#Riccardo doesn't have the interest to go out himself

[musicallisto]

· · · · ♡ IF (SAINZ WIN == TRUE) (cs55)

… starring carlos sainz x f!engineer!reader ... 4.4k words ... in which carlos is an effusive, self-assured lad to every member of his team... except ferrari's head software engineer, making her wonder if he secretly hates her guts. ... based on this request ... warnings for language (minor) ... my first ever (posted) fic for carlos aaaaa (i have written A Lot More about this man because he occupies my every waking hour, but i shan't share it yet). in honor of me missing my communication networks final last week i made the reader a software engineer, but you would Never catch me willingly coding anything in c++ outside of my mandated assignments. no not even for carlos sainz jr. i have morals. this is open for part 2 if you guys enjoy it <3

He speaks the language of princes.

It's not in anything he says, no, he's much too industrious to waste time boasting, but rather in all that he doesn't. Carlos walks into the Ferrari motorhome, with that good-natured smile and that slightly disheveled hair from the morning's cycling session, and heads bow. Not out of plight, or even obligation, but mostly because it's hard not to. His warm greetings to everyone—Ciao's and even Come stai?'s to his team members strolling down the hallways before the weekend—, his keen interest in remembering little things about engineers' and photographers' lives, his nonchalant stride around the parc fermé all force camaraderie at least; reverence to most.

Wherever the red car goes, Maranello or any other corner of the world, religion follows, and though Carlos Sainz has never quite fit into the nooks they keep for their idols—their walls are carved for Monégasque shoulders—, he's at least always carried the air of a rebel leader on unforgving land.

But if Carlos is Ferrari's bastard prince, then clearly you are a subject he would not go to war for.

Or so he makes you think, once again, on that hot Singaporean afternoon.

You hadn't meant to interrupt, really, but with only one hour to go before FP1, you needed to talk to Riccardo Adami; something about the software updates, optimization of the data acquisition systems to account for Marina Bay's sweltering heat—run for half a second too long, overheat half a degree too much, and everyone's calculations would be going to hell. So of course you'd corrected it, supervised a brand new version of your code for the weekend, for that tenth of a Celsius; competition drove you. Almost just as much as those solar eyes boring into you when you walk into the room.

"Riccardo, about the softw—oh. Carlos. Hi," you timidly trail off when Carlos' eyes meet yours.

The room gets quiet, and it is only then that you notice how much space his laugh takes. Usually, you would've recognized the accent from outside the door, the boisterous voice regaling the Fifty-fives with another funny story—how could you not, when it sends shockwaves down your stomach? He seems to have been in an animated conversation with his race engineer, but as you get closer to the two men you notice the crinkles lengthening Carlos' eyes are fading with his smile. You aren't sure he's even said hi back.

"We've changed the code for acquisition, but some loops could still cause problems with overheating, particularly the engine oil temperature sensors…" you explain, though half your attention is directed to your peripheral vision, in which Carlos sways on his two feet, averting your gaze at all costs.

But you're not a college girl with a crush, you're Scuderia Ferrari's head software engineer and so you go on with your precisions to Riccardo. What to expect during free practice, how to overshoot any nonessential sensors that might fuck up the data analysis... until, mid-sentence, Carlos excuses himself awkwardly, pats Ricky on the shoulder, and walks out of the room.

You will your face into not betraying the sudden ache in your throat. How he simply acted like you weren't there... didn't even inquire about the updates. About the race. About your flight, about how much you loved Singapore's twinkling lights, about... you.

"Xavi and Charles know this already, but we really gotta test it all now before it gets cooler for FP2," you conclude with a too-hard swallow. Back firmly turned to the door Carlos just disappeared out of.

Riccardo thanks you, offers his own insight, some banalities about the risks of rain—no, you shouldn't consider them banalities. Nothing, on a Friday, is a banality anymore; yet everything is when you remember how Carlos' entire face shuts close when you're around, how his tone quietens down, how he repeatedly and stubbornly conceals all his rays of brazenness from you.

Does he hate you? Despise you? Are you not worth his effrontery?

This is ridiculous. You're not a college girl with a crush, you're a damn senior member of the team with responsibilities and he doesn't owe you anything more or less than you him—

"Riccardo," you neither ask nor plead. "Has Carlos... said anything about me?"

"About you? Like what?"

"I don't know... but you did see he just... left while I was in the middle of talking, right? And he looked annoyed as soon as I came in." And for all that's holy, try to pass this off as mere politeness and not a heartache that is eating you alive.

"Maybe he was just bored."

"So I'm boring?"

"No," Riccardo wheezes, in uncharacteristically high spirits for the conversation. "But I've worked with a ton of drivers, and you know, they're all the same. Less time discussing boring analytics is more time they spend in the sim. Or on track. What, you think he's angry at you or something?"

"I just... don't get why he's always so guarded and distant with me but so outgoing and confident with you guys. Charles isn't like that either. It makes no sense. We're a team, all of us."

The Italian looks at you for long seconds, amusement noticeable on his features, and you would shake him up and tell him to stop giving you those pity eyes if you lacked the tiniest bit of respect for the man; instead, you frown and cross your arms.

"He'll be in a good mood tonight when we top free practice," Riccardo assures you before you can ask him if he needs anything else. "and even better tomorrow after getting pole. You can talk to him then if you want."

A smile creeps its way on your lips without you conjuring it. There it is, that loyal veneration that only men and women of the Scuderia possess. Something in those southern eyes Carlos shares with legend has made you religious, too.

"I'll hold you to that... we could all use a Singapore miracle."

Singapore is a miracle.

Surely any other team would scoff at the word, bragging that a pole position has nothing to do with miracles, that it's all meticulous teamwork and endless iterations on calculators, but Ferrari is deeply supersitious at its core. You—the centenarian team, its red-hot beating heart—don't shy away from thanking divine intervention. Maybe that's the reason why it still works.

After Carlos' last pole in Monza, the whole Scuderia had dared to dream of something different, a glimmer of scarlet in the season's overwhelming orange. Of course, an uncatchable Max had put a dampen on the fervent Tifosi's mood, but the formidable hope machine had revved back to life...

and now it's roaring in Marina Bay.

Leclerc's side of the garage claps for a hard-earned P3, but it's the Spaniard's team that erupts into cheers and rushes out into the pitlane to congratulate their hero. You stare at his lap time on your monitor with a grin—1:30.984, not even a tenth faster than his teammate—as cheerful screams, in Italian and Spanish, fill the garage; they get louder when Carlos walks back inside, grinning ear to ear and not even bothering to dodge the strong-arm pats on his head and back.

"Twice in a row, cazzo!"

"And this time you won't have Verstappen underfoot!"

"Perfect lap, Carlos, that was a perfect lap..."

"Grazie a tutti," Carlos beams, fire suit down to his waist, running clammy hands through his hair—he parts the red sea as he walks deeper into the garage, close to where you are. "I think we all did a very good job today, and now we gotta finish the job tomorrow..."

He laughs with the mechanics, a sun of fire and victory casting its rays onto the tarmac, and maybe it's the euphoria of the moment, but a sudden wind of courage rushes through your blood, and you walk up to him.

"Bravo, Carlos."

Your voice hits him like the purr of an engine in the ruckus, overshadowing any other sound; he whips his head in your direction, shiny eyes colliding with yours, and for the first time you don't back off but hold them in awe, and his smile doesn't fade, but rather shifts. To surprise, or... coyness?

"You were incredible out there, we're all so so proud of you," you praise, and the more you look at him the wider your smile grows, and the quieter the rest of the world gets.

"Thank you, Y/N," he rubs the back of his neck, his free hand fiddling with the hanging sleeves of his fire suit. "We... I couldn't have done this without you. Because, you know, the overheating, or what you were saying to Ricky before? I didn't understand everything, but at least I didn't cook to death."

Coyness? In Carlos Sainz? When he's still sweaty and panting from qualifying first? What a bizarre sight, one that makes you giggle.

The way your nose scrunches up beneath sparkling eyes is so endearing, Carlos almost feels his breath hitch in his throat, almost reaches out to lightly brush your arm, hold the steady coolness of it.

"Great, that was what we were going for, pretty much," you reply, and for a second you could've sworn he wanted to touch your arm and changed his mind, but...

you bury the idea before a craving for his warmth can nestle in your chest.

"Great," he repeats. "So, I'll... see you later," and with that he leaves you there, stranded in the middle of the garage, to be lauded by the press and fans.

You'd be lying if you said his shadow disappearing out the backdoor as quickly as it had come doesn't slice a gash in your heart—always whisked away to some important obligation, and you, like everyone else, duty-bound to pick up the pieces behind him. But this time around the cut doesn't run as deep, doesn't bleed as red; because for the first time in months Carlos talked to you, joked with you, and looked the tiniest bit glad to be doing so.

If that's how good of a mood a pole puts him in... then clearly you'd better make damn sure he wins this race.

Ferrari is deeply superstitious at its core. Maybe that much is true in any sport—when victory eludes you, athletes find obscure laws to trick themselves into believing they still retain control—, but a team so old, on which glory has rained so often, does not withstand the passage of time without a few pillars of faith. And so it makes sense that Ferrari drivers, of all people, would have their pre-race traditions.

Leclerc plays the piano on Saturday nights; you hear him every time you pass by the team hotel's lounge, his melancholy tracks grounding you in a precise time and place. Now the car is out of bounds, the comfort of your object-oriented programming and optimized lines of code off-limits; now's the time for withdrawal and rest.

Typically, you like to hang out in the lounge while Charles plays, trying to distract yourself with a book or simply basking in the music. The predictable, calculated flow of Charles' arpeggios soothes you, like lines of code running one after the other. So does the Monégasque driver's easy conversation. Although it doesn't shoot butterflies in your belly like Carlos' does... but you're not supposed to play favorites.

This Grand Prix eve is just like any other, save for the unordinary trepidation that carpets the hotel. With one of their own sitting on pole, it's obvious strategists struggle more than usual to drop the words "tire management" and "pit stops". Eager to escape the nervousness, you excuse yourself from the dinner table, and make your way to the lounge.

Charles is already there, if the usual pieces echoing in the distance at dessert are any indication, and you barely even get lost in the elegant halls before you find the lounge... though there is no piano to be heard. Maybe this hotel has two music rooms—maybe Charles went to bed early—or maybe...

maybe he's sitting on the piano stool and chatting with Carlos, wet and sleepy from his evening shower.

Neither driver notices you at first, and you stop dead in your tracks, wondering if you should just leave. You wouldn't want to intrude—intrude on what, the rational part of your brain says, but with Carlos I always feel like I'm intruding on something bigger than myself, the rest of your body answers—, but you really enjoy this unspoken tradition with Charles... and, well, this is everybody's lounge, and...

"Y/N," Charles sees you eventually and beckons you over. "Sorry, I don't think there'll be a lot of music tonight, Carlos is distracting me."

"You could kick me out anytime," Carlos remarks good-naturedly, but you don't miss how he angles his body away from you ever so slightly. The sight sends a dagger through your heart. So he actually hates you then. So you didn't breach any barrier earlier at the circuit, didn't melt any ice. So he didn't look pleased and a little excited to be talking to you.

"That's okay, I'll just head to bed then—"

"Oh no no no," Charles interrupts, "come sit with us. I was trying to convince Carlos to give the piano a go, maybe you'll be more successful than me."

"Absolutely not, mate."

"Come on Carlos, it will relax you!"

"No, you're the musician, not me. One of us has to be the sportsman, no?"

Unsure, you flick between the two men, Charles' inviting face and Carlos, who's still doing everything he can to avoid looking at you in the eye. And then you decide—fuck it. You're just as much a member of the team as he is. He cannot drive you away with his... stupid cold shoulder tactics any longer.

You take a seat on the sofa opposite Carlos, and watch in half delight, half annoyance as he turns his shoulders away from you. Though his body language appears relaxed, one leg strewn across his knee and elbows hugging the backrest, he is, as usual, going to hell and beyond to not acknowledge your presence.

Charles has the merit of lightening the mood with his jokes and fan encounters of the day: some bizarre, some endearing, because he seemingly never has a boring day in the paddock. His easy laughter mixes with the distant voices down the halls when your attention drops—too fast, too soon, as always, it's irremediable—to Carlos, the soothing scent of his shampoo and the little droplets that run down his temple whenever he shakes his head in amusement... before you know it, you're staring again, eyes shining with undisclosed heartache. Something Charles sees, and recognizes very well, with a jot of curiosity.

Charles may not be the most perceptive when it comes to these things, but he is in love too, and he'd know the signs anywhere. That's why after a little while he lets silence blow his last words away like wind does the mist, and stands up from the piano stool.

"Well, I'm going to bed," he announces with an air of conniving finality, and he smiles his crooked smile at Carlos. "Gonna need all my energy to take the lead in turn 1."

This snaps you out of your reverie. Half-gone, you bid him goodnight at the same time as the Spaniard does, and you brace yourself for his own excuse... but it doesn't come. Carlos lazily watches as Charles leaves the lounge. You don't dare to move, as if your slightest sound could remind him you're there and trigger his fight.

You would've thought a tête-à-tête with you to be Carlos' worst nightmare... but he makes no sign of leaving. And sends solar flares up your chest and throat. "Whatever problem he's got with me, he'll have it sort it out with me like an adult" sounds much more intimidating when it's so plausible.

"You think he has the slightest chance of overtaking me in turn 1?" Carlos chuckles.

You look him straight in the eye and read no resentment, not even that sheepishness from before—just relaxed delight, and the slightest hint of reddened cheeks against tan, damp skin. It takes you a second, maybe even two, to realize there's no one else in the room. He's talking to you. Joking with you.

Why is the script running without error all of a sudden, even though you changed no variables?

"Maybe," you give a noncommittal shrug and a smile. "Why not? It all depends on you."

"He can lead the first lap if he wants. That will just make it more fun to cross the finish line ahead of him after."

"You better win this one, Sainz, because I..." you start, and midway through your sentence are hit by how absolutely ridiculous you're about to sound, but he's leaned in already, intrigued by your words, and his burning gaze and strong hands fiddling in his lap have you losing all notions of propriety. "I've... coded a little something for you. If you win. A surprise. It's not much, but... yeah."

Your whole face burns deep scarlet as you trail off... and the light in Carlos' eyes darkens, then goes out completely. His smile fades back to the usual professional grimace he reserves for you. Distant. Cold. He rises to his feet.

"I should get some sleep."

Terror strikes you. Incomprehension too.

"No, Carlos, wait."

He turns his head to your outstretched hand... your pleading eyes almost rip through his heart.

"Why do you dislike me so much?"

And then his shoulders slump, like crushed by an immense weariness, and he sighs, long and hard, before his gaze falls back to yours. Those big brown eyes, gentle, compassionate, and those fingers tapping against his thigh like they're waiting for an invisible cue to reach out for yours.

"... Can we talk about this after the race?" he says, shooting daggers through your stomach.

So he didn't deny it. Didn't reassure you, tell you it's all a misunderstanding, that he bears no ill will towards you, that you're imagining things as usual and that you two could be on the best of terms if you just got out of your head a little bit.

One more time, he's running away. Sweeping everything under the rug, for just one more session, one more race, hiding behind the excuse of concentration and professionalism.

But who are you to revoke him that? It's a damn good excuse. You need to win. He needs to win. Not be bothered about... interpersonal relationships while clipping walls.

"... Alright," you concede, voice and bones all broken, glistening under your frozen skin. "But if it's something I've done, then I'm sorry. I really do... enjoy your company. And you."

"It's not something you've done," he speaks quietly. Gosh, your frailty in this moment—you, so proud and unshakable on the pit wall, so dedicated and thorough on TV, so immeasurably devoted to Ferrari, to Charles, to him... "Or, well, I guess not directly..."

If he looks into your confused, imploring eyes one more second, almost brushes your arm with his one more time, then he's done for. But he thinks he knows this already.

"I don't dislike you," he starts speaking and as soon as he opens his mouth he knows there's no stopping himself now, so he blurts it all out as quickly as he can to get it over with and hopefully bury some meaning in the pits of his accent. "Not at all. In fact I really like you. I think you're gorgeous, and smart, and clever, and fun, and every day I wish I could spend more time with you outside of races and get to know you better but then I remember that can never happen and it's so frustrating and I have the hardest time concentrating. So I just avoid you. It's easier."

Silence thick as a thundercloud tethers you to one another. He runs a hand over his face, sighing deep, and you blink. Once, twice.

You've always prided yourself on your brains—not everyone gets to be in charge of all the computing for a Formula 1 car—but right now, you are all utterly lost.

"Carlos, I... I don't get it." Or maybe you do, heart thumping in your ears, but you're too scared you might be wrong.

"In any other life I would've asked you out on a date." This time he speaks more slowly, more purposefully, too. Like he's imbuing every syllable with the depth of his confession. "But it kills me that it can't be this one."

"... Why not?" you tentatively ask after an instant, feigning not to notice how his hand is now resting on the back of your sofa, right next to your ear and neck.

"Because you're a senior engineer! That would be like... like dating Ricky. Even if you're much prettier than Ricky. But you don't need to tell him that," he adds with a nervous laugh, which you mirror; though you fall silent as soon as his hand comes to rest on your shoulder, right where your collar ends, millimeters away from your skin. His body's warring with his own words... one wants to resist, the other to give in. "What if I leave Ferrari? That's a crazy conflict of interest."

"That's a silly idea, you're not leaving Ferrari anytime soon. Are you?"

"I don't know, it's... hypothetically... you know what I mean," he exhales in defeat. His hand clasps a little tighter on your shoulder, his scent dizzying, closer than ever before. Can he feel your frantic heart thumping underneath your skin? If he keeps licking his lips like this, will he sense your breathing getting more erratic?

"I do. But... the problem is I like you too, Carlos."

If embers could burn back to life, light a hearth out of nothingness... they wouldn't shine as bright as Carlos' eyes just then.

"Don't mess with me."

"I'm not messing with you. Why wouldn't I like you?"

"Because you're not supposed to have a favorite."

"I won't tell Fred if you don't."

He laughs, a brittle but adorable little thing, like a small bird taking its first flight. If you could hear the sound more often, see that bashful smile on his handsome face more every day... you wouldn't need any other prince to die in war for.

His hand runs down your arm, his thumb lightly caressing your skin through the fabric of your shirt before he grabs your shaky hand in his.

"Now's not the best time, but... I think we've got to have an important conversation after the race tomorrow," his deep, soft tone pacifying you just as much as the abstract shapes he traces on the back of your hand.

"After you win, you mean."

"Right. After I get my surprise, no?"

"After you win," you repeat with a grin, and he squeezes your hand, smiling too. Something, deep down, tells him he'll win regardless of the race result.

"Cosa diavolo sta facendo?"

Even in spite of the roaring crowd and the bellowing V8s speeding down the straight, the dumbfounded voices around the pit wall come to you clear as day.

"Russell 1.4 behind Lando," Ricky, sitting on the other side of Vasseur, speaks into his headset.

The team principal keeps quiet, eyes fixed on the cascade of numbers and brackets on your screen. He understands before the rest of the wall what his driver is doing; and as you relay all the information you get to the race engineers, you understand it too.

"Lando .8 behind, .8 behind with DRS—Russell no DRS... Copy that."

He's doing it on purpose. Keeping Norris just close enough to shield him from the Mercs while making sure he can't catch up. You'd laugh in triumph and disbelief if you weren't gritting your teeth so damn hard, heart on the verge of exploding as the last laps tick out in a blur.

Just a few more minutes. Just a few more seconds, and the night sky over Marina Bay will explode in crimson lights...

Mechanics spring to their feet and climb the wall to the track, bumping their fists in the air. Cheers, claps, exclamations, a bouquet of red roses swaying in the wind to greet its champion at the finish line. And then, the unmistakable roar of a racecar speeding past the chequered flag at three hundred kilometers an hour. Liberation.

You spring to your feet right as the fireworks go off, yelling to the sky. Carlos won. Carlos won! Your Carlos—in the middle of Red Bull's flawless season...

"¡Vamos Fred! ¡Vamos Ricky!" Flashes of red and gold pass his high spirits by, diligently braking into the first corner.

He laughs, he screams it all out, unclenching all his muscles, woozy from the G's, from the adrenaline, from the win... from you, watching him from the pit wall. From the memory of your skin against his, your adoring eyes and the formidable lightness inside his chest that has him feeling like he's the king of the world.

In a few minutes, he'll be posing with his trophy and the team in front of his P1 plaque for the group photo, and he'll drench you in champagne—your lively laughter will fill his heart with the gold of medals. And later in the evening, before the afterparty, he'll pull you aside and tell you maybe this victory has made him reckless, and he'll kiss you senselessly like a prize he fought for.

For now, though, he's nodding his head at Lando who gave him a congratulatory wave from his car when his on-board screen lights up with an unexpected message. Glowing red letters read, "Great job, smooth operator! 🌶️" Laughter escapes him as small virtual fireworks go off on his screen... and he presses the radio button on his steering wheel.

"Did she have one of these ready for Charles too?"

A few seconds of white noise, and then, your mischievous voice, dripping with joy.

"You know me, Carlos. Never play favorites."

… f1 taglist; @retvenkos @giuseppe-yuki (want to be added? send me an ask!)

[alexbrunn]

i loved your pav and marcoh role reversal au art so much!! do you have any more ideas about this au?? for example, does pav have any mob ties here? does marcoh want to kill the kaiser? or do they have entirely different goals / backstories? it's such an interesting premise!

I apologize for the long reply, I had a lot of time to think about this AU because I thought just switching characters around was too boring. I wanted something big, something that would affect the whole world.

You can judge for yourself how good and well thought out I've gotten, as for me, this idea still needs a lot of time to become something more serious. Plus, I haven't touched any of the characters except Pav and Marcoh (and those who are related to them in one way or another), all the other Termina members are unfortunately not involved in the idea yet.

Pav: Oh, you got a big gun like that in your pants?

The only thing that was important to me was to keep Le'Garde's importance throughout the story, because for all my love of Riccardo, he doesn't pull for someone as significant.

A time of crazy theories and crazy thoughts.

It all started when Le'Garde, instead of taking the throne in Bremen and creating Logic, decides to go the other way. He'll find out about the Sulfur God, that it's the second essence of Alll-Mer, and what's not the perfect field for his plan? If it is a part of Alll-Mer, it must be just as powerful to realize his ideas. He learns about all this in the Vatican, the capital of religions, and decides to stay there to realize his plan. Instead of politics and other public activities, he goes underground, because only from there he can learn all the darkest deeds of the Ministry of Magic and the Church, while doing other less important activities inherent in the criminal world. It comes to the point that the entire Vatican is now in his power and neither the government nor the clergy are his orders. If he wants, he will pull the strings and the vector of religious life of all mankind will change, which is gradually happening, when values are replaced by others and everything is slowly moving towards his goal of uniting mankind. Already every self-respecting believer is ready to join the crusade to Prehevil to free the second face of Alll-Mer. All those who thought otherwise were destroyed, first secretly, as if it were a showdown with the mafia, and then publicly, as heretics.

Pav's family was one of those destroyed as dissenters to the new religious dogma. The only one who survives is Pav, he vows revenge on whoever did this. His little investigation leads him first into the Mafia, and step by step he gets closer and closer to knowing that behind this is not a simple lust for money, revenge or anything else that is common in the underworld, but something more.

His character doesn't change, however given the circumstances, I feel like he would be even more self-indulgent. Even more open and swaggering, he would really like the world he is in, he doesn't feel that it was the mafia that ruined his family, he already knows there is much more behind it. In the long run, he's thinking about not just killing Kaiser, he'd love to take his place in the sun, or rather in the shade.

He probably wouldn't be in the ring much because he's not really built for it. If he does get invited, he never fights fair, he's the one who hides brass knuckles in his gloves and gets away with it for good work on the street. He's a beast out there, a guy as skillful as he is: agile, fast, dodgy, hardly had many wounds, except for two bullet wounds.

And Pav's story doesn't change, because when he learns that the boss is going to Prehevil to get the Sulfur God, he rushes off to get it himself.

As for Marcoh's story. Riccardo becomes emperor, though his role is not so significant. He follows the course already chosen by the Vatican's shadow government and the Kaiser as its leader. He is forced to go to war, because he will get money and territories, when the Kaiser himself feeds the Sulfur God with the suffering caused by the war.

With Marcoh, however, things are much simpler. They have never crossed paths in their lives, only a compulsory conscription law forces Marcoh, for all his aversion to violence, to join the army. Otherwise, his sister will suffer when her brother is killed for failing to fulfill his duty to his homeland. Worried for his sister's well-being, he asks her to move to a calmer and more peaceful region and promises to come back for her.

His psyche can't take it, he can't kill people without feeling guilty for each one, which causes him to run away from the army and end up in Prehevil.

[platoapproved]

As the resident TVC expert, do the books ever address the fact that Armand has a substance abuse problem? I knew he had a familial history of alcoholism through his father but I’m reading TVA for the first time and I feel like I should have been keeping track of how many times he’s mentioned being intoxicated while in Venice. I’ve seen parts of the battle-ax sequence out of context but I never realized until now that Armand explicitly states that he’s also drunk while all THAT™️ is happening

😭 I am so flattered and happy to answer as well as I can, but I promise I really am NOT an expert. I've still only read up through TVA! 💚 I can't tell you if the question of Armand and substance abuse ever comes up in later books, though my suspicion is it won't.

(Also good luck on your reading of TVA! It's... a lot!)

It really is interesting to me that a lot of discussion especially around Daniel/Armand talks about Daniel's addiction but (and it's probably just because people are going based solely on the show which is so fair!!!) doesn't mention Amadeo getting drunk all the time in Venice. That includes the breaking-down-Marius'-door-with-an-axe scene and everything that follows. But the one that really kills me, and to me makes it clearest that Amadeo is turning to alcohol as a coping mechanism, comes earlier:

He was particularly horrified that I'd fallen drunk into the Grand Canal, necessitating a clumsy and hysterical rescue. I could have sworn he went pale at the account, that I saw the color dance back from his whitening cheeks. He whipped Riccardo for it. I was full of shame. Riccardo took it like a soldier without cries or comment, standing still at a large fireplace in the library, his back turned to receive the blows on his legs. Afterwards, he knelt and kissed the Master's ring. I vowed I'd never get drunk again. I got drunk the next day, but I had the sense to stagger into Bianca's house and climb under her bed, where I could fall asleep without risk. Before midnight the Master pulled me out. I thought, Now I'll get it. But he only put me to bed, where I fell asleep before I could apologize.

It's just got so many layers of awfulness - Amadeo falling in the canal comes up a bunch as a fun shenanigan in fic/discussion, which I love, but I also can never forget what follows after it. Marius whipping Riccardo rather than Amadeo but making him watch. Amadeo promising himself he won't get drunk again but then getting drunk again the next day. :/ Running to Bianca's house and hiding under her bed because it is 'without risk' in a way that the palazzo isn't. :\

TVA doesn't ever address it explicitly but I think it's pretty easy and justified to read Amadeo as having a very unhealthy relationship with alcohol, even without taking into account a family history of addiction with his father.

I feel like I've read a handful of devil's minion fics where there are explicit parallels drawn between Amadeo's addiction to Marius' blood and Daniel's addiction to Armand's blood, but I would LOVE to read a fic where like... Daniel and Armand talk about the fact that as an abused teen he was getting drunk every day in a way that was clearly not just 'people drank a lot of wine back in the 16th century'. If anyone has any recs like that I'd love to read them!

[monstersinthecosmos]

OK so I was thinking about your unethical Marius fertility doctor AU first thing in the morning and - feel free to ignore this if it's entirely unwelcome of course(!) but:

If you like, wanted follow some of the same plot beats as canon you could totally go down the pregnancy route - have Marius' career destroyed by the scandal! Then he leaves the country to go somewhere it won't follow him. Armand could miscarry (if you don't want to deal with actual kids in the fic which I wouldn't lol) but only after the scandal is already out. Marius leaves with hardly a word (of course) as he thinks that Armand will want nothing to do with him, ofc he's mostly upset about being abandoned, he doesn't give a fuck about the scandal actually!

Enter Santino - branch leader of a cultish/fundamentalist Christian sect that has picked up quite few members on campus. Armand has previously dismissed them but at this vulnerable moment their rhetoric speaks to a childhood zealotry that he thought he freed himself of. Ofc Santino is not only interested in his soul and he fills a hole *ahem* that Marius left vacant in him.

Also for maximum angst Riccardo could be like, a med student of some kind in training at the clinic who also got a scholarship that was sponsored by the clinic, he's Armand's bestie/fuckbuddy and the one that recommends the clinic to him in the first place - he gets fucked over by the whole situation as the clinic, which no longer exists can no longer sponsor his scholarship!

And you could easily work Bianca in there too as maybe a beta sex worker or something like that, whose specialty is fake omega stuff, that Marius is very close with (maybe she gets involved in his work somehow, like sex therapist stuff) and maybe she goes with him when he flees the country because she has the connections to set him up wherever he's going.

Well sorry this was so long and I really haven't looked into omegaverse that much so perhaps it's nonsense, but better to get the brain-worms out I think!

oh my, i'm --

WHEN SANTINO SHOWED UP??????????? HELLO???

THIS IS REALLY QUITE A FUCKING SCANDAL I REALLY LOVE IT !!!!! YOU'RE ONTO SOMETHING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[starshine-shimmyshufflesmile]

I'm glad you responded too, you've given me a truly enjoyable afternoon of recreational cogitation with the vampires :)

Ah, I've worked my way back to Denis, Denis :) Denis is interesting to me bc of the way Rice managed to retroactively pack him with ever more subtext with each passing book. He's like the perfect mini-cosom of her skillful backweaving that makes a loose anthology of books into such a tight series, and a perfect lesson for learning to pick apart the layers of Anne's artfully painted subtext by extracting how the the other characters must be experiencing each situation we only see through the window of our narrator: you can teach a new reader to 'read between the lines' by just advising they take the time to write down what Louis is thinking abt Denis, and Claudia, and then after TQOTD Daniel in each different phase of the relationship is thinking abt Denis, and after TVA, what Marius when he read IWTV is thinking abt Denis; remember in the 1985 San Francisco Dracula's Daughter scene he only picked up TVL: he totally must have read IWTV some time before!

It's really neat, the way we see Denis differently as we learn more abt Armand, too. The reader's gage on what is going on with him & Armand has changed so much by the time you come out the other end of BAG and know all the details abt Riccardo and the palazzo boys. It's kinda awe inspiring how Anne shapes Denis, a character with a significant but small role in that first book, like she's carving additional refraction angles into a prism: shedding light on Armand from all those different angles.  

We come to understand Armand/Denis totally is re-enactment when we get the first iteration of Venice in TVL, and there is a metric fuckton that is a total pleasure to unpack there. But the angle I really, really dig comes from considering TDM & TVA together: after we see Armand telepathically savoring Daniel's sensual pleasures in passionate sex with men and women the same way he telepathically savored Denis enjoying the delicious silver plates of meats and fishes (and LOL yes! that there's actually a dirty joke the reader is clearly meant to decipher in comparing the two scenes is one of the absolute classic mind blowing reader rewards & "Queen!!" moments from Anne's style of elevating purposeful polysemy into exquisitely crafted subtext sculptures) because once you've worked your way through that aspect with Daniel, it's natural to think about what Armand is telepathically getting from Daniel & Denis when he's *drinking blood* from them: reading their minds he can totally re-enact Marius drinking from him: experience again, second hand, all the sensations and emotional responses that he had back then. 

And IMO reading that out of Denis's mind, specifically, in 1870 Armand is totally reveling in the memory of Marius drinking from him. It's so important in analyzing these characters to keep in sharp focus who knew what, when. And until 1985 Armand 100% believes Marius is dead, he doesn't consider himself abandoned at all, he thinks abt it as having tragically had his maker/mate murdered during a home invasion in their newlywed years. IMO the re-enactment is profoundly comforting to him- possibly it's a compulsive, addictive comfort to him.

The other thing about Denis as re-enactment of M&A, IMO it has as much to do with the torture & brainwashing from Santino and servitude to Alexandra as with Marius. Lestat causing Alessandra to suicide and bringing Armand out from under les innocents in 1780 ushered in the first era he could make any choices in his own life, ever. By the time Louis finds him with the theater coven it's apparent that he's spent decades trying to reclaim the things Marius taught him. All those frescoes in the older catacombs under the theater? What other *!conceivable* answer to how they got there than -Armand-painted them in the early theater years decades before? He never would have been allowed to even think of the sensual act of lifting a paintbrush in the cult days, so he did when he could as leader of the theater, and he had those centuries of Santino & Alessandra's satanist brainwash & control to distance himself from: that's why all the paintings are themes of hell & damnation & fallen angels, it's art therapy to purge himself of that child-of-darkness nightmare, make it all just paintings on the wall that dont include him (!as he says to Louis 'that? That is a painting') That subtext becomes retroactvley really striking after Marius describes in BAG using painting to do basically the exact opposite: painting himself into 15th century Venice until he feels he belongs there. IMO Armand see reclaiming the sensual pleasure of little drinks from a mortal lover the same way, and 1870 still being pre-modern era I don't think he sees at that time that Denis is any worst victimization than with an adult.

The other thing that always strikes me is how rewarding it is to compare and contrast the ways Anne went about getting her extremely effective results in the two scenes from those first two books: the ominous exchanges between Armand, and Louis, and Claudia and Denis in the catacomb room under the theater, and that ominous portion of his story recounted to Lestat via spell-vision in TVL that you've picked out here...

But the pleasure of delving into the literary techniques will have to wait for another day as today's dinner won't make itself!

You should reblog your 'quote as creepy pasta instagram' post free of this incredibly lengthy derail I caused. Let the original version swim free, It's insightful & very effective in its brevity.

Throw back to when I was reading The Vampire Armand, read this paragraph, which is 13-14 yr old newly Amadeo-Armand describing Marius:

And thought that it came off as super vague and ominous, like one of those poor quality creepy-pasta few sentence horror stories you find edited against a spooky stock photo background on Instagram. So I did just that, lmao: