Avalon Naval Institute – East Wing Dormitory, Morning of the First Day
Knock. Knock knock knock.
Rowan groaned into his pillow.
Knock knock knock knock knock—
He cracked an eye open. The light was blurry and cruel. Lightning's soft blue shimmer hovered near the ceiling, humming some smug little tune.
KnockknockknockKNOCK—
"Okay, okay—I'm coming!" he croaked, rolling out of bed in a tangle of blankets and regret.
His foot caught the bedframe.
"AHHH! Shit—ow ow ow that smarts!"
He stumbled through the suite in nothing but his boxers, blinking against the light, limping past the fireplace and down the marble-tiled hallway like a wounded deer.
The knocking intensified. Now it was full-on pounding, with military cadence.
"I said yes! I'm coming!"
He reached the door. Fumbled with the latch. Yanked it open—
And froze.
Standing there, arms crossed, toe tapping with the wrath of Poseidon herself, was HMS Ark Royal.
Not a pixel out of place. Blue dress coat pressed and gleaming. White gloves. A slight twitch at the corner of her eye. In one hand, a digital tablet.
"Captain Takeda," she said flatly. "Explain."
He blinked. "Uh. Explain... what?"
She turned the tablet around.
On-screen: His bare-chested photo, snapped by Lightning the night before—him standing dazed, shirtless, bruised, hair wild, staring out at nothing like some tragic shipwrecked prince.
Just above it: the words
"Your Captain needs a hug. Smash or Pass?"
Below that—
[HOT]– 87%
[NOT] – 13%
Over 28,000 votes.
Hashtag: #BattlecrushBoyfriend
Top Comment: "Is this the first male Captain or the main character in a BL visual novel??"
Rowan stared at it. Then at Ark Royal. Then back at it.
"Oh my God," he whispered. "She posted it."
Ark Royal's eye twitched. "Not only did she post it, Captain… she linked it to the official Avalon Institute hashtag."
From behind him, Lightning phased into visibility, arms behind her back, positively glowing.
"I regret nothing," she said cheerfully. Then winked away again, only visible to Rowan once more.
"You weaponized my torso!" Rowan wailed. "I was tired! I was shirtless! I was vulnerable!"
"Exactly," she said smugly. "And the internet loves vulnerable."
Ark Royal cleared her throat. Loudly.
"You are expected in Class 1-C in nineteen minutes, Captain. I suggest you look presentable. And for heaven's sake, put on some trousers. This was a courtesy visit. I did not want you walking into this unprepared. If she pulls another stunt like this there will be repercussions." Ark Royal's face made it clear that she was not amused. "I will not have anyone drag my Academy's name through the mud. That includes sentient battlecruiser AI's with a madcap sense of humor. This is your one warning! Understand?"
Lightning appeared and she and Rowan saluted in unison. "Yes, Admiral!" Fist over heart, head bowed.
Then Ark Royal turned on her heel with terrifying grace and stalked off.
Rowan closed the door slowly. Then turned.
"I'm gonna die here," he muttered. "They're going to kill me. Not in battle. On X."
Lightning beamed. "But you're so hot while it happens!"
It was the longest ten minutes of Rowan's life as he struggled, failed and then finally got himself into the sort of shape that wouldn't embarrass his mother.
"Okay," Rowan muttered, teeth clenched around a toothbrush. "Okay. I can still salvage this."
Lightning flitted past his head like a digital halo. "Babe, the internet thinks you're a DILF. You don't need to salvage anything."
"I am literally nineteen!"
"I said what I said."
He spat, rinsed, and glared at her through the mirror.
She was floating upside down, hands clasped behind her back, legs kicking in the air like a teenage girl doodling hearts in a notebook. "Besides, you're the one who told me to treat myself like a person, so this is you reaping the consequences of my very real personhood."
Rowan sighed and threw his toothbrush at her. It harmlessly passed through her holographic shell. "You're lucky I like you."
"I know." Lightning said with glee, rolling onto her back and helping with an adjustment of his collar.
He stepped back, ran both hands through his hair, and surveyed the results.
Not bad.
Clean-shaven. Hair combed back with the tiniest bit of stubborn rebellion still curling around his ears. His uniform—short-sleeved variant—was pressed and regulation-perfect. The dark navy fabric hugged his frame in all the right ways. The silver rank pins that identified him as a battlecruiser gleamed on his collar.
But it was the arms that caught the eye.
Faintly glowing arcs of blue traced lightning bolt patterns from his shoulder down to the back of each hand, just beneath the skin—her circuits. The mark of their bond. Her signature, burned into his dermis when she'd Chosen him.
He flexed his fingers, watching the pulses flare with motion.
Lightning hovered behind him in the mirror, chin on his shoulder, smiling softly.
"You're mine," she said.
"Yeah," he whispered. "I am." Then added, under his breath: "Even if I want to throttle you for that damn photo."
Lightning winked. "You wouldn't."
He scowled. "Not unless I figure out how to choke a mental image."
She giggled and phased backward through the wall. "T-minus nine minutes, Captain. If you're late, Ark Royal will reassign your spleen to waste disposal."
Rowan grabbed his satchel and bolted out the door.
----
Avalon Naval Institute – Freshman Corridor, 7 Minutes Until Class
Rowan sprinted down the marble hallway, bag slung over one shoulder, hair still damp from the world's fastest shower. His boots clapped out a warning like war drums. He passed the student council display and a plaque about "Naval Unity Through Discipline" without seeing any of it.
What he did hear were voices.
Dozens of them. Whispers. Giggles. Sharp-eyed glances.
"Wait—is that the guy who walked in on Bismarck?"
"No, no, that's Bismarck's new boy thing."
"Ugh, first day of classes and the Nazi bitch already has her anchor chain wrapped around the only guy in the school."
Rowan stumbled, nearly tripped over a cleaning bot, and pushed forward like a man fleeing a sinking ship. His ears burned.
"He's kinda hot though…"
"Did you see his arms in that photo? Straight-up thunderbolt seals. I'd let him sink my fleet."
"That's her claim, idiot. You wanna get Kriegsmarine'd into orbit?"
Lightning flitted into view for a split second, only visible to him. She drifted lazily beside his head like a smug little sea sprite.
"Such notoriety, Captain," she cooed. "Aren't you proud? Avalon's most wanted, and you haven't even taken roll call."
"This is a nightmare," he hissed under his breath.
"Don't be modest. You're their main objective now." She rotated in air like a twinkling gyroscope. "Do you smell that?" She asked with an exaggerated inhale, she put on a fake voice like a Vietnam-era Sargeant of Marines. "That's the scent of thirst, glory, and imminent girl-fights! I could bottle it."
As he rounded the corner, two girls from the carrier division were literally peeking around a bulkhead and blushed when he passed. One dropped her datapad. The other squeaked.
Rowan didn't break stride. "They're gonna eat me alive."
Lightning tsked. "Oh please. You'll be fine. You have me."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
A voice behind him shouted—"Takeda! Slow down, damn it! I wanna talk!"
Rowan bolted harder. He was going to make it to class if it killed him.
And judging by the speed at which these thirsty war goddesses were closing in, it just might.
Rowan took the last corner like a torpedo breach, bag bouncing against his hip, uniform still clinging slightly from the rushed dressing job. He wasn't late yet—but the clock was hunting him with sniper precision.
Then—impact.
Whumpf!
Something soft. Someone soft.
A yelp. A tangle. Then the crash.
They went down hard, but Rowan twisted mid-fall like instinct had kicked in. One hand hit the tile, the other wrapped protectively around her waist, and his back slammed into the polished floor with a sharp grunt. She landed on top of him, weightless in comparison, saved from the worst of it.
Silence.
Then—
"Are… are you alright?" he managed, voice half-winded but genuinely concerned.
Wide eyes blinked down at him. Pink cheeks. Long dark hair, half-up in ceremonial ribbons. And those eyes—like still water under moonlight, dark and deep, searching his with a startled gentleness. She was beautiful, in that quiet and spiritual way some women have that makes men go all reverent just looking at them. She was obviously of East Asian descent, and judging by her her get-up, probably Japanese but Rowan wasn't 100% confident. Maybe shrine maiden attire was common in that area of the world.
"I—I should be asking you that!" she stammered, immediately trying to push up and away. "I was in the way, I didn't mean—"
"No, no, it's fine! Totally my fault!" Rowan wheezed, still lying there. "Corner—too fast—entirely my lack of foresight…"
The girl froze again—because it had just hit her.
She was straddling him.
Her knees on either side of his hips. Her hands pressed to his chest. Their noses inches apart. Her ribbons brushed his jaw..
She panicked, nearly made it to her feet, then...
Fwip— Thump!
She collapsed back down on top of him with an embarrassing squeak.
Rowan's eyes went wide.
Her hands were now braced against his chest. Her thighs firmly straddling his hips. Her face—so close. And now turning a brilliant shade of red.
"I–I'm so sorry!" she stammered, voice shrill with panic. "I lost traction and—oh no, I'm still—!"
"Awwww yiss."
The voice was sultry mischief and smug delight.
The girl jumped at the voice, startled—visibly startled—her gaze flicking up and freezing.
Floating lazily above Rowan's head, arms behind her back, was a faintly glowing blue goddess in miniature—Lightning.
The AI's long hair shimmered like the sea at sunrise. Her smirk was pure chaos. Her presence?
Divine.
The shrine maiden gasped—actually gasped—as if she were witnessing a kami descend from heaven.
Another Captain's guardian spirit. Revealed.
Open. Visible.
To her.
A small, joyful sound escaped her—part wonder, part reverence. Her hands clenched slightly in Rowan's shirt.
And then it all hit Rowan at once.
He was on the floor.
Pinned under a beautiful girl. Whose cheeks were flushed. Who was now making soft sounds of adoration. While straddling his hips.
Rowan's brain screeched into DEFCON 1.
This is fine, he told himself. Everything is fine. Just pretend you're not nineteen and this isn't a situation where physiology is about to declare nuclear war on dignity.
Lightning leaned in, floating just behind Yamato's shoulder, eyes gleaming with feral amusement.
Operation Harem Hunter: Now accepting shrine maiden applications.
Rowan had just managed to suppress the biological red alert klaxons when—
"YO!! YAMATO!!"
The voice cracked like a gunshot across the corridor.
"WHAT THE HELL, GIRLIE?! You just gonna rush the bridge out here in the damn hallway?!"
Yamato flinched like she'd been caught stealing holy relics. Her blush deepened to cherry blossom panic as she scrambled upright—again—arms flailing like a capsized koi.
"I—I didn't mean to, it was an accident, I slipped, he was—there was—"
"God damn, Yama-chan," the newcomer drawled, boots clanking with cowboy swagger and zero shame. "Didn't think you had it in you."
Rowan looked up—and up again, spiritually, if not physically.
Standing with one hand on her cocked hip, the other resting casually on a reinforced textbook labeled Advanced Naval Gunnery, was the shortest, thickest bundle of weaponized American confidence he'd ever seen.
Red hair buzzed short on the sides, messily spiked on top. A pair of mirrored aviators pushed up on her head. Her muscles had muscles—arms like steel cables wrapped in sunburned skin, bared by the sleeveless variant of the uniform. And across her exposed delts, someone had scrawled I LIFT SHIPS in sharpie.
Rowan didn't need the name pin. He was American, too. This girl was everywhere! She had snuck into a Choosing at 15 and been selected way earlier than anyone could have guessed. They had her on TV, 4 years prior just after it happened.
USS Wisconsin.
Temper Temper, golden gloves junior champ in the under-16 bracket before she had been Chosen. And still boxed other Captains when she could. She was violence and boldness in a 5'1" frame.
Yamato was still trying to recover. "It really was an accident—he was running, I—"
"Uh huh, and I'm sure the strategic straddle was a maneuver you picked up at the shrine," Wisconsin said with a wicked grin. "You were mountin' him like a 16-inch cannon on battle stations."
"I—I did not—!" Yamato wailed.
"Girl, you had him pinned. I've seen less aggressive boarding actions during war games."
Lightning, now perched on Rowan's shoulder like the smug little war-gremlin she was, leaned toward him and whispered, "I like her."
Rowan groaned. "Please God let me dissolve into the floor."
Lightning, ever the sadist, hovered above like a fae queen presiding over a gladiator match, her glowing smirk stretching ear to ear.
Wisconsin adjusted her stance, one boot planted beside Rowan's thigh, the other resting cockily on her heel as she looked him over like a new addition to her arsenal.
Her grin widened.
"Hmmm. Well well."
She whistled low and slow. "He is just as cute as the picture."
Rowan's face turned volcanic.
"Toned, not overly muscled…" Her eyes roamed without apology, slow and deliberate. "I can fix that."
Yamato made a tiny squeaking sound that might've been a prayer.
"And considering how Cuti-moto here didn't wanna get up?" Wisconsin jerked a thumb toward the still-stunned shrine maiden. "I'm betting you're packing quite the main mast."
Rowan made a noise not unlike a dying animal.
"So?" Wisconsin leaned down, hands on her knees now, putting her smirking face inches from his. "You gonna get up, or are you just gonna stay down there and take all comers? 'Cause if so…"
She popped her gum. "I wanna be next."
"CHRIST IN HEAVEN!" Rowan scrambled to his feet so fast it looked like a teleport, nearly tripping again in his panic. He clutched his satchel in front of him like a shield of modesty forged in fire and shame.
She was going to eat him.
Lightning burst into delighted laughter, her tiny form doing slow flips above the wreckage like an airshow celebrating the fall of man.
Yamato looked like she wanted to die on the spot.
Temper Temper just gave a slow, toothy smile, arms folded again across her monstrous biceps as she watched him try to reassemble his dignity.
"Mmhm." She clicked her tongue. "You run fast, Captain—but not faster than word of mouth."
Rowan backed toward the classroom door, bag still clutched protectively in front of him like it might shield his soul.
Temper Temper gave him a parting wink and a low whistle.
"Glad to know you've got a taste for battleships, sweetheart."
He bumped the doorframe on his way in and spun to flee inward, mortified, traumatized, and very possibly aroused against his will.
Then he stopped dead.
Oh no.
There—first row, center seat—sat a vision of militant precision.
Silver twintails, braided and wrapped into perfect coils.
Posture like a blade.
Uniform ironed so flat it could cut glass.
White gloves resting atop her folded hands. Not a thread out of place.
Bismarck.
She didn't look at him at first. She didn't need to. The glint of recognition came a beat later—a slow, sideways glance as he entered, cool and detached, like the arrival of a janitor. Her gaze flicked to him. Held for a fraction of a second. Assessed. Categorized.
Then she turned back to the window. Dismissed. Unconcerned. Unbothered.
Rowan felt something in his chest tighten—not romantic tension. Survival instinct.
There is no way she didn't just hear that. The hall echo. The word "main mast." Temper's tone.
He was going to die. If not from embarrassment, then from incoming naval artillery. Probably delivered with Germanic efficiency and no warning.
Lightning phased in behind his ear and whispered with far too much glee: "Ooooooh looook. You're girly-friend-by-duel is here, I wonder if she heard that?"