Despite some appearance to the contrary, Arizona was not a woman. All the careful dieting and rigorous aerobic exercise in the world wouldn't make the slightest impact on the soft womanly plush filling out her middle like a tray of oven-fresh muffins. Who and what she was was determined by BuShips and the Brooklyn Naval Yard, and Arizona herself had very little say in the matter. She would never be a lean, sinewy fast battleship like New Jersey, nor even a slim battle cruiser like her dear friend Hiei. For all eternity, she would simply be Standard Battleship
Arizona, and nothing could change that.
But on the other hand, Arizona could eat all the donuts she wanted and not worry about getting even plumper. This made Arizona very happy, because she'd decided that donuts were the most unambiguously delectable substance in all of creation. The old standard would very much like to be full of said confections at all times.
She'd despaired that she'd have to go without donuts for the duration of her mission to the South China Sea, and made sure to fill herself up as best she could before weighing anchor from Sasebo. However, the old standard had underestimated the advances in combat cooking the past seventy years had brought to bear.
Not only did the MEU have donuts on offer, they had a veritable cornucopia of varieties. There were old-fashioned donuts—good, but for some reason Kongou and Jersey giggled whenever they saw her take a bite—, Jelly donuts—her new favorite, but so messy she needed to tuck a napkin into her collar—,powdered donuts—which made her more thankful than ever that she was wearing a crisp white blouse—, and that was only the beginning!
Arizona must have eaten several dozen donuts, and there were so many more to try! The old standard was absolutely giddy with happy, doughy mirth. Every so often she'd sip from a tall glass of iced milk—a necessity in the tropical heat—but it was clear to her the main attraction of her breakfast were the delicious donuts she was rapidly filling up on.
The old standard was so happy to be so very full of delicious donuts, she was almost almost enjoying sharing her breakfast with New Jersey.
Almost.
Arizona was still in her uniform, although with her overcoat neatly folded and stowed as a concession to the heat. But Jersey had wasted no time in finding the first opportunity to remove her already scandalously revealing uniform for another outfit baring even
moreskin.
Her very short bathing trunks… admittedly gave a rather comprehensive look at the battleship's objectively enviable aft. Arizona would have preferred the fast battleship cover herself more modestly, but at least she could hope the sight of such well-toned muscle might stir her compatriots towards a lifestyle of greater physical fitness.
Unfortunately, Arizona could say nothing positive about the scant scraps of fabric covering the battleship's bustline. A bikini, she had been informed it was called, wearing the pattern of Old Glory and cut at least a size too small for the Iowa's well-sculpted bosom. The fast-battleship's chest seemed at risk of spilling out were she to take a breath even slightly too big.
At least Jersey seemed to be aware of it. Her attention had been unusually captivated by her own endowments. When she wasn't wolfing down her breakfast—pancakes and sausage drenched in syrup—, slamming back glass after glass of frosty milk, the battleship was prodding her bosom or at least staring judgmentally at it.
"Motherfucker," Jersey somehow managed to enunciate through a mouth full of seven pancakes. One hand darted for her thirtieth glass of milk, while the other started towards her breast only to hesitate when its own realized it was still covered in sticky syrup.
Jersey could not eat pancakes without applying a thin film of suryp to everything within several feet of her. Arizona's crew was working double-time to wash it away before it stuck to her hull.
Arizona cocked an eyebrow. She didn't say anything though, because that would require a pause to the process of filling up her donuts reservoirs. Whatever was happen—or more likely,
nothappening—to Jersey's chest couldn't possibly be more important than donuts.
Jersey finished her whole glass in one go and slammed the glass to the table with a crash as theatrics as it was unwarranted. "I swear," she wiped the milky mustache off her lip with the back of her less-syrupy hand, "to fucking secnav my goddamn tits are bigger."
Arizona bristled at the fast battleship's impropriety, but she had to admit the ratio of cloth to flesh had noticeably changed. She didn't voice said opinion, however, for obvious reasons.
Jersey just scowled angrily at her bosom, trying to intimidate her breasts into revealing their secrets. It worked about as well as the last twenty-seven times. "I need more fucking milk," the battleship pushed her half-finished plate back in disgust. "Why the fuck do I want so much fucking… hey! Poi!"
Over by the serving line, the slim blond—though more red-tinged than Arizona remembered—figure of Yuudachi wheeled around on her heel with a confused look on her face and an inquisitive flip of her hair tufts. Or as confused of a look as she could manage with her cheeks stuffed full of grapes. "Phu?" she said.
"Get me some milk," said Jersey, exercising her rank as an officer to delegate things she didn't feel like doing at the time. Arizona was pleased that the battleship was finally taking her position as flagship… a little less unseriously.
Yuudachi swallowed. Which was easier said than done considering the sheer magnitude of her mouthful. "Okay!" The little destroyer balanced her own meal—hearty and fit for a active destroyer her age, but still nothing compared to the vast bounties Jersey and Arizona put away every day—on the crook of her arm and filled up a tall glass for Jersey.
The lithe destroyer had switched into her swimsuit like everyone else. Although Arizona approved of her outfit far more than Jersey's. Yuudachi's swimsuit might bare more of her belly than Arizona thought strictly appropriate, but at least there was a skirt on the bottom to give her a more girlish flair, and her top was—
As the destroyer turned around, Arizona promptly regretted ever conceiving any positive thoughts. Yuudachi's top was nearly as undersized as Jersey's, and the navy-blue fabric did little to hide how overfilled the poor garment was. And also, she was wearing her snow-white scarf for some inexplicable reason. As Arizona understood, she hadn't taken it off since Alaska, not even to sleep.
"Thank you, poi." Jersey ruffled the destroyer's hair and took her milk. But before the ravenous battleship could demolish yet another glass of chilled lactate, she noticed something. Something Arizona had been stewing at quietly for the past several minutes. "Poi?"
"Hmm?" Yuudachi placed a handful of blueberries in her mouth with less decorum than Arizona would like to see.
"When did you get so stacked?" Jersey pointed to the destroyer's bustline. Which, now that Arizona had time to find her
Janes' guide… was noticeably more filled out than it had been last morning.
Yuudachi glanced down at herself and shrugged. "I dunno, like… recently, poi."
Jersey blinked, but was too busy chugging milk to say anything.
"What about you?" said the destroyer.
"The fuck?" said Jersey.
"Like…" Yuudachi's lips pursed like a cat enjoying a fine meal. "First you were like…" she held her hands a comically large distance over her chest, "and now you're all like…" she moved her hands out as far as her arms could reach. "Poi."
Arizona slipped her reading glasses on and furiously skimmed through her
Janes copy to get to the battleship section.
"Hardy-fucking-har," Jersey rolled her eyes. "My tits are exactly the fucking sa—"
"No they're not." said Arizona.
"What?" Jersey jerked around like a pupped that'd been smashed over the head with a sledgehammer. "The fuck you say?"
"Your…" Arizona pursed her lips, unwilling to dive to the salacious depths her younger compatriot seemed to live within, "Bosoms have most certainly grown."
Jersey said nothing, but her face took on an instant wariness after the word 'bosoms' lipped through Arizona's normally prude-locked lips.
Yuudachi, however, dropped her tray to the floor, slapped her hands to her cheeks, and let out a happy squeal. "Pooooooooooooi!"
"What the
fuck just happened?" said Jersey.
"Jersey!" Yuudachi giggled. "Are they, like, tingly poi?"
Jersey gave her chest an experimental squeeze. Instantly a shudder shot down her spine and she nodded. "A bit, yeah."
"It's your Kai!" Yuudachi flung her arms around the big battlewagon. "It both of our Kai!"
"Speak. Fucking. American, goddammit!" Jersey growled at the little destroyer.
"Improvement!" said Yuudachi. "Rebuild, poi!"
"Kai, Dess?" Kongou materialized by Jersey's side in her skimpy red-on-white swimsuit and ever-present tray of scones. Jersey helped herself to a handful and didn't bother questioning how or why the Japanese battlewagon suddenly appeared. Kongou was one of those things Man was not meant to know.
"Kongou," Arizona slipped her glasses back into their case and smiled at the ever-bubbly battleship. "Mind explaining exactly what's going on here?"
"No problem, dess!" Kongou sat herself down with a giddy smile. "Jersey and Yuudachi-chan are getting ready to become proper womanly warships, dess! Soon you'll be looking for husbands, dess! And—" the battleship's voice cracked almost imperceptibly, and she shoved a scone down her own open mouth and chewed it quietly.
"Right, battleship fucking puberty," said Jersey. "How hard could it fucking be?"
—|—|—
When Sarah Gale woke up, Wash was naked. This was not an unusual circumstance. Wash lived her life according to a schedule firmer than Jersey's belly. She was up every morning at four for a jog around the base—which considering her already toned figure was wholly unnecessary—followed by a quick shower and a change into her uniform.
Gale, however, liked to enjoy her mornings while surrounded by as many blankets as could possibly be stacked onto her bed. Normally she slept through everything save the 'getting changed into her uniform' part of Wash's routine.
The sailor wasn't about to complain though. It meant the first thing she saw every morning was a living sculpture of flesh and steel. A goddess of the sea made flesh, incarnated into the most perfectly beautiful body Gale had ever seen, ever even imagined.
Watching the way her spine curved
just so as she pulled on her thigh-high socks, the way her pleated skirt bounced and teased over her magnificent American aft, the way her chest jiggled before she tucked it away under her vest, it was like poertry in motion. Very…
very lewd poetry. And Gale enjoyed every minute of it.
Only today, Wash wasn't getting dressed. She just stood in front of the mirror, staring impassibly at her own naked reflection while her hands cradled her subtly defined belly. She hadn't gone for a run either, her athletic wear—that Gale would like it mentioned for the record did a
spectacular job on the battleship's already stunning rack—were still neatly folded and unsullied by hard running.
"Wash?" Gale rubbed sleep from her eyes as she crawled out of her warm cocoon of blankets.
Wash just smiled, and idly stroked her fingers up and down her middle. "Sarah."
"What's up?" Gale itched at her jaw and tried to soak in Wash's beauty without opening her eyes fully. It was early and bright out, even
Wash was barely enough to overcome the sailor's desire to sleep more.
"I have a patrol today," said Wash. She blushed and glanced away from her reflection. "I was… going to suggest we…
try again…"
"But?" All sleepiness vanished as Gale reached for her ship-girlfriend. Her hands draped around the big battleship's musclebound shoulders, and her breasts kissed Wash's far larger pair. "Any reason we can't give it a go now?" she said with a teasing sway to her hips.
Wash nodded. "Yes," she said.
"Wash?" Gale cocked her head to the side, "What are you—"
Wash leaned in, her bare stomach kissing Gale's. Even with the sailor's oversize T-shirt in the way, it was enough. She felt it, that warmth, that
life. Wash was going to be a mother! She didn't know how she knew, but she
knew. Wash was pregnant.
"W-Wash," Gale beamed, and stood on her toes to plant a long kiss on the battleship's lips. She was shaking with joy at the thought. Her! A mother! With Wash! It was like every fantasy, every dream she'd given up on as beyond impossible was coming true.
"Sarah." Wash's hands wrapped around Gale's hips, getting solid purchase on the sailor's rear. "I…" The battleship's features froze, then twitched inquisitively. "I…"
"What?"
"Um…" Wash knit her brow. She wasn't sure how to describe the sensation building in her boilers.
Then Gale put the pieces together. Wash was pregnant. Specifically, she was in the early stages of pregnancy. And it was
morning. "Wash, are you—"
The battleship shuddered, and her dinner—or at least a small portion thereof, giving her enormous appetite—came out like a chunky oil-flavored smoothie, drenching Gale's shirt in rancid bile. "S-" before she could apologize, Wash retched again, this time aiming it mostly at the floor and keeping the balance away from Gale.
"Of course you are," sighed Gale.
"Sorry," Wash's voice was very quiet as she shuffled over to the bathroom.
—|—|—
Battleship puberty, as it turned out, caused more problems than Jersey thought it would. She might be able to squeeze her newly-enhanced figure into her swimsuit without issue, but her regular uniform was another matter entirely.
Her bra was borderline at the best of times, and cramming her swollen bunkers into the spandex/nylon embrace took concerted effort, shitloads of baby powder, and every last costuming trick Naka had up her nonexistent sleeve. Jersey still felt a little snugger than was strictly speaking comfortable, but at least she was
in now. She'd pick up a new wardrobe in Japan.
Or, more to the point, she'd make the subs do it. There was
no way in hell that isolated-ass island had anything for proper American-size tiddy.
Her shirt went on easily enough, it was just a t-shirt after all. But the tailored over-vest Yeoman Bowers had put so much effort into… wasn't gonna happen. At all. Jersey settled on just zipping it up to the base of her bust and playing with her scarf until it all looked intentional. Honestly, the popped-collar look was starting to grow on her.
"There," Jersey grunted and squeezed at her chest with the heels of her hands. She didn't seriously expect this to alleviate the pressure her ill-fitting outfit was applying, but she still have a sliver of hope. "That's fucking it."
"Naka-chan did her best!" Naka threw a hand up in the air only to draw it back as a fist.
"Enough with the cutesy Jap bullshit," Jersey sent a playful swat in the general direction of Naka's bun. "This will happen to you, eventually."
"Right," said Naka. "But I know how to sew, so…" she shrugged and stuck out her tongue at the big battleship.
"What-fucking-ever," said Jersey. "C'mon, time to meet the relief."
The two warships trotted out of the tent—well, Naka trotted. Jersey's massively longer legs let her get by with a lazy stroll—and down to the study concrete pier. The pier had been reduced to what could charitably be called rubble by the pre-invasion bombardment of course.
But that was several days ago, and there were seabees around. Seabees were magic and, in Jersey's opinion, deserved to be worshiped. The pier was good as new now as the assembled shipgirl force waited for their relief to arrive. Well, most of the force anyway. Shinano was off by the other side of the island, nominally providing air cover but really just hiding. How a girl that massive could be that fucking shy was totally beyond Jersey, although it was fucking
adorable.
But pondering how cute Shinano looked was something for another time. "Atten-
shun!" Jersey barked and snapped her heels together. The relief task force as cruising in over the crystal-clear waters, kicking up well-behaved wakes on the gentle seas.
A mixed bag of cruisers and destroyers, as Goto had promised. Leading the fleet was the low, slim shape of a
Mogami-class light-or-heavy-depending-on-the-emperor's-fucking-mood-because-rules-are-for-other-people-cruiser. Jersey recognized her as the nameship herself. Which was strange, because she'd
swear Mogami could be Gale's inexplicably-Asian twin.
Another
Mogami—Mikuma, according to the orders Jersey'd read—followed behind with her triple one-five-fives pointing in a generally port-ish direction.
Yet another
Mogami filled out the formation. Suzuya, although she'd had her aft hacked down to turn her into one of those aviation cruisers that had been utterly fucking useless during the war, but was now due to the carrier famine worth her weight in gold three times over.
A shudder shot down Jersey's spine as she tried not to think about the tingling in her chest.
She was slated for a rebuild soon, she could feel it in her frames now. They… they wouldn't turn
herinto an aviation-ship, would they? They wouldn't dare!
As for fleet came to a stop by the pier, Jersey brought her half-gloved hand up in a crisp salute. "Cruiser Mogami arriving!" she barked out as Mogami set foot on the pier.
Mogami swept her hand up in a crisp salute at odds with the casual appearance of the rest of her body. "New Jersey. I am your relief."
Jersey smiled. "I stand relieved. Welcome to Woody, Mogami."
Mogami loosened her neckerchief with a smile. "Nice place."
"You should see the beach," said Jersey. "You bring a swimsuit?"
Mogami scoffed. "Did I?"
Arizona bristled quietly.
"Island's yours," Jersey smiled at the cruiser. "Try not to loose it."
"We won't." Mogami's voice dropped its playful tomboy facade for a moment.
"Outstanding." Jersey stepped onto the water as her rigging manifested around her. "And Mogami?"
"Hmm?"
"You see any troop transports," said Jersey. "You know what to do."
"That happened
one time!"
—|—|—
As she threaded her titanic bulk through the Puget Sound, battleship Musashi pulled her zipper as far up as it would go. She knew she'd never be able to get her shirt to actually
close over her breasts, she'd torn too many zippers to even bother trying that. But she could at least close her outfit up a little, she knew the Americans didn't like having the obvious superiority of Japanese Naval Engineering rubbed in their faces. They were feeding her homeland after all, she could offer them that one small courtesy.
Also, the pressure on her ribcage made it harder for the battleship to hyperventilate in panic as her enormous hull slipped through the incredibly tight confines of the sound at
Far To Fast to stop in any kind of reasonable time frame.
Musashi
hated steaming in tight confines. It was bad enough coming into Seattle the first time she'd visited, and that was with nothing but warships by her side. Small, agile ships that she'd served side-by-side with. Ships she knew were paying attention to the waves, and could maneuver out of danger if needed.
Now the water was choked with lumbering cargo ships. Bulk carriers as vast and lumbering as they were unmaneuverable and precious. If Musashi so much as kissed one of the irreplaceable freighters, she'd tear clean through before she even registered the contact. The damage to her own hull would be severe, but how many would starve back on Japan from grain that freighter
wasn't carrying anymore?
If her hair wasn't already white, it would be well on its way.
"You're doing fine," White Plains smiled up at the enormous battleship. The little escort carrier played with the hem of her skirt, and up ahead Sammy waved her oversize camo jacket as an impromptu "wide-load" sign.
"Are-" Musashi caught herself and coughed off the crack in her voice. "Are you certain, young White?"
"Mmhm." The little carrier nodded. "Okay, you're drifting to the right a little."
Musashi felt her blood run cold, and in a panicked haze she threw the rudder hard over. Her screws coughed bubbles as they thrashed at the water, building up precious speed to get water over her rudders.
"Too far!" White yelped and heeled over to keep position right off Musashi's beam. "Small. Gentle. Movements."
Musashi blushed, and sheepishly steered back on course. "R-right."
"Just like driving a car." White waved a string of signal flags at a passing freighter. Flags that read 'S T U D E N T D R I V E R'. Even if it hadn't been her idea, Musashi wouldn't have minded. She was painful aware of how rusty her skills at tight-water maneuvering were. If everyone would just give her a wide berth and let her focus, that would be nice.
"I…" Musashi bit her lip and finessed her rudder with trembling fingers. She could never get it quite right under stress like this. She'd be a half-degree to port of where she wanted, then a degree to starboard… ever correction just created an even bigger error. "I don't know how to drive."
"Oh," White shrugged. "Neither do I, actually."
"Really?" Musashi was momentarily distracted from the rising frustration at her inability to
lock down her damn course.
"Yeah," said White. "Miss Gale's always been there for me."
"She…" Musashi's eyes went wider than her main battery as what she thought was a boat crossed dangerously close to her titanic bow. It turned out to be just a wave though, which let the battleship's terror return to its resting mid-level state. "She is nice, isn't she."
"I like her," said White. "Not as much as Jersey… but I like her."
Musashi smiled, but her eyes kept bouncing to and fro, trying frantically to keep track of each and every little thing surrounding her so she didn't blow clean into it.
"Okay, here's the turn," said White.
"Huh?" Musashi almost jumped. "W-what?"
"They're going on to Seattle," White waved at the freighters continuing down the sound. "We're pulling around Posession and into Everett."
"Oh," Musashi pushed her glasses up her nose. Or at least tried. The first time she just mashed her finger against her nose and had to make a second approach.
"It's a hard turn to port," said White.
"I… I remember," said Musashi.
"Little slower," said White. The little carrier's voice was soothing and gentle, and Musashi carefully eased back on the throttle telegraphs. "That's good."
"Annnnnnnnnnnnnd… start the turn," said White.
Musashi nodded, and gently eased her rudders over. She felt her footing shift as her massive superstructure rolled out from her hull's shadow. Cool Seattle rain kissed her skin as spray from her proud bow wet her hull flanks.
She was momentarily distracted by another ship waiting in the channel. A battleship! No, not just a battleship. It was Wash with a quartet of destroyers huddled around her, each pressing their head to some part of her middle. Musashi's heart rate tripped. She'd memorized the charts, and she knew she only had two and a half miles to play with.
It was tight. Too tight!
"It's okay, you've got it," said White. "Hi, Wash!"
"Hello!" Wash waved back at the little battlegroup. Now that the shock had worn off, Musashi realized Wash's fleet was resting at anchor, giving her all the room in the world to maneuver up to the port. They were so kind to her!
"Wash," Musashi stiffened her back and put on a mask of stony-faced valor. She might be terrified out of her wits driving her enormous hull through the tight and confusing maze that was the greater Puget Sound area, but she was still
A Yamato. She would
not sully her sister's good name by sniveling in front of another battleship.
She was
Musashi. Second of her class, the most powerful battleship that was and is and ever will be. She was
not afraid.
"You're looking good," Musashi tossed a her hair back with a rackish smile.
"Mmm," Wash smiled a lidded smile. "Thank you~"
"Mushi," White whispered so just the battleship could hear. "You're, um, drifting port again."
Musashi gulped and hastily correct. "T-thank you, White-sensei."
White just giggled happily.
