Well, I was quite happy with the reception of the first chapter. Thanks for the reviews all, us writers do appreciate feedback.
Moving on, I'll say now that the choice of shipgirl for each individual chapter isn't subject to any particular process. I take into account the suggestions in reviews, and on my own personal list, and think up a scenario I think would fit the character. Barring Hood for the first chapter, there's no real favouritism here.
Finally, as to the question posited by SomeRand0m on multiple chapters for different girls: I'm not a hundred percent certain just yet. I won't say the possibility of more than one chapter per shipgirl doesn't appeal. In fact, I think I'd rather enjoy that. However, it definitely wouldn't be soon. There's already a sizeable list just off the suggestions sent via review here, plus others that I'd like to look at. So, to answer more succinctly: tentatively yes, but don't expect to see one in the immediate future, not unless the muse strikes very hard and very fast.
Rambling over. As ever, enjoy!
Moments with You
Jean Bart
"You seem happier, lately."
Jean Bart blinked, pausing mid-sip of her drink. Beneath the shade offered by the beach umbrella, Dunkerque smiled at her from behind a crystal-blue tropical drink of her own.
"What?"
"You're frowning a lot less," continued the grey-haired battlecruiser. "I remember when we first arrived here, all those months ago, you walked around the base with a constant scowl on your face. Some of the little ones were quite afraid of you."
"What?" repeated the brunette, finding herself curiously unsettled by the knowledge. "Why? What reason would they have to be afraid of me?"
Dunkerque giggled, taking another sip of her drink and savouring the taste before swallowing the mixture down. "You have to ask? The dreaded lead ship of Vichya, striding through the seas like her namesake, severe of expression, with hardly more than a curt word for any but her countrywomen?" She took another sip. "Then there was the scowling. I did mention the scowl before, yes?
"Are you going to mock all day; or is there a point to this?" Jean Bart growled, fixing her companion with a penetrating glare.
Dunkerque smiled patiently, and set her drink down on the table, crossing her legs. "My point, dear friend of mine, is as I observed earlier. You are happier." Dunkerque paused, considered, and then shook her head. "Actually, let me amend that. You seem happy."
"Happy?"
Dunkerque nodded. "Oui. It started roughly a month and a half ago, by my recollection. Subtle, at first, but now even the little ones have started to take notice."
"Notice of what?" demanded the battleship. Dunkerque fought the urge to giggle again. To any outsider, and even some of those from Vichya, Jean Bart would have seemed irritated and prickly. Dunkerque, however, occupied a very unique as one of only a very select few that Jean Bart might unabashedly call friend—a position shared only with Algerie, albeit tenuously, and the Union battleship, Massachusetts. She heard the faint tinge of concern, hidden beneath the veneer of her typically irate temperament. It was an effective disguise to anyone beyond her circle, she would admit, but Dunkerque had seen through it.
For all that her brusque attitude might suggest, however, Dunkerque knew quite well that a softer core lay at the heart of the prickly battleship, one she was loathe to offer so much as a hint of even to her small circle of friends. On a calmer day, Dunkerque had once likened her to a hedgehog, and the face she had made in response to her statement had left both herself and Algerie doubled over in uncontrollable laughter; even quiet, placid Massachusetts had giggled openly, sharing in their amusement. Naturally, they were sworn to silence over the whole event, and that was simply typical Jean Bart. Since she had first been granted awareness as a shipgirl of the recently-minted Vichyan Dominion, Jean Bart appeared to believe that she needed to be strong and fearless; and while her friend was indeed all of those things, Dunkerque wondered at times if she didn't lean too hard on what she believed was a flawed interpretation of strength. Many a time, the servicemen and women of Vichya had regarded her as cold, callous; even smoulderingly hateful.
Dunkerque, however, knew that this was simply not true.
While she could never envision Jean Bart opening up to others in the same way she did with herself, Dunkerque knew quite well that Jean Bart held no real ill will to anyone; not even Richelieu, for all that her complaining about the Cardinal would suggest. The partitioning of the Iris Orthodoxy, however, had been tough to accept, and on Jean Bart in particular, who had been forced into a position of leadership in direct opposition her fellow countrywomen, including her own sister.
Who in her place wouldn't have developed bitterness under such circumstance?
Dunkerque exhaled gently, and turned her thoughts away from the dour past, cutting her friend a sidelong glance. Jean Bart continued to study her suspiciously, squinting at the shift in her expression. Despite the battleship's best efforts to downplay her recent changes, Dunkerque believed she had quite a good idea as to what had prompted the shift in temperament.
As if on cue, their Commander passed by, dressed as casually as his position would allow in a white, short-sleeved shirt and navy blue beach shorts. Two Royals accompanied him: the carrier, Unicorn, who bounced excitedly along with a large, inflatable beach ball clutched in her hands; her ever-present plushie companion stuffed into the crook of her elbow and hugged tight against her small frame. The maid, Sheffield, followed behind at a more respectful distance, as professional as ever in her immaculate uniform.
As they passed, there was an instant—a small moment that an outside observer would dismiss as insignificant—where Jean Bart and Commander Graham Graves locked eyes. Neither displayed any obvious reaction to the other, but Dunkerque caught the way the brunette shifted her posture a fraction to emphasise her modest chest, clad in a daring black bikini top. She also noticed the way their Commander's eyes lingered upon her perhaps a fraction longer than he was meant to, dipping lower for the smallest fragment of a second before snapping forwards as Unicorn hollered to Victorious, who was sunbathing on her own further along the beachfront.
The trio passed by with a swift but courteous greeting, one returned by Dunkerque. Jean Bart, however, merely grunted, an act which almost drew a titter from the battlecruiser sat opposite. Idly, she wondered what sort of arrangement she and Commander Graves had come to, and if the poor man had any inkling of an idea as to what he was getting into when he said 'yes'.
She took another sip of her drink, pretending to look off at the magnificent view of the beach, rather than on Jean Bart, who glanced in the direction of the trio of Royals as they approached Victorious. Unable to help herself, Dunkerque smiled, and downed the contents of her glass before getting up from her chair.
"I'm going to get a refill," she said. "Would you like one, too?"
Jean Bart blinked, belatedly registering the query, and nodded, quickly polishing off her own beverage before handing Dunkerque the now empty glass with a grateful nod.
"The same again," said the battleship.
"Quite fond of mango and passionfruit, aren't you," Dunkerque observed.
Jean Bart shrugged. "The taste agrees with me."
Dunkerque couldn't help casting a glance in the direction of their Commander, who was even now smiling down at Unicorn as the little carrier pushed the inflatable beach ball into his hands.
"Yes," she mused. "I think it does."
"I think she knows."
"Hm?"
Jean Bart glowered down at her Commander, who was sat at his desk filtering through the last of the day's paperwork. The battleship had parked herself on the edge of the desk, and was still wearing her bathing suit from earlier. She noted the way his gaze kept flitting over to her, soaking in the sight of her long, fair hair, unbound from its usual ponytail.
"Dunkerque. I think she knows—or at least suspects."
Graham blinked.
"Oh."
"'Oh'?" Jean Bart echoed.
"Well, if it's her, then I don't think there's a problem," he said, elaborating. "You know her better than I do. Do you think she's the type who'd gossip about it?"
Jean Bart opened her mouth to snap, but stopped before the words had even begun to form. On reflection, she realised that her lo—partner was probably right. Noting her silence, Graham made a satisfied hum, and the battleship felt a flush of irritation.
"I don't like feeling that people are prying into my business," she sniffed.
"You know as well as I do that if she has suspicions, it's certainly not because she was snooping about like a common thief," Graham returned. Jean Bart's irritation heightened. That was two good points. Much as she lo—tolerated the man's company, she hated feeling like he had one up on her.
Feeling petty, she leaned back and laid herself across his desk. Graham now found his former view of a small, final stack of forms and reports replaced by the distinctly more appealing sight of Jean Bart's smooth, flat stomach. He took a moment to admire her soft curves, and Jean Bart watched him, feeling pleased at his obvious distraction.
"I'm bored," she said.
"I'm nearly done," he responded patiently, gaze travelling up her stomach to her modest bust, her slender neck, and finally resting on her magenta eyes. "If you wait a little longer—"
"I'm not my goody-goody sister," Jean Bart grunted. "I don't wait."
Graham cocked an eyebrow at her. "Is that so?"
"It is," she said, fixing him with one of her patented, smouldering glares. "What's my name?"
"Are we really doing this again?"
"My name, Royal."
With a sigh born of long suffering, Graham answered, "Jean Bart."
"I was named for a Buccaneer; the most notorious in Iris history," she said. "I don't wait. I don't ask. I just…" she snaked an arm out, and took hold of his collar, snatching the fabric in a fist. In the same instant, she dragged him towards her and pulled him into a rough, sloppy kiss. She felt a familiar irritation bubble within her when she realised he still tasted as good as he ever did; the act still sent sparks thrilling down her spine and into her core. Finally, she released him, feeling a triumphant surge at his lidded gaze, heavy with desire; his flushed face, and his increasingly laboured breathing.
"…Take." she whispered into his ear, quietly delighting in the way he shuddered at her voice. It was fascinating, she thought to herself, how much power she could exert over him, with a few words and a gesture of affection. She wondered if this was how a Goddess might feel, when confronted with a mortal devotee. Quietly, she scoffed at such vainglorious a comparison, and wondered how it was exactly that such thoughts seemed to occur to her when she was around this curious, irksomely fascinating man. As much as she hated the man for all she believed he represented—a country that had betrayed her own—at the same time, she also lo—cared for him more deeply than she ever thought she could.
The sharp contrast of those conflicting feelings was both intoxicating and nauseating all at once. But such duality was nothing new to Jean Bart.
The intensity of this new, unchartered course she had set, however, not only for herself, but for him as well, most certainly was.
She pushed her thoughts to one side, returning to the moment, and frowned when she saw her Commander had retreated from her, eyes squeezed shut, attempting to control his breathing—to calm down.
"Jean," he said, voice still husky with scarcely suppressed feeling. "I am very close to being done. Just… wait another ten or fifteen minutes—"
Jean Bart was up in an instant, whirling around and scattering papers across his desk, some drifting languidly to the floor. She couldn't say where the sudden inferno that raged within her had emerged from, but something about the way he had tried to deny himself—tried to deny her—had set her off.
"I don't care," she growled, planting a foot on his chest and shoving, tipping him over in his chair. Graham fell to the ground with a startled yelp.
"Jean! Wha—!"
The battleship was on top of him in an instant, straddling his chest and pressing him into his plush, leather chair. He was trapped, the angle too awkward for him to break free without risking damage to either himself or Jean Bart, and the battleship felt with certainty that he would not—could not—ever risk harm to her. Not in this way.
"What exactly did I say earlier?" she said to him, her voice low and smouldering, promising either ecstasy or pain, dependant entirely on his answer.
He opened his mouth to respond, and she growled a warning. Defiance blazed in those enticing green eyes of his, but eventually guttered out. Submission. Jean Bart smirked.
"Good boy."
"What exactly was the plan here, if I may be so bold?"
"The plan," Jean Bart crowed, reaching behind her with one hand, she tickled a line with her fingers down to his beltline, enjoying the way her Commander's expression twitched as he realised her intent, "as it always is," she traced across his groin, feeling him pulse beneath the fabric of his shorts, "is for me to blow off some stress."
He tried to scowl up at her, the euphemism well worn at this stage of their curious relationship. Privately, Jean Bart agreed with the sentiment, but for it to be anything more than the two of them simply letting off steam together would mean…
She pushed the thought aside as she deftly opened his fly before plunging her hand inside the open hole. Her target was located almost immediately, and Jean Bart would acknowledge he was certainly gifted in that department, giving a teasing squeeze and drawing a hiss from the man beneath her.
"Can I—"
"Not if you don't want me to stop," grinned the battleship, feeling herself draw more fully into the moment. Her every inch of her felt as though it were aflame, a glorious warmth welling up within her core. She felt her nipples stiffen against the fabric of her bikini top, now very noticeable to Graham's increasingly agitated eyes. He felt the heat of his stare, and once more felt a tingle up her back.
He wants me so badly he can't stand it, she thought to herself, amused and delighted in equal measure, and yet despite his clear and evident desire, some vestige of pride prevented him from outright saying it, irrespective of the fact that Jean Bart held all the cards. She adjusted her grip on him and began to stroke at a pace she imagined must be agonisingly slow, if the way he bit his lip and growled was any indication. Despite herself, she found that she admired this small act of defiance.
All the same, it wouldn't stand.
"Jean—" he started again, reaching up to touch at her. Jean Bart swatted the hand away.
"Don't touch," she growled, clenching her other hand and dragging a gulping hiss that was equal parts discomfort and desire from the officer's lips. Graham held her stare for a moment longer, and then finally let his arms drop, flopping aimlessly to his sides with a grimace on his face. He wasn't going to win this bout, and he knew it.
Triumphant, Jean Bart released his straining arousal from the confines of his underwear. She didn't need to turn her head to look in order to know that he wanted her. Her own swimwear—the thin, black bikini bottoms were uncomfortably damp, and the denim short shorts she wore chafed against her inner thighs. Sourly, she realised that there was no way to be rid of either article without sacrificing her position, and that simply would not do.
"Fine," she muttered to herself. "The hard way it is."
"What are you muttering about up there?" Graham asked, before grunting as Jean Bart shunted back, reaching down to shift her underwear to the side, and sheathing him inside of her in one smooth motion. The battleship sighed in contentment. There was something about the way they joined that felt as though a part of her she never quite knew was missing was suddenly fit into place. His wondrous, searing heat sparked a juddering spasm of heady pleasure, emanating from her slick core.
She smirked down at her partner, his flushed face and the naked desire in those enticing green eyes of his as she began to move, a roll of her hips granting her a surge of ecstasy. Despite her best efforts, the battleship found herself unable to suppress a guttural groan as she repeated the act, again, and again, and again, each time feeling him probe her eager depths as she adjusted to his presence. Each wet smack sent sparks dancing up her spine, a building euphoria, murky at first, but becoming clearer and clearer as they copulated with increasing ferocity. In an impassioned fit, Jean Bart raked a hand across her partner's chest, who hissed as her long nails bit into flesh and drew blood.
As though incensed by the sight of blood, Jean Bart tore off her bikini top, baring her chest to the elements and drinking in the supine Royal's lustful gaze as he stared in wonderment at the beauty atop him. When he reached up this time, Jean Bart did not stop him, thrilling in the way he pawed and groped at her, cupping her breasts in his hands and rolling his palms across the tender flesh. She growled when he pinched and cooed when she felt him quiver inside her.
"We shouldn't be doing this," Graham ground out beneath her. Jean Bart laughed.
"Hands on my tits," she cackled breathlessly, continuing to bounce on his lap, "balls deep in me, and he says we should stop!"
"Someone could—"
"Who are you afraid of, Royal?" she sneered. "That blonde haired prude who hangs on your every word? That fat carrier who drapes herself on you each chance she gets? Or maybe the cute little thing you oh so kindly escorted to the beach earlier today?"
Fury blazed in the man's emerald eyes, and as if in response, Jean Bart felt him somehow expand. She loved this part. Somehow, she always knew exactly what to say that would rile him up, and the effects were usually… extraordinary.
"Oh, what might they say if they walked in on us?" she laughed. "What sort of face would they make if they could see me fucking you into the floor?"
Graham snarled up at her, and with a surge of strength, bucked up with his hips and shifted his weight in an effort to throw the battleship off him.
But Jean Bart had expected just such a manoeuvre. Indeed, the both of them had made frequent use of that same tactic before, and with a sharp twist of her core, she remained in top—in command, despite the toe-curling bliss the sudden movement had sparked. She was drawing close, and as Graham began hammering up, realising it was the only way he could hope to force her to dismount him, she squeezed her eyes shut and rode out the storm she had unleashed, revelling in his more forceful, vicious thrusting until, finally, she came to the edge of the cliff. She was unafraid, throwing herself off the edge and feeling herself clench around her lover like a vice.
"God!" cried her Commander, but Jean Bart barely heard him, lost in a cloud of feeling, where only a most wonderful rapture existed. Dimly, she was aware of a searing liquid heat loosed inside her core; of the way her limbs spasmed and her toes curled so hard a part of her wondered if they might form into claws, never to unclench again. Throughout it all, she clamped her jaw shut, silent where she wanted to scream. It was maddening, and yet some part of her took joy in the discomfort; in the challenge of battling her instincts to throw her head back and howl in tandem with the magnetising, yet also deeply infuriating Royal who writhed beneath her.
This, she thought, coming down from her high, had been a good way to spend the evening.
There was no talking as they fixed up the office. There was, mercifully, no real changing to be hand, such was the suddenness of their coupling, though Jean Bart knew both of them were in need of a shower. She hoped no one would get close enough to inquire at the musk that no doubt clung to her—a blend of her own heated desire and Graham's—on the way back to the Vichyan dorm. She supposed that was one advantage of her poor reputation. All she'd need to do was wear her usual scowl and others tended to steer clear of her.
"Are you all right?"
Jean Bart blinked, finding Graham stood over her. She felt a brief flutter in her heart at his nearness before quashing it, folding her arms across her chest and arching an eyebrow up at him.
"Is that not something I should be asking you? You seemed pretty pissed off back there."
He coloured, no doubt recalling his more heated moment, and cleared his throat. "It's fine," he said. "We've been doing this long enough that I know you don't really mean anything by it, and besides…" he shifted in place, briefly uncomfortable. "I, ah… I enjoy it, too."
That forced a chuckle from her. "You're beyond help."
"We are what we are," he shrugged, affecting a sage response. She wanted to roll her eyes, but he continued, "We all like what we like… who we like."
Jean Bart leaned back and considered his words, finding that she was unexpectedly pleased by them. Without fully knowing why, she took hold of his collar in one hand and pulled him gently in for another kiss. This, however, was no angry, hasty affair, affected to sate her more base desires. This was tender. Gentle. Almost…
Graham pulled away from her, brow furrowed in concern. "Is there something wrong?" he asked.
Jean Bart took a moment to respond, finding that she didn't actually have an answer to what should be a simple question. Eventually, she forced her usual frown into place.
"No," she said. "Should there be?"
The Royal paused, and Jean Bart thought she read something in those mesmerising green eyes of his. Something that she couldn't define, but sent a pleasant warmth through her heart, which began to beat more rapidly in her breast. She felt the corners of her lips twitch, and turned around so that he wouldn't see the smile that had inexplicably broken out across her face.
"Make some time this weekend," she said, after clearing her throat. "I'll be by again. This time, bring something stiff to drink."
"Whatever you want, Jean Bart," Graham chuckled softly to himself. The sound gave her goosebumps, and she rubbed at her arm. She needed some sleep, thought the battleship. Clearly, she was tired, and though the dalliance with the officer had been pleasant, she had better things to be doing; or so she told herself.
"Glad you agree," she said, fixing her expression and casting one last look over her shoulder as she departed. Graham leaned against the edge of his desk, a soft, adoring shade to his calm countenance. Jean Bart felt at first irritation, and then a deep satisfaction. So many others he showed his quietly confident aspect, but all the rest—the irate; the passionate; and the lustful—were known only to her, and she found, to her slowly diminishing surprise, that she would not give that up.
Not for all the plunder on Earth…
Jean Bart, I think, is an interesting character. She loves and despises her sister in equal measure, effectively caught between two different worlds, and yet insists on soldiering on alone regardless, reluctant to accept outside help. I think that same duality would carry on into other aspects of her life as well, including her romantic life. Quite honestly, I don't think a 'vanilla' romance is ever in the cards where Jean Bart is concerned. As a result of her deep-rooted insecurities, there's too much going on in her head for her to easily make peace with anything outside of what she knows, and I think that would extend to her Commander. Her voice lines, even when she grows more affectionate, suggest to my mind that, even when she grows more comfortable around the player, she's still not quite able to state outright that she's in love, covering it in a veneer of her typically surly attitude, the thickness of which tends to vary.