The Jokes Are Just Writing Themselves With OPLA Zeff

BEAST SSKK RAAAAAAA

ace doodle :>

We were talking about the implication in the book where Crowley does not wear shoes and his snakeskin shoes are his feet…and then I said, what if his scales are like those reversible sequin pillows and one side is a shoe and the other side is feet

Yes godamit

Torso scar gang!! :D

What kind of horror podcast are you?

A) The [Adjective] [Medium]

B) [Noun] [Number] (this is going to relate to a location ;))

C) [Greeting] [Place]

...this is a self call-out post, I'm A

New headcannon unlocked

I keep seeing ppl say "why do Koby and Helmeppo look so gay in opla" and that's because they are💖 hope this helps

Let us tell the true tale of shaggy, you fucking cowards

Aa its so cute

and, final post for today - an old ryan dalias x akmazian art, from the podcast eos_10 <3

what if, and hear me out: sanji one day grabs zoro's hand so they could run together away from some bad guy and zoro develops a dreadfully deep seated longing to hold sanji's hand (when he's not cooking ofc). it drives him insane. he cant sleep. sanji's hand is so Soft. Why??? Why does he want to feel it again??? he wants to yell into the sunset

they're sprinting through the streets, skidding into random alleyways and falling over each other as they try to outrun whoever's chasing them and sanji's laughing, head thrown back and eyes blue as the damn sky, his hair in absolute disarray. he's beautiful and his hand is warm and slim and strong around zoro's and it hits zoro like a fucking bullet to the heart.

the memory haunts him like a particularly persistent ghost. he closes his eyes and all he can think about is sanji's fingers laced with his, lightly calloused, nails filed down to a perfect glossy sheen and skin butter-smooth from the hand cream that the cook is so adamant about using. his laugh rings in zoro's ears like the echo of a bell, merry, taunting— the swordsman is half-sure he’s losing his mind. he is one more restless night away from climbing to the top of the main mast and hollering until he scares seagulls up into the air.

as it turns out, he does not go seagull scaring. he carries on and keeps an iron grip on his self-control and acts like nothing’s wrong, because nothing’s wrong! it’s all fine! it’s all fine, who, him? peachy fuckin’ keen.

…yeah, right.

sanji’s fingertips brush his and he nearly drops the plate he’s just taken. the cook hip-checks him out of the way and he damn near chokes on a breath. they spar and he almost dies, not just because of everything, but also because sanji gets his thighs around zoro’s neck in a chokehold and zoro just gives up. throws in the proverbial towel. he doesn’t even try to get out of it.

strong, slender fingers drag him by the ear back to the men’s cabin to pick up your fucking clothes, marimo, what is this? a pigsty? because it looks like one and it smells like one, do you really expect me to— and sanji cuts himself off, because zoro’s. picking up his clothes. he looks so bewildered at the lack of protest that zoro almost laughs, and he hides it by bending down to snag a pair of pants peeking out from under his bunk. (he decidedly does not laugh, because it has suddenly hit him that he’d probably do just about anything sanji asked him to. he might complain, sure, but he’d do it—

and that is a terrifying thought to entertain.)

the days carry on, and it doesn’t get any better; hell, zoro would say it gets so much worse. his heart seems to recognise every touch of sanji’s skin as cause to go absolutely fucking bonkers; chopper literally asks him if he has arrhythmia. it’s that bad. he tried to go to sleep and imagines sanji, one bunk up, in his bunk instead, his fingers tangled in flaxen hair, his free hand laced with sanji’s. he eats dinner and gets hit with a pang of desire to help with the dishes so strong that he almost stabs himself in the face with his fork. there is something wrong with him, he thinks profoundly, a familiar sense of gloomy dread spreading in his sternum as he rests his chin in his hand, like an oil spill marbled through with potent fondness.

they’re forced to get their shit together in the end but only because luffy manages to get them locked in the galley while franky is “too occupied” to get them out. (he isn’t. he’s sunbathing on the damn deck and absolutely in on the plan.)

zoro’s barely breathing as he goes up to sanji, eyes wild, and as soon as the cook looks at him he smacks a big fat kiss on his mouth and yells OKAY BYE. he’s seriously considering jumping out the window but someone snags his collar and yanks him back, pinning him in against the countertop.

“and where do you think you’re going?” sanji purrs, but it’s breathless. his eyes are sea-sky-sapphire blue, like the heart of a flame, and zoro is the stupid little moth that was too damn dumb to fly away when he could and now he’s in the thick of it and he’s burning up, smoke drifting like it always did from the tip of sanji’s cigarette.

the edge of the counter digs into his back. “nowhere,” he breathes, and it’s a lie and too much of the truth all at once. anywhere away from here. nowhere away from you. nowhere i can’t find you. nowhere you can’t follow.

sanji sucks in a trembling breath, electric eyes searching for something in zoro’s face, and he must find it because the next moment zoro’s being kissed within an inch of his life and the only thought in his head is yes, yes, yes. finally. yes.

they walk out red-faced, hair mussed, clothes twisted, avoiding all eye contact and immediately darting off to opposite ends of the ship with mumbled excuses.

zoro’s mouth is kiss-bruised and his head is spinning. his hip aches where he’d banged into the edge of the table. his heart aches where he’s finally let go of the wound he’d been holding shut for ages because now it’s bleeding afresh and sanji hasn’t stitched it up yet.

(but that night, as he lays awake heavy-limbed and staring at the bottom of a bunk, long legs swing over the side. sanji drops down, angling himself to land on zoro with a soft oof.

they talk. it is easier, somehow, when they cannot see each other— but zoro knows those blue, blue eyes are on him. he feels them slip shut, lashes dragging against the pad of his thumb as he tilts sanji’s face for another kiss; softer, this time. gentle. a banked flame flickering in the hearth, warmth and not destruction.

they fit together like their hands do, puzzle-piece natural, and it feels like coming home. zoro hasn’t known home in a very, very long time.

he buries his face in silky, sweet-smelling hair and falls asleep with sanji’s pulse thrumming beneath his palm.

come morning, he wakes to find the sheets twisted around them, a dull ache blooming across his shin— sanji’s a kicker. being privy to this information delights him an unreasonable amount.

the cook stretches with a loud yawn, arms falling to rest around zoro’s neck as he rubs his socked feet together. “come make breakfast with me,” he mumbles, the words muffled against zoro’s shoulder—

and zoro finally lets himself laugh, lets it bubble out of him like champagne, a rumble in his chest. “sure, curly. five more minutes.”

he feels impossibly light. five minutes turn into ten, and ten into twenty. they both fall back asleep. their captain will have to settle breakfast himself for the day; their cook’s hands are, unfortunately, otherwise occupied.)