[ In the span of two kisses, her body’s practically buzzing, eagerness lighting through her as the taste of their mouths lingers on her lips, bitter smoke and sake as subtle in its flavor as Zoro is in his existence. Watching them kiss, Nami wonders if they can feel her heart beating as hard as she swears she can feel theirs.
Life is full of miscalculations, and the present moment stands with one foot on either side of the misjudgment line. Of course she was right about Zoro and Sanji, that they’d collide like a boat caught in a fatal current against a rush of rocks, the corner of her mouth twitching into the barest ghost of a smug smirk when the hand Zoro grabs at Sanji’s collar with yanks him closer, as if to unwittingly underline her correct assessment of the building tension between the two men.
But she hadn’t expected the flood of different thoughts and feelings that scamper earnestly through her own mind while she watches. Intrigue, because they’re both gorgeous, and amusement because Nami likes being right. As should have been expected, there’s also the faintest yearning for violence after she realizes she could knock their heads together and get revenge for weeks of being exposed to their enduring idiocy; a pang of desire that knots itself with a twinge of uncertainty, a feeling that reminds her of the downsides of making this up as she goes and the risk to the harmony of her crew; and humming steadily but needily beneath it all, the overwhelming want to learn them both and enjoy them learning each other at the same time.
Still watching them, the thought that at least they’re listening to her and not being stupid gets a muted chuckle out of Nami, who shifts against the hand on her hip and the one on her back, her skin almost uncomfortably warm, while she pulls her own away from their necks in favor of self-indulgence. Leaning in, the palms of both hands go flat against so many new planes and angles she could get lost in either of their bodies for days. They travel down the sides of their bodies, feeling and charting their different shapes, pausing here and there to impatiently tug at a shirt, or a belt, the fabric as dissimilar against her hands as the shapes of the men themselves. ]
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Life is full of miscalculations, and the present moment stands with one foot on either side of the misjudgment line. Of course she was right about Zoro and Sanji, that they’d collide like a boat caught in a fatal current against a rush of rocks, the corner of her mouth twitching into the barest ghost of a smug smirk when the hand Zoro grabs at Sanji’s collar with yanks him closer, as if to unwittingly underline her correct assessment of the building tension between the two men.
But she hadn’t expected the flood of different thoughts and feelings that scamper earnestly through her own mind while she watches. Intrigue, because they’re both gorgeous, and amusement because Nami likes being right. As should have been expected, there’s also the faintest yearning for violence after she realizes she could knock their heads together and get revenge for weeks of being exposed to their enduring idiocy; a pang of desire that knots itself with a twinge of uncertainty, a feeling that reminds her of the downsides of making this up as she goes and the risk to the harmony of her crew; and humming steadily but needily beneath it all, the overwhelming want to learn them both and enjoy them learning each other at the same time.
Still watching them, the thought that at least they’re listening to her and not being stupid gets a muted chuckle out of Nami, who shifts against the hand on her hip and the one on her back, her skin almost uncomfortably warm, while she pulls her own away from their necks in favor of self-indulgence. Leaning in, the palms of both hands go flat against so many new planes and angles she could get lost in either of their bodies for days. They travel down the sides of their bodies, feeling and charting their different shapes, pausing here and there to impatiently tug at a shirt, or a belt, the fabric as dissimilar against her hands as the shapes of the men themselves. ]