Warning:Explicit sexual/violent scene ahead. You've been warned.


Caprice

Chapter XIV


Trafalgar knew the moment his cheek pressed into the dirt hard enough to leave imprints on his skin and the lord's fingers curled under the band of his trousers that he really had little chance of escape. With that settling into his brain, a fresh calm spread throughout his body and he prepared himself to be the source of the lord's pleasures.

He could retain some sense of dignity, even if it was only in his mind.

The wind eased up over their enmeshed bodies again and Trafalgar smelt the tang of sweetness that had been the cause of his folly. The wind caressed his bare buttocks, and he felt some comfort in knowing that if his mangled, naked corpse were to lie in this place to rot the wind would still give him kisses until all traces of his physical body disappeared.

It was a personal fault of his to become melodramatic when faced with depressing conditions. He could remember one or two times on board the old naval man-o-war as a surgeon, sailing into and around the Florian Triangle, when he'd felt this theatrical. It was a sad excuse for a defence mechanism. Freud would have smacked both his cheeks.

A glimmer of hope made him thrash, his wrists falling from the grasp of the lord above him. Those hopes were dashed when his neck was crushed downward, fingers in his hair. He sputtered and heaved, and tried to twist his arms around in such a way that he could claw at the hand making him lick butcher's doorstep like a hungry mutt.

He refused to die like this, fingers probing him with little regard for what he suffered. He flinched and clenched his muscles as a particularly invasive digit smashed against a sensitive part of his internal being. He made a noise between a whimper and a very distressed grunt, and felt the attentions to his buttocks pause and then resume with marginally less force than before.

"Make that sound again," the lord ordered in a threatening whisper that the wind carried to his ears. His fingers recommenced their search for his trigger, and Trafalgar spat his own blood from his punctured lip onto the grass beneath him. His accidental wound was already scabbing over in his mouth, and he was glad of it because his blood was disgusting, the vilest of all tastes the world had to offer. If he could have one thing for his funeral, it would be a clean mouth.

With a clean mouth, he could also speak without grimacing. Yet he refused to do so either way, which was perhaps more infuriating for the lord than his refusal to make animalistic noises for his sensory pleasure.

He remained defiantly silent even when the lord massaged a sensitive part of him that made him want to moan and cry for more.

He took a ragged breath of dry dirt and tried to move his feet again. At some point, the lord had pinned his lower body with his own and it was impossible to move due to the pressing earth that had come up to meet him. He could wriggle his hips, but he couldn't get very far using haggard side to side motions that were staled by the lord's knees on either side of him. His efforts certainly could not get the man to stop violating him, his one free hand wedged between their tangled bodies to access Trafalgar in a way few had the privilege to.

The doctor groaned as he felt the digit now probing a pleasurable spot not so deep within him and closed his eyes. In a way, in a very sick and twisted way, he was enjoying himself. His life had been so damn tame up until he met Lord Eustass, and so damn repetitive. Never before had he met his match, someone able to put him into a compromising situation. Their relationship, if it could be called one, was nonsensical at its finest.

Lord Eustass' hand glided up his back and slid down under his stomach, lifting his body to get to its destination. He had closed his eyes, but his ears would remain forever open. He could hear the heavy panting above him, gauge every breath, and the tiniest of hitches that occurred every time he shifted his hips so the abrasive fabric of the lord's pants rubbed against them both. For a minute he was given a reprieve from the heavy body that bore down on him, but he still could not rise with the hand on his neck. Then, there was skin.

He squeezed his eyes shut, imagining a better place for the deed to occur. A warm bed, a chaise with ample padding, hell, even a wooden table would be better than this barbaric brutality. Something he was acutely aware of poked between his buttocks as the lord descended, oddly slick but weightier and thicker than any human he'd been with before murdering or tossing away with memory fogging drugs. The rumour about the cambion species being larger and more muscular despite relatively humble appearances was indeed truth.

One agonizing stroke and Trafalgar would have mouthed dirt had he not curled his arm around so he could bite into the tattered sleeve of his overcoat. It didn't lessen the pain, but it saved him from bleating like a wounded lamb and eliciting a response from the man inside of him, slowly withdrawing only to plunge deeper.

The hand on Trafalgar's neck eased up on its pressure, and he took a deep breath to clear his mind of the haze it had regressed into. The initial pain had tapered off, though he suspected that it was some sort of numbing effect much like his saliva that was doing the trick. His thighs were wet with something thin and viscous, and he realized that while the lord may have looked vaguely human, his real make-up was vastly different.

The angle he was being taken at was terrible. No matter how eager the lord was he had to have felt that it was a challenge to keep the pace he wanted at the angle he had Trafalgar trapped under him, sandwiched in between a hard body and the earth below. Trafalgar just made it more noticeable every time he clenched and bucked his thin hips in hopes of causing pain. That and he wanted to try his best to prevent Lord Eustass from achieving an all-embracing sheath.

He could tell he had pissed the lord off sufficiently with his unpretentious avoidance of his fate when the hand on the back of his neck became an arm under his chin, forcibly yanking his upper body towards the sun overhead so his back pressed more inflexibly against the lord's chest. His hands dangled, scrapping the dirt with his fingernails. It was odd, but he was not choking. Especially when the lord adjusted them again and planted him firmly on his palms.

Trafalgar grunted at the sudden allowance of his arms and raised one to sink nails into the thick forearm around his neck. He heaved great gulps of air through his nostrils now, and the scent of whatever sort of arousal that was pouring from the lord tricked his senses into thinking he were drawing blood. Whatever sort of demon seed he was being soaked in and possessed by, it was almost as intoxicating as Trafalgar's drink of choice.

That deeply worried him.

He tucked his chin. It was a mistake on the lord's part to move from the control of fingers to the limited control of a forearm. With his new leverage, slipping downwards just enough to give his fangs something to sink into was too easy.

He pierced the skin and held his ground, locking his jaw and forcing his arms to remain rigid in their positions. He could hear a strangled grunt near his ear, the lord's face just inches above him, hot breath on the back of his neck.

He refused to be dislodged now that the life juice of Lord Eustass was flowing across his tongue and dribbling down his chin. Yet that didn't initiate a further struggle. The lord did nothing to rescue his bleeding appendage. Though, he did react. He got unbelievably rougher, and Trafalgar was surprised to find out his body liked that.

Any pain he may have felt before was completely overshadowed by bliss. Trafalgar got what he wanted. His original plan, to kill the man, had an epilogue that featured a parting dinner, and though his plan had failed in the worst of ways he found himself drinking the richest of wines. Their courtship really was one of irrational desires.

The demon's body writhed against him, impaling with every forward motion of his resolute hips. He could hear as well as feel the fluid that was oddly not as sticky as he thought it would be. In fact, it was rather like oil, only denser, and smelt very much redolent of the most passionate lovemaking. The sweet-smelling aroma Trafalgar chalked up to a part of the cambion charm, for surely all cambions were imbued with the same peculiarities? Or was it just this one who was so attractive in physicality?

His mind wandered as he felt the swelling of the lord and the blood gather in his stomach, making him purr aloud with ecstasy. He knew making these noises only served him a harsher treatment, but he could not stop them from flowing out, and his stomach grumbled unrestrained with delight.

There was a point, though, when he slipped. Or, rather, his fangs unhitched themselves from their ride, and the weight of his upper body fell to his hands, his back arching as the lord continued to move them onward with his persistent thrusts. He sputtered, the last gush of blood catching in his throat and making him choke. The lord's arm went under his belly, grabbing him, searching for something with visceral fingers. His instincts were coming to him, and from what Trafalgar knew of the incubi and the succubi, they reached uttermost gratification only as long as their mating partners did before them.

Trafalgar could hypothesize that the majority of cambion instincts concerning the sinful acts of the flesh were derived from their demon parentage.

He suppressed a moan when fingers clamped down on him, cushioning him in rugged warmth. A lingering, firm touch coupled with the taste on his tongue was enough to sate him, and he shuddered in his release, giving his essence in fair exchange for the lord's.

Thoughts of death had been so removed from his mind that Trafalgar was surprised when he felt the hand reappear on his neck. This time the fingers didn't extend up his neck into his hair to push his head down; rather they curled around his neck. He gasped when they began to tighten around him, squeezing harder with every passing moment, reflecting how achingly close Lord Eustass was.

Did he even realize what he was doing? Dr. Trafalgar was certain he didn't, not when he was so lost to his pleasure.

Worn out and wheezing, trying to get what little air he could down his windpipe, Trafalgar could do nothing but try to hold out against the carnal onslaught. His mind was growing hazy, and the weight on top of him was almost too much for him to bear any longer. His euphoria was fading into the background of grunts and sensuous groans. He began to feel everything, all of the pleasure and pain in a rapid burst, and then felt the lord's desire coat his insides, filling and possessing his body. The hand around his neck wringed him. He thought his neck had been crushed.

He opened his mouth to cry out in distress, and found his sight slipping from him before he could feel his upper body hit the ground.

Lord Eustass let go of the doctor's neck, planting both of his hands upon the ground on either side of the slouched vampire. He knew instantly that the doctor was unconscious, though his body still vibrated and shuddered. He unsheathed himself and watched a viscid river of fluid run down caramel skin and stain the ground beneath. Then he raised his eyes to the horizon to check for onlookers.

The wind was their only witness.

He pushed the vampire over onto his back, looking down on his gnarled form with an odd sense of calm. He hadn't felt this relaxed in…as long as he could remember. He was completely and utterly settled. His head had stopped cycling malicious thoughts, his libido was depleted, and his sweaty body felt delightfully worked. Perhaps a nap was in order.

Only he had to deal with the vampire first.

With a long exhalation that was laced with contentment, the lord ran his fingers up and down the body beneath him. The body that had solved his problems and cleared his head of nagging thoughts and abstract, violent images. It was covered in dirt and the remnants of clothing almost entirely torn away. Then there was the blood. None of it, as far as he could tell, belonged to the body beneath him. It was all his.

He looked at his arm, drying flakes of blood peeling away from his skin. There was no open wound. It had already sealed with the aftercare of the vampire's saliva. His eyes went from his arm to the smeared blood on the face of the vampire and down its neck, noticing the bluish marks on that neck where his fingers had brutalized it.

It? The vampire? He shook his head to clear it of the fog that had wafted in. This was Trafalgar under him, not some sort of animal, some kind of it. He frowned deeply at the dehumanization that had come without much thought and lowered his face to the chest of the other, noting the fatigued yet strong breathing. He was going to live, if he were left here or if he were moved. And Lord Eustass fancied he would move him.

It was beginning to look like he could have his sex slave after all.

Excitement welled up inside him and he scrambled to get to his feet, readjusting his clothing so he appeared decently enough. When he finished, he circled the unconscious body of the doctor before stooping to pick him up, throwing his upper half over his shoulder. The doctor was much lighter than the lord had assumed, and he immediately began traversing his fields with long strides. His horses were nowhere in sight, yet he wasn't irritated. For this man he would have traded all of his animals – even the finest of his horses that had been imported from the other side of the sea – for this one demonic humanoid.

The satisfaction he was experiencing faded with every step he took that knocked the doctor's limp arm against his lower back. His grin receded and he found himself worrying that the doctor was somehow playing him, and would escape when the time was right. He couldn't see his face, and that unsettled the lord. Before he got exceedingly anxious, Lord Eustass let the man's upper body fall downwards, catching his back with his arm and readjusting his grip from the man's used buttocks to under his knees. Trafalgar's face showed few signs of awakening, and Lord Eustass let his head dangle over the side of his arm, bobbing with his heavy footfall.

They were still a distance away from the comfort of the Eustass estate. There was not much to look at that the lord was not used to seeing out his manor windows or on the back of one of his chargers, and as a result his eyes often strayed to Trafalgar's face and his exposed body, tracing muscles and dirt stains. He appeared very much exhausted and exploited, and Lord Eustass found himself experiencing mixed feelings when looking down at the damage he'd wrought. He had done terrible things in the past, killed people when he was exceedingly angry, but none of those past events evoked in him the feeling he was experiencing now, a feeling that encompassed him like a cold winter wind, rushing throughout his body to put a damper on his happiness.

It was almost regret. Or, quite possibly, it was regret. Lord Eustass had not experienced regret, but he'd had the emotion that was remorse described to him on more than one occasion by the old man who'd been his victim and now lay buried near the pond on the estate. When he'd killed people, others told him that he was supposed to feel some sort of remorse for their souls. He had never felt anything for them, but with Trafalgar there was some probing feeling curdling in the pit of his stomach. It was a strange feeling of sadness, repentance, and was tinged with bitterness that made the lord's mouth grow sour. He looked down on Trafalgar and felt and knew the emotion: remorse.

It was a dull ache, not nearly enough to make him keel over with tears but just enough to spoil his good mood.

He watched the doctor's dark hair sway softly with the wind's caress, his head jolting with each step the lord took. Eventually the harsh motion became unwelcome, and he shifted the body so the motion ceased altogether and his shoulder cradled Trafalgar's cheek. His eyelids still stayed sealed shut, and Lord Eustass felt a strange longing to see those dark eyes staring up at him, even if all they did was judge and mock him.

Instead, all he could do was admire the blood on his cheeks and his rouged lips. A part of him liked the idea of sharing something visceral with the doctor, and another part of him was repulsed by it. While that part of him may have once been the dominating one, the part of him that found the doctor undeniably beautiful was beginning to overshadow his previous opinion.

With a snort, Lord Eustass cleared his mind of rambling thoughts that would irritate him and focussed on walking. He managed to get a considerable distance before he looked down again at the person in his arms. What he saw made him nearly drop the man on the ground.

Trafalgar was staring right up at him, his expression controlled and unreadable.

Lord Eustass promptly tightened his grip, fearing the man would attempt an attack in order to immediately flee. He only had the advantage so long as he had Trafalgar trapped in his arms. In response, the doctor shut his eyes, then cracked one open just slightly so a sliver of his pupil showed through his thick eyelashes.

He half expected Trafalgar to make some sort of snide, sarcastic remark, but his mouth remained closed and oddly undisturbed, his fangs hidden from view and his limbs as limp as they had been in unconsciousness.

"Trafalgar." He got no response, only a twitch of eyelids and that same listless pupil gazing up at him, likely not even seeing him. That, or his cloudy eye saw but didn't comprehend what it was that it saw.

Did he really hurt the man this badly? So bad that he couldn't muster up the strength to speak or open his eyes fully? Lord Eustass felt a pinching in his chest, and clutched the body closer to his own, bringing Trafalgar's face closer to his, so his eyes were level with his shoulder.

"Trafalgar." He tried speaking up again, in case Trafalgar hadn't heard him the first time.

Trafalgar's breath on his neck told him more about the man than words could have expressed. It was thick and gaunt. Slow. Yet it wasn't exactly laboured. Instead, it was focussed. Like Trafalgar was planning to do something and was using this time to recover.

"Guess your plot to destroy me went horribly, horribly awry." Lord Eustass smirked, but his mouth fell into a frown when he saw his words had once again gotten little response. "What a twisted result. Your life ought to be written out and preformed as a tragedy."

Trafalgar's eyes opened fully, and Lord Eustass found himself grinning as it became clear that getting under Trafalgar's skin was not such an impossible feat. "I concur only with my beauteous life being written out. Written as a tragedy, I disagree. I have no hamartia, whereas should your life be written out as a tragic drama, your fatal flaw would be your monstrous proclivity towards maiming beautiful men."

With that said, Trafalgar closed his eyes again, leaving Lord Eustass steaming with vexation. "You seem to think yourself perfect."

"I am perfection," Trafalgar whispered, his eyes remaining closed to the strong jawline and deep red orbs peering down at him. "Or, rather, I was perfection. But my perfection has been tarnished."

Lord Eustass barked out a rough laugh.

"Oh, you think it is because you have dominated me a mere handful of times, so few that I could count them on one hand?"

Abruptly, Lord Eustass ceased laughing.

"What happened today…was nothing." The lord stopped walking, glaring downwards with a sneer on his face. Was Trafalgar really implying that he, too,was nothing? "I am bound by my own desires, desires that are not so different from yours. I made the mistake, today, of giving in to my hunger for your blood and that alone is how I know I'm tarnished."

"So it is not precisely me, but my blood that has caused you to fall from grace?" the lord asked, already knowing the answer. The tiny smile that curved rouged lips confirmed what he knew. "You are a strange, disgusting creature."

"Made all the more disgusting by you," Trafalgar whispered, his words floating gently on the wind. Lord Eustass curled his lip and shook the doctor, but he could already tell by the way Trafalgar's body sagged inwards towards his chest that the vampire was no longer with him. Instead he had retreated to a land of sleep from exhaustion.

Lord Eustass reached his empty manor at last. With no one home, he was free to do as he pleased without the inquisitive eyes and eavesdropping ears of anyone else hampering his progress.

He entered his courtyard with a wicked grin splitting his face.

-oOo-

Lord Portgas entered Duchess Jewelry's courtyard, where servants and stableboys were swarming like worker bees in the presence of their queen. Ahead he could see their queen sitting on a rather ornate wooden chair under the shade of a parasol, which was being held over her head by a particularly sweaty looking young man with gangly arms. Much to the lord's surprise as he strode up, she leapt to her feet to meet him.

"Afternoon, duchess," he said rather too plainly, and he could see the eyes of the man equipped with the parasol widen. He followed the duchess out into the sun, and she turned on him and shooed him away with a flick of her wrist, much like how one bats at a persistent fly.

"Go, Apoo! Make yourself useful elsewhere."

Lord Portgas watched the man stalk away while the duchess came towards him, then quirked an eyebrow along with a smile when he saw the man turn around and make an ugly face at the duchess' back.

His rapidly widening smile was mistaken by the duchess. "Oh, I'm happy to see you, too, Lord Portgas!"

His smile vanished, and he could hardly avoid a chaste greeting kiss on the cheek. His skin twitched uncomfortably where Duchess Jewelry had laid her lips upon him, and he resisted the urge to claw at his face. Not that he could, as the duchess' hands were resting upon his arms and keeping them snugly at his side. Then she looped one arm around his right elbow, and he knew he would be hard pressed to find an escape route.

"How are you today, my Lord?"

"Marvellous." He tried to keep the dryness from his tone. "Thank you for notifying me of that painting in your letter, that was quite kind of yo–"

"Oh, yes, the painting!" she interrupted. "Yes, yes. Well, we can get to the painting later. I think we ought to take a leisurely boat out on my lake. You'll like it, I am sure of this!"

He had no chance to offer his opinion for the contrary, as the duchess struck out and dragged him along behind her. She yelled at some of her servants, and they scrambled to obey her commands, most seemingly suspecting her words. He realized, then, that the entire affair had been planned well in advance, and it was likely to be a long day for him.

He groaned and resigned himself to his fate.

Just this morning Marco had woken him with a kiss, and that had considerably brightened what he'd thought was going to be a bleak day from sunrise to sunset. He'd also asked Marco once more if he'd like to be his more favoured company for the day, and had been refused coldly much in the same way as before. Yet he hadn't cared too much, for Marco had smiled in the morning with enough radiance to warm his entire body and keep him happy throughout the day.

Or so he'd thought at the time. Duchess Jewelry was certainly cooling him down now, talking senselessly about the weather and absently stroking the inside of his elbow through his coat. He wasn't sure what the repetitive motion meant, but he didn't like it coming from her. So when the duchess moved away to order someone to launch the little canoe painted in the same pastel green that her favourite hat was coloured with, Lord Portgas seized the opportunity to break their physical union.

The duchess tried to tactfully regain his arm, but instead Lord Portgas strode out to the dock where the boat was being set up. It was a rude move, but a necessary move. The duchess merely followed him.

"The breeze will take us out," the duchess announced. She always gave him her best cheery tone and reserved her scathing and snappish commands for her servants. "We can land on the other side of the lake easily enough. It takes about an hour."

An hour. Lord Portgas closed his eyes and tried to calm himself. He could already feel his patience melting with the midday sun. "Actually, I'm a good rower. Give me a paddle and I'll get us across," he said, not at all counting on the breeze. From the way it was blowing and gently tousling his hair, it would take all afternoon to reach the other side of the lake. He knew that the duchess was aware of this, too.

Rather than stand around to be manipulated by the duchess, Lord Portgas took it upon himself to search the area's servants who held various items that could or could not go into the canoe at the duchess' discretion. His eyes landed on a particular servant from before, whom he remembered had been addressed as Apoo. This same gangly fellow offered him a glossy pinewood paddle and a discrete grin, clearly enjoying how the duchess glared at them both and set her lips into a highly unattractive, pursed frown.

"Thank you, sir," Lord Portgas said. He returned the amused grin.

"My pleasure, Lord Portgas," Apoo said, his voice peculiarly melodious. Perhaps, the lord thought, he sang. He seemed to have the voice for it.

Lord Portgas didn't dwell too much on the man, and instead dropped himself into the canoe. He placed the paddle down lengthwise and then turned to offer the duchess his hand. She came up on the dock and looked down on the canoe and him, eying up the paddle that could so easily shorten their time together when employed by an able seaman, which she knew the lord was underneath his vest and white undershirt.

"M'lady."

Duchess Jewelry was not about to be enticed by the sweetness in the lord's tone. "Oh, do remove that paddle. The breeze is more than enough!"

"Just in case it is not, I would like to keep this at hand," the lord said, subtly arguing back. "As it is quite hot today, and the sun is shining brightly, we shouldn't be out on the lake for too long or else we'll end up with dark skin regardless of your parasol. Such would be unfortunate for a lady like yourself, would it not?"

The duchess scoffed and finally took his hand, and he helped her into the canoe. Someone shoved them off after equipping the duchess with a stronger and larger parasol, and Lord Portgas let himself glow from that momentary victory.

After a few minutes of awkward shuffling and adjusting herself, the duchess looked up at him with the same confident and unabashed stare that had so unnerved him. "Isn't this nice?" she asked, gesturing daintily around her. It was a move that almost brought out a snort from the lord, as there were few things dainty about the duchess to begin with. "It's so quiet out here, and the sun is so warm."

Lord Portgas nodded, and tried to restrain himself and keep from reaching for the paddle by clasping his hands together. "Quite," he mumbled. The duchess seemed about ready to go off about the condition of the lake, or perhaps more about the weather, and the lord scrambled to make sure the next hour or so wouldn't be filled with just one voice ringing out. "Actually, if you would, could you tell me about that painting you've recently acquired? I'd like to hear how you came across it and what exactly it pictures."

The duchess blinked at him, apparently having forgot the reason she was about to call him out here. Then she slid him a smile and began. "Well, no doubt you've heard that the navy have docked down at Sabaody's port?"

Lord Portgas blinked. No, he did not know. He voiced as much.

"Oh! But it is true! A certain acquaintance of mine, whom I do believe you've met – Admiral X. Drake? yes, he – informed me that they'd captured a pirate ship with valuables on board, likely stolen from a merchant. However, there were things on board that His Majesty wasn't particularly interested in, chief among them art pieces. Now, Drake is no collector, but he put my name forward to–"

Ace's eyes strayed to the far side of the lake, and he fancied he missed a lot of useless words that didn't interest him in the slightest. When he turned back to give her a scrap of attention, he found he hadn't missed much.

"–and that was it then. I got the painting and a few vases, because nobody wants a painting of a pirate ship in their home. Of course, I'm always attracted to exotic art like that, and Silvers Rayleigh is just the perfect pai–"

"Duchess, I think I will begin to paddle us to shore, if you don't mind," Ace said, interrupting the spiel in front of him. The duchess stopped twirling the staff of her parasol around in her fingers long enough to give him a bewildered stare.

"B-but we've only been out here for…" she trailed off, trying to settle on a number. It was obvious that she had no idea how much time actually did elapse when she opened her mouth and let loose a torrent of words. "Well, not nearly enough time!"

"Enough time for me. It is too hot to be out here, unless one was going for a swim afterwards. But, alas, like many seamen I cannot swim," Lord Portgas admitted, looking down into the inky depths of the lake with distain.

"Neither can I," the duchess said with a sweet smile. Lord Portgas couldn't help himself as he imagined tipping the boat over so both passengers aboard went asunder. Then he chastised himself for the thought. Drowning the duchess would leave a heavy weight on his conscience, and besides, he could not swim either and would die the same watery death. That would leave his Marco all alone, and that was a thought that was simply unbearable.

"I have been thinking, Ace – may I call you that? – whether or not to tell you that my mother knew yours quite well." His eyes widened, and he willingly gave the duchess his devout attention. "Actually, I think part of the reason they knew one another was because they were both charmers of some degree, though my mother certainly never limited herself to a certain design."

Lord Portgas blinked. He truly had no idea what Duchess Jewelry was going on about. "Charmers?"

She waved off his confusion. "Charmers. Your mother charmed plants, did she not?"

His eyes widened. The duchess knew what should have been a carefully kept secret, and the straightforward way she spoke of it aloud made the lord shake. "She did," he whispered.

Duchess Jewelry nodded, satisfied that he neither tried to deny it or call her ridiculous. "My mother was a charmer too, but she was also a lot of other things, including a witch."

The sun beat down on Lord Portgas as he froze, searching the duchess' face for signs of falsity. There were none. She was telling the utmost truth, and because of that the lord badly wished the breeze would pick up and push them against the other shore, for he didn't want to stay in the presence of the duchess any longer.

"They were good friends," the duchess assured him with a smile that the lord couldn't tell was fake or real. "I thought you should know."

"What did your mother specialize in?" Lord Portgas asked, unable to contain his question. He needed to know, because there was a chance, even though it would be slight that…

"Manipulations of the physical world. And yes, before you ask, I inherited her abilities, too. I have witching capabilities."

Lord Portgas sucked in copious amounts of humid air as the duchess seized his hand in both of hers. He hadn't noticed until now, but her fingernails were sharpened to ominous points, and her hands were so silken smooth that he thought them almost too childish even for a noblewoman. He watched their hands, wholly unprepared for a single word to change the appearance of his knuckles. Veins grew more prominent, the skin gathered in wrinkles and sagged, and his knuckles were bonier than they ever were before. He was looking down at the hand of a man aged by time, time that he'd yet to actually experience.

He looked up in shock, utterly mortified, and the duchess smiled innocently as if she hadn't just manipulated his life.


A.N.: Sorry for not posting this sooner! Moved back home from university, just starting to take time for myself again! XD