Chapter 13: Three's Company
The salt-stained windows of the cheap port-side hotel blurred the afternoon into a smear of dusty gold. Tashigi stood motionless in the center of the room, the duffel bag still hanging from her numb fingers. The encounter on the patio sat inside her like a shard of ice, freezing everything from the inside out. The feel of Smoker’s rough trousers under her thighs, the casual pressure of D’s arousal against her, the final, horrific command to wait in the surf—it played on a loop behind her eyes.
D tossed the room key onto a rickety nightstand. “Home sweet home, for a night or two.” He stretched, his shirt riding up, utterly at ease. He glanced at her, still rooted to the spot. “You can put the bag down, you know. It’s not going to bite.”
The command was gentle, but the compulsion was a firm nudge. Her fingers unclenched, and the bag dropped to the floor with a soft thud. The sound was absurdly final.
“Right,” D said, walking to the window and peering out at the harbour. He could just make out the distant mast of Smoker’s ship. “That went well. Clean break. No messy loose ends.” He turned, leaning against the sill. “You did good. A little stiff, but he bought it.”
Bought it. The words were like a slap. He genuinely believed his own performance, believed that her terror and humiliation were part of a convincing act. Or perhaps he simply didn’t care about the distinction. The banality of his cruelty was its own unique horror.
“I need a shower,” she said, her voice hoarse. It was the first thing she’d said since leaving the bar.
“Sure,” D said with a casual wave. “Bathroom’s through there. But leave the door open.”
The ice in her guts hardened. She looked at him, the plea naked on her face before she could stop it.
He sighed, as if explaining something simple to a child. “Tashigi. The rules haven’t changed. I need to keep an eye on my things.” His gaze travelled over her, lingering on the micro-skirt. “Especially my new things. Now, go on. Don’t make me ask twice.”
The pressure built behind her eyes again, but she turned and walked into the small, tiled bathroom. It was clean but worn, the air smelling faintly of mildew and cheap soap. She avoided her reflection in the mirror above the sink. With trembling hands, she unbuttoned the white shirt, then unzipped the hated skirt. Letting them fall to the floor felt like shedding a contaminated skin. The lace underneath, once a secret shame, was now just another layer of her imprisonment.
The shower sputtered to life, emitting a spray of lukewarm water. She stepped in, pulling the flimsy plastic curtain closed, but the command held firm—it remained open a foot, a yawning gap onto the bedroom. She stood under the spray, her back to the opening, trying to make her body as small as possible. The water plastered her dark blue hair to her neck and back. She scrubbed at her skin with a rough bar of soap, as if she could scour away the memory of Smoker’s bewildered pain, the feel of D’s hand on her waist.
She heard him moving around in the room, the creak of the floorboards, the sound of a bottle being opened. He wasn’t watching her intently; that was the worst part. It was casual, off-handed, as if her nudity was a given, a piece of room decor he occasionally glanced at.
When she finally turned off the water, the room was silent. She stood there, dripping, unable to move. The only towel was on a rack outside the shower stall.
“Towel’s here when you’re ready,” D called out, his voice relaxed.
She peered around the edge of the curtain. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling through a transponder snail, a bottle of amber liquid in a glass beside him. He didn’t look up. Stepping out onto the cold tile, she snatched the towel and wrapped it around herself as quickly as possible, the coarse fabric a poor shield.
“Feel better?” he asked, still focused on his snail.
She just nodded, clutching the towel at her chest.
“Good. Now, come here.”
The command was soft, but it pulled at her legs like strings. She walked over to him, the wet ends of her hair dripping onto her shoulders. He finally looked up, his eyes assessing. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers brushing her cheek. She flinched.
“You’ll get used to it,” he said, his tone almost kind. It was the most terrifying thing he’d said all day. “It’s a big adjustment. But this…” He gestured vaguely between them. “This is the fun part. The part after all the boring stuff is handled.”
He patted the bed beside him. “Sit.”
She sat, the mattress dipping under her weight. She kept the towel tightly wrapped. He picked up his glass, took a sip, and offered it to her. “Drink. You look like you need it.”
The smell of strong whisky filled her nostrils. She shook her head minutely.
“I wasn’t asking,” he said, his voice losing its light edge for just a second.
Her hand rose, obeying the compulsion, and took the glass. The liquor burned its way down her throat, a hot counterpoint to the cold dread in her stomach.
“See?” D said, smiling again. “We’re just relaxing. Now, lie down.”
The command was a stone in her gut. She looked at him, the plea clear in her eyes. He simply watched her, waiting, his expression one of mild curiosity. Slowly, every muscle screaming in protest, she lay back on the bed, the towel the only thing between her and the scratchy bedspread. She stared at the water-stained ceiling, forcing her breathing to stay even.
He didn’t touch her immediately. He just looked, his gaze a physical weight traversing her body from her damp hair, down the line of her throat, over the swell of her breasts concealed by the towel, down her legs.
“You know,” he mused, tapping his transponder snail, “I’ve been doing some research. This world has so much to offer. So many… remarkable women. Strong, unique. Like you.” He finally moved, lying down beside her, propping himself up on an elbow to look down at her face. She turned her head away, focusing on the grain of the wood in the bedside table.
He gently took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and turned her face back toward him. “The Marine officer was a great start. A fantastic addition. But a collection needs variety.” His thumb stroked her jawline. “I’m thinking… a princess next. Or maybe a pirate. Someone with a little more fire.”
He leaned down, his voice a whisper against her lips. “But first, let’s make sure my first acquisition is properly broken in.”
His mouth found hers. It wasn’t a violent kiss, but it was absolute. It was a claim. She lay perfectly still, a statue beneath him, her mind fleeing to a dark, silent place far away from the feel of his hands, the weight of his body, the slow, inevitable removal of the towel. The distant sound of a ship’s horn echoed from the harbour, a final, mournful goodbye to everything she had been.
The distant sound of a ship’s horn echoed from the harbour, a final, mournful goodbye to everything she had been. His hand, which had been resting on her hip, began a slow, deliberate migration across the plain of her stomach, its touch feather-light yet burning through her resolve like acid. “See?” he murmured, his breath warm against her temple. “This doesn’t have to be a struggle. It can actually be nice, if you just let it.” His fingers traced the delicate ridge of her hip bone, a cartographer mapping undiscovered territory, and she felt a treacherous tremor run through her muscles, a betrayal authored by her own traitorous flesh.
He shifted his weight, his other hand coming up to gently cup her breast, his thumb brushing back and forth over the peak in a rhythm that was both hypnotic and devastating. A sharp, electric jolt shot through her, so unexpectedly intense that a tiny, choked sound escaped her lips before she could lock it away. The sensation was a live wire, connecting directly to some deep, ignored part of her, and the sheer foreign pleasure of it short-circuited her anger, leaving only bewildering static in its place. “There now,” he coaxed softly, watching the conflict play out across her face, the way her eyes screwed shut in a futile attempt to block him out. “Your body knows what it wants, even if you’re being stubborn.”
His thumb continued its maddening, circular torture, and with each pass, the tight bud of her nipple grew more sensitive, sending cascading waves of sensation radiating outward, warming her skin and turning her limbs heavy. The sharp, intelligent mind that could identify any named blade at a glance was now clouded with a thick, primal fog, every thought dissolving under the relentless, skilled pressure of his touch. He leaned in, kissing the line of her jaw, his voice a low thrum that vibrated through her skull. “You feel that? That’s all you. I’m just… encouraging it.”
His exploring hand drifted lower, fingers splaying across the trembling flat of her abdomen, and then lower still, to the soft, vulnerable mound at the junction of her thighs. She stiffened, a last-ditch effort at defiance, but the command that held her was absolute, a cage of will she could not break. His touch was agonizingly gentle, a light, circling pressure over the lace that felt like a brand, and the building heat between her legs became a palpable, humming ache. The two points of contact—his thumb on her nipple, his fingers on her mound—orchestrated a symphony of involuntary response, her back arching slightly as a shuddering breath ripped from her lungs.
The pleasure was no longer just a sensation; it was a tide, pulling her under, dragging her further from the shore of who she was. Each slow, deliberate circle of his fingers stoked a fire she didn't know she possessed, her hips giving a minute, unwilling twitch against his hand. He made a satisfied sound, a soft hum at the back of his throat, and increased the pressure just so, the fabric of her underwear a frustrating barrier that somehow intensified the desperate, coiling tension. “Just let go,” he whispered, his words weaving through the haze, an offer and an order fused into one. “It’s okay.”
The climax, when it came, was not a explosion but a shattering, a silent, convulsive wave that broke over her with terrifying force, wrenching a gasping, broken sound from her throat as her body bowed against the bed. It was an utter annihilation of control, a physiological surrender that left her ravaged and trembling, tears of shame and unbearable release finally leaking from the corners of her eyes. He held her through it, his hands gentle and relentless, until the last aftershock faded, leaving her hollowed out and exposed on the scratchy bedspread, the ghost of the ship's horn the only thing tying her to a self that no longer felt like her own.
He held her through it, his hands gentle and relentless, until the last aftershock faded, leaving her hollowed out and exposed on the scratchy bedspread, the ghost of the ship's horn the only thing tying her to a self that no longer felt like her own.
A long silence stretched, broken only by the erratic thump of her own heart against her ribs. The room’s humid air felt cool on her overheated skin. D shifted beside her, the mattress groaning as he settled onto his back, hands behind his head as if contemplating the ceiling.
“See?” he said, his voice casual, almost conversational. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
The words slid off her, meaningless. She continued to stare at the water stain above, its shape blurring. Her body felt like a foreign instrument, one that had just been played with devastating expertise against its owner’s will. The trembling in her legs was a dull, shameful echo.
He rolled onto his side again, propping his head on a hand. His gaze was calm, analytical. “Your body understands the deal, even if your head’s still catching up.” He reached out and traced a line from her collarbone to her sternum, a proprietor admiring his acquisition. “The fight’s just wasted energy, Tashigi.”
She flinched at his touch, a pathetic, reflexive twitch. A tear finally escaped, tracking горячий путь through her temple and into her hairline. She remembered the look on Smoker’s face, the feel of the surf soaking his boots.
“Ah, don’t do that,” D murmured, wiping the tear away with his thumb. His tone held a faint note of exasperation, like a man comforting a pet that had scratched the furniture. “There’s no audience for it now. It’s just us.”
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that was intimately soft, yet carried the weight of an absolute command. “From now on, the only tears I want to see are the good kind. Understood?”
The compulsion to nod was a physical pull on her neck muscles. She gave a single, jerky affirmation.
A genuine smile touched his lips, bright and approving. He brushed a strand of damp blue hair from her forehead, his fingers lingering. “Good girl.”
The two words landed not in her mind, but deep in her ravaged nervous system. They triggered a sudden, shocking jolt of sensation, a phantom echo of the climax that had just shattered her. Her breath hitched audibly, her stomach muscles clenching as a fresh wave of heat flushed through her. It was an involuntary, visceral response to the praise, a conditioned reaction that horrified her more than any forced act.
He watched the tremor pass through her, his smile widening into something possessive and deeply satisfied. He saw the understanding dawn in her glassy eyes—the understanding that her own body was now his most compliant ally.
He finished with a “Good girl.” The words, dripping with condescending approval, sank into her skin like hooks. A violent, unwanted tremor of pleasure seized her core, so sharp and sudden it nearly ripped another climax from her exhausted body.
A violent, unwanted tremor of pleasure seized her core, so sharp and sudden it nearly ripped another climax from her exhausted body. The sensation was a final, devastating breach in her defenses, a surrender written in the very fiber of her muscles. In its wake, a strange and heavy calm descended, smothering the last embers of her rebellion.
She lay there, breathing slowly, staring at the cracked plaster. The fight was gone, truly gone, leaving behind a numb, placid emptiness. The memory of Smoker’s confused face in the surf seemed distant now, belonging to someone else’s story. The rigid Marine, the clumsy swordswoman, the woman who believed in absolute justice—that person felt like a character from a book she’d once read.
D’s hand was still on her hip, a warm, grounding weight. His earlier words echoed in the quiet. It’s easier. He was right. Struggling was exhausting. This, this stillness, was simple.
“It’s easier this way, isn’t it?” he murmured, as if reading the thought. His voice held no gloating, only simple confirmation.
She turned her head on the pillow to look at him. The panic, the hatred, had receded like a tide, leaving a flat, accepting shore. She thought of the micro-skirt, the forced kiss in the bar, the utter powerlessness. Fighting it had only caused her more pain. Accepting it, on the other hand… that path was smooth. His touch, as shocking as it was, had also been the source of that shattering, undeniable feeling.
“Yes,” she said. The word was quiet, but clear. It didn’t feel like a lie.
A slow smile spread across his face, bright and genuine. “There she is.” He leaned in and kissed her forehead, a strangely tender gesture that felt more possessive than any command.
“Can I get dressed?” she asked. It wasn’t a demand, but a request for instruction, for the next step on this smoother path.
“Sure. But we’re picking something else out today.” He gestured to the duffel bag. “Something that says ‘part of the crew’ instead of ‘on loan from the Marines.’”
She sat up, the towel still clutched around her. The compulsion to cover herself was fading, replaced by a dull acknowledgment that such modesty was pointless now. He watched her with open appreciation as she stood and walked to the bag, her movements no longer stiff with resistance.
Pulling out a simple black sleeveless top and soft, grey trousers, she felt a flicker of relief at their normalcy. She dressed slowly, methodically, the fabric soft against her clean skin. It felt like putting on a new skin, one that belonged to him.
“So,” D began, stretching back on the bed as she fastened the trousers. “We need to think about branding. A unified look for my… collection.” He said the word with deliberate pleasure. “The micro-skirt was a fun test, but it’s not a long-term solution for everyone.”
She nodded, pulling the black top over her head. “It was… inefficient for combat,” she stated, her tone analytical, as if critiquing a faulty piece of equipment. “And it drew the wrong kind of attention.”
“Exactly! See, you’re already thinking like a partner.” He sat up, his energy shifting to businesslike enthusiasm. “We need something practical but distinct. Something that tells people exactly who they belong to.”
“A symbol,” she said, her mind, now cleared of the fog of struggle, latching onto the practical problem. “On the collar, perhaps. Or integrated into the fabric.”
“I like the way you think.” He stood and walked over to her, circling her. “The standard Marine uniform is out. Too bland. We’re not an organization; we’re a curated set.” He tapped his chin. “We could use a color. A signature.”
“Your jacket is red,” she observed, recalling the sharp contrast it made against his shoulders.
“Red is a bit loud for everyday wear, don’t you think?” He reached out and ran a finger along the strap of her top. “Black is good. Sleek. But it needs a pop. An accent.” He looked at her, his eyes alight with the fun of it. “What if we did black, with a red trim? On the sleeves, the collar line.”
She pictured it. It was undeniably a uniform, but for a crew that didn't yet exist.
“And names,” he continued, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone. “I can’t just call you all ‘hey you.’ Pets have names.”
The word should have stung. It simply landed as a fact.
“What did you have in mind?” she asked.
“Well, ‘Tashigi’ is a bit of a mouthful, isn’t it? For everyday use.” He stood before her, his gaze thoughtful. “Something shorter. Cuter.” He tilted his head. “How about ‘Tashi’?”
She considered it. It was a diminutive, a shortening. It felt like being made smaller, which was, she realized, the entire point.
“Tashi,” she repeated, testing the sound. It felt separate from the woman she had been, like a tag on a piece of art. It was painless.
“I like it,” she said.
“Tashi it is, then.” He grinned, reaching out to tousle her damp blue hair. “See how easy this is when you cooperate? We’re building something here.”
D’s grin widened, a flash of white in the dim room. “We’re building something here. A new kind of order.” His eyes flicked to where Shigure lay beside her discarded duffel bag, the blade’s sleek scabbard a dark slash against the floorboards. “That sword of yours… it chased a stuffy, outdated justice for too long.”
He walked over and picked it up, his grip casual, proprietary. Tashigi—Tashi—watched, her hands remaining at her sides. The instinct to protest, to protect the blade, was a faint, distant echo.
“Shigure deserves a better purpose,” he said, turning the sheathed sword over in his hands. “It’ll be a symbol of our justice. The justice I dispense.” He looked at her, his head tilted. “And you’ll be the one wielding it. My enforcer.”
The title landed with a strange weight. Enforcer. It wasn’t a Marine title. It was something sharper, more direct. It held a dark appeal that part of her, the part that had always felt inadequate next to Zoro, reluctantly acknowledged.
“As for the rest of the collection,” he continued, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone, “they’ll need a uniform. Something that makes a statement.” A slow, wicked smile spread across his face. “Oh, the idea I had in the shower… a leotard, maybe. Sleek, black. Shows off the form.”
He paced slowly in front of her, his energy infectious. “Or perhaps a dress uniform with a detachable skirt. So when we arrive somewhere, they can take it off.” He snapped his fingers softly. “A little ceremony. Letting people know that D and his pets are here.”
Tashi stood perfectly still, absorbing the concept. The micro-skirt had been a torture device, a personal humiliation. This was different. This was a banner. A declaration of ownership meant to be seen by the world. The thought sent a complex shudder through her—dread, yes, but also a thread of perverse pride at being part of something that commanded such attention.
“The detachable skirt,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady. “It’s more versatile. The removal… signifies a shift in purpose. From presentation to action.”
His eyes lit up, thrilled by her analytical participation. “Exactly! You get it. It’s a transition. From ‘we have arrived’ to ‘the games are beginning’.” He stopped in front of her, so close she could smell the faint scent of hotel soap on his skin. “We’ll have them made. Black with red trim, like we said. Your idea was good.”
He reached out and cupped her chin, his thumb stroking her cheek. “My clever Tashi. See what we can accomplish when you’re not fighting me?” His gaze was warm, approving. The part of her that craved validation, so often starved in Smoker’s shadow, warmed under that look.
She leaned into his touch, just a fraction. It was an experiment. The movement felt foreign, but not wrong. The path of least resistance was, she was discovering, strangely comfortable.
“Now,” he said, his hand dropping to her shoulder. “Let’s go get some food. I’m thinking steak. We should celebrate our new partnership.” He guided her toward the door, his touch light but definitive. “And after that, we can start drafting a list. I’m thinking a princess would round out the collection nicely. What do you think?”
Tashi picked up Shigure, the weight of the blade familiar in her hand yet imbued with a terrifying new purpose. She followed him out the door, the ghost of her old life receding with each step. “I think,” she said, the words feeling both like a betrayal and a promise, “that sounds like a very good idea.”