[frogsinlogs]

no matter how bad things are there will always be music no matter how bad things are there will always be music no matter how bad things are there will always be music no matter how bad things are there will always be music no matter how bad things are there will always be music

[intergalacticqueenofpickpockets]

the line changing from “i’m willing and able” to “if you’re willing, i’m able” made me so fucking sick noah kahan i love you so much my soul is yours and also how dare you

[taiturner]

FROM, 4x01 "The Arrival"

[lbelongiiu]

I take on fish everyday. Not ones that size, you don't. Don't you worry about me and size.

ZORO and SANJI ONE PIECE season 2

[2886beaconstreet]

ao3 asking if i want to see mature content. do i want to see birds in the sky. do i want to feel the wind in my hair and the grass under my feet

[traumaticchild]

really rude that i cant go back in time and save my younger self 

[clarkswayne]

it’s so strange having the same tumblr you’ve had since you were 14 n going down your followers seeing some haven’t made a post in 10+ yrs

i can’t just unfollow them bc they were apart of who i was

it’s so weird

[krushing]

I would never trust my life to a warrior who claimed never to have been afraid.

One Piece (2023-) S2EP5: WAX ON, WAX OFF

[clarkswayne]

summary: sanji’s swapped bodies with nami. Zoro obviously has issues with this.

••

The first thing Zoro notices is that something is wrong.

Not visibly wrong—anyone with eyes can see that already. The whole situation is wrong. Bodies swapped, voices mismatched, the crew louder than usual about it. That part is obvious.

No, what throws him is quieter than that.

It’s the way his attention keeps catching.

He’ll be halfway through sharpening his swords, steady, rhythmic, the scrape of steel grounding—when movement pulls his gaze up without permission. And there he is—Sanji, except not—leaning against the railing in Nami’s body, posture just a little too loose, a little too familiar. Like he doesn’t belong in that shape, and yet somehow fills it anyway.

Zoro clicks his tongue, drags the whetstone harder than necessary. Looks back down.

Doesn’t matter. Shouldn’t matter.

It doesn’t.

Except it does.

Because it keeps happening.

Sanji moves differently than Nami ever would—less careful, less aware of the weight of attention. There’s none of her calculated distance, none of the way she controls a room. Instead, there’s this careless sprawl, this irritating ease, like he’s comfortable in a body that should make him self-conscious.

And worse—he keeps getting close.

“Oi, marimo—”

Zoro doesn’t look up. “Get lost.”

But the voice comes from right there, too close to his ear, warm and teasing. “You’ve been real quiet. Missing me already?”

There’s a shift of weight. Then suddenly Sanji is stepping between his legs, like it’s nothing, like it’s natural, bracing a hand on the mast just over Zoro’s shoulder.

Zoro’s grip tightens on the hilt in his hand.

It doesn’t register at first—not consciously. Just that something has slotted into place in a way that shouldn’t make sense but does. Like this is a position they’ve occupied a hundred times before, even if it isn’t.

Like he belongs there.

Zoro exhales sharply, annoyed at himself more than anything, and finally looks up.

Wrong move.

Because it’s Sanji—he knows it is. That stupid eyebrow, that infuriating smirk barely contained in a face that isn’t his. But it’s layered over something else now, something that shouldn’t be part of this equation at all, and Zoro’s brain stumbles trying to separate it.

He’s never looked at Nami like that.

Not once.

And yet—

“Get out of my space,” Zoro mutters, voice rougher than he intends.

Sanji grins, clearly pleased. “Make me.”

It’s a game to him. Of course it is. Pushing, provoking, seeing how far he can go before Zoro snaps. Same as always.

Only—it isn’t the same.

Zoro shoves him back, harder than necessary. Sanji stumbles a step, then laughs, bright and sharp.

“Aw, what’s wrong?” he goads. “You getting shy now?”

Zoro stands, abruptly, sheathing his sword with a click that feels louder than it should. “You’re annoying,” he says flatly, and walks past him.

But he’s off.

The rest of the day, he’s off.

He misses cues in training, swings a fraction too late, misjudges distance. His focus keeps slipping, dragged back to the same point over and over again like a compass needle that refuses to settle.

Sanji.

Not Nami. Not really.

Sanji in Nami’s body, moving like himself, acting like himself, and Zoro—

Zoro is aware of him in a way that crawls under his skin.

It pisses him off.

It shouldn’t matter what body he’s in. It’s still the same idiot cook. Same loud mouth, same habits, same—

Something twists in his gut.

Because that’s not entirely true, is it?

There’s something stripped bare in this, something that makes it harder to ignore the pieces Zoro usually doesn’t look at too closely. The way Sanji always steps in first when things get bad. The way he watches the crew when he thinks no one notices. The way his presence is just… there, constant and inevitable.

Zoro has always known that.

He’s just never—

He grits his teeth.

Across the deck, Sanji is watching him now. Not with his usual exaggerated annoyance, not with that performative irritation they both fall into like breathing.

Something else.

Curiosity, maybe.

Zoro looks away first.

—

Sanji notices.

Of course he does.

At first, it’s funny.

Zoro being weird is a novelty all on its own, and Sanji leans into it with everything he’s got. He crowds him more, drapes himself over spaces he knows Zoro occupies, deliberately brushes past him in ways that should get a rise out of him.

And they do—but not the way he expects.

Zoro doesn’t snap the same. Doesn’t bite back as quick. Sometimes he just… freezes, like something short-circuits, and then pulls away entirely, distant and sharp-edged in a way that feels different from their usual friction.

It’s unsettling.

Still, Sanji pushes.

He leans in too close again later, bracketing Zoro against the wall this time, grin already forming—

—and pauses.

Because Zoro isn’t reacting.

Not pushing him away. Not insulting him. Not even glaring, really.

Just looking at him.

Not at the body. Not at the face.

At him.

Sanji’s chest tightens, unexpectedly.

“…Oi,” he says, quieter than he means to. “What’s your problem?”

Zoro blinks, like he’s just been caught somewhere he shouldn’t be. His expression shutters almost immediately, something closing off.

“Nothing,” he says.

It’s a lie. A bad one.

Sanji knows him better than that.

And for the first time since this whole thing started, the game… shifts.

Because that look—that moment—

It wasn’t irritation.

It wasn’t rivalry.

It was something Sanji doesn’t have a name for, not one he’s ever needed to use with Zoro before.

And suddenly, the space between them feels a lot smaller than it used to.

Sanji steps back.

Not because he’s done.

But because, for the first time, he’s not entirely sure what he’s playing at anymore—and whether he actually wants to win.

[cottoncandyofterror]

Thriller Bark but OPLA and a wee bit more homoerotic touching!

[snowman616]

[clarkswayne]

Wax on 2/?

Pairing: zoro x Sanji

Summary: After Little Garden Arc, Zoro loses control of his body under Miss Goldenweek’s paint—and somehow Sanji is the one who won’t look at him after.

Zoro should be the one with a problem. So why does it feel like he’s the one being left behind?

Sanji keeps it buried where he keeps all the things he refuses to name—shoved down into the furthest, darkest corner of his mind, locked behind iron doors and rusting chains, sealed tight like if he never looks at it, it won’t look back.

But it’s there.

It’s his fault.

He knows it in the quiet spaces between one drag of a cigarette and the next, in the way his hands hesitate just a fraction too long when he reaches for a lighter. It gnaws—slow, patient, relentless. A rot he can’t cut out.

Because he knew.

That’s the part that won’t let him breathe right.

Zoro had been wrong from the start like a blade knocked out of alignment. Sanji had seen it. Of course he had. He sees everything when it comes to that idiotic marimo, whether he wants to or not.

It had been obvious.

First—Zoro laughing.

Not the usual sharp, derisive huff he throws Sanji’s way, not the rough-edged snort he gives when Luffy does something particularly insane. No—this had been careless. Loose. Too loud, too easy, like it didn’t belong in his chest at all. And right after they’d been at each other’s throats over that damn T-Rex—arguing, shouting, jabbing at bruises that had nothing to do with dinosaurs and everything to do with pride. Zoro would never just let it go. Would never let Sanji strut around the Sunny claiming his kicks took it down without biting back.

But he had.

Just laughed.

Second—the pomegranates.

The fucking pomegranates.

Zoro had been carving through them with that same off-kilter grin, blade flashing too quick, too precise and not precise enough all at once. Juice had splattered like blood across his swords—it was messy, wrong. Zoro, who treats his blades like sacred things, reducing fruit to ruin like some street performer tricking an audience that isn’t there.

Sanji doesn’t understand it.

This gnawing, gut-deep guilt that won’t settle, won’t burn away no matter how many cigarettes he lights, one after another, until the taste of smoke coats his tongue and the ashtray overflows. It clings to him, stubborn and sour, threading itself through the quiet moments, slipping between the cracks of routine he usually hides behind.

It doesn’t belong.

Not here. Not on a crew that has clawed its way through disasters that should have killed them ten times over—storms, warlords, monsters—and still come out the other side laughing, bruised and bloodied but alive.

Things go wrong.

That’s just how it is.

And they survive.

They always survive.

So why does this feel different?

Why does it linger like something unfinished—like a wound that never quite closed?

Why does the memory of the mossheaded idiot—of coming apart so quietly at the seams sit so heavy in his chest?

It makes no sense.

It shouldn’t matter this much.

[clarkswayne]

Wax On 1/?

Pairing: zoro x sanji

Summary:

After Little Garden Arc, Zoro loses control of his body under Miss Goldenweek’s paint—and somehow Sanji is the one who won’t look at him after.

Zoro should be the one with a problem.

So why does it feel like he’s the one being left behind? A.k.a I’m rewriting season 2 with more zoro/sanji :3

Zoro had always thought that distance would be a blessing.

Less of the cook’s voice in his ear, less bickering cutting through his focus, less of that infuriating presence lingering just at the edge of his awareness whenever he trained. Space meant clarity. Space meant discipline. Space meant he could devote himself entirely to the blade—to becoming the swordsman worthy of Mihawks acknowledgment, to the promise he made to Kuina all those years ago.

That’s what he’d thought.

Instead, it’s the opposite.

The distance doesn’t quiet anything—it makes it worse. Makes him sharper in all the wrong ways, hyper-aware of everything that’s missing. No snide comments about moss. No cigarette smoke curling into his space. No arguments that always, somehow, circle back to the same stupid rhythm they’ve fallen into since joining Luffy’s crew.

No Sanji.

And that’s the problem.

Zoro finds himself tracking him anyway—eyes flicking across the deck without meaning to, noticing the deliberate way Sanji moves around him. Not near him. Never near him. Always just out of reach, like the cook has mapped Zoro’s position and adjusted accordingly.

It’s intentional.

That’s what gets under his skin.

Because when Zoro actually stops—really stops—and thinks about it, something’s been off since Little Garden. Since the wax. Since the paint.

Since Zoro lost control of his own body.

He remembers it too clearly. The unnatural stillness. The way his limbs obeyed something that wasn’t him, movements dulled and wrong, like his instincts had been wrapped in layers of cotton. Green paint—calm, compliance, passivity—forced into his veins without ever touching his blood.

And the worst part wasn’t the paralysis.

It was awareness.

His body moved like it didn’t belong to him, but his mind—his mind was sharp. Screaming. He knew the danger, knew the fight slipping through his fingers, knew exactly how badly things could go if no one intervened. And through all of that, there was only one thing he could focus on.

Sanji.

Zoro had called for him. With words he’d ever willingly repeat, not with anything he’d admit to under normal circumstances—but it had been there. Clear as a blade at his throat.

Turn around. Help me.

If anyone should be pissed, it should be Zoro. He’s the one who got turned into some overly calm, half-aware puppet, for fuck’s sake. He’s the one who felt his own body betray him while he stood there, useless, knowing he needed backup and hating every second of it. He’s the one who had to rely on that damn useless cook who just ended up walking away.

And yet—

Sanji’s the one acting like he’s the problem. Zoro exhales sharply, hand tightening around the hilt of wado chimonji grounding himself in something solid, something real. Steel doesn’t hesitate. Steel doesn’t avoid you. Steel doesn’t pretend nothing happened.

People do.

Specifically, one irritating, chain-smoking cook who won’t stop pretending Zoro isn’t there.

Distance was supposed to make things easier. So why the hell does it feel like he’s losing something he never even realized he had?

[clarkswayne]

why is no one talking abt zoro saying “the cooks gonna be sorry he missed this” n then sanji going n seeing the chains n wine with the wax and saying “somebody had a good time here”

sanji’s into a lil bdsm n zoro loves it

[nicoyarobin]

Is it true for a country as well? Can Drum Kingdom be saved? As long as there is someone to carry it on.

[nicoyarobin]

[onlyforsanji]

this ship sails itself