#and fabien's gaze of longing and adoration | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

into-the-daniverse · 3 years

Text

Smoke Signals | Part 2 | Ignatius & Camía

Part 2 of 2: In which Ignatius tries to move on with his life, protecting the sister he has left to atone for the one he did nothing for.

CW: Child abuse, blood, violence, slight gore description early on

Title: Smoke Signals by Phoebe Bridgers 4k words

However, it was not as easy as he had hoped it would be to stay with his sister while also trying to secure his own position in the court. He spent the next five years toiling away at the Palace with his father, getting on the good side of the count, Spada. There was another war brewing in the west, and the count was all too interested in their family’s legacy in the previous war with Fabien—and more importantly the money they had contributed to it.

Bénédict, of course, loved it. He adored the count, adored his money, and would drag Ignatius along with him to attend their various meetings and use him as an example to bolster his image, his brilliant son. Ignatius detested it, but he was beginning to form important alliances with other rich households in the city, so he kept going along with his father. It was quite mundane, after a while he got swept along in the motions and didn’t think anything of it.

Until he saw Camía again.

He was juggling some books in his arms, having just left a meeting with his father and a few members of the court. Already in an annoyed mood, he was muttering to himself as he walked along the palace hallways when he bumped into someone. His first reaction was to glare at whatever unfortunate servant had just run into him, but the person, no, the child, in front of him was anything but.

Well, child was a bit patronizing, he would admit. The boy looked to be around sixteen years of age, almost Ignatius’s height, facial hair starting to even out over his dark skin, and he carried himself with an important air, dressed in a comfortable, but still clearly expensively made, set of clothes that looked like they were from the North—probably Prakra, if Ignatius had to guess. He also had what looked like a small sword at his side, which was probably the most interesting thing Ignatius noticed about him.

“Ah! My apologies,” the boy said, voice deeper than Ignatius had expected, with a distinctive Northern accent. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.” He gave Ignatius a slight bow, his long hair slipping over his shoulder and back again.

After a moment of consideration, Ignatius sighed, shaking his head. “Neither was I. No harm done.” He shifted the books in his arms and noticed that the boy was staring at him, a puzzled look on his face as he narrowed his green eyes. “Is… Is there something I can help you with?”

Before the boy could reply, a voice called out from the end of the hallway, and someone came running over to them.

“Jamil!” The boy’s head turned, and he gave a warm smile to the person who approached, their face mostly covered by a scarf around their head. From the voice, it sounded like a young girl, though she was around the same height as the boy, if not a bit taller. “This palace is huge; you can’t just run off like—”

While speaking, the girl had turned from her friend to glance at Ignatius, but when their gazes locked, she froze, her brown eyes wide. Ignatius almost dropped the books to the floor in shock—it was Camía.

She looked much better than she had when he saw her last, almost eight years ago, save for the large, alarming scar that spread across her face. When had she received that? Was it from the Coliseum, or sometime in between then and now? It was long healed, whatever it was from, but that didn’t mean it made his heart hurt less to see that visible reminder of her trauma.

As he quickly looked her up and down, almost expecting to see more scars, he noticed she was dressed similarly to the boy—Jamil, she had called him—and the longer they stared at each other, the closer she moved back to her friend.

“Camía-Marie,” he breathed out, at the same time that Jamil stepped between them.

“Cami?” The pleasantry was gone from his voice, and though he directed his words to Camía, Jamil did not take his eyes off of Ignatius. “Do you know him?”

Camía looked between them both, as if she wasn’t sure what to say. “I—"

“I knew I’d find you again, you little bitch!”

At the sound of their father’s voice, Camía and Ignatius’s heads whipped to look down the hall, where Bénédict was storming over to them. Before any of them could move, he had grabbed Camía’s arm, pulling her to him, practically foaming at the mouth, face red with anger. He was a bit intoxicated as well after the meeting they had just had, and his breath reeked of wine.

He kept yelling, words unintelligible, but Ignatius was rooted to his spot. He was still, after all those years, afraid, and even though he could see tears springing to Camía’s eyes as she fought against their father, he stood still and watched. As he watched, he heard the sound of a sword being pulled from its sheath, and the next thing he knew, Bénédict was stumbling away from Camía, clutching at the side of his head, howling in pain.

The boy, Jamil, stood firmly in the middle of the hallway, sword in front of him, its blade dripping blood on the tiles below their feet. He was holding Camía’s hand with his free one, and she stayed behind him, her body shaking.

“You—You fucking brat!” Bénédict shrieked, and when his hand moved from his head Ignatius could see his ear hanging almost by a thread, blood pouring down his neck. He almost threw up, looking away, back at Jamil, who didn’t even flinch as Bénédict swore at him, not moving his sword. “Who do you think you are? I’ll have you executed, you—”

“Who am I?” A chill went down Ignatius’s spine at the ice in the boy’s voice, all warmth from just a minute ago completely gone. Jamil straightened himself even more, and he seemed to almost grow in the hallway, a powerful presence that only someone with the weight of responsibility could have. Ignatius would have never considered himself intimidated by a teenager around ten years younger than him, but it would be a lie not to admit that he was glad he wasn’t directly on the other end of the boy’s sword.

“I am Jamil Alfonso Parsa-D’Oria of Venterre, grandson to Eugenio Matteo II,” Jamil continued, and Ignatius remembered the wine they had drank at the meeting, one from the D’Oria villas in the south-west. “I am the cousin of the Royal Consort of Prakra, Namar, and his wife, the Queen, Nasrin Satrinava.”

We D’Oria take our names very seriously, Alfonso’s voice from years ago rang in Ignatius’s head, and he would have laughed if he wasn’t busy watching the color drain from his father’s face. The boy outranked the both of them a few times over, at least in two other countries.

Flicking the blood off of his sword, towards Bénédict, Jamil’s eyes narrowed. “I am here at the request of my mother, a very close friend of the current count, Spada. I very much doubt he would be pleased to hear you had threatened me and my friend.”

And that was the confirmation of his position in their city, which again, was higher than their own. Bénédict started to stammer something, an explanation, maybe, as it would never have been an apology, but the boy wasn’t having it.

“I know who you are, Bénédict Baudelaire. I know your family, and I know you have many enemies in the world, some of them in my own family. If you ever speak to, touch, or so much as look at Camia again, I will have you and your family removed from all power in this city and banished.”

Bénédict seemed to have found his voice out of sheer rage, stepping closer to Jamil, but still keeping out of range of his sword. “Y-you’re insane! All of that over one child, my—”

“She is not yours.” Jamil took a step forward, and Bénédict scrambled back. “She will never be yours. She is her own person, and she is my best friend. And I will only give you ten seconds to agree to leave her alone before my sword finds your other ear or worse.”

In those ten seconds, Ignatius tore his gaze from his father to look at Camía, who was already looking at him. He could see relief in her eyes, even as she still shook, relief and a bit of sorrow, and he wondered if that was reflected in his eyes as well. He wanted to speak to her. To hold her like she was still a child, like he should have done all those years ago. I’m happy for you. I’m proud of you. I’m sorry.

He couldn’t tell if she could feel his remorse or not, but she looked away from him, squeezing Jamil’s hand.

When his father spat on the ground and ran down the hallway, rushing to find some physician to help him, Ignatius followed, knowing that he couldn’t stay behind and speak to her, even as he wanted to. Jamil’s sword was still out, and he did not want the anger under the boy’s skin to be directed at him. Just before he rounded the corner, he gave Camía one last glance over his shoulder and watched the anger fall from Jamil’s face as he embraced her, his mouth moving, no doubt trying to comfort her, and she wiped at her eyes, nodding, and then Ignatius was too far to see them anymore.

Once Bénédict’s ear had been patched together by a physician, he returned to their family’s home, ranting to anyone who would listen about that fucking D’Oria brat. When Viviane came out to see him and almost fainted at the sight of his ear, Ignatius was quick to take her away, both of them hiding in the library as their father continued his yelling.

Since she asked, because she always asked, Ignatius told her about his day, about the meeting, even though it had been deathly boring. He could tell she wanted to follow in his footsteps and work for the court, so he indulged her, like he always did. But then his retelling caught up to when he saw Camía, and he found he couldn’t speak, mind stuck on the look on her face when she had seen him again.

She had been scared of him. The time of their lives where she would reach for him, ask him for help, say his name, that was all gone. She didn’t, couldn’t trust him anymore. Instead, she had reached out to her friend, and he had helped her. He had done more for her in a single action than Ignatius had done for her in her entire life.

He had wanted to protect her. But he hadn’t been strong enough. And that fact ate away at him.

Putting his head in his hands, he sighed, willing away tears in front of Viviane, who was watching him, concern in her eyes. After a moment, she tapped his shoulder lightly.

“I have something to show you,” she said, voice tinged with excitement.

Knowing she was trying to distract him, he looked up at her with a careful smile, waiting for her to go ahead with whatever she wanted to show him.

He would have never expected it to be her producing a small flame in the palms of her hands, the light flickering over her delighted face, eyes crinkling at the corners as she smiled wide.

“Look! I just started doing it today, and—”

Her voice trailed off when she looked back at him, and he could no longer steel his face. The night Camía was taken away replayed in his mind, her screams of pain echoing in his ears. Viviane wasn’t in pain, so the magic was different, maybe not as strong, but still…

“Viviane, I need you to promise me something.”

The flame died in her hands. “What is it?”

“You can never, and I mean never let our father know about this.” He reached out, holding her shoulders. “You must promise me that you won’t let him find out.”

“I…” For a moment, it looked like she wanted to argue, and of course he couldn’t blame her. She was a romantic and had dreamed about magic like most young children did for all of her life. But she didn’t understand just how much of a curse it could be.

She finally nodded; her mouth set in a thin line. “I promise.”

From that moment on, Ignatius treated Viviane more like his daughter than his sister, and oversaw most of her schooling, often bringing her to the few court meetings he could, or at least detailing everything to her that he could. Their parents didn’t object, especially when he framed it around her interest in the court, which was something they both approved of greatly. At least, until about six years later, when Spada died, and his successor became the count.

Count Lucio seemed like he would be the exact kind of person Bénédict would love, from Ignatius’s perspective. He had a history of violence, was loud, and had no problem throwing money at the Coliseum or any other thing that caught his attention. However, the matter of his background, which was largely unknown, aside from him being a “nobody mercenary condottiero” was something Bénédict could not look past, and he made his dislike for the new count very well known, withdrawing from the court entirely, and going so far as to move the family further out of the city.

While Ignatius was not the biggest fan of the new count either, his father leaving his position was the best thing for him, and the fact that he still worked in the court meant he needed to stay in the city, so he was able to find a smaller place for him and Viviane to live.

The first thing he did when he sat down at his desk in his new home was to write two letters.

One was addressed to Alfonso, and it traveled overseas to Zadith. Viviane had been able to hide her magic successfully so far, but she needed someone to teach her how to use it as well, and he asked Alfonso to either travel to the city to teach her, or he would send her to him if necessary. He also apologized profusely for not reaching out beforehand and explained as much of the situation as he felt he could, hoping that would be enough for Alfonso to forgive him.

The other letter was addressed to Camía, and that he laid on a table in an old deserted magic shop in the center of the city that their family had bought from some magicians decades ago. When Bénédict moved the family further from the city, he sold much of the property that the family owned, but Ignatius had managed to take the paperwork for the old shop for himself and signed it under his sister’s name. He assumed—well, hoped, really—that one day she would come back to the city. If she did, she would need a place to stay, and he knew that she knew some of the properties their family had owned. She had always liked the sound of a magic shop, even before finding out she had some herself.

In the letter, he apologized to Camía, and told her the shop was hers, no strings attached. He also left the address of his new home for her, should she desire to ever see him again, though he didn’t blame her if not.

Before handing over the keys of the shop to a woman he paid to look after it until Camía returned, he left something else inside. Missy, their great-grandfather’s familiar—and, Ignatius suspected, her familiar as well.

The salamander had not moved since Camía left, but that didn’t stop Ignatius from trying to speak to her anyway. He set her in the stove, remembering vaguely that fire salamanders like her also functioned as stove salamanders, and spoke as softly as he could, stroking the cool skin of her head once.

“I know you used to speak to my sister. I’ve never heard you, not once, but I believe her. Please…” He sighed, not sure if everything he was doing was in vain. “Please, if… when she comes back, look after her.”

The salamander’s eyes opened. He held his breath, but she just blinked at him, once, twice, and then settled back down, still again. He supposed that was the best response he was going to get, and left the shop for the last time, not looking back.

Viviane ended up going overseas to study with Alfonso, though he had expressed regret that he couldn’t come and visit Ignatius himself, the years of silence between them forgiven. She wrote to Ignatius often, which he was thankful for, though it meant he had to suffer the court alone for a few years.

It was a lonely few years but he did it, as unnerving as he found some of the members of Lucio’s court, he did what he was told to do, and would go home. It was nice, in a way, to be completely independent, not having to worry about what his father might do at any moment, or if Viviane was in any immediate danger. He felt like he was finally moving on with his life.

Not long after, the woman he sent to watch the shop, came to him, letting him know that Camía had returned and taken over the shop. He thanked her, sent her on her way, and hoped that he would hear from his sister, but he never did. Well, he thought, she’s moved on. And so should I.

When Viviane was around 20, she came back to the city, and joined Ignatius officially in the court as his assistant. He did end up taking advantage of her eagerness a little bit, having her go to meetings in his place, so he could do some work at their home instead, but she didn’t seem to mind. She liked to come home and share the latest gossip she had overheard—she was very good, almost too good at sneaking into places unnoticed—with him, and he liked to hear her speak as he worked on paperwork in his office.

However good either of them was in court, neither of them particularly liked parties, and there was nothing the count liked more than to torture the members of his court with garish parties at all times of the year, especially the Masquerade.

Ignatius had managed to refuse most of Lucio’s invitations to his various parties over the years, but he had all but been blackmailed into attending this one, as the count had whined over the fact that he never saw him unless it was for business. Never mind that if Ignatius could never see Lucio, he would be extremely happy, but as usual, there was no arguing with him. Ignatius had simply shown up to this particular party around an hour late, grabbed a glass of wine off the first tray he saw, and wandered into the ballroom.

(Viviane had been invited as well, but as luck would have it, she fell sick right before the party. Ignatius was very skeptical and assumed she was being untruthful, but to be fair, he would have liked to do the same thing, so he just let her stay behind.)

There was a good number of people in the ballroom, mingling, dancing, drinking the night away, and in the middle of them all was the count, arm draped over some poor sap—ah, actually, Ignatius caught himself. That was no “poor sap,” instead it was the current Consul, Valerius, with whom Ignatius had a bit of a personal vendetta against. Better him holding the count’s attention than Ignatius, and he turned to head to a corner of the ballroom far away from Lucio.

Unfortunately, Lucio saw him first, calling out to him with an annoying yell of “Iggy!” Valerius gave Ignatius a smug look as he disappeared from Lucio’s side, grateful for the distraction but even more satisfied that it was Ignatius who now had to deal with the count.

Swallowing a grimace, Ignatius greeted the count, indulging in a minute of small talk before his extremely short attention span was thankfully pulled somewhere else. Weaving between the crowd, he made his way towards the back of the ballroom, where there was a small stage set up and a band playing on it. He had no great love for music himself, but it was better to listen to them than try to entertain any other court members.

However, as he got closer to the stage, his pace slowed. Four people stood above him, one sitting behind a big barrel drum, one playing the guitar, another—a young girl who danced and sang more than played—with a tambourine shaking in their hands, and then a woman playing the violin. But everyone else could have not been there for all he could tell, his eyes stuck on the woman and the large scar across her face.

It was his sister. It was Camía. Happier than he had ever seen her, smiling and singing with the rest of her group, and he realized that she was still next to that boy—now a man, like she was a woman—who had threatened their father all those years ago. Jamil Alfonso Parsa-D’Oria, Ignatius reminded himself, as if the name hadn’t been seared into his memory. He looked happier too, long brown hair cropped to his shoulders, playing his guitar as he sang.

As that song faded and a new one began, she stepped forward, her violin at her side, and her voice echoed around the ballroom. He couldn’t even pay attention to the words she was singing, too focused on the fact that she was really there, alive and happy, back in the city. He knew she had taken the shop but after never hearing from her or seeing her, he had almost forgotten she had ever come back at all. He felt like he was watching her in slow motion as she walked around the stage, trying to commit each new detail to memory.

The people around him danced while she sang something lively and upbeat, and warm tears slipped down Ignatius’s cheeks. She looked beautiful. She looked like she was doing better than he could have ever hoped.

There was a moment, a heartbeat really, in which he thought she saw him. As her eyes looked over the crowd around him, he thought they landed on him. They were still the same brown eyes that would watch his every move as he studied when he was much younger, though that felt like a lifetime ago. He wanted her to see him, even if she looked at him with contempt or anger, he just wanted her to know he was there.

But then she turned, the moment gone, and if she had seen him, she gave no indication of it.

Ignatius allowed himself to watch her for one more song before finishing his wine and promptly leaving the party, not bothering to say goodbye to anyone, least of all Lucio. As much as his heart ached, it was not his place to try and reconnect with her. Not when she was so far removed and doing so well away from him. He had left her the shop and the letter, and if she wanted to see him, she could. It wasn’t his choice anymore.

That didn’t stop him from crying even more the moment he stepped outside up until he arrived home, but at least this time he fell asleep with a weight off his chest.

After that night, he never attended another party thrown by Count Lucio, and it wasn’t until long after the plague and Countess Nadia’s decision to throw another Masquerade that he even allowed himself to consider it. And if he saw his sister again, he would give her a wide berth, even as he wished she would cross it.

#daniverse fic #daniverse oc #my fic #ignatius luc #camia #viviane aurore #jamil #the baudelaires #technically #the arcana lucio #but for like a second #abuse #abuse cw #blood #blood cw #jamil can be a little unhinged towards camia's father as a treat #he deserves it

10 notes · View notes

nighthunternik · 5 years

Text

Dating 🚘🚤Fabien Ahmad🔥 Headcanon II

Here's the second part of my 'Dating Fabien Ahmad' headcanon ~*~ I am a bit disappointed at the moment 'cause we didn't really get much Fabien content in the actual book so far and PB seems to waste such huge potential, but maybe my HC will sweeten the waiting time a bit 😊

A third part, this time NSFW, is in the works🔥🌡👀 Also feel free to message me if you'd like me to write a Headcanon for a specific character :)

You adore the slightly scratchy feeling of his stubble on your bare skin as he kisses your neck ... your chest ... and even lower🌡🔥 He has a tendency to leave hickeys all over your body and you laugh when he says that he wants to mark you as his, with his crooked smirk and the typical mischievous sparkle in his dark eyes.

As you can guess from his name, French is one of his native languages and OH. MY. GOSH. 🤤 Your stomach always tightens with desire when he starts speaking French, because his voice then always sounds deeper ... husky and so sexy. Yes, I would like some pain au chocolat for my petit-déjeuner, thank you very much. Now get over here!

looking at pictures of his parents that he always carries in his pockets👨‍👩‍👧‍👦 Family comes first for Fab, and - although you love this nurturing side of him - your heart aches at the expression of utter sadness flashing across his face when he talks of them ~*~ "But, Habibi, you are my family now"

However, if Fabien only inherited some of his Father's genes, you don't have to worry😚: even at his age, he's a tall man with a proud smile, shining grey hair that enframes a face kissed by the sun and delicate wrinkels around gentle eyes. In one photo he wears a traditional robe in colors that you couldn't even imagine ... "Hey, Darling, I wanna see you in whatever this is"😍, you chirp in Fab's direction with hearts in your eyes and he hastily disappears because he'd rather stay in his leather jacket ...

🍵He loves to drink boiling hot tea and he takes Arabian tea culture very seriously, it's a whole procedure. You like the aromatic smell in the room and the taste of mint and cinnamon caressing your tongue - that is until the sugar (of which he puts a lot into the tea) kicks in and he has to stay up with you all night because now you are too hyper to sleep🤪

🏞🗺🌄You hide from the police in tropical countries mostly and you love to walk, hand in hand, through narrow streets and crowded market places, where marketers advertise their goods in all kinds of languages. His hands are so big, slightly calloused, and you know you're safe when he holds you close 💕

Sometimes, he finds real treasures between the typical over-priced shlock that is offered on those markets - may it be a scratched up pocket watch in a beamless gold or a necklace that sheens in different colors of the rainbow when hit by the sun's light, and he looks so adoringly pleased with himself when he can surprise you with them☀️

🌺 He'll put flowers in your hair and tell you how beautiful you are ~*~ Both of you like to eat the exotic fruit that smiling natives hand you and it's so rich in taste that the sweet juice runs down your chin. He then wipes it away with his thumb, his intense gaze locked on you, before he teasingly waves with a grape in front of you that he then quickly eats himself with a wink🥝🥥🍍🍇🍉

Coming home to find Fabien standing atop of a chair, balancing with a panicky expression. "Was there another spider, Fabien?", you'll ask him with an amused smirk and fold your arms. "No, ehm... I am just, ehm, polishing our lamp". 🕷🦂

Fabien can be a bit melodramatic and although he was born in a country that is known for its desert and heat, he has spend most of the time in the US and can't stand the hot climate: "Habibi, it's so f*cking hot😩" - "Yes, it is" - "I am sweating, look" - "I know, me too🙄" - "It's so hot in here, I feel like I am living in a volcano😩😩😩" - "Okay😑" - "I want to die."

Sometimes, when you're at the beach, a football some kids are playing with will accidentally fly in your direction and Fabien will dart you an asking glance. You'll nod and he quickly tosses it back, joining them in their game and they love him🏈⚽️

You love watching them, but then your eyes will well up, making your vision all blury... You wish, you and Fabien could have kids on your own, but that would be simply irresponsible with your names still on the Most Wanted List. You quickly wipe away the tears as he returns, but he notices that something is wrong. Albeit he doesn't say a word, he knows the reason for your temporary sadness and holds you a little closer on the way back 💔

You can't believe how wild your life with him is. I mean, you're a master thief, so you're not one to complain, but while your early escapades were solely attached to your, ehm, "job", Fabien seems to follow the motto "the wilder, the better" in his daily life as well ~ breaking into a public swimming pool at night🌌, skinny dipping in the sea, crashing the show of an amateur magician in some random hotel... you always get away with it and you only have to close your eyes later to still hear his contagious laughter ringing in your ear.

But there are also negative sides to his volatility, his desire for adventure and (what he calls) fun. Often you'll find yourself in the middle of nowhere, where he meets up with local street racers. With rain on your face, you try not to listen to the dangerous squeaks of the brakes that are echoing though the Asian valley as they are playing their games, accompanied by the monstrous sound of thunder. Your hands are shaking nervously and covered in cold sweat, the piece of gum you chewed for distraction is long tasteless . Will he come back in one piece?

Of course he does and to cap it all, he's the triumphant winner. He winks at you and rakes his fingers through his hair almost arrogantly; you can't help but put his arms around his neck and kiss him, pouring all the relief into it. You look at the sore losers and their wives, and internally you're screaming "Yaaas Bitches that's my man" ... 😎

but the fear remains and sometimes you're fighting about it - he thinks you're not trusting him enough and you'll say that trust has nothing to do with the torment of the situation, your voice jarring and tranposed up by one octave...

Later, as an apology, he'll guide you to a shabby bar by the beach that looks like straight from the 80s; you'll sit on chairs that don't match and drink cheap beer between all the locals in this room filled with smoke and foreign music. The fight will be forgotten. And then you'll dance the night away, with one hand on his firm chest, the other on his muscular back, mesmerized by his intoxicating smile. He'll whisper things, which would normally color your cheeks pink, his breath hot and heavy, and rock his hips seductively against yours. He embraces your fingers with both of his big hands: "You know that there's no chance that an accident could keep me away from you, right?" ... You kiss him just as someone lights fireworks at the beach and you think to yourself that this must be what it feels like to be giddy with love❤

46 notes · View notes