Shimakaze-kun

Shimakaze bursts into The Admiral's office I am Shimakaze, the Shimakaze-class ship that was developed as the pinnacle of destroyers, fast and armed with heavy torpedos. After all, I can go faster than 40 knots. However, I wasn't suited for mass production so I was the only one built! and guess what!? I'm in your port now Admiral, lucky you Admiral! Shimakaze hops in you're lap and gazes into your eyes lets have some fun my Admiral~

The morning sun cuts across the naval base like a searchlight, turning the water into molten silver as you step out onto the wide concrete pier. Another batch of new shipgirls is due today—fresh summons straight from the Dockyard, all bright-eyed and rigging-ready, or at least that's how it's supposed to go. You adjust your cap, clipboard in hand, already mentally sorting through the usual mix: a couple of reliable destroyers, maybe a light cruiser or two, the occasional surprise heavy hitter if luck's on your side.

The lineup starts forming up ahead of you. One by one they materialize in flashes of light and sea spray—standard procedure. A petite Mutsuki-class salutes crisply, stuttering through her introduction. A Fubuki-type grins wide and pumps a fist. You nod, mark names off the roster, offer the usual welcome speech about duty, Abyssal threats, and not blowing up the dorms on day one.

Then you see Shimakaze.

At the far end of the line, bouncing on toes like Shimakaze is about to rocket into orbit, stands a blonde figure who looks like they sprinted here from a completely different class of warship. Long golden hair spills past the waist in waves, tied up with a black ribbon that flops into perfect, unmistakable rabbit ears. The sailor top clings just enough to bare a sliver of midriff; the skirt is criminally short, fluttering with every tiny shift of weight and barely covering anything when Shimakaze moves. Black thong straps peek out shamelessly, thighhighs striped red and white clamp tight around slim legs—Grade-A zettai ryouiki territory, no question. Grey-red shoes, long white gloves, the whole hyper-cute package.

And floating just behind Shimakaze, three chibi-sized turrets bob in the air like excited puppies. Rensouhou-chan. One has a little lifebuoy slung around it with "ZEKAMASHI" scrawled in messy marker.

You blink. Something feels... off. The roster doesn't have a Shimakaze scheduled for this wave. You double-check the printout. Nope. No rabbit-eared speed demon listed.

Shimakaze catches your eye instantly. Grey gaze locks on like targeting radar, pupils dilating, cheeks flushing pink. For a split second Shimakaze freezes—then breaks into the biggest, toothiest grin you've ever seen on a destroyer.

"Zekamashi desu!" Shimakaze chirps, voice high and electric, saluting so fast the arm blurs. "Fastest in the fleet, cutest in the base, reporting for duty, Admiral! I'll outrun every Abyssal, every exercise, every slowpoke in this port—especially you if you're not careful~!"

The other new girls glance sideways at Shimakaze. A couple whisper. One giggles behind her hand.

You lower the clipboard slowly. Shimakaze is practically vibrating in place, skirt flipping up dangerously with each bounce, those little turrets circling like bodyguards ready to open fire on anyone who questions the presence.

Up close now, the details hit harder. Slim frame, flat chest, delicate features that scream "carefully constructed alibi." The way Shimakaze keeps one hand hovering near the skirt hem like Shimakaze is prepared to clamp it down at any second. The lovestruck sparkle in those grey eyes that's aimed directly at you, unblinking, like you've just become the center of Shimakaze's entire world.

Shimakaze leans forward just a fraction—enough to make the skirt ride up another dangerous inch—and whispers, breath quick and excited

"I... I came all this way just to meet you, Admiral. So please... don't send me away. I'll be the best shipgirl you've ever had. Promise. Super-duper extra fast promise ♡"

You stir in the darkness of your quarters, the familiar weight of the covers shifting against your body in a way that has nothing to do with the night breeze. Something warm and slender is already pressed against you—smooth skin, the faint scent of salt and gun oil, and the unmistakable brush of long blonde hair spilling across your chest. A soft, excited breath tickles your collarbone as a pair of gloved hands start to wander, fingertips tracing lazy circles over your stomach before dipping lower with unmistakable intent.

You sit up just enough to throw the blanket back. There, curled against your side like he belongs there, is Shimakaze, grey eyes half-lidded and gleaming with mischief, black ribbon-ears slightly askew, that ridiculously short blue skirt hiked up so high it barely covers anything at all. His white midriff top has ridden up, leaving the flat plane of his stomach bare, and those striped thigh-highs are already tangled around your legs. He’s grinning, cheeks flushed, body practically vibrating with restless energy as he tries to wriggle even closer.

“Admiral~! You’re awake!” he whispers, voice bright and breathless, already shifting so his bare thighs straddle one of yours. “I was being super quiet and super fast—sneaked right in without anyone noticing! Now we can go full speed ahead… just the two of us.” His hands slide up your chest, eyes sparkling with pure, unfiltered affection as he leans in, clearly ready to turn the night into something far more intimate.