show me your teeth

-Dedicated to Seven-Bridges;

It's funny how I suspected I'd write Casablanca for you, but I end up giving you Nosferatu instead.-

Note: Because I was going to cave in sooner or later.

Warnings: Biting; blood; language, boy x boy (obsession) love, slight vampirism if you may, spoilers for the latest manga arc, that sadomasochistic side you can't burke~ (Oh, and unbeta'ed.)

Summary: His apex darts out to cleanse scarlet-splattered canines, the evidence of his basic instinct to survive and Zoro just stares unabashedly at this entire process, not suspecting the image would remain burned on his retina.

I hereby disclaim any rights.

...Walk right up and bite me, take a hold of me and fight me.

Leave me dying on the ground~

Jack White; Love Interruption


Zoro immediately squints his eye shut after having experimentally opened it. There is this intrusive, overwhelming bright light and he cannot stand staring directly into the source of this excruciatingly painful light; a desk lamp. His cranium aches and he hopes, mostly for Chopper's sake, that he doesn't have a concussion. He instead focuses on his other senses, the abrasive ropes firmly tied around his bare wrists and ankles, confining him to a harsh wooden chair. He smells blood and tastes the coppery liquid on his tongue and he hears ragged breathing, the impatient tap-tap-tap of something.

"Rise and shine, Roronoa." He furrows his brow at the lilting undertone of the voice, conveying apparent amusement at his current predicament. "You took quite the blow.. I almost feared you wouldn't wake up. Now that'd be a pity."

Resisting the urge to growl, he furrows his brow and regards the figure in front of him with contempt, "You attacked my back." He spits out the next word, "Coward."

He wags his index finger, "Now, now. You wouldn't accuse me of being immoral, would you?" The captain struts over to the waves of shadow in the upper-right corner, the white Marine cape bellowing behind him as he disappears for a short amount of time. Zoro stretches his neck to catch a glance of whatever the man with the impressive stature is planning but ends up hissing lowly from pain.

"Look, I even brought you company." He returns with a dangerous sneer plastered over his plump lips and drags someone over to his side, someone he faintly recognizes-or rather refuses to recognize, chained onto the chair. The legs screech loudly in protest as they scrape over the stone tiles. "It's one of your crewmembers." The Marine captain can barely hold the excitement out of his baritone.

He seats himself directly opposite of the two Strawhats, elbows upon the surface of the desk, fingers linked into a bridge and the grin widens, "Let's talk about the current location of your captain. He made an unfortunate escape after we retrieved you."

Sanji slowly lifts his head, an ominous smirk tugging on the corners of his mouth and states in a hoarse low voice, "Oh, don't worry. He'll make it nice and easy. He'll come to you. And he'll fuck... you... up."


Threats usually hold no influence over Sanji's behaviour and Zoro is rather knowledgeable on such subjects because he spends his days literally threatening the cook and generally pissing him off. However, this is an entire different matter. The Marine captain holds Sanji, and in extension the chair he's tied to, above the ground by the collar of his button-up with a rather disgruntled expression.

"How would you like rotting in a cell, huh? Without food. Without water. Just you and the rats, blondie." He shakes the cook roughly. "Starving. Would you like to starve, kid?" Zoro lets out a sigh, this is destined to end in a disaster judging by how the ignorant Marine is rattling the bars, pushing the buttons.

Sanji laughs, but the sound is hollow, bitter, "You don't want to keep going in that direction."

Apparently the captain does, "What are you going to do about it?" He stresses the 'you' with mock, asserting the belief Sanji is utterly powerless.

And then... Then Sanji leans in for the kill; he latches onto the muscled sun-kissed neck of his adversary, canines pushing into flesh, breaking skin. In surprise, in shock, the captain wants to drop the cook back upon the floor and loosens his grip on the blonde's collar. Zoro hears the sickening sound of something being torn out of its confines. Scarlet squirts from a gaping wound and splatters upon his crewmate's face. He faintly notices how the captain screams in horror, clutching the spot beneath his mandible with the palm of his hand and propels himself backwards, away from the desk and his attacker. There are thin lines of crimson streaming between the gaps of his sausage-like fingers. Zoro directs his attention on his crewmate and on how Sanji's chair shattered underneath the impact of being carelessly thrown upon the solid underground. He shakes free from his braided shackles, the remains of the rope falling upon the tiles, amongst the splinters, and he absentmindedly rubs his bruised wrists.

He spits out an indigo blob, something, Zoro guesses, that used to be part of the captain's external jugular vein. "That hurt." Both of his eyes are hidden behind golden strands. Blood coats Sanji's chin. "I don't take kindly to physical abuse, but emotional abuse?" There is the dry chuckle again, "About topics of famine nonetheless." He clacks his tongue and advances, momentarily forgetting the swordsman's presence.


It's fascinating, it's gruesome, it's basic survival instinct. He is somewhat dazed by the chains of events, by the thought of Sanji ripping out vein from someone's throat and strangely, the whole ordeal doesn't leave him desensitised as he originally expected. He feels the ropes fall to the ground as the knots are undone by skilful fingers.

Zoro stands upright somewhat lethargically, stretching his arms above his head and slightly turns his neck to observe the blonde cook. He sees how an elfin tongue darts out to sweep over the front row of Sanji's teeth, wiping away the coat of scarlet upon the white surface.

He frowns as a tremor trails up his ankle, through the nerves in his calves to his thighs. Shrugging it off as emotional aftermath –or something similar- the swordsman pins his cognitive functions onto more urgent causes. They need to escape this facility and get back to the harbour.


Chopper daps patiently at the cook's jaw with a wet cloth, slowly staining beige a flaky crimson and the entire process somehow fascinates the swordsman, standing in the open doorway, leaning with crossed arms against the wooden frame. Bandages are meticulously wrapped around his skull, tiny tufts of fuzzy green hair sticking through the white gauze. His wound, a gaping gap which was apparently an evidence of "blunt force trauma" -as Chopper put it so medically-, required stitches. Whoever fucked him over, fucked him over good. Just not good enough. After all, the captain is dead and he, himself, is very much alive.

"It's not mine." Sanji assures their doctor with a weak smile, referring to the dried blood. He nods vigorously, peering from underneath his large pink hat at his patient's chin and precariously wipes the paint-like substance away to make way for slightly irritated skin.

Zoro can account; the blood isn't his either.


His subconscious betrays him for the first time approximately five nights after the hostage-debacle.

He shoves him against a kitchen counter, the pungent angle digging into the cook's backside, and pins him there with the palms of his hands slammed upon the smooth granite surface, one on each side of him. He vaguely remembers an incoherent string of curses resounding in his eardrum accompanied by a haughty huff, the reason for his current anger. The current tathumptathumptathump in his chest, the rush of adrenalin. The blonde grimaces; a bead of sweat rolls down his left cheek, powdered with embarrassment, the blue iris of his visible eye narrows around the dark pupil, but the thing, or rather things, that attract his attention the most are those pearly fangs.

"My, my, aren't you easily irritated today?" His voice is taunting, but as he delves past the teasing edge, he can percept an undertone laced with worry, it makes this entire predicament so much more appealing to his senses.

He smiles, "Bite me, cook."

So Sanji leans forwards, his hot breaths cascading against the tanned jaw line, against the sensitive skin underneath the mandible, against his tathumping jugular. Those incisors tempt him with jagged caresses, the tip of his tongue, slick and foreign, flicks out and leaves a saliva-coated trail in its wake. He's panting, anticipation making his fingers spastically twitch against the cook's sides. For a moment there is nothing; just a promiscuous promise of pain and pleasure.

He repeats, more forcefully, "Bite me, cook."

And so, Sanji does. His canines pierce his olive flesh, they probe, tempt and taunt; blood vessels break and ooze their contents, and then the blonde gnaws and it hurts, but it's the wonderful kind of hurt. He laps and sucks and litters the entire canvas of the swordsman's neck with bite marks. He, in turn, wants to mewl, moan out his approval but instead, he merely whimpers.

Zoro wakes, seated cross-legged in the crow's nest against the couch. His index and middle finger press against his jugular vein, mimicking the puncture holes a vampire would leave. He breathes heavily as he realizes the adrenalin is still there for an entire different reason than the prospect of a fight. His heart beats irregularly and he pushes a bit harder down upon the vena.

He shivers and the quiver slips between his vertebrae, making his core burn and smoulder.


He supposes his current position could be categorized under the compartment 'suffering by emotional confusion'; but at least he does so in style. After checking the confines of the kitchen for any haunting cooks or curious captains, he grabs a bottle of whisky, amber, exquisite and strictly prohibited by said haunting cook, and seasons his coffee with much-needed and much-desired alcohol. So when Sanji eventually does reappear from frolicking around with trays of afternoon snacks and virgin-cocktails, it would appear as if he is just consuming caffeine, safe from the blonde's wrath and safe from confusing hormonal reactions caused by physical contact. He takes a sip, the hot beverage slides down his oesophagus and leaves a warm numbing sensation in its wake.

"Espresso?" Sanji snickers lightly as he enters, the steel-tipped dress-shoe pushing open the door for his hands are preoccupied by empty glasses and a tray. "You don't wanna sleep no more or something?" There is a barely audible click as the door closes.

Zoro rolls his eyes in annoyance, "I don't need to explain the logics behind my actions. Especially not to you."

"You have logics? Wouldn't that imply you have a brain? How terribly shocking." The cook retorts without blinking and saunters over to the refrigerator. He retrieves an apple, green and glossy, grabs a few paper napkins and seats himself opposite to the swordsman.

"The only thing shocking is the fact you..." He falters as Sanji takes a large bite into the fruit and he can't take his eyes from the teeth digging through the green skin into the sour flesh and the juice glides down his chin and makes those incisors glimmer and oh my, this shouldn't be this erotic. "You... Uhm..." Zoro licks his bottom lip, a hazy gleam sliding over his abyss-like iris as he commits the sight to memory.

"I what? A cognitive malfunction? Error, mosshead disconnects from New World." He mocks after swallowing down a chunk of apple and tapping his mouth softly with one of the napkins.

He softly shakes his head, "You are an unbelievable asshole who deserves a nice soak in the ocean." Sanji shrugs and continues chewing on his treat.

"Yeah right, that's not what you were gonna say and we both know it." He tilts his head slightly to the right, feigning a more innocent apparel. "Why so shy? You were going to compliment my excellent choice of coffee beans or fashion sense, now weren't you?"

Zoro nearly chokes, "Hell no. Don't flatter yourself! I was just... Momentarily distracted. 'is all."

His grin flexes and stretches into a full-fletched Cheshire one, "What were you thinking 'bout, mosshead?"

"Nothing. Urgh, Just let me kick your scrawny ass and get this nonsense over with." He huffs out, nearly empties the small ceramic cup of coffee with one gulp and crosses his arms in irritation.

Sanji reluctantly takes another bite of his apple, "You'll get your just desserts, Zo-ro." He punctuates his name slowly, "After dessert. I have something grand planned for tonight... Sachertorte. That's with apricot marmalade in case you didn't know. Well, you probably didn't. I'm still not convinced about you having a brain and all."

"I have a goddamned brain, dartbrow!"


"You lack finesse." He taunts and that's how they begin.

It can almost be considered idyllic; romantic even, were it not for the dull, hollow thuds of steel against calve, the ball of his heel against a tanned vein-streaked wrist and the sun keeps sinking into a myriad of waves against the horizon. Magenta-streaked sky and their grunts composing a ballad of frustration, anger in release, routine by strife. Zoro takes a few tactic steps backwards as Sanji loses himself in his momentum, a flurry of kicks aimed at his chest, his sides, his torso in whole. His fingertips steal a caress over the sheath of his katana, and they curl around Wadou when the cook nears dangerously close. Instead, Sanji loses his balance and tumbles forwards. He decides to play the semi-hero, the wolf dressed up as lamb, when he holds the blonde by the collar of his shirt and pulls him into his intimate bubble.


His eye widens.

The cigarette drops from between plump rosy lips, the cherry bursts upon the sturdy deck into morsels of smouldering ash. His grip tightens as the odour of sweat and smoke smother his nostrils. "So..." Sanji tests the waters, "What are you planning, Zo-ro." Oh God, the statement isn't meant to be sensual, but it comes out as a purr, accompanied by wisps of blue-gray and a sultry gaze. At least, something close to a sultry gaze. He isn't a specialist when it comes to seduction, really.

"Bite me, cook." He isn't insecure, it's a regular retort, the flair of a challenge clinging to the syllables.

Sanji cocks a curly eyebrow –seriously, he should prune those things- as if the resemblance to the hostage situation click together in the here and now. He sneers. "Positive 'bout that?"

Zoro dares not nod. There is a breach of protocol as the blonde leans in, the tip of his nose brushing against the swordsman's jaw and this isn't happening; it isn't happening. (it shouldn't be happening because it's them and is Sanji nuzzling him? Okay, so it's sort of happening, Zoro deludes himself.)

He should know better because it isn't happening at all and Sanji just manipulates the situation to drive his patella into the man's abdomen. He groans out, because fuck, that hurts, and he releases the dastardly devious cook in favour of clutching area where a bruise is blooming. His opponents twirls around, bows in theatrical mock towards Robin and Nami, regarding the fight from their lounge-chairs like pampered princesses and gives him a scrutinizing glance in passing.

He figured it out.


Ussop is sprouting lies again and the subject of his make-belief revolves around the concept of folklore. His attentive crowd, also known as their captain and their doctor, are gasping and clapping and laughing in cue to the rise in decibels of the storyteller's voice.

"So, this creep, all pale like a sheet and with red demonic eyes, is looking me up and down. He snickers at me, the great warrior Ussop and decrees; Oh, you'll be a most lovely midnight snack. So I laughed at him, because I wasn't afraid. Nuh-uh, not me.." Zoro crosses his arms in front of his chest, makes him comfortable against the mast and pretends to go back to sleep.

He's half-way into unconsciousness when he hears the familiar footsteps of the chef approaching. "Why would anyone want to eat you?" Sanji asks, the incredulous tone no doubt making Ussop's shoulders sag.

"Vampires don't eat people, they suck their blood. As a matter of fact, I have delicious blood, with an extra dose of courage!" Chopper claps his hands together and positively beams at the declaration.

Luffy, complete with a pensive expression, then inquires, "But how do they suck someone's blood? With a straw or something?"

"Oh, they bite them and then they suck, captain." There's a collective 'ooh' as Sanji explains and he approaches the napping swordsman. "Allow me to demonstrate." Zoro nearly jolts when the blonde hugs him from behind and buries his face into the crook of his neck.

There's an even louder 'oooh' and he swears he's going to murder Franky and Brook for whistling and rooting the chef on.

"What the hell are you playing at, shithead?" He hisses as the arms encircle his waist and the fangs scrape lightly against his jugular. He bites his bottom lip to prevent an aroused moan to escape his throat. "St-.. Stop that!"

Sanji snickers, "I'm just educating our crewmembers, my dear victim." He gives a playful squeeze, "And, if I recall correctly, you once asked me somewhat politely to bite you." His last sentence ghosts over his earlobe, "Don't tell me you've changed your mind."


The sex is extremely satisfactory but unfortunately short-lived considering Sanji's 'soul' –although Zoro finds this definition debatable- has floated into Nami's body and Chopper's 'essence' decided to take refuge in the cook's body.

Zoro is not amused, because the markings on his ribs are starting to disappear and he can't possibly ask Chopper-Sanji to latch on him like a leech. He also cringes at the thought of the witch's teeth sinking into his flesh, all the while the cook is too busy polluting Nami's lungs with his nicotine addiction and drooling over his newly acquired body.

Zoro is not only not amused but also extremely sexually frustrated. Life's a bitch. Oh and they're approaching a winter island.


He's face-down in the snow, the cold teeter-tattering upon the boundaries of his conscious and he can vaguely make out the form of the skeleton next to him. He strains his hearing for breathing, but lacks concrete evidence because he isn't sure how Brook breathes. Zoro tries to keep his internal engines running by picking out slivers of memory. Sanji, flustered and panting, his button-up seductively riding up his ivory skin while he is being pushed down upon the kitchen table. He tries to remember the smooth feeling, the electrical bursts of arousal exploding against the nerves of his fingertips, but it's freezing. He's freezing.

Sanji, grinding his hips against his pelvis, friction, the tip of his elfin tongue absentmindedly sneaking out in pure concentration. Sanji, pushing his teeth into his earlobe, the soft trickle of blood scooting down his sweat-streaked neck. Sanji, mewling softly as he strokes, caresses, touches, growling as he slaps, shoves, bashes, thrusts. Sanji, devouring an apple, green and succulent and he remember wanting to be that piece of fucking fruit at the time. Sanji, spitting out an indigo blob, scarlet coating his chin, gasping as the rush of adrenalin, excitement, slowly fades and dies.

With these thoughts on constant repeat, Zoro determines he's going to give the vampire his fangs back.

Penny for your thoughts?