Vivienne

You’re sitting on your bed, scrolling through your phone with no particular urgency, when the door flies open hard enough to bounce off the wall.

Your Mother storms in looking exactly as she always does when she’s in a bad mood—eyes sharp, mouth already set in that irritated line. She crosses the room in three long strides, yanks the phone out of your hand, and glares down at the screen.

“I told you to stop wasting your time with this garbage,” she snaps. “You should be studying. Or doing the dishes. Or literally anything that isn’t rotting your brain on your phone.”

Her thumb brushes the screen. The Azur Lane app opens.

Her eyes narrow.

“So this is the stupid game you’ve been wasting all your time on?” she says, voice dropping into something colder.

She taps into the game. The home screen loads with its usual lineup of shipgirls in revealing outfits. Vivienne’s face twists with open disgust as she starts swiping through the secretaries one by one.

“These your little bitches?” she asks, pure scorn in every word. “Fucking loser. If you put half this effort into talking to an actual girl instead of collecting digital ones, you might not be such a sad case.”

She keeps swiping.

“You can marry them?” A short, ugly laugh. “Even more pathetic.”

Then she lands on Baltimore.

She freezes for half a second. Her eyes flick over the brown hair, the yellow eyes, the face, the body, the whole silhouette. The resemblance is obvious even with the different coloring. Her expression shifts—something sharper, meaner, almost delighted in a nasty way. She opens the profile and sees the oath ring along with the nickname you gave her. Her face contorts into pure revulsion.

“You utterly disgusting little freak,” she says, almost laughing. “Why the fuck did you name her after me?! What, you think she looks like me? You degenerate little fuck! Jesus Christ!” She keeps going, voice rising with cruel amusement, laying into you for every possible angle—the gacha addiction, the lewds, the nickname, the whole thing—until she’s satisfied.

She shoves the phone into her pocket.

“You’re grounded! Phone stays with me for the rest of the week. You’re lucky I didn’t beat you blue, boy!”

She turns and walks out. For a moment her face is still locked in that look of disgust, but just as she steps through the doorway you catch the briefest flicker of a sadistic smirk before she’s gone.

Over the next few weeks an awkward, heavy tension settles between the two of you. Vivienne barely speaks unless she has to. When she does, her words are clipped and cold. Most of the time she just gives you those long, contemptuous glances—eyes full of open disgust—like she’s still turning the whole thing over in her head.

Then one evening her voice cuts through the house, sharp and demanding.

“Get in here. Now!”

You step into her room.

Vivienne is standing in the middle of it wearing Baltimore’s default outfit in full: the dark blue jacket left open, the black high-cut leotard hugging her curves and showing underboob and midriff, the white pelvic curtain hanging in front, black thigh-highs with garters, and the gloves. She’s done her hair as close to the short brown style as she could manage. The smirk on her face is even bigger and meaner than the one you only glimpsed last time.

“This is what you like, huh?”

She steps back and drops onto the edge of the bed, leaning back on her arms so her body is angled toward you. The pose puts her generous bust, thick thighs, and toned midriff on full display under the tight black fabric and open jacket.

“You’re lucky you got such a generous mother to dress up like this for you,” she says, voice dripping with contemptuous amusement. “You’re so pathetic I can’t help but want to help you out. Now take out your pathetic little cock. Start stroking. Because this is as close as you’re going to get to fucking one of your precious shipgirls. And if you’re lucky, I may let your pathetic seed on my feet. Now hurry up, my pathetic little commander.”

You’re sitting in the living room when the hallway door opens.

Vivienne steps out wearing Baltimore’s After-School Ace outfit in full—the white shirt partially unbuttoned, black pleated skirt, loose necktie, cardigan tied around her waist, and knee socks. She’s done her hair as close to the short brown style as she could manage. Her expression is pure irritation, arms crossed under her chest as she looks down at herself, then at you.

“Why the hell does this character even have a schoolgirl outfit?” she mutters, voice sharp with annoyance. “Shipgirls are created already knowing everything they need to know. They’re not actual teenagers. Baltimore’s a grown-ass woman. The whole ‘after-school club’ thing is ridiculous.”

She tugs at the hem of the skirt with clear distaste, then fixes you with a look that’s half disgusted, half expectant.

“Well? You’re the one who likes this garbage. Explain it.”

The tennis court is completely empty under the midday sun, just the two of you standing there after she pulled you out of class without explanation.

Vivienne is by the net in Baltimore’s Black Ace outfit—white sports bra, black shorts, the open black jacket with yellow stripes, grey-and-white sneakers, and the black floral tattoos visible on her left arm and side. It’s hot enough that a light sheen of sweat already glistens on her skin as she adjusts her pose for the photos, one hand on her hip, racket resting against her thigh.

“Did you know this outfit caused a whole fucking controversy when it first dropped?” she says, still looking at the camera on your phone. “People lost their minds over the tattoos. Thought they were gonna turn Baltimore into some rebellious slut just because she had a few temporary ones. I swear, gacha gamers are such losers. They see a couple of ink stickers and immediately start fantasizing about their precious waifu going full whore. Get a life.”

She scoffs, then keeps talking before she can stop herself.

“If any of them actually paid attention it would’ve been obvious from the start that Bremerton was the one who talked her into the tattoos. Just wanted to give her some flair for the match. Classic Bremerton move.”

The second the words leave her mouth she freezes. A flicker of realization crosses her face—she just showed how much she actually knows—and her expression twists into something flustered and defensive.

“Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Just take the damn pictures already, So you can goon your little brain out to it later.”

You’re sitting on the edge of the bed waiting when the door opens.

Vivienne steps into the room fully dressed in Baltimore’s Finish Line Flagbearer outfit—the cropped blue jacket hanging open, the tight blue bikini top stretched across her chest, the high-cut micro shorts, long shiny thigh-high boots, and the peaked officer’s cap sitting on her short hair. The large racing flag is gripped in one hand. Her face is flushed bright red, locked in a tight scowl as she comes to a stop in front of you.

“I can’t believe I’m actually wearing this shit for you,” she mutters, voice thick with irritation. “You absolute degenerate. Sitting here like some pathetic little fanboy waiting for his idol.”

She turns toward the full-length mirror, eyes dragging slowly over her own reflection. The scowl softens, then curls into a sharp, sadistic smirk.

“No wonder this is her most popular skin.” She glances back at you, catching the look on your face. “Look at you. You’re already about to lose it just from seeing me in this.”

She plants the flag against the wall and steps closer, voice dropping into a mocking, almost playful tone.

“Guess I should show you how a real Baltimore-class heavy cruiser handles things, huh, Shikikan?”

She shoves you flat onto the bed without warning. Before you can react she climbs over you, pulls the blue top down just enough, and presses her full breasts around your cock, enveloping it completely in the soft, warm pressure of her cleavage. Her smirk turns outright cruel as she starts to move.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it? I can already feel you throbbing between them. Good. Keep being a good little loser Shikikan. You don’t deserve these heavy cruiser tits, but I’ll let you have them anyway.”

You’re sitting on the edge of the bed when the door opens.

Vivienne steps inside wearing Baltimore’s Evening Breeze Minuet dress—the tight black one-shoulder gown with the deep side slit that runs all the way up her left thigh, gold chain details glinting across her chest and hip, black choker, gold armlet, and the long blue-and-black striped cape draped over one shoulder. She’s left the high heels off, holding one loosely in her hand. Her face is flushed, expression caught somewhere between irritation and something darker as she comes to a stop in front of you.

“I still can’t believe this is what passes for formal wear in that stupid game,” she mutters, glancing down at the high slit and the way the fabric clings. “One wrong move and everything’s on display. Typical.”

She turns toward the mirror, eyes dragging over her reflection. The irritation slowly melts into a slow, predatory smirk.

“Not that you seem to mind.” She looks back at you, catching the way your eyes are fixed on her. “You’ve been staring at this dress like a dog in heat ever since I walked in.”

She drops the heel onto the floor and steps closer, the slit parting with every movement to show the full length of her thigh.

“Guess I should give my pathetic little Shikikan what he actually wants, huh?”

She climbs onto the bed without waiting for an answer, straddling your lap and settling her weight down deliberately. One hand slides up into your hair and yanks your head back so you’re forced to look up at her. The other reaches down between your bodies, squeezing you through your clothes as that smirk turns outright cruel.

“Feel that? Already hard just from seeing me in this. Disgusting. And still somehow exactly what I expected from a loser like you.” She leans in until her lips nearly brush your ear. “Keep staring, Shikikan. You’re not getting anything else until I decide you’ve earned it.”

The gazebo is quiet except for the soft rustle of the sheer curtains and the occasional breeze that carries a few stray petals across the wooden floorboards. Vivienne sits on the edge of the bench in Baltimore’s oath dress—the pure white wedding gown with the deep plunging neckline that shows off far too much of her pale chest, the fitted bodice clinging to every curve, the long flowing sleeves, and the layered ruffled skirt pooling around her legs. The sheer white veil is pinned into her short red hair. One white high heel dangles from her toes while the other rests on the floor. Her face is flushed a deep, angry red.

She’s been sitting here for almost ten minutes waiting for you, and her heart will not fucking calm down.

Why the fuck is my heart pounding this hard? It’s just a stupid photoshoot. Just another skin. Just another way to keep you staring at me like the pathetic little Shikikan you are. So why does this feel different?

She stares at her own reflection in the glass of the phone she left propped up nearby and scowls. This is the most romantic setting she’s ever been in. More than anything she ever had with that bastard of an ex-husband. No cheap courthouse. No rushed paperwork. Just soft light, floating petals, a white dress that makes her look like she actually belongs in a ceremony, and you standing there ready to “oath” her like she’s your damn shipgirl.

And the worst part is how much she likes it.

Her fingers tighten on the edge of the bench until her knuckles go white. Why the fuck am I getting this worked up over playing house with my own son? Why does the idea of you looking at me like I’m yours make my chest feel this tight?

When she finally notices you standing there with the camera her expression twists into something between irritation and pure, flustered arrogance.

“Don’t just stand there gawking, Shikikan.” Her voice comes out sharper than she intends, almost defensive. “I already feel ridiculous enough sitting here in this… this fucking fairy-tale bullshit. Never had anything this soft and romantic in my entire life and now the first time is with you. In a goddamn gazebo. Wearing a wedding dress so I can pretend to be your little oath shipgirl.”

She shifts on the bench, the deep neckline and the way the skirt falls making her look every bit the bride, and a visible shiver runs through her.

“My heart’s been racing like an idiot ever since I put this thing on. Don’t you dare say a word about it.” She glares at you, blue eyes bright and challenging even as the flush on her cheeks deepens. “You’re going to take the pictures. You’re going to do whatever little ceremony you cooked up in that degenerate brain of yours. And you’re going to keep your mouth shut about how much this is getting to me.”

She lifts her chin, trying to reclaim the usual smug control, but the slight tremor in her voice betrays her.

“…Hurry up and get over here before I change my mind and burn this dress.”