Just a bunch of doodles of how I think Ja’far gets ready every morning (sorta). I added arrows and objects to guide but I actually didn’t plan them from the beginning, hence it’s still looks really complicated to follow hahaha. 3 things:
I didn’t add underwear because ever since they revealed Mor doesn’t wear any, I decided no one would, so it would be less creepy. Also everybody wins.
Shower is implied. I do think he showers everyday, especially since he smelled after not showering for 3 days straight.
His hair is an issue for me, I know it’s messy and he covers it with his keffiyeh so it doesn’t need brushing. However sometimes I also think: he loves his job and his uniform, maybe he does take care for his hair when he has time, to feel even cleaner and ready (?). So this time I made him add some random hair lotion.
When Valentine shot me…you know what the last thing that went through my head was? Nothing. Because, although this joke's writer doesn't remember the exact words, I never let myself fall in love and had no one else to think of in my last moments.
Merlin, very loudly, very offended, from the next room:
The ones who write “Gardienne”: Usually have been around since the early days of the fandom, come from the french server, generally chill people, are up to date with every game update and know lots of small details about the story and characters. The ones who write “Guardian”: The second wave of the fandom, the ones who came after the international servers came up. Confused by the first group’s theories and comments on characters/chapters they don’t know yet. Someone, save these poor souls from the spoiler storms. Use guides for everything. The ones who write “Guardienne”: Chaotic evil. Shitposting machines. Don’t know what they’re doing nor what’s going on, but participate anyways. Thank you for the memes, you are the light of this fandom. Where did they come from? Nobody knows, but we love them.
I got way more requests to make a part 2 than I expected. I love you all and I actually cried when I saw how many notes Part 1 got! Im???? So emotional??????? Anyway here’s part 2 I hope y'all enjoy:
Baz has been acting weird all morning.
I woke up to an empty bed which is normal, but what’s not so normal is that Baz was nowhere to be seen. I’ve slept over before and shared the same bed with him, but every time I wake up he’s there. Not always in bed, per say, but there. He would be walking around, getting dressed or brushing his teeth as he went about. But this morning he was nowhere.
I moved the plush comforter off of me and sat up to stretch. “Baz?” I called. No answer. I furrowed my eyebrows together. This was…odd, to say the least. Baz never not answered me before, despite his mansion of a house. His hearing was amazing; he could probably hear a pen drop in America from here. So why wasn’t he answering?
I stood up from the bed and made my way down the hall toward the stairs. Maybe he was in the kitchen making breakfast? He likes making breakfast when I spend the night. Once he even made me a whole batch of sour cherry scones, and that was when we were 14! Ever since then, I’ve been a little bit in love with him. And his scones, of course.
I entered the kitchen and it was dead silent. The scent of scones and bacon wafting through the air were but a memory in the back of my mind, a craving for food and time with Baz. I padded into the dining room, grand chandelier dangling above the centerpiece placed on the seemingly endless dining table. At the very end of that table sat Baz.
He was dressed in his usual weekend attire - black fitted v-neck and dark blue jeans. I’ve always loved seeing him in jeans. He looked so much more relaxed and comfortable compared to his stiff persona at school in uniform.
Seeing him sit there by himself reminds me of when I first saw Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch. I was 11 years old in a taxi going down yet another unfamiliar road into a grand neighborhood with extremely large houses. It all seemed so surreal, but one house in particular caught my attention. The dark brick and mahogany wood house with grand stain-painted windows was a dark contrast from the surrounding lighter houses with their white woodwork and elegant window etchings. Amongst the great houses and well-trimmed lawns, I saw a boy. He was thin and dark with sleek black hair that was only a little longer than mine. He was standing in a window, eyes closed with a violin elegantly tucked between his chin and shoulder. I didn’t know why, but I was drawn to him. Instantly, I wanted more than anything to meet him and be his friend.
Maybe even his best friend.
Eventually I arrived to my designated home, which was conveniently yet painfully across the road from the boy’s. I got out of the taxi and stared up at the house, its elegance and grandeur sending out a message saying that it was untouchable and unapproachable. I took a sharp inhale when I looked back through the window where the boy was playing and saw no one there. I thought I had imagined him, or that maybe a ghost lived there. I got chills thinking about it and a heavy feeling of disappointment in my chest.
A couple hours after, I had finally made my bed and stuffed my suit case into the too big wardrobe. The amount of space made my clothes look so small and sad compared to the amount of space I had, my 2 shirts and 1 pair of jeans hanging lamely on the rail. As soon as I had closed the wardrobe shut, the doorbell rang. I answered the door expecting the taxi driver bringing back something forgotten - even though I had nothing to be left behind. Instead stood the boy accompanied by a tall, sharp woman who looked nothing like him. I wondered if she was even related to him, that maybe he was another foster kid that was coming to live in the same house as me.
The woman smiled politely, introduced herself, and asked for my foster parents, and I told her they were out getting groceries. The boy was intensely staring at me with dark grey eyes, a fragile looking dish balancing in his hands. I could feel his gaze like it was fire - warm and intense. I could feel myself blush when I locked eyes with him, his gaze never wavering as the woman took the dish out of his hands and let herself in. I stuck out my hand because how else was I supposed to know his name? The woman did nothing but bring him along. He took my hand and gave it a firm squeeze, so I squeezed back.
“Hi. My name is Simon. Simon Snow,” I said and gave him the same smile I had used at every adoption interview I’d been through. He smiled back at me and it was like looking at the night sky with no light pollution, stars shining through the pitch blackness of the murky void beyond them. “Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch,” he said. My head spun at that. I had heard some interesting names while in foster care, going home to home with too many kids per bed and not enough food, but never had I heard such a posh name like that.
I giggled and let go of his hand, despite every fiber of my being protesting. “That’s too much for me to say - or remember. How ‘bout I just call you Baz?” He blushed a beautiful color, turning his cheeks a darker brown with a dust of pink on his cheekbones, and looked down at his shoes. He nodded and looked back up in time for the woman to appear once more. “Well we’ll be on our way then. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. er-”
“Mr. Snow. Just know if you need anything, anything at all, we are right across the street. Come along, Basilton.”
She took Baz’s hand in hers and lead him away. A pang of disappointment shot through me as he walked away with her. We stared into each others eyes until Baz turned his head toward where he was walking. I continued to stare until they were back in their house.
Now here we are, 6 years later in that dark old house across the street. More foster kids moved in after me but never too many, but when it all got to be too much I came here. Baz would play his violin until I fell asleep or read me a book by the fireplace. He always knew what to do and what to say, how to push my buttons and care for me. He was the best friend anyone could ever have, and I got ridiculously lucky.
“Baz?” I whisper. He doesn’t move, only stares out the window behind him. He clearly heard me whisper his name, how couldn’t he? I was only a few feet away and don’t know how to whisper properly (Baz always did say I could never be quiet, even when I tried). Dry leaves dance in the wind outside, and I think about making a leaf pile later to play in; maybe drag Baz along if he would just pay attention to me. “Baz,” I say, louder. Firmer. No question. I see his ears twitch, clearly hearing me. He still says nothing. Does nothing. I’m starting to feel irritated.
“Baz, what the hell is going on? Why won’t you speak to me!”
He’s yelling now. Good. He should hate me for the way I feel, for the way I’ve tricked myself into thinking we were something more. What kind of friend does that? What kind of person tricks their best friend into doing romantic things with them without telling them their true feelings?
I’m a monster. There’s no point in hiding it or denying it. Merlin, I should let this go. Let him go. He’d be so much more happier with a girl, living the white picket fence life with 2.5 kids and a dog. Why can’t he see that? Why can’t he just leave me to wallow in my self-loathing and hatred.
He deserves the whole universe, but I can only give him the void that holds the stars. I can only give him me.
He’s still yelling…
“Answer me, dammit!”
I can feel my eyes start to sting with tears. I haven’t cried in years, not really, ever since my mother died when I was 5 and my father abandoned me at a video store two towns from home 9 years ago. Tears roll down my cheeks and the salty taste invades my mouth. I breathe heavily and try my best not to sob.
It doesn’t work.
Oh christ I think he’s crying ohfuckohfuckohfuck what I do what do I do
He’s there in an instant, warm arms wrapping around my shaking form. “Shh,” he coos. “It’s alright. I’m right here, see? I’m here.” I sob once more and cling to him, his cedar and bergamot shampoo rolling off of him in a comforting, familiar way. I bury my face into his chest, tears and snot getting all over his pristine shirt.
“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” I look up at him, dumbfounded. Why is he the one apologizing? I’m the one who just started to break down in the middle of his dining room because he wouldn’t answer. Honestly, I must look like loon right now.
I back off a little and shake my head, but don’t let go. I don’t think I can ever let go.
“Why are you apologizing? I’m the one who just broke down for no reason.” He shakes his head and rolls his eyes at me. “Yeah but I ignored you. What kind of best friend does that?” I shrug and sniffle a little, “A git of a best friend.” I offer him a small smile to break the tension.
He smiles back, just a little, and then lets go. He reaches for a napkin off of the table, disrupting the elegant table set, and hands it to me. “Here,” he says. I take it and wipe my face. When I’m done, I look up at him, grateful for him to be in my life. Where would I be without him? In another home, probably. He was the only thing keeping me here, keeping me out of fights and trouble.
I’m about to tell him this when his smile disappears and a sad frown replaces it. He’s gone as soon as he came, and he’s out of reach entirely. He’s back where he was, picking up the chair I hadn’t even noticed he knocked down.
“Simon,” he says, cold and cutting. He never calls me Simon, not really. It’s always been “Snow,” sometimes “Si” when we would get drunk on his father’s whiskey. It feels odd and bittersweet to hear him say my name, like he was hugging me sweetly while stabbing me in the side with a sharp knife.
Chills run down my spine.
He looks at me and I know he’s going to say what’s on his mind, what his thoughts are telling him. I know it from when I would hold him at 3 in the morning with him crying on my shoulder and muttering how he would never be good enough. I hate that look and always will. I brace myself and stare at him steadily, ready for whatever he is about to say and ready to help him however I can.
“Simon,” he says again, eyes like a wilting fire on the verge of burning out. “I’m sorry, but…I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”
A sharp, cold pain runs through me. Did he just say what I think he said?
Thank you for reading!! There WILL be a part 3, so do not fret. Sorry this took so long to make, but hopefully I can get part 3 done within the next week or 2. Anyway, thank you all! I would’ve never thought this would’ve gotten so much feedback and support as it did. I love you all and can’t wait for you to read part 3!!
Edit: since tumblr is being weird, here is part one, just take off the +
Okay so yesterday I was talking with a friend and suddenly she said “can you stop talking about Park Jihoon for three damn seconds?” And I was like “yeah, sure. One, two, three. So did you see Jihoon…”, and she screamed “fFS JUST STOP TALKING ABOUT HIM”. I smiled, nodded and quickly changed the topic to Wanna One in general.
I swear, for a second I thought she was going to kill me.