Najiikarim - 𝙬𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙙, 𝙗𝙖𝙗𝙮.ᐟ

anyone else feeling like what the fuck

you know what? Fuck you. *turns your strong and stoic and serious character into a crying, traumatized, whimpering, curled up mess in the floor*

deeply obsessed with this

EMILIO SAKRAYA IN SIXTY MINUTES (2024)

it's as if he knows to sense the laughter before the sound hits his ears , loud and strong and vivid enough to cut through the life that pulses through the loft. she's always had a way of demanding attention — even from him , even right now — and perhaps that's why they fall into this tug of war : one where she tries to move close and he tries to pull away. it shouldn't bother him , but it does ( she'd like that , wouldn't she ? ) , and he lets his eyes flutter shut as her head falls beside his. he doesn't laugh at her little explanation , just lets out a huff with no definite meaning. " feelin' generous tonight , or did the jungle juice just fuck you up that bad? " naji shifts his weight just slightly , barely a movement at all , like it’s enough to put a barrier between them — even though he knows she'll break it , same as always. he's one to talk with the way the liquor is clouding up his brain already , making him a little less resistant to her casual audacity , fingers tightening around the cigarette as she leans close. naji's pulse quickens — he hates that it does — and he freezes up , like the creature carved out of stone like everyone else makes him out to be. the weight of the tin falls heavy in his pocket , his voice suddenly drying his throat . it drops low , a harsh murmur for just the two of them , barely loud enough to hear over the music. " guess i'm your second charity case of the night. " without waiting for a response, his fingers slip further into his pocket, feeling the cool, familiar shape of the tin. it doesn't rattle the same way it should , and his curiosity finally lets his gaze slide over to find the outline of her face beside him. " do i open it now , or when i get home? "

avoid  her  gaze,  and  she’ll  only  want  it  more.  a  masochist,  no  doubt.  words  sting,  sure,  but  they’re  far  more  amusing  when  delivered  by  someone  who  usually  seems  so  silent  and  stoic.  it’s  as  if  she  has  the  wicked  ability  to  reach  into  his  insides,  twisting  his  nerves  whenever  she  wants  …  and,  staring  at  the  side  of  his  face,  she  wants  now.  shoes,  right.  she  forces  her  eyes  away  from  him,  if  only  briefly,  glancing  down  at  her  feet  before  bursting  into  belly - aching  laughter  —  a  big,  thunderous  sound  that  could  surely  be  heard  over  the  pounding  music.  “  i  told  this  girl  that  my  heels  were  so  fuckin’  uncomfortable,  ”  juno  leans  against  the  same  wall  as  him,  slowly  encroaching  on  his  territory,  “  and  she  said  that,  if  i  wasn’t  gonna  use  them,  i  should  give  them  to  her  instead.  funny.  ”  there’s  a  brief  pause  as  her  amusement  dies  down,  only  a  few  weak chuckles  left  as  evidence  of  its  existence.  head  rolls  back, joining the pair in their rest with a bang.  “  well,  now  that  you’ve  had  your  fun  stabbing  me  a  little,  ”  she  nudges  naji’s  leg  with  one  of  the  victims  of  the  earlier  robbery,  hand  sticking  inside  her  enormous  coat  to  retrieve  her  debt’s  payment  —  feeling  like  she’s  holding  her  heart  between  shaky  fingers.  she  infiltrates  one  of  his  pockets  and  buries  it  in there. deep.  a  secret.  unable  —  or  unwilling  —  to  witness  his  reaction,   for  whatever  reason.  “  got  you  something.  use  ‘em  wisely.  ” 

naji hates that pout. it makes his stomach flip and his chest go tight , that irrational fear of disappointing her always fluttering in his chest like he's holding in an atrium of butterflies. he swears mabel knows that , too , and that's the worst part. he's got half a mind to smile at the way she's standing now — hands planted on her hips , face all scrunched up , small frame still somehow demanding attention in the tiny hallway — but instead he just rolls his eyes again. it gives him a second to glance away , a low, frustrated sound escaping him. " maybe a little. " his gaze dances back to her again , vision a little less hazy with her standing in front of him. " not drunk enough to put up with your attitude , though. " and — " can’t help the face, i guess. " frustration laces the words , and he's not sure why he cares about her opinion as much as he does. naji decides to blame it on the alcohol. " just . . . you're fine. do your thing. " he finally steps aside his hands twisting together in nervous habit. even inebriated he's no good at being careless ( at least , not when it comes to the others ) and so he lingers in the hallway outside the door. " i'll make sure nobody tries to rush you. "

the  pout  is  instant  the  second  naji  opens  the  door.  mabel  takes  a  pause,  splays  her  hands  at  her  sides  and  turns  to  look  at  the  partygoers  around  her  (  who  do  not  care  one  bit,  mind  you  ),  because  surely  naji  isn't  talking  to  her  right  now.  "  oh  my  god  ?  why  are  we  so  touchy  right  now  ?  "  her  features  scrunch  up  in  a  grimace.  "  i  had  to  pee  !  and  that  was  the  first  time  i  knocked  !  you've  been  in  there  for,  like,  ever.  " '  ever  '  meaning  like  five  minutes,  but  time  eludes  mabel  when  she's  drunk.  and  she's  her  fair  share  of  tipsy,  "  what's  wrong  with  you  ?  you  look  drunk.  and  a  little  bit  like  a  serial  killer.  "  you  can  always  count  on  mabel  for  an  uplifting  pep  talk,  clearly.

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

“I watched life and wanted to be a part of it but found it painfully difficult.”

— Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 1: 1931-1934