, meaning that he didn’t know whether Alfred was typing or not, so he just hoped against hope that Alfred was either typing, or hadn’t checked his phone.

Suddenly, his notification tone rang out and the screen lit up, informing him that Alfred had responded. Relief washed all over him. Alfred was safe. He opened the text.

-Yeah

His heart sank a little. None of those blasted emoticons or developed replies characteristic of Alfred.

-Good. Don’t die.

Alfred’s response came a couple of seconds later, like he was eagerly awaiting each text too.

-Er what

-You heard me. Don’t bloody die.

-Hella random much

-Out of context, more like.

-Can i get context

-Wait im suppoed t b mad at u

-Its hard

-How dya doit

Arthur was trying to respond with ‘Look, I’m sorry, come back home and we’ll make up, how about that? I’ll take you to McDonalds too, if you want.’, but his insistence at texting with brilliant spelling, grammar, and diction meant Alfred could get his texts in much quicker.

-Ok imma stop txtinf now

-Off to b mad

-Love ya bye

Arthur quickly pressed send, hoping that Alfred wouldn’t be able to resist texting him back, but it was no use. Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen, and before he knew it he’d been staring at the screen for half an hour.

He wasn’t texting back.

Slumping back down into his chair, he was mildly surprised to find that his cheeks were wet with tears. Fuck, that’s not supposed to happen. He furiously wiped them away then glared at his phone. Just who the hell did Alfred think he was, reducing him to blasted tears?

But I made him cry first. Isn’t payback grand?

God, Arthur’s anger wasn’t even justified. It was confusing, sitting there seething and upset when he had no cause to be. He was the one who refused to tell Alfred that he loved him. Alfred made sure that he said the three words at least once each day, usually accompanied by a sweet, chaste kiss. He had every right to be irritated with Arthur, even if Arthur hated it. Stupid Hollywood sap.

“That’s it!” Arthur cried out loud, struck by an insane yet brilliant idea. If he wants a Hollywood declaration, he’ll get a Hollywood declaration! The idea was cheesy, over-the-top, and stupid, just how Alfred liked it.

He jumped out of his chair, strode out of the living room, snatched his keys up, exited his apartment and slammed the door shut a little too hard, got the lift down, marched through the doors, unlocked his sleek black car, and drove. It was late (the time had just gone nine), but he figured Tesco would be open – if the superstore upheld its Open 24/7 policy, that is. He was also incredibly lucky that Valentines Day had been a week ago; there would’ve been no chance of finding these decorations had it been any other time of the year.

Arthur looked around the room, satisfied. Helium heart balloons were dotted around his living room, all bearing some variation of the three words Arthur had such trouble saying. He’d pinned up banners reading ‘I love you’ over the sofa and television, and had sprinkled pink confetti hearts everywhere (some had got stuck in his hair, much to his chagrin). On the dinner table he’d put a candelabra with new red candles, and laid out the table in a manner fit for the Queen.

It made him cringe, but so did Hollywood.

The oven pinged, and Arthur checked out his lamb roast. He frowned; the instructions had said to roast it for an hour after lowering the temperature, but it looked far too raw – he wouldn’t be surprised if it started bleating right there. Furthermore, the potatoes looked undercooked. Honestly, he thought, shoving the cookbook back into his cupboard irritably, who on Earth allowed this travesty to be published?

Letting it cook for a while longer, Arthur went back into the living room and collapsed on the sofa, exhausted. Decorating was no small feat, and it turned out that Tesco hadn’t had any Valentines Day decorations, meaning that he’d had to go drive to every other store until he finally found some. Cooking also took effort, although he didn’t dislike it. No, the most exhausting thing of that night was being distressed. The number of times he’d checked his phone in the vain hope that Alfred had tried to contact him was innumerable, and each time had left him a little bit sadder.

Arthur checked the clock – it was midnight. And Alfred still wasn’t back.

Suppressing the rising paranoia, he busied himself by going over what he’d say to Alfred. First came the apology, of course. Then came the explanation for why he had so much trouble saying the words. And then, finally, he’d say it.

Simple. Theoretically.

Time ticked on, and there was still no sign of Alfred. All he could do was hope that Alfred was planning on coming home and remaining his boyfriend.

He switched the television on and searched through the channels whilst he waited. He flicked past hospital dramas, crime shows, teleshopping, bad films, all of which Arthur abhorred. Not bothered enough to put a film in himself, he just kept it on a Hollywood romance. If he remembered correctly, Alfred and himself had seen it before. They’d been huddled on the sofa sharing a blanket and popcorn, Alfred resting his head on Arthur’s shoulder and periodically lifting it to give Arthur an affronted look as Arthur delivered his scathing commentary on the vapid film. And now, as he watched the movie by himself, it was just as dull and uninteresting.

So dull, in fact, that he could feel his eyes closing. No, stay awake, idiot. He tried to force his eyes open, but they kept battling against him until he finally surrendered to the call of slumber.

Alfred had better be here when I wake up.

“Artie?”

Something was shaking him.

“Artie, I’m back.”

This something sounded nice, if irritating. He tried to push it away, but he was too sleepy to put any sort of effort into it.

“I brought McDonalds, if you haven’t eaten.”

The thing shaking him sounded familiar. The accent, there was something about the accent. It didn’t sound English. More like...

“...Alfred?”

“Yep, it’s me.” Alfred chuckled. His eyes were shut and he was groggy, but he sensed Alfred was close.

Wait.

Alfred was back.

All exhaustion forgotten, he shot up so he was standing and pulled Alfred into a crushing hug, arms wrapped tightly around his body. Relief flooded through his veins as Alfred reciprocated, lacking none of the usual warmth.

“Thank God,” Arthur breathed. He then kissed him hard, keeping their bodies pressed together and swaying on the spot. Alfred tasted of salt and ketchup, weirdly enough, but Arthur didn’t care and just kept kissing him, loving the feel of Alfred’s lips on his, loving how they moved against his in such a way that turned him to jelly, loving how Alfred kissed him with such devotion and love – loving Alfred.

“Hah,” Alfred said once they broke apart for air, “Missed me?”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Arthur replied snippily. Now that the relief and joy of Alfred’s return had sunk in, he was left with the anger of Alfred’s departure. “You can’t just walk out on me!”

“I brought McDonalds back, so it doesn’t matter, eh?” Alfred said, grinning nervously. “Though it does smell like you’ve cooked dinner...”

Arthur blanched. “Shit, the dinner.”

He took out the charred lamb roast whilst Alfred wafted away the smoke, and set the burnt dinner down onto the countertop. Alfred gave a low whistle.

“How long did ya leave that in?”

“What time is it?”

“Half two.”

“Three hours! I knew I shouldn’t have slept,” Arthur said bitterly.

“Hey, cheer up, it’s just as burnt as all your other stuff!” Alfred teased, grinning when Arthur shoved him.

“Shut up, I’m still mad at you.”

“Yeah, about that – how do you even do the angry thing? I tried, and all that ended up happening was me hiding out in McDonalds crying my eyes out wanting to come back. I got free food though, so that’s something. I guess I was angry at you, but not in the way that you do it... You get angry,” Alfred said, laughing slightly.

“You were crying?” Arthur said, stricken.

“Crap. Er, maybe?” Alfred answered sheepishly.

“Because of me.”

“I guess...” Alfred sounded rather reluctant to admit it. Arthur sighed. What was he doing, being angry at Alfred?

“Sorry,” Arthur murmured, brushing a strand of hair out of Alfred’s face. “I’m not a very decent person, am I?”

“No, you are,” Alfred said immediately. Arthur smiled.

“Rhetoric, Alfred. Anyway, you shouldn’t be trying to make me feel better – I should be working to make you okay.”

“Is that what all those decorations were about?”

“Um,” Arthur said, scratching the back of his head awkwardly, “Yeah. Cringey Hollywood crap and all.”

“Wait, what? Hollywood?” Alfred looked rather confused.

“Yeah, Hollywood. I thought I’d do something Hollywood-style for you, but the dinner screwed up and I slept, so I’ve forgotten my speech,” Arthur said. “Apologies.”

“Your... Speech?”

“I prepared a speech for when you came home. One with explanations and apologies and all that.”

“Dude,” Alfred said, shaking his head emphatically, “I don’t want a speech. All I want is for you to say you love me, honestly and easily and stuff.”

Alfred was looking at him with those big blue eyes Arthur adored so much - to this day he couldn’t pinpoint what one shade of blue they were. He’d fallen for Alfred a year ago, and ever since then he’d had a fascination with shades of blue. Ever since then, Alfred’s eyes had held all the stars of the universe – the most beautiful, wondrous eyes he’d ever seen. His past boyfriends’ eyes paled in comparison. Arthur had since grown to love every single part of Alfred, both physical and emotional. The way Alfred’s hair caught the sunlight, how Alfred would always try to cheer him up if he was feeling down, Alfred’s intoxicating, infectious laugh... He’d fallen in love with it all.

Just TELL him so!

“Alright,” Arthur said, and took a deep breath. “I’ll tell you.”

Alfred F. Jones, the best boyfriend he’d ever had by far, was looking at him expectantly, a little encouraging smile on his face. Arthur fiddled with the hem of his sleeve, and forced himself to maintain eye contact. It’d be easier to turn away and mutter it, but after everything that had happened, saying it to Alfred’s face was best.

“I,” he swallowed, suddenly feeling very hot and slightly uncomfortable. Come on, spit it out! “Alfred, I – I lo –“ Deep breath.

“I love you.”

He barely had time to see Alfred’s mouth stretch into a huge smile before he was being kissed like he’d never been kissed before. Fuelled by euphoria, Alfred and Arthur were kissing each other hard, Arthur’s hands fisted in Alfred’s hair and Alfred’s arms pulled Arthur close until their bodies were flush against one another. He felt a wonderful dizzying sensation when Alfred parted his lips, eagerly parting his own. Their mouths moved together and tongues worked perfectly to make the other weak at the knees, serving another reminder as to how perfect they were for one another. As they kissed, three words were repeating over and over in his mind – I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you.

After too short a time they were forced to break apart to breathe, but they stayed in the close embrace, Arthur now resting his head on Alfred’s shoulder and Alfred resting his on Arthur’s head. He still felt a little giddy, and... Oddly liberated? Like he’d been pulled out of the crushing depths of the ocean and could breathe freely again.

“See, it wasn’t difficult!” Alfred said happily.

“No, I suppose not... It felt nice, actually,” Arthur said. “I had so much trouble with it because... Well, I haven’t said it before.”

“Seriously?” He sounded surprised, for some reason. Arthur nodded.

“Well, yes. I can’t even remember a time I said it before today, platonically or otherwise.”

“But you’ve had loads of boyfriends before me!”

“Three hardly counts as loads, Alfred. Besides, I – I never loved them like I love you. They were fun for a while, but... I suppose they were right to leave me. I don’t think they were as right for me as you are. Plus,” he smiled a little, “Their departure meant your arrival. And I’d much rather have you, dear.”

“You have no idea how happy I am right now, dude,” Alfred said, and gently prised Arthur off him. “Like, seriously. Just wait here, alright? Or, er...” He looked around at the messy kitchen, “Go into the living room, actually.”

Puzzled, Arthur asked, “What are you doing?”

Alfred was already hurrying out of the kitchen and up the stairs, but he excitedly yelled, “Something I’ve been waiting for this day to do!”

Thoroughly confused, Arthur made his way into the living room where all the sickening heart decorations were. Honestly, he thought, all this fuss and drama over three little simple words. He remembered the way Alfred’s face lit up when he said I love you. His smile grew wider and his eyes sparkled like they contained all the stars of the galaxies.

Alfred burst into the room with a huge grin on his face and his arms behind his back.

“What’re you hiding?”

“You’ll find out in a bit.” Alfred winked. He shoved whatever was in his hands into his pocket and stepped closer to Arthur, put his hands on either side of his waist, thumbs gently stroking him.

“I’ve, er, kinda been waiting for you to say that. Since, like, three months ago. I didn’t pressure you into saying it, did I?” he said, expression oddly solemn. Arthur shook his head firmly.

“Alfred, do you honestly think I’d do something I didn’t want to just because you went out in a huff? I always wanted to say it, I just... Needed a little push, I guess,” Arthur assured. Alfred gave a little relieved smile.

“Cool. ‘Cause, y’know. I love you and I want to be with you for the rest of my life, and then in the afterlife too. We can ghost-kiss and haunt all those homophobes and stuff and just be that super-awesome couple that everyone’s jelly over and, y’know, cool stuff like that.”

“Why do you sound so nervous?” Arthur chuckled.

“You want that too, right?”

“Of course, love. I love you. And, for the record, I have a sneaky suspicion that one of my co-workers is envious of our relationship.”

“Cool.” Alfred closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if readying himself for something. Arthur’s eyes widened and he held his breath as Alfred got down onto one knee and took out a small blue velvet box.

“Are you-“

He opened the box to reveal a beautiful silver ring with a sparkling gemstone in its centre – the exact colour of Alfred’s eyes, he noted. Arthur stared at the ring, then at Alfred, not quite believing what he was seeing.

“Remember when we went to that big fancy mall three months ago – I went off to buy something and you bought your new headphones? Well, I bought this. I was – I was waiting for the day you’d say ‘I love you’ to propose, ‘cause I wanted to make sure you loved me back, and, well,” he gave a little nervous laugh, “You do.”

Arthur was still speechless, so Alfred continued.

“I – I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Being with you, it’s just... I’m the happiest when I’m with you. I know we haven’t been dating for as long as other couples, and I totally understand if you say no, but I think we’re both confident enough that no one’s better for us than the other. I could list the reasons we’re the best couple, but I’d be here a long time so I won’t. But I will say that you’re my favourite person, and I know you feel the same about me. So, I guess I should say the actual words.

“Arthur, will you marry me?”

Arthur was still in shock-mode. Was this happening? It had to be a dream, but there was no way it could be a dream, it was all too wonderfully real, too splendidly vivid. Alfred was actually proposing to him! Alfred actually wanted to spend his entire life with him!

“Those tears are happy tears, right?” Alfred said.

Alfred you fucking perfect idiot.

“Of course I bloody will!” Arthur cried, bending down himself to tackle Alfred into a gleeful hug. Alfred returned it with equal fervour and soon the two were on the floor, hugging and laughing for all they were worth. Arthur kissed him and knew that nobody else’s lips were suited to him, nobody else could hold him like Alfred did, nobody else could make him feel like life was perfect.

“Let’s put the ring on ya, then!” Alfred said, sitting up and picking up the small box. He took out the ring and slipped it onto Arthur’s finger. Arthur held it out so that it sparkled in the light, loving the way it looked incredibly like Alfred’s eyes (only Alfred’s were prettier).

“It’s beautiful.”

“The jewel’s that paraíba tourmaline you told me about once, d’ya remember? You said it looked exactly like my eyes.”

Arthur blinked and peered at the stone. “Oh, so it is!”

“I thought I’d give you one that looked like my eyes, and I got one for myself that looked like yours. So, y’know, it’s all that romantic ‘we’ve always got a little part of the other with us’ stuff.”

“Where’s yours?” Arthur wanted Alfred to wear his.

“Oh, it’s, ah, gimme a second...” he foraged around in his pocket and extracted another box – green velvet this time.

“Here, let me put it on you,” Arthur said eagerly. He took the box and opened it to see a silver band similar to his own, but with a shiny, smooth jade in the centre. Arthur’s breath hitched.

“Do – do you truly think my eyes look this splendid?”

Alfred planted a chaste kiss on his lips and rested his forehead against Arthur’s, looking directly into his eyes. “Well, I actually think your eyes are better, but this was the prettiest green gem I could find,” he said softly.

“Honestly,” he scoffed, trying to hide the fact that he felt all mushy and warm and fluttery inside. Hands shaking slightly, he took the delicate ring out of the box, held Alfred’s hand in his own and slipped the ring onto his finger.

“Beautiful,” Arthur murmured. He put his own ringed hand next to Alfred’s, admiring them.

Engaged.

They were engaged.

Arthur looked up excitedly. “We’re going to get married!”

“I know, right?!” Alfred squealed back. “We’ll have to start handing out invites!“

“And choosing a cake!”

“And getting tuxes!”

“And finding a venue!”

“And planning the decorations!”

“Oh, decorations! We have to have a chandelier!”

“And a chocolate fountain!”

“What about an actual bloody huge fountain!”

“Ohmigod yes, and don’t forget streamers!”

“Confetti!”

“Banners!”

“Orchestra!”

“Lava!”

Arthur spluttered. “Lava?!”

“I got really excited and said the first word that came to my head, don’t blame me!” Alfred laughed.

“No but, making the floor lava would be rather hilarious, don’t you think? And who else would be able to say that they got married on actual molten lava?” Arthur said, grinning.

“If you’re suggesting that we get married in a volcano, then I am one-hundred-and-forty-seven percent behind you.”

“Well, that’s the venue sorted, then.”

They looked at each other, and all of a sudden they were laughing until their sides hurt, laughing in the way that no one else could make them laugh. Alfred’s obnoxious laugh was loud, raucous, and infectious – just the way Arthur liked it.

When they finally stopped laughing, Alfred leant against Arthur and gave a small, content sigh. Arthur responded by putting his arm around him and stroking his hair softly. He still couldn’t believe his luck. He, Arthur Kirkland, was engaged to Alfred Foster Jones.

“Hey, Alfred?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Artie.”

#UsUk #Aph England #Aph America #Fluff #Fanfic #my fanfiction #Oneshot #Cute #what else do i tag

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fapangel · 8 years

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Re: Submarines with floatplanes | Well the funny thing about this is that you're flat out wrong on quite a few factors. You're blinded by your hatred of the Japanese and unwilling to consider the objective truths, let alone that there might be some possible positives of it. This response is slightly larger than I can type out here, so here's a link to the full writeup (just add your own period): pastebin com/EJFafyeZ

Oh, EvilTwinn. You're a thousand years to young to be fucking with me. I'm going to quote from your response in italics as we go along so those reading can follow along. _Size:__They range from equal in size with their contemporary fleet boats of equal range to up to 10 meters longer. Take for example the Type B1s of 108.7 meters long and a beam of 9.3 meters with the Kaiten VIs, such as that which killed the Yorktown, of 104.7 m and 8.2 m. So as we can see, not really all that much larger. Type B submarines are also of equivalent size. Type Cs actually are longer (by a single meter, so jack shit, but give me the rhetorical point) than the Bs and B1s despite lacking the hangar entirely, while maintaining the same width. "But EvilTwinn," you ask, "how can they be the same size and yet have a hangar?" The hangar actually fits right into an extension of the conning tower and the hull itself. Sure, it makes the submarine marginally less maneuverable when submerged, but that's not a massive concern for the advantage you gain with a floatplane. See, the important thing to remember is that for the most part, these floatplane-carrying submarines were not massive monstrosities like the I-400s, but rather normal sized fleet boats with just one (or rarely two) aircraft carried.__The following are pictures of a Type B1. As you can see, the hangar actually isn't very large, and it does in fact have a crane, for obvious reasons.__https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/f6/I-26_Japanese_submarine.jpg__http://orhistory.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/i-25-Submarine.jpg_The Kaidai-class boat I-168 (which sank the Yorktown) displaced 1,400 tons surfaced. The Type B1 cruiser submarines displaced 2,631 tons. They were _literally_ twice the displacement. _Not really all that much larger?_ Do you know what the [square cube law](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Square-cube_law) is? You don't know what the fuck you're talking about, kid. Get used to that phrase, because you're gonna hear it a lot. Secondly, none of these aircraft-carrying boats were “fleet submarines.” They were cruiser submarines. Bear with me for a bit, I'm gonna do some History to entertain the peanut gallery (and myself:) During the interwar years, every major naval power experimented with various submarine concepts, trying to discover the best design balance to utilize this promising new weapon that'd wreaked such havoc in the Great War despite being a crude early effort. There were a few ways to go with it. One option was to stick to relatively small, nimble boats; an attractive option for navies expecting to fight in waters close to home (i.e. the German navy,) with torpedoes as the primary weapon. Combat experience in WWI had revealed the great difficulties and unreliability of torpedoes, however, which were very expensive weapons to begin with - and the limited ammo count. Some of the most successful U-boats of the war (including the leading U-boat ace, the excellently named Lothar von Arnauld de la Perière in _U-35_,) simply operated like surface raiders utilizing centuries-old “prize rules,” popping up near a merchant, training their 6-inch deck gun on them, and ordering their crew into lifeboats before shelling scuttling, or (rarely) taking the ship as a prize. Naturally the Entente powers got tired of this shit and started putting guns on their merchants, going so far as to bait U-boats to destruction (Q-ships,) and the rest is history. The concept was still sound, but submarines would have to upgun to deal with armed merchants. Attempts varied widely. The British tried the interesting [M-class submarines](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/British_M-class_submarine) which used a single fixed 12-inch gun in the conning tower; the idea being to surface, fire into the target, and quickly submerge again - basically a torpedo style attack, but much more likely to hit and without the many pitfalls of expensive, finicky torpedoes. Most nations, however, planned on using their gun-armed submarines more conventionally. The _Surcouf_ was the ultimate expression of this: a 3,250 ton sub with twin, _turreted_ 8-inch guns, periscopes designed to double as rangefinders and directors, a fucking motor launch _and_ a hangar for a spotter plane. It was basically an underwater cruiser (*absolute fucking madmen,*) because that's what they were for - cruiser-style long-range commerce raiding. Hence, “cruiser submarines.” America also experimented with cruiser submarines in the interwar years; witness the [V-class boats,](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/V-boat) the most famous of which was the _USS Nautilus,_ who probably changed history at Midway. They were effectively a series of experimental boats as the US Navy (as with their foreign contemporaries) were trying to determine the right development course with these new weapons. The first three boats reached for a new concept; a submarine meant to fight submerged with torpedoes, but with the surface speed (and range) to keep up with the 21-knot Standard Battleships in any Pacific war. Technology in the early 20s wasn't up to the challenge, however. Next they embraced the “cruiser” submarine concept in earnest, (as other nations had in response to the same technical limitations,) producing the ill-fated V-4 Argonaut, a minelayer, and V-5/V-6, the _Narwhal_ and _Nautilus,_ true “cruiser” subs with their two six-inch guns (same concept as _Surcouf_, just not taken to the insane extreme.) V-7, V-8 and V-9 were laid down in the 30s, and by this time technology had caught up and allowed the US Navy to finally reach the design goals of the first three V-boats. What they arrived at was neither the small, nimble 700-900 ton submarine (like the Type VII U-boats Germany fought the Battle of the Atlantic with,) nor the hulking 2,500ish ton “cruiser submarines” (like the _Narwhal_-class.) These boats, which were more maneuverable and faster submerged than the cruisers, but had the surface speed and long range endurance to operate across the Pacific, weighed in around 1,500 tons, and were called “fleet submarines.” I didn't relate all that _entirely_ to amuse all six people who follow this blog, nor to be pedantic - the distinction is important because the Japanese, uniquely, built and used the _full range_ of submarine sizes and concepts throughout the war. By displacement; midget submarines, (many kinds,) small defensive coastal submarines (Ko class, 600ish tons,) medium-sized attack subs, (Type L subs; literally license-built British Type Ls, 893 tons, Kaichu-class subs at 720 tons,) fleet submarines (Kaidai types, 1500ish tons,) and of course their cruiser subs; (Junsen type, 2000ish tons, Type A, 2,500ish tons, Type B, 2,100ish tons, Type C, 2,100ish tons,) and a full range of tanker/transport subs to boot. And they _actively pursued_ this breadth of classes during the war, too; [upgraded Kaidai-type designs were being built through the 40s,](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kaidai-type_submarine), the [Kaichu VII class](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kaich%C5%AB_type_submarine#Kaich.C5.AB_VII_.28Sen-Ch.C5.AB.2C_Ro-35_class.29) were built from 1942-1944, etc. America found uses for their V-class prototypes (the _Narwhals_ were especially good as Marine raider transports, with built-in fire support,) but had abandoned the concept well before the war - once they hit on the fleet submarine concept with the last three V-boats, they never looked back: the pre-war _Porpoise, Salmon, Sargo and Tambor_ classes were incremental refinements on a concept that'd eventually be perfected with the _Gato_ class. For all intents and purposes there was only one class of submarine in the US Navy, the fleet submarine, with a few leftover prototypes used for whatever special missions suited them. The Japanese, however, actively developed and built a much more varied force. If the IJN primarily operated cruiser submarines to the exclusion of all else, you'd have a point in that floatplanes nonwithstanding, their boats were going to be big anyways - but they _didn't._This begs the question of where the floatplanes come in; did the Japanese commit to big cruiser subs in such numbers for other reasons, and throw the planes in as an extra on some classes, or did they go big because only those subs could support the planes? Well, I'm not an actual naval historian like **uss-edsall,** but I'm leaning towards the latter. Let's go over all the IJN's cruiser subs in rough order of progression, and note which ones carried floatplanes: [Junsen-types:](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Junsen_type_submarine#Characteristics) Junsen I, (I-1, I-2, I-3 and I-4,) no plane. Junsen I Mod (the I-5,) carried a plane. Junsen II (I-6,) had a plane. Junsen III (I-7) had a plane. [Type-A boats:](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Type_A_submarine#Characteristics) All marks carried a floatplane. [Type-B boats:](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Type_B_submarine#Characteristics) All marks carried a floatplane. [Type-C boats:](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Type_C_submarine#Characteristics) None of these carried a floatplane. They apparently traded the displacement for two more torpedo tubes (for a total of 8) and two more stowed Long Lances. So. The first four boats of the Junsen-class (considered obsolete by war's start and regulated to transport missions from the start,) and the Type Cs (11 of them) were without planes. Actually, subtract the three built Type C Mod (I-52) boats, since they were intended as transports. Eight Type Cs, four Junsen-class boats. 12 cruisers without aircraft. Compare this to the three plane-carrying Junsens, the whole A-class (six boats) and the numerous B-class (29 boats.) That's 12 cruisers without aircraft, compared to 38 _with_ aircraft - and the four Junsens were the first boats of their class, laid down in the mid-twenties and already regulated to transport. We can safely subtract those as not representative of Japan's late-thirties/early forties planning priorities, so that gives us eight cruisers without planes to 39 with. Gee, do you think those floatplanes were a priority to them? No? Then consider two of the A-boats, the [A-mods,](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Type_AM_submarine) which were fucking massive boats equipped with hangar space for _two_ planes - [purpose-built bombers, in fact-](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aichi_M6A) which were contemporary efforts to the I-400 (the AMs were laid down at Kobe late '42 thru mid '43, and the I-400s were planned in '42 and laid down January 1943 at Kure.) In other words, these were not late-war V-project Hail Mary's. Considering how consistently the Japanese equipped their cruiser subs with floatplanes, the A-mods and the I-400s together indicate a serious devotion to sub-based floatplanes. Considering how extensively Japanese doctrine offloaded scouting duties onto cruiser-based floatplanes, I'd say I'm on safe ground when I say that increasing the number of scouting floatplanes was something of a doctrinal priority for the IJN. (Using subs for this was moronic, but more on that later.) For the peanut gallery, this is where the mildly interesting historical retrospective ends and the educating begins. It's time to talk about this “doesn't make the boat bigger” bullshit. For starters, if you think the conning tower's size doesn't matter, you should read [this,](http://navsource.org/archives/08/pdf/0829294.pdf) a nice run-down of the evolution of US fleet boat's conning towers throughout the war. You'll note how the large, generous bridge structures - so comfortable for standing surface watches in peacetime - were ruthlessly and consistently cut down as much as possible through the war. This was primarily to reduce the visual silhouette but had consequences for underwater maneuverability as well. When a submerged submarine is trying to turn left or right, the more flat side surface it has, the more effective drag it suffers, and thus the slower it turns. The overall size of the boat is the biggest factor affecting this, but a large conning tower sure doesn't help. Remember that the main application for a fast underwater turn at flank speed was to move sideways out of the path of a charging destroyer, who would lose sonar contact as he hit flank to sprint over you and drop depth charges. How significant was the extra drag of the floatplane hangar, which significantly increased the sub's superstructure? I've got my opinion (not nearly as significant as the silhouette issue) but Japanese sub skippers watching DDs bearing down on them probably had a different one. Nonetheless, the main issue's the sheer size of boat required to fit a hangar on it at all; that 2,500 ton displacement is what _really_ made them slow-turning and slow-diving. The C class shows what the trade-off was - ditching the 2,467 pound E14Y floatplane (and god knows how many tons of aviation fuel, the flight crew/support crew and supplies for them, spare everything for the engine, and the catapult equipment) allowed for a boat 45 tons lighter to mount two more torpedo tubes (and thus, two more Long Lances.) Whether or not the plane was worth more depends on how useful you think the plane was._Having to stay surfaced to recover aircraft:1. As you yourself mentioned, most submarines stayed surfaced for most of the time, regardless of whether or not they had floatplanes. Thus, having to stay surfaced at most times is not in fact an argument against it. And let's say that the submarine somehow was caught while recovering the aircraft. This is an incredibly unlikely proposition, and to my knowledge never occurred, but I'll humor you nonetheless. If it were to happen you'd probably say "fuck you" to the aircraft in question, shut the interior hangar doors, and if you for some reason couldn't close the exterior doors too, you'd just leave the aircraft behind or still in the hangar, which is now flooded full of water and the airplane ruined, but I think you would agree that the submarine is slightly more valuable than a single aircraft. These things are essentially as a slightly bloated fleet boat._You don't know what the fuck you're talking about. For starters, submarines did _not_ under any circumstances run on the surface, in daylight, when in range of land-based airpower. Everyone - the Germans, the Japanese and the Americans - would stay submerged during daylight hours and cover distance on the surface at night. Air power was absolutely _lethal_ to submarines. To illustrate just how much, staying at periscope depth didn't mean you were safe - a sub's shadow could be spotted from above down to 100 feet (and further, if there was a shallow, sandy bottom,) to say nothing of [magnetic anomaly detectors](http://www.subsowespac.org/the-patrol-zone/japanese-airborne-magnetic-detector.shtml). You could expect to be bombed/depth charged by a plane; you just had the advantage of being able to dive immediately instead of thirty-five seconds from now. This wasn't as crippling on boats ability to patrol as you might think; mainly because the best hunting grounds are usually around geographic chokepoints that dictate shipping lanes. Looking at the Pacific, there's all the Javan straits, the Makassar Strait, the Celebes sea (and the many small straits between the island chain linking Indonesia and Mindanao,) the area between Sumatra and Indonesia, etc. Generally speaking, that gave better results than fucking off to the middle of the Pacific and sailing circles around nothing, so that's where subs hunted. And while submerged and slow you had your hydrophones, which could often pick up a merchant convoy in the surface duct from further away than your aloft spotters could see anyway.The bitch about choke points is that the enemy can read a map too, so those areas were the most heavily patrolled, as well, making it nigh fucking suicidal to stay on the surface during daylight hours. It was twice as suicidal if your air search radar was poor or nonexistent (viz. Japanese.) [Mush Morton found that out the hard way,](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/USS_Wahoo_(SS-238)#The_search_for_and_discovery_of_Wahoo) but you could still get whacked a damn good distance from your patrol zone while making best time on the surface by long-range multi-engine MPA planes. Just getting to your patrol zone was dangerous enough _without_ advertising your position. To say _nothing_ of surfacing for a while to recover a floatplane. And you _would_ be surfacing to recover that sumbitch, because if you think the pilot could dead-reckon his way through his search leg, then return and land only for his sub to surface within visual range, you don't know jack shit about aircraft navigation in the 1940s. Once his wristwatch and kneeboard math said he should be in the general area, he'd start eyeballing for his ship. It was hard enough for carrier planes, and they had a formation of eyeballs with looking for their stonking big ship surrounded by other stonking big ships. And even _they_ needed radio navigation aids to stand a good chance of not going into the drink. Looking for a much smaller, low-profile submarine with only two pairs of eyes, one of them busy with the instruments? Yeah, their skipper'd be watching his own wristwatch, ready to surface at the designated appointment time, because glassing for them with the attack periscope doesn't hold a candle to a conning tower full of lookouts and by the time you surface and wave flags at 'em they'd be well out of sight anyway. How long would you have to wait, exposed on the surface? Depends on how long it takes the plane to show up. You could speed it up by broadcasting a signal for them to home on with their D/F loop - if you want to bring every other motherfucker with a D/F loop running your way with depth charges and bombs. There's one way to minimize the danger - launch your plane in the afternoon, so they'll be coming back for landing around dusk. This makes it easier for them to find you quickly, as spotting ships by their silhouette against the horizon was the best way to do it, and you'd have the sun setting behind you (and even if they fucked up and came home on the wrong side, the long shadow of your conning tower would make you more visible anyways.) It also means you'd soon have the cover of night during recovery and stowage operations. The disadvantage is that your hangar-enhanced silhouette would also be more visible to _enemy_ aircraft as you waited for your own, making for a situation where the every aspect of that fucking floatplane would be working in synergy to get you killed. I did a brief Google search to see if there was any actual information on Japanese submarine floatplane operations and doctrine, and found nothing. The fact that combatreform.com is on the first page of Google results hints to me that there's little online to be found. I _did_ stumble across combinedfleet's record for I-31, which mentions [one Glen lost on landing in rough seas, and one near sighting by a hostile aircraft while they had their dicks out trying to winch a Glen on board,](http://www.combinedfleet.com/I-31.htm) so there's a nice illustrative anecdote of why you're being pretty fucking glib about the dangers - especially considering that I-31 was eventually killed by a sharp-eyed PBY pilot. Oh hell, why not skim through a few of these pages real quick - oh, look, I-19 [was caught fucking about with her floatplane](http://www.combinedfleet.com/I-19.htm) _thrice_ during the war, with two planes lost as a result. Top notch. [I-36](http://www.combinedfleet.com/I-36.htm) is a fine example of the problems I describe - one floatplane never found the sub at all in the dark, despite it running great risks by flashing running lights and using radio, and another couldn't find it till sunrise - and they promptly scuttled it rather than spend a single hour in daylight recovering it, due to the danger of detection. Oh, before I forget - being spotted on the surface during flight ops entails more than just losing the aircraft after crash-diving. Your problems aren't over just because you dove. The enemy's not going to just shrug, say “ho-hum” and piss off. They're going to start looking for you with active sonar while radioing for every escort and aircraft available to converge on your location and do the same. **A detected sub is a sub with problems.** This was as true in 1942 as it is today._Problems recovering aircraft:I can't speak of any difficulties they encountered, other than that they clearly somehow managed to figure out how to do it, and even if it was slightly more difficult than a 10,000 ton cruiser would have it, they're still launching and recovering a floatplane. That's a pretty big advantage._“Slightly more difficult?” Motherfucker, you don't know what you're talking about. I suggest you read this [ugly but very informative page](http://www.pacificwar.org.au/Midway/RalphWilhelm/SeagullIndex.html) full of first-hand information from a SOC Seagull pilot on how difficult seaplane operations were on a cruiser - where you had a _much_ larger crane, mounted on a much bigger and stable vessel to work with. There is _nothing_ easy about naval aviation even with the best facilities and conditions you could ask for. With the meager equipment and crew available on a submarine? Compare [these](https://thearmoredpatrol.com/2016/08/01/eyes-of-the-fleet-ww2-american-seaplane-operations/) pictures of hoisting operations to the size of the crane in the illustration you linked - I'd bet my bottom dollar they had to take the floats off before swinging the plane over the deck, and with such limited reach there was _no_ room for error; the slightest swell was liable to smack the plane into the hull._Slightly_ more difficult? Wew, lad.I'm on page six and I still haven't gotten to the worst parts yet. Fuck you for making me do this. _Aircraft Performance Concerns, otherwise known as "muh 70 nmi":1. First of all, the aircraft in question could do it more out to 200 nmi per leg. Now, that'd put them fairly low on fuel for the return flight home, but the most numerous airplane, the E14Y "Glen", could go out 200 nmi, cut left for 30 nmi, then fly the 200 nmi back home, and still have 45 nmi worth of reserve fuel. That seems pretty good, by my reckoning. Of course, even if he's only flying 150 nmi legs, that's still fantastic. Reasoning provided more later._There's “I don't know what I'm talking about” and then there's flat-out failing to _think._ Here's the [Yokosuka E14Y “Glen,”](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yokosuka_E14Y) the most commonly used floatplane by IJN submarines. And here's the earlier [“Slim.”](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Watanabe_E9W) They have something in common with the Mitsubishi F1M “Pete” and of course the SOC Seagull - **they were not great scout planes.** The SOC Seagull and Pete were contemporaries and similar in many respects; they were meant for short-range recon, anti-submarine patrol, and, of course, gunnery spotting. This is reflected in both their performance and range - they all manage around 400-500 nautical miles. Compare that to a dedicated scout floatplane like the [Aichi E13A “Jake”,](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aichi_E13A) and its range of 1,100 nautical miles. Given the weight and volume restrictions of a fucking submarine hangar, I didn't even bother looking up those floatplanes before guesstimating their range, and I was right - they were Pete/Seagull tier. The Glen made 475nm (better than the Pete, worse than the Seagull) and the Slim barely managed 400.So about those “200 mile legs.” You can make that “200 mile leg,” singular - they could fly 200 miles out, and then fly 200 miles home. _Nominal_ eyeball range for a scout plane flying around 1,500-2,000 feet was about 25nm. That's not exactly a covering much of the horizon. Assuming you actually want to search an area _around_ your fucking submarine, looking for prey, you're going to be flying search patterns:[How the fuck do I embed an externally hosted image god I fucking hate tumblr](http://i.imgur.com/z8zTXtM.jpg)70nm is probably generous. **Simply put, the ocean is a lot fucking bigger than what one plane can visually recon.** They had decent enough reach to recon important facilities, like a harbor or anchorage, but as volume search for supporting the efforts of the submarine and/or other warships they were decidedly lacking, just as the cruiser-carried Pete was. Which brings me to this: _Now, on to the issue of planes being visible. Yes, yes they are visible. That's the tradeoff. You can sneak in to get eyes on without anyone noticing, but let's be realistic here, the submarine can't see very far, especially not without a good surface search radar. Contrast that with a floatplane. They quite inarguably give you much better reconnaissance capabilities, being able to spot both enemy fleet assets as part of a wider search effort as well as enabling a submarine's primary mission: destruction of enemy shipping._One plane simply isn't going to be searching very much ocean area. The Petes and Seagulls on cruisers were mainly used for ASW patrol to catch subs making a surface approach, not for area search at significant distance from the fleet. Worse, if it _does_ find enemy shipping it's likely to be spotted, thus advertising its presence and prompting said ships - merchant or otherwise - to pile on the coal at flank, which makes it immensely more difficult to catch up and move into position for a submerged approach and attack. If they weren't zig-zagging, they sure are now, and their lookouts are awake, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. To say nothing of how subs are typically running offensive operations in _hostile waters,_ which is what they're built for - that's also hostile airspace. If they have air search radars on nearby islands that plane will attract more attention to your presence, and faster, than you might've bargained for. _But yes, the enemy MIGHT notice the plane. It's not guaranteed. But let's assume they do._Yeah, naw, it's fairly fuckin easy, dingleberry. Here, lets flip through combinedfleet's tabular movement records and just ctrl-F “floatplane:” [I-21](http://www.combinedfleet.com/I-21.htm) launches a plane to recon a harbor prior to a midget sub attack, at night. Said plane is caught by spotlights and spotted conspicuously circling near the USS Chicago before it's run off. The follow-up midget sub attack totals a Dutch (i.e. useless) submarine and a harbor ferry, missing the CA completely. It's almost like they knew they were coming, or something. [I-29](http://www.combinedfleet.com/I-29.htm) launched a reece mission on Sydney harbor but was detected on radar _and_ had its transmission decoded. [I-30's](http://www.combinedfleet.com/I-30.htm) floatplane tries to reconnoiter Djibouti but finds it _extremely_ fucking shooty and is sent packing by naval AA. A follow-up scouting mission goes better and the following midget-sub attack manages to hit HMS Ramillies and a 6,000 ton tanker. (The Wikipedia article notes the plane was spotted, prompting the old British battleship to change berths.)[I-36](http://www.combinedfleet.com/I-36.htm), as already mentioned, lost her floatplane when it couldn't find the submarine again in the dark, but here note that despite a night visit the plane was promptly illuminated by searchlights and sent packing. This ain't an exhaustive survey, or anything, just the first several links I clicked. _All they know from that spotting is that there's somewhere that it's flying off of within 200 nmi of there. They might even know the rough direction it's going, though that's not guaranteed. As I'm sure you're aware if you've played CMANO, a circle with a radius 200 nmi is a ludicrously large area to search. By my math, roughly 125,000 nmi^2. To say this makes the prospect of locating the submarine in that amount of ocean is difficult would be a massive understatement. Now sure, there are areas where the submarine is more likely to be than others, but it's STILL an insane amount of area to cover. No, this argument makes no sense, especially to someone who presumably realizes the ability of a CSG to remain undetected through clever maneuvering, and they're a fleet of massive surface ships._The sheer number of subs sunk by airpower during WWII put the lie to this claim; _especially_ when you take into account the introduction of radar to aircraft around mid-war. [The krauts were particularly roughly handled;](http://uboat.net/fates/losses/cause.htm) note that the “Aircraft” column is strictly boats killed _directly_ by airpower. The Brits sure found them in the Bay of Biscay pretty fucking often. There's a map, and it's [a lot of fucking boats.](http://uboat.net/maps/biscay.htm) 69, to be precise. As the page puts it, “This body of water was known as the Valley of Death among U-boat men from 1943 onwards.” Yeah. But how big is the Bay of Biscay, again...? [Seriously why can't I switch between Ritch Text and Markdown without it fucking up all the goddamned syntax](http://i.imgur.com/ySdIEgn.jpg)Gee, by my math, at _least_ 125,000 nmi^2. What are the fucking chances, huh? I'll be blunt; you clearly don't understand the sheer density of airpower that the Allies were able to bring to bear - a capacity that any Japanese war planner would have known about well ahead of time. Especially considering their entire fleet was built around a strategy to _counter_ US manufacturing superiority. When a floatplane - a _small_ floatplane - is spotted over a harbor, it's basically ringing a dinner bell and telling every ASW aircraft the enemy has that there's subs nearby to be found. It changes a literal ocean of possibility into a small box of certainty. 125,000 square nautical miles isn't _shit_ compared to the size of the entire Pacific ocean, and the Allies had plenty of goddamn planes. The “Valley of Death” is a good testament to what can be done with a 125,000 square nautical mile search box. It was so effective they literally started [sailing around the fucking thing.](http://uboat.net/maps/piening-route.htm) If you think 200nm by 200nm is a big area to search, you should look at a map of the Pacific for some perspective. _Crash Diving, sonar, etc. :1. We've already established that they're effectively the same size and nearly the same shape as normal fleet boats. They aren't going to be much different from them in a crash dive. They aren't going to have a much larger sonar return._As we've already established, the aircraft-carrying subs were all cruiser boats of around 2,500 tons displacement, so they would all crash-dive and maneuver like pregnant whales, and were probably louder than said whales in labor on active sonar. I guess if you're hell-bent on building a big, fat-assed, shallow-diving, slow-turning, easily-detected deathtrap of a boat _anyways_ then sticking a floatplane on it is just the cherry on the suicide cake, but as I said earlier I rather suspect the Japanese built cruisers for the sake of having a flight platform as much as anything else. _And good fucking luck with that hunter killer group, crossing hundreds of nautical miles of ocean looking for a fucking submarine, because they ain't going to find JACK SHIT. Even if the hunter killer group only had to cover 70 nmi, the submarine will have cleared datum long before it gets to the last spotted location. It will be long fucking gone._Twinn, I want to take it easy because you're usually cool on IRC and all, but you're a fucking idiot sometimes. “Hundreds of nautical miles?” Do you think ASW vessels just sit in port with their thumbs up their fucking asses waiting for an MPA to radio a report? No, they spread out over the area and search on their own (if it's someplace important, like, say, a major fleet anchorage, or near a chokepoint/strait/shipping lane,) or they're guarding a convoy, in which case they can rely on the sub coming to _them_. For just one example, the demise of [I-18](http://www.combinedfleet.com/I-18.htm). Spotted only nine miles from the task force by an OS2U Kingfisher based off a cruiser. The Kingfisher marked her with a smoke float and whistled up the USS Fletcher, name ship of her class, to come rub her out of existence, which she promptly does. And what the _actual_ fuck do you mean “cleared datum?” Are you retarded? If the spotted submarine stays on the surface, the aircraft will soon become two aircraft will become four will become six eight ten as everyone rushes over to have a go. At the very _least_ the sub will be shadowed. Perhaps forever, if the aircraft's a [blimp,](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/K-class_blimp#Operational_history), which was used specifically for its ability to squat atop a sub and vector in additional air and surface assets. But I guess you could dive and “clear datum” at **three fucking knots submerged.** Spoilers, you ain't clearing **shit**, motherfucker. In fact, you're not surfacing again until nightfall, which means you're not going very far. Lets say you're spotted at noon in high summer, so there's eight whole hours of daylight ahead of you. MPAs will be squatting on your head the whole time, and you'll be making your best sustained speed (any faster and the batteries drain faster than an Osprey mechanic's will to live) so that's 3 knots, for these IJN cruiser boats. If the closest enemy destroyers are 100nm away, then you're 100nm away from anything worth attacking, and thus you've just been inconvenienced during your ingress (assuming you dodged the initial air attack and were not permanently indisposed.) If they're 50nm away, on the other hand, in about ninety minutes you'll have the destroyers on your ass. You'll have managed to move about 4.2 nautical miles, yielding a circular area of 55.42 square nautical miles to search. A destroyer squadron (five ships) will have 11 square nautical miles each to search. Against a huge-ass cruiser sub I'd expect them to get solid active returns anywhere under 3,000 yards, for sure - enough to know they've roughly located you, at least. (Incidentally, that's almost the exact range Fletcher got solid contact on I-18 at, so I guess Aces of the Deep and Silent Hunter IV got their math right.) That's about 1.5nm. I think five destroyers can manage. And this is assuming the aircraft can't maintain contact at all with MAD or sonobouys (invented in 1942.) Not everything's a destroyer, of course; but anything you'd want to get close to for hunting - for instance, the Eastern Coast of the US, if you were a kraut beating the drum - will be well patrolled by slower sub-chasers that know you'll be coming to them (such as convoys, along well-traveled coastlines, etc.) “Clear datum,” my dying ass. Only in your private fantasy world where navies don't patrol contested waters in wartime. We built 343 PC-461 class and 438 SC-497 class sub chasers alone, to say nothing of destroyers and destroyer escorts. If you were within fifty miles of something worth attacking, scouting, or shadowing, you'd have escorts on your ass fast if you were spotted. _Let's go back to the floatplane and discuss what it provides._This is what everything hinges on, and the thing I've been waiting to rip your head off over, but I'm on page nine at 3AM, so my usual unholy glee has soured into something fell and terrible. You brought this upon yourself. _If I wished to make use of my submarines to support my fleet actions in any way, you'd bet your ass I'd want them to have floatplanes. I'd want every fucking vessel in my navy to have floatplanes. However, submarines can actually work like the pickets of old, ranging far and wide away from the main fleet, and still having a decent chance at detecting the enemy, especially when used en masse.__En masse,_ he says. _En_ fucking _masse._ With their _one_ plane apiece. _Create a screen with a few dozen submarines carrying floatplanes, alternating flying days. You get all the benefits of having normal submarines doing the job, which are already sizeable, with the added benefit of having a dozen floatplanes ranging far and wide in search of the enemy, preventing him from getting the jump on you or letting you find him so you can get the jump on him. And remember, you're still a submarine. You're still more stealthy than any other vessel, particularly at night. Yes, even when surfaced._A beautiful description of the submarine picket line that never happened at Midway, followed shortly by the annihilation of 2/3rds of Japan's fleet carriers. _Sloooow claaaaap._ Speaking of Midway, it really put things into perspective vis a vis “picket lines,” so I'm going to summarize from Parshall and Tully's book _Shattered Sword._ They summarize Genda's scouting plan for the Japanese fleet thusly, on page 110: “Put simply, seven planes could not reconnoiter an area the size of Sweden. By way of comparison, the U.S. Navy was not only planning on devoting the thirty-one PBYs based at Midway for scouting duties, but could call on three squadrons of armed Dauntless dive-bombers (fifty-six aircraft in all,) from their carriers in an armed scout role as well. The PBYs by themselves would outnumber the Japanese scout aircraft by more than four to one.” To re-iterate, the sum total of _every_ floatplane-carrying cruiser sub Japan had built by war's end was 38 boats, mustering a total of 40 aircraft (counting the two per A-mod boat.) This was a search area of 176,000 square miles, incidentally. So if you somehow assembled _every fucking cruiser sub_ the Japanese ever built in one place, for one battle, the number of scout planes they could assemble would be adequate, at _best._ Meanwhile, in reality, that was never, ever going to happen. But what about supporting fleet ops with extra planes, you say? The limited range of those Glens was a problem (at Midway one of Haruna's Petes flew search line #7, flying a 150nm leg and a 40nm dogleg before homing, whereas the Jakes from the cruisers flew 300 mile legs and 60nm doglegs. SBD Dauntless's practical combat radius? 250nm.) But you can position the submarines forward a bit to make up that range difference. So, how much would they help? Well, at Midway, _Tone_ and _Chikuma_ (cruisers designed specifically to carry lots of scouting floatplanes) could've ditched their two Petes to carry two more Jakes into battle - four more scouts right there. And CruDiv7, instead of holding their limp dicks hundreds of miles away shepherding the invasion force, could've been attached to the carriers, yielding plenty more AA fire _and_ a dozen additional floatplanes. Then there was the simple expedient of launching a handful of the carrier's complement - _Kaga's_ extra B5N _chutai_ of nine planes would've done nicely. With a little more thinking, Japan could've mustered 25 additional aircraft...... or, _or_ they could've taken [this](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Japanese_seaplane_carrier_Nisshin#Operational_history) ship out of the fucking Main Body and attached it to the strike force. Yes, this ship was “present” at Midway and carried a whopping _twenty-five_ floatplanes on its own.So you tell me what makes more sense - using _one_ seaplane carrier to augment the main fleet's scouting power, or devoting _twenty-five_ submarines to the same task, to muster the same amount of aircraft? Oh, remember, the subs have far less fuel, spare parts, repair facilities, etc; so don't expect nearly as many sorties, and more casualties from accidents. And you know what those twenty-five subs are _not_ doing while they're fucking around with the planes? *ATTACKING THE FUCKING ENEMY.* Compare this to the performance of I-168, a Kaidai-class “fleet boat” of 1400 tons displacement. At Midway she observed the island day _and_ night, providing 24/7 intelligence on US air activity. Then she was able to relocate to find and attack the _Yorktown,_ achieving in one blow what _Kido Butai_ could not before enduring a prolonged depth-charging from her vengeful escorts - and surviving to fight again. What was she _not_ doing? Fucking around with floatplanes. BECAUSE SHE DIDN'T HAVE ONE. It's pants-on-head retarded to use cruiser subs and their ONE PLANE APIECE as a distant screen, because even a large number of boats would have insufficient aircraft to conduct a volume search, and with their limited flight facilities, they'd be launching a limited number of sorties anyway - and would be far enough forward to be endangered by hostile air patrols themselves. And operating closer, in support of a fleet, they're not far forward enough to actually attack directly (you know, the point of a fucking submarine,) and they're a very expensive way to contribute airpower that surface ships can carry much more of, much more cost-effectively. _If I were to think about how I might integrate floatplane carrying submarines with a larger fleet I would have several options. First, they might be my normal fleet boats, just with a bonus. Second, they could be used as a command vessel in charge of a wolfpack of submarines, finding targets and providing space for the requisite command facilities, so that the SUBRON might gangbang its enemies. Third, have them as an independent unit for fleet support and reconnaissance. You know how US subs would often take a peak at islands and their bases? You can do the same thing from air, with arguably greater results. A single aircraft can likely get in and out. Certainly happened enough._Incidentally, just from the tabular movement records I linked from combinedfleet.com to go on, it seems the floatplanes were most often used neither for fleet support searching, nor volume search to direct the sub's own attack, but as high-value recon over valuable installations difficult to reach otherwise (witness the visits to Pearl Harbor,) and several times as the reconnoiter prelude to a follow-up attack by midget subs carried by accompanying boats, which was even successful in the case of the HMS Ramillies at Diego Suarez. “Getting in and out” was ideal for those kinds of missions. And speaking of command vessels, apparently the [Type A](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Type_A_submarine) subs were equipped for just that, suggesting you're right about the expected usage doctrine. (I'm saying that said doctrine was _fucking stupid._) The I-168's recon of Midway illustrates the real power of submarines as intel assets, which remains relevant today - the ability to keep eyes on a port, harbor or airbase _without the enemy knowing you're watching._ It's persistent, and stealthy. If you telegraph your knowledge, the enemy can take action and alter their plans accordingly. A sneak-peek is valuable at a major rear-area fleet base like Pearl, where ships go for rest and refit. Even if they put to sea the next day, you know they're out of the combat theater for a few weeks at _least._ Even if the enemy knows you know, they can't do much about it, either. A sneak peek at a forward anchorage? Not so much. The 24/7 intel a submerged sub watching quietly from offshore can deliver is far more valuable, there, because the data's more tactical and time-sensitive (setting up an ambush on a convoy leaving port, for instance,) and is far less useful if the enemy knows they've been compromised (convoy zigzags aggressively and keeps flank speed till they're out of the area, etc.) _So with that in mind, what have we learned? Well, what I hope we've learned is not to make assumptions based on prejudice and to give ideas a fair and evenhanded evaluation before deciding your opinions on them, but I'll accept the acceptance that floatplanes on submarines are not necessarily a bad idea._\_-EvilTwinn_And I hope you've learned that you don't know what the fuck you're talking about, and that you should probably do a little more research before lecturing me on how I'm “blinded by my hatred of the Japanese and unwilling to consider the objective truths.”

#wwii #imperial japanese navy

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