concasse | Appointments

[A smarter move, aiming for his legs. You'd think more of his opponents would figure that out, but no, not usually - meaning Sanji swears at the display of thoroughness or dumb-luck.

He isn't quick enough this time, due entirely to Yuro's reach; the blade catches his right thigh with force to bowl him over, but as Mihawk suspected, adrenaline begins picking up the slack. Sanji's fallen many a time in his life, and has learned to let gravity have its way, so long as his arms catch the rebound and propel him into a flip.

The landing is like Sanji's dodging - exhausted and of failing form, but he's still on his feet with a little distance to spare. His right leg aches in protest, however, from the previous impact; this is nothing like his brawls with Zoro, where the key is watching out for three swords instead of a behemoth blade. Already he backs up, trying to maintain some space to breathe and to think how he's supposed to last, fresh out of a coma]

[The difference between Mihawk and Zoro is vast, and the Shichibukai has hammered that into his pupil's mind time and time again, emblazoned it across his chest. It takes more than brute strength and skill to win a fight - battles are won with intellect and adaptation, creativity and observation. And if there is one thing Mihawk excels at, it is watching and learning.

Mihawk advances on Sanji the moment he stumbles back, the tip of his sword missing running through his side by inches. But that was intentional; Mihawk isn't meaning to kill him, just take him out. The sword plunges into the earth, and with both arms on the hilt, Mihawk swings himself and deals his own kick toward the chef. He may be a swordsman, yes, and Yoru is his greatest weapon, but that doesn't mean Mihawk can't use his whole body as a weapon.

You'd best get your head on straight, chef, and fast. Every movement Sanji makes is being watched and calculated, and Mihawk's mind is already piecing together his next move.]

[Sanji blocks it.

With his leg.

And the automatic move is what clears his head and sets a glower to his stare. Kicking at him? Oh, you poor fuck. Sanji will concede who is the stronger warrior here, but he'd rather cut off his foot than give Mihawk an inch in anything resembling a martial arts fight.

He kicks back, and hard, more to dislodge the swordsman than to actually hurt him. Incensed though he is, Sanji has always had a mind for pragmatics on the battlefield, and he's aware his greatest chances lie in a strong defense. The goal isn't to win - it's to wound or stun, then escape.

So he brings his foot back quickly, gathering heat and fire at the sole of his shoe until it climbs upwards to the calf. No need for friction now; he's learned a few tricks, and even echausted, doesn't mind showing off.

He's ready whenever Mihawk is.]

[The kick is certainly enough to dislodge Yoru from the earth, and flings Mihawk a good distance away, but his grip on his sword remains as tight and as firm as if the sword were a part of his arm itself. For as long as he can bear to touch her, Mihawk won't let Yoru out of his sight, nor his hands. But this is a learning experience - he'll have to rely on her entirely for this fight.

This cook's too quick on his feet for anything else.

Getting up though, Mihawk meets the chef's eyes. Though Sanji may have fire in his eyes (and on his leg), Mihawk has a faint amusement in his, and he looks almost pleased with every thing that's happening now. He's enjoying himself - this fight is entertaining and really testing him. Good for you, Sanji, Mihawk's going to take you a little more seriously now. Raising his sword over his head, Mihawk brings Yoru down in a sweeping arc - the blade creating a current that, if it doesn't hit Sanji himself, will definitely do damage to the landscape behind the cook. In a domino effect, the towering trees behind him begin to snap and creak, until they come toppling down toward him.

How sharp is you attention, Sanji? Because Mihawk's advancing on you as well, to make up for lost ground.]

[Sanji catches that look; he's seen it a number of times on Zoro's face, and it's no less irritating to be on the receiving end here. Infuriating, even. His life is on the line and this fucker thinks it's funny.

Many thanks for those makeshift ladders, however - Sanji's right leg is still too sore to pull off Sky Walk with its usual ease, but he can certainly jump into the clutter of trees slowly crashing for the ground, hiding amidst the branches while he puts himself at a higher vantage point.

... "Hiding" being a strong word when the Shichibukai can use Observation Haki, and Diable Jambe runs so hot that whatever touches it immediately sets to flame, but maybe Mihawk will really think Sanji's that stupid. Because he bends his legs on top of a soaring tree trunk, knees locked tight into a spring, waiting for Mihawk to catch him.]

[Just what is he planning? Mihawk's curious, but not reckless... He closes in on Sanji with ease - nimbly following his climb up the falling trees. He doesn't need his haki to follow Sanji just yet, even in the swiftly dimming light. With his eyes locked on a target, Mihawk can just follow then by sight alone - his alias may be stupid and bothersome, but it is truthful, to an extent. He really does have the eyes of a hawk.

He uses a falling tree as a springboard, racing up the falling wood and leaping off one branch. Yoru's not meant as a blade that strikes and thrusts, but even so...she can pierce through flesh just as well as any sword. And he has to hurry things up, too, Mihawk can already feel a heat tingling under his fingertips and palm as the seconds tick on. Yoru's starting to feel warm on his skin.

He jerks his arm forward, hoping the point strikes its target. He's got pinpoint accuracy, but this man is fast and light on his feet. He'd be irritated if the still sane half of him wasn't enjoying himself so much.]

Edited (WHAT THE SHIT, DW, I WASN'T FINISHED. ) 2014-10-16 00:29 (UTC)

[Ah good. He caught up.

Sanji's idea isn't revolutionary; it's almost insultingly simple for something to bet his life on. In a test of strength, he will lose, and lose poorly in his current state of blurred vision and aching limbs. Speed however, might be his ticket, alongside a well-placed shot. He gathers what strength he can into both legs and firmly kicks off the tree trunk, using the extra boost on top of the principles that earned him Sky Walk.

He isn't just fast when he launches - he's a blur, aiming his fire-encased foot for Mihawk's chest. Yoru is large enough that he won't escape unscathed at this point, and the blade cuts against the side of his ribcage, but dangerous as it is, he won't have a better shot than Mihawk thrusting the blade instead of sweeping it into a large arch.

Kick, bounce back. Get out of range once the blow has landed. A simple plan for a desperate fool, but if he's going to die, might as well spare whatever leg strength he has.]

[He could have dodged that kick.

Had there not been blood spilled, and his eyes shooting down to watch the delicate splash of red coloring his sword, Mihawk could have dodged the fiery kick aimed at him. With his concentration split like Sanji's skin, the chef's kick hits its mark dead center. The impact is unreal, and sends the swordsman shooting backwards with a sore, searing, red mark on his chest. He hits the ground below hard, and stayed there just a minute or two before rolling over onto his knees and pressing a hand to his chest.

An inhuman snarl rips through his throat, ending in a slow exhale. The kick hurts, he's probably got a broken or at least fractured rib if he's lucky, and his skin feels like it touched the surface of the sun itself. He reaches for his sword again, but the moment his hand touches the bound hilt, he realizes his time is up. A second form of heat burns his hand and he wrenches it free from Yoru entirely.

It's over, he's lost. He could still fight - the urge is there, and his hunger is gnawing away his common sense - but the playing field is uneven now. Mihawk knows he can't match this man in physical prowess, not with his bare hands, and over-powering him with the force of his haki is just a cheap shot. Besides, he's not even sure that would work. This man...his will is equally strong, and he may be able to keep on his feet even then.

So Mihawk will concede gracefully. He sets Sanji with a piercing stare - his eyes more animal-like than normal, and with a reddish tint to the yellow - then turns to allow the chef to pass. He's not going to leave his sword. Until it's safe for him to touch her again, he'll wait by Yoru's side.]

[That... ended better than expected. Staggeringly well, in fact. Sanji lands into a stumble, hand cupped against the throbbing wound of his side, and wonders if this is a fever dream, or if Mihawk has injured him to the point of delusion. Those options make more sense than what he's looking at: from the hand jerking away from the sword's hilt, to Mihawk silently urging the chef to take his freedom.

Shichibukai don't go down that easily. Sanji knows this first hand, and doesn't think they'd let their prey escape without good reason, either.

He's still tempted to do so. That last kick hit bone, probably cracked something, and in another meeting of blows, Mihawk's mobility will be sorely tested. This fight is more of a victory than the chef could hope for.

He'd leave... if his shitty brain would just stop barking orders at him for two seconds.]

The hell is wrong with you?! [He bites the words through his teeth, because irritation is all he has left to keep him standing, on his feet. Even Diable Jambe has burnt itself out.] Were you really planning on eating me?

[Hungry - Mihawk said he was hungry, that he needed a meal. Sanji earned his freedom and he has to leave behind a hungry man. What bullshit.]

[What in the--is this actually happening? Mihawk's brow raises for a moment before they both knit together in a very dark frown. He tells himself this cook can't possibly be this stupid, he actually won their little face off a moment ago, Mihawk is letter him get out of range of his haki so he can track him, even! Why in god's name hasn't the fool taken up his good grace and ran when he had the chance?! Does he really want to continue fighting? Does he really want to die here?! If that were the case, then this battle would have ended very differently very quickly.

With his eyes pointedly staring at Sanji's face, though even fiber of his being wants to watch the blood run from his body, Mihawk's tone is contained to a low growl. He's at the brink of his control, hence the generous offer before, and Sanji is really pushing him in ways Mihawk does not want to be pushed.

Just take your fucking victory and get lost, that's the best thing you can possibly do for him now.]

You escape me by mere chance alone and yet you have the simple-mindedness to speak so casually? [Mihawk tips his head in disgust, but here, let's answer your question, if you're so curious--] ...I am still planning it, yes. So be gone, if you value your life.

... Tch.

[Yes, he is a flippant twenty-one-year-old idiot who gives exactly zero fucks about Mihawk's baffled disgust. And he's also thinking with a critical squint, his eyes never straying from Mihawk's.

There are very few who Sanji would give his life for - the number maxes out at two, in fact, and will likely stay there, for as long as the remainder of his crew keeps out of this shitty limbo. But the fact remains: there are two. And he doesn't know where they are.

What Sanji does know is their little house isn't far from this impromptu battlefield, barely visible on the outskirts of Haki, and if Mihawk is as hungry as he says--

Sanji's vision blurs, so quick that he nearly tilts to the ground, and he braces his legs against the vertigo. He's more aware now of the blood that runs through his fingers, sticky and practically gluing them together. The wound is relatively shallow, but little good that does in his current condition.

He has energy enough to run, to alert Chopper and Nami on the PCD, and pass out against a tree trunk somewhere. Except his warning won't matter if Mihawk finds them, even by chance...

The dead come back here, don't they.

A disgruntled sigh. His expression clears to neutral. Then he sits down, cross-legged, torso leaned over his lap, voice tired and stubborn and not at all like a man who has decided to lose]

I value my shitty life just fine, thanks.

[There should be rules for these stupid kinds of circumstance. But there aren't. And he's a chef with a crew. And he almost wishes he could be a lot angrier about this instead of just resigned.]

With your control... you'll probably stop for a long while, after me...

[The worst part of all is, if Mihawk were a mind reader, he'd quietly agree with everything Sanji was thinking. Right now though, he's frustrated and confused, the latter only fueling the former. Why even go to such lengths? Why does he care if he feeds or doesn't? There are plenty of animals prowling about somewhere, Mihawk can just pick one off to prey on and keep him satisfied for a time. It's not the same, but it keeps his cravings in check. But what stupefies him most is the simple fact that they owe absolutely nothing to each other. They aren't friends, nor are they even allies - especially after what just happened tonight, let alone the events of Marineford. That's two of the Straw Hats he's almost obliterated...three, if you count Zoro.

These people make no sense, and he ought to just accept that at some point.

Not now, though. Now he's too aggravated to think right. And his hunger, and fraying sanity does not help things in the least. He can smell and see Sanji's blood, and it's driving him crazy, though his control is like Sanji said - unrelenting. But he's not mountain. He'll crack at some point and some point very soon, if he doesn't take this offer or find something else very quickly. With a resigned sigh, and the frown growing darker, Mihawk removes himself from where he was and heads a step or two closer to Sanji.]

I am still a man. [And men are weak.] ...Lie still.

[He needs to look you over and see how best to go about this.]

[Mihawk says not to move, and for the first time since they've known each other, Sanji obeys the order to the best of his abilities... which unfortunately isn't saying much. He won't bleed out (lucky for them both), but his chin droops close to his collar bone, then juts up again, like he's desperate to stay awake.

Though he admits, if he weren't so tired, if he wasn't already injured, being looked over like some cut of beef would strike him as funny. Never as far up the food chain as you asssume, eh.]

... Don't eat my hands, got it? They're off-limits. [He says it suddenly, head coming up to spear Mihawk with a petulant look. What need the dead have for their hands, he doesn't know, but the idea of losing them in any form greatly bothers him. He hides them in his lap.

It's easier than considering he just gave Mihawk permission to kill him, alright? His crew will take this so fuckin well if/when they find out.]

[Hm, the hands - or wrists, really - would have been the easiest place to draw blood from, but Mihawk will take this cook's request into consideration. He's already bleeding, but in a poor spot... If Mihawk had a vial or a flask of some sort, he could have spared this man more pain from another bite, as well as more bloodshed. He's not here to bleed him dry, just to get his fill for the moment. But he has neither of the aforementioned items, nor anything to patch this idiot up, either.

He'll have to take from the neck...how cliche.]

Very well, but the only other option is your neck. [You can still say no, cook. Mihawk won't judge you for your choice.]

... The neck?

[Looking absolutely baffled]

But there's not a lot of meat there. [He rubs the aforementioned area uncertainly, giving Mihawk such a skeeved glance of disappointment] Look, I know you're no expert, but there's better places to get meat from.

[Is there a certain gland the asshole is searching for? Some stringy vein? Sanji isn't well-versed in the rules of cannibals]

[...What.

Meat? Why the hell would Mihawk need meat, he's not a freaking zombie. Did--oh for the love of god, this imbecile really thought he was going to eat him, didn't he? Like really. The silence between the two is thick and heavy, and it lasts for a good, long qhile before Mihawk snaps it two.]

You really are an ignorant child.

[HEAVING AN ENORMOUS SIGH BECAUSE HOW THE FUCK EVEN. Your idiot blood better not effect him poorly Sanji so help your good graces, if any still remain.

Mihawk opens his mouth just so and rolls his lips back over his teeth to showcase his fangs. There should be enough light, even in the gloom of night, for Sanji to see. He doesn't flaunt them, and only has his mouth open for a few seconds, but the look he gives Sanji after speaks volumes.

Vampire, cook. He's a vampire.

Mihawk needs blood, not flesh.]

[There are only two rules in this universe that have forever remained absolute:

Sanji is never too tired to flirt, and he's never too tired to get into a spat.

The moment Mihawk throws exasperation back in his face, the chef visibly flares with renewed energy, teeth gnashing and leaning forward. He almost forgets the wound still bleeding from his torso]

The fuck is that supposed to--!!

[And why the bloody hell is he showing Sanji his teeth--oh]

[Oooooooooh.

Huh that makes a lot more sense.]

[BUT YOU SAID YOU WERE GONNA EAT HIM. For shit's sake, you don't say that to a chef who deals in meats, not blood. If Sanji had known the truth, he would've given Mihawk some blood and just sent the shithead on his way.

They fought for nothing.

Mihawk has a broken rib and Sanji is bleeding from his torso for literally nothing.

FUCKIN SWORDSMEN. HE HATES YOU ALL.]

Ugh, I can't-- why didn't you say you were a vampire?! [Pulling irritably at his tie, yanking it free and exposing more of the neck, all the way down to the collarbone. He's all business now.] Fine, let's get this over with, so I can fall back into a shitty coma!

[Mihawk holds up his hand, halting Sanji's movements. This man... Well, that sure does explain why Straw Hat kept this one around. Birds of a feather and all that.]

I'd rather not consume your blood, in fact... I may become terminally ill.

[Oh you shitty fuck--]

You about stabbed me trying to get at my neck and now you're gonna pretend you're not hungry?! I can't have you prancing about in hunger pains with my crewmates walking about!

There's nothing wrong with my blood, damn it!

[He is so offended. SO OFFENDED. And it doesn't matter if it won't grant him any favors, Sanji digs his fingers in his hair and scrubs the frustration around with a howl]

All you shitty swordsmen...!! It's like you do it on purpose!!

[Lord, can this rooster crow...even while injured. Which means he's actually fine, if he can be that animated while bleeding and fatigued. He may not even need to drag his sorry carcass back home after.

Mihawk tilts his head to one side, leaning an inch or two back with closed eyes - just to let the baby have his fit - and only begins to pay attention when the silence lasts more than a second or two. Are you quite sure your finished? Really and truly?]

So you say... [But he doesn't believe that for a second.] Though considering you've frightened off any potential prey animal with your childish caterwauling, what choice do I have now? Lie still.

[...]

And be quiet.

Tch. You don't look like my captain, shithead. Stow the orders.

[Even Zoro doesn't get away with that, nor Luffy, when it comes down to it. He's not itching for another argument, but he can call back Diable Jambe in an instant if he's pissy enough.

He hears vamps are good timber.

That said, Sanji complies once his temper burns dry, and because he's just as eager to put this mess behind them. He'll let Mihawk have his drink, before taking off at Mach 2 in another direction.]

[Oh, believe him, cook, Mihawk takes no pleasure in this, either. If it wasn't necessary, he really would have wandered off already to feed on anything else. His taste runs so much better than this normally, but he has no choice, and his control is slipping. He really needs blood, and the scent of it from this man isn't helping his craving. Besides, there'll never be another opportunity like this. Mihawk has to take it and not complain.

With a resigned sigh, he steadies Sanji with a hand on his shoulder, perhaps also to keep him in place in case he gets cold feet (haha). He's already agreed to it, so there's no turning back now, for both of them. Mihawk leans in and for the time, he purposely lets his restraint slip...by a careful degree. With his mouth closing in on Sanji's neck, his monstrous side takes over, and Mihawk's fangs sink into the chef's skin. It'll definitely hurt - he's not here to be delicate, he's here to eat - but the pain will dissolve into a gross sense of wooziness as Mihawk actually begins to takes long, slow mouthfuls of the chef's blood, his own body seeming to loose its tension.

He was hungry, and it's not a pleasant thought, way back in the depths of his mind, but human blood is far more satisfying to his palette. He won't need to feed for some time after this, if he can help it. And he really is trying to keep himself in check, despite how warm and smooth the cook's blood is, but it's no easy feat to prevent a content sigh from escaping through his nose.]

[Mihawk's slow descent is unnerving in all the ways that Sanji hates: he knows exactly what it coming, that the true danger has essentially passed, but the hairs on the back of his neck still stand. The chef nearly hisses at the swordsman to get that hand off his shoulder.

-- and then he hisses for entirely different reasons, body rigid on point. Not a gentle biter, is he? (And you best believe Sanji fuckin bleaches that thought from his mind the second it's born.) His fight and flight instincts are swearing up a storm, so much that he tries to angle his head away. It just gives Mihawk more room to work with, and eventually Sanji gives up, sits still, biting harshly on his tongue.

The worst is that it doesn't hurt. Pain, Sanji can deal with in spades. The vague, uncomfortable lethargy that overtakes him as his bodily fluids are drained through his neck? Fuckin unwelcome, and he weakly hangs on the precipice of his irritation to keep him afloat. It's odd, how he's even more hyper-aware of the wound on his side, the pump of blood that will eventually slow and congeal.

If there's blood left in him by the time Mihawk finishes.

He promised the swordsman a meal; he made good on that. And as the exhaustion burns the colors his vision dark and fuzzy, Sanji gives a murmur, stirring long enough to start pushing back at Mihawk. Off, now. Or else he will pass out on the ground.]

[The push elicits a low growl from the swordsman - feral, irate, but it lass only a second before Mihawk reigns in his senses again. He fed, he should be satisfied now which is actually truthful. With fresh, warm blood in his system, and the monster inside pleased enough to allow Mihawk to take over once again, he releases Sanji and pulls away from him, licking over his lips. It was a reflex move, and he mentally kicks himself for it, but looks the cook over to make sure he's really not about to keel over and die. Mihawk had really only taken enough from the young man to calm the beast, though he's sure it's no where near full, yet. But he can't descend that far on a human.

That wound in his side really needs to be tended to. The cook's losing too much blood as it is and though it's just a flesh wound (which Mihawk must nod his head to; the chef was lucky to not be gored), he's still injured and bleeding. He can't afford to lose any more otherwise it could get serious.]

Let me see your tie. [He can at least bunch up a section of the man's coat and tie it in place against the wound, maybe even help him back home. Mihawk owes this man that much.]

[There's a splintered stump right behind Sanji, and he presses the majority of his weight into it once his neck is freed; an extra precaution against falling over.

A chill has set into his bones; he can still feel the phantom press of teeth digging into his skin. There's probably blood dribbling down his neck as well, but he can't be bothered to do more than roll his head, catching Mihawk's stare with tired eyes, and then silently following through with the request. He'd loosened the tie beforehand, to better bare his neck to the swordsman, and practiced fingers untie the knot, slipping it loose in his hand.

It's silk. What a shame, one of his favorites. The thought drifts like fog around his eyes, until he focuses long enough to push it into Mihawk's waiting hand.]

[Taking the offered item, and allowing the chef to sit (it's best that he does, actually), Mihawk survey's the damage and kneels beside the cook. He adjusts a part of Sanji's coat that isn't soaked through with blood, over the wound. It's not the best kind of makeshift gauze, but it'll have to do for the time being. At least until Mihawk delivers the cook back to his crew to get patched up properly.

As he places a flat and also dry portion of the silk tie against the covered area, as another means of stopping the flow of blood, Mihawk ties the two loose ends tightly on the other side. Not tightly enough to stop the blood flow, but just to keep the fabric in place to soak it up. Once that's done, he hefts the chef up onto his feet, taking one of his arms.]

I'll return you to your crew.

[The comment would elicit a laugh, if Sanji could manage that kind of energy; he goes for a sharp grin instead, leaning heavily against the older man. So that's three near-impossible events for today: besting a Shichibukai in battle, letting him drink his blood because he's a fuckin vampire, and then the same bastard deciding to walk him home like a cheap prom date.]

How polite of you. [Sanji wouldn't have blinked, had Mihawk left him to crawl back to the house.] Fair trade for the meal, then?

[It's dry humor wrapped around the contradictory concern Sanji's been carrying, ever since finding out Mihawk was acting out from hunger. Did the asshole get his fill? There'll be nothing to do about it once Sanji's unconscious in the solitude of his house.]

[Sanji has nothing more to worry about, Mihawk has had his fill - for now. Besides, he's not going to take the cook right to his doorstep, he's a grown ass man and should be able to make the walk home when the house comes into sight. That's as fr as Mihawk intends to take him, at least.

Draping the chef's arm over his shoulder Mihawk eyes his sword and doesn't even hesitate when he reaches out to pick it up. He will not leave it Yoru out here unattended. The burn makes him inhale sharply, but once the sword is in its holster on his back and not directly touching his skin, Mihawk breathes a little easier. Once he's got everything, he takes a step forward.

Hurry along now, princess.]

[Sanji hears that sharp inhale. His back stiffens on command, realistic expectations insisting anything that makes a Shichibukai hiss like that is bad news.

It's just the man's sword, however. Sanji glances askance, frowning a turn when the sword takes its place inside the holster, and then he eventually lets it go as another part of vampire lore. He's too damn tired to work out the full implications. The rest of his concentration is spared toward walking, instead, and gradually pulling some of his own weight with every step.

It's hard, though. His pride aside, he wasn't in any shape for a fight, and Sanji would no doubt stumble on every twig and rock without someone supporting him. When his house finally comes into sight, he's as relieved as he is anxious, and calls upon pragmatic sense to help pull him away from Mihawk's support.]

I'll take it from here. [He might lean against a tree and wait for the man to sneak off, and thus not see Sanji faceplant into the dirt (multiple times), but this is far enough]

[The hand that gripped the sword a moment ago is shaking from the pain, but Mihawk ignores it, keeping it still so the burning, tingling sensation will fade away. He says nothing during their walk back, nor anything when Sanji pushes him off. Mihawk had intended to come as far as this from the very start, so he removes the cook carefully and turns to go.

What happens now is none of his concern. He did what he said he would, and whether or not the chef plants it in the dirt or has to crawl to the front door...he doesn't particularly care in the slightest. Mihawk leaves quietly, and doesn't even spare a glance back. He's in good hands now, and his crew can care for him from here on.]

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