Najiikarim - 𝙬𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙙, 𝙗𝙖𝙗𝙮.ᐟ

“ur so quiet” thanks i do not want to talk to you

deeply obsessed with this

to be fair , naji's not really a happy anything. he's always felt too much or too little , and even tonight he leans towards the former , awkward and messy in a way that he's hoping she won't find pathetic. the word mopey sticks with him , but he's simply amused , the feeling tugging his lips into a reluctant, lopsided smile he has no business letting mabel see. he swears it's the first time he's smiled all night , but hey , she's always carried a kind of warmth with her that's bled into his gloom. " i'm not grumpy all the time — " i'm definitely not grumpy around you. " — and , believe it or not , the eeyore comment is unoriginal. " naji stares at her reflection for a beat longer than he should , alcohol addled senses fixating his gaze there. he swallows , hard. tentative fingers drift to the door handle , rough thumbs brushing over it before the cold metal finally snaps him out of it, naji’s blinking hard like he’s trying to shake off the fog. " maybe i'll get you that shot when you're done. " before he's encouraged to say another drunken word , he pulls the door closed between them , letting the latch click softly into place before he leans against it. the heels of his palms press into his eyes , the pressure sending his vision dark and filled with sprinklings of stars. he's hoping that now — now that mabel's behind a door, where he can’t see her — he might finally be able to get a grip. 

in  her  own  defense,  mabel  isn't  completely  sure  that  her  pouts  work  on  naji  ;  there's  the  sneaking  suspicion,  yes,  and  maybe  she  weaponizes  it  a  lot  because  she  knows  it'll  work,  yes,  but  she's  never  been  sure.  always  the  gnawing  feeling  that  maybe  he's  just  humoring  her,  insecurity  personified  and  speaking  in  the  most  irritating  little  voice  in  her  head  —  if  mabel  thinks  about  it  too  much  her  stomach  hurts.  cheeks  go  pink  when  she  looks  at  him  like  this,  enough  to  make  her  freeze  for  a  sputtering  moment  before  giving  up  and  ducking  under  his  arm  to  get  in.  push  past  him  (  ignore  the  stumbling,  she  didn't  claim  to  be  sober  )  and  she  won't  have  to  look  too  long.  "  i  don't  even  have  attitude,  you're  just  so  grumpy  all  the  time.  thought  you'd  be  a  happy  drunk,  you  know.  "  confidence  is  restored  and  her  tone  evens  out,  gains  the  little  lilt  typical  of  her.  mabel's  even  brave  enough  to  grin  at  him  from  the  mirror,  "  awww,  you're  being  so  sweet.  f'i  knew  you'd  be  like  this  i  would've  asked  you  for  a  shot  earlier.  "  mabel  contemplates  kicking  him  out,  feels  the  nerves  in  waves  ;  naji's  aura  was  quite  blue  (  or  maybe  purple  ?  )  right  now,  she  wonders  if  he  notices.  "  mm  —  actually,  i'm  fine  !  are  you  okay,  though  ?  you  look  so  ...  mopey.  like  eeyore.  "  ouch.

“Oh, you’re breaking my heart.”

The Breakfast Club (1985) dir. John Hughes

#i'm a slut for height difference and lack of personal space

𝑹𝑼𝑫𝒀 𝑷𝑨𝑵𝑲𝑶𝑾 & 𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑺𝑬 𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑲𝑬𝑺 . JJ's Deep Sea Charters Commercial ( x ) .

he noticed the staring long ago. how could he not ? it's as brazen as everything else the woman does — sharp , like a silent dare , a challenge in the air like she's looking just to see if he'll offer his gaze back. ( he doesn't. ) instead , naji ignores her for the time being , shadow falling behind flickering lights , half - swallowed by the dark and half - swathed in neon pink. a cigarette burns low between his fingers — should he go outside ? he's deciding — but it does nothing to fight the perpetual scowl that is twisted onto his lips , even as he lifts it up again to take a drag. he's got an air about him that screams leave me alone , and , on a normal day , most people catch on quick. ( it is important to note , then , that he knows juno zhang is not 'most people'. ) her gaze sticks like static , and so does his bleary memory of last night , the wild woman on his doorstep and asking to stay like he's her last resort. less than twenty - four hours ago was when naji learned he can't say no to her , and , already it's proving to make things difficult. he knows this even as she approaches , brash and barefoot , bringing all her wit and audacity with her. the scowl twists deeper at her tone , eyebrows knitting together. the teasing otherwise rolls off his shoulders , but it does something strange , somewhere deep , just enough to make him wonder why she cares to notice what he's doing at all. his eyes fixate somewhere to her left , and he leans back further agains the wall. don't look chaos in the eye , that's not good for you. " hmm. " a noncommital grunt , like he isn't buying into her taunt. " where the fuck did you leave your shoes ? " he pauses again. " you wanna talk about being 'lost', yeah? " the implications of that are clear , but he's not insolent enough to bring up the night before. " or just here for a cigarette ? "

𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐂𝐄, @najiikarim ! 𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 : major's stinky loft.

the  loud  and shitty music  blasting  from  the  janky  speakers  and  sweaty  bodies  slamming  against  her  absurdly  furry  exterior  aren’t  enough  to  pull  her  stabbing  gaze  away from  him  ; meticulous examination  made  all  the  more  obvious  by  the  haze  coating  her  inebriated  brain.  yes,  juno’s  never  been  —  and  never  will  be  —  someone  who’s  subtle  (  because  fuck  that  ),  but  right  now,  she’s  doing  absolutely  nothing  to  hide  the  fact  that  she’s  been  staring,  staring  and  staring  some  more.  he  seems  lonely.  he  saved  you  last  night.  just  move.  and, like  everything  she  ever  does  in  life,  she  follows  the  first  impulse  that  jerks  at  her  bruised  heart.  wants  to  thank  him,  needs  to — it’s  been  a  gnawing  itch  that she  hasn’t  been  able  to  scratch  since  stepping  out  of  his  home  this  morning.  the  altoids tin  box  that she filled  with  four hand - rolled joints burning her  pocket, a symbol of unspoken gratitude. she can’t stomach the thought of not repaying him ... for some reason. kindness for the sake of being kind is a myth, after all. naked  feet  —  she  ditched  her  heels  a  while  back  and  didn’t bother  looking  for  them — carry  her  toward  him in all of her messy glory,  an inevitable curse. excitement  pulses  through  her  veins;  this  is  the  closest  her  prying  eyes  have  been  to  him  the  entire  night. what a thrill. “ lookin’  a  little  lost  there … ”  she  says,  not  meaning  to  mock,  but  her  words  still  have  a  sharp  edge  to  them.  “  never  been  to  a  party  before,  roadie  ?  no  one’s  gonna jump  you.  ”

Are you alive

Don’t ask me no personal shit like this