charlieclarkedj - Tumblr blog

charlieclarkedj · 5 days

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@charlieinthemix: if i could wolf whistle i would! sick ink popsicle

↳INSTAGRAM: @.popstarpoppy uploaded a photo:

Kinda nervous to post this hehe but I got a new tattoo 🙈 Mom look away! Thanks Bobbie 💖🌸🌺💐 (Disclaimer: Not engaged! Wrong finger! The ring belonged to my Grammy.)

#ft. poppy #insta: poppy

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charlieclarkedj · 5 days

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@charlieinthemix: @producermarcus i feel #wooed

↳INSTAGRAM: @producermarcus uploaded a photo:

Charlie insisted on brunch this morning before some mixing. Then I showed him the studio balcony over a few drinks.

#ft. marcus #insta: marcus

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charlieclarkedj · 5 days

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@charlieinthemix: @ameliabarton OH hahahaha. POOL

↳INSTAGRAM: @ameliabarton a photo:

Pool party anybody?

#ft. amelia #insta: amelia

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charlieclarkedj · 5 days

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@charlieinthemix: your boy was dined and also wined. brunched and beered #romance #bestboymarcus

↳INSTAGRAM: @producermarcus uploaded a photo:

Charlie insisted on brunch this morning before some mixing. Then I showed him the studio balcony over a few drinks.

#ft. marcus #insta: marcus

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charlieclarkedj · 5 days

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@charlieinthemix: when i say POOL you say PARTY

↳INSTAGRAM: @ameliabarton a photo:

Pool party anybody?

#ft. amelia #insta: amelia

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charlieclarkedj · 5 days

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At school, Charlie Clarke was always told he wouldn't amount to much. Sure, there had been a few teachers who considered him a special favourite, taken in by his sunny demeanor, or they'd taken pity on him due to his, frankly, shitty upbringing. All his report cards - tacked to the fridge of his foster family or lost amidst a sea of bills and coupons - had said the same thing. Charlie Clarke is a real leader, bright but lazy, clever but lacking ambition. So he'd accepted pretty early on in life that he might never become an important businessman, or a world leader, but when it came to DJing his favorite club on a Tuesday night during 2-for-1 cocktails? Charlie Clarke was a God.

The DJ booth was set high above the crowd, so much so that pretty girls had to get on their tiptoes to shout requests, half hanging over the raised platform and spilling out of their tops. Other than that, everyone in the crowd looked like nothing more than blurry shapes to him. The way they moved, the ferocity with which they clashed into each other with a desire to keep up. Bodies were draped over one another til Charlie could barely tell them apart, swapping spit and tabs and occasionally harsh blows, only to be pulled out by security what felt like mere seconds later. Everyone moved too fast for him to keep up, but Charlie felt connected to every single one of them. They felt the same bass under their feet, screamed along to the same lyrics. Everyone in the crowd was so fucking beautiful, and it was because of him.

Tugging an ear free from his headphones, Charlie reached to the side of the DJ booth where his beer was sitting, probably stale tasting and worse the wear for sitting stagnant. Still, beggars couldn't be choosers, and his throat was dry as fuck. He gulped around the bitter taste, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth to remove the sticky residue as the last song of his set reached it's climax. He could feel the next DJ crowding behind him, pumping his fist with one hand as the other seamlessly slid his USB drive into the port next to Charlie's own, ready for the next song.

Once you talk to me, I'll talk to you, And say, 'Hey, let's get out of here.'

"Shall we go back to my place?" Charlie roared along with the final lyric, amidst what felt like mostly a congregation of mostly white women also enjoying their Brat Summer. He clapped his hands together in exaltation, slapping the next DJ on the shoulder as he closed up his laptop, slipping from the booth.

"All yours, dog!" he chirped, sliding his laptop, covered with peeling stickers, under his arm.

The Floridian quickly moved into the crowd, enjoying the anonymity it gave him. Most partygoers didn't tend to recognise the DJ, too lost in the music to really give the guy behind the keyboard a second glance. It was only ever a handful of times that Charlie was caught by someone with a congratulatory word to bestow upon him, or a flirty come on. Most of the time, Charlie moved without being seen. Sure, his set had finished, but the night was far from over.

Tugging his phone from deep within the pockets of his baggy jeans, he prayed for a semblance of service as he wound through the crowd, wondering if any of the usual suspects were out tonight. If he was lucky, Amelia or Jessie had decided to say fuck it to their 9-to-5 and go out on a Tuesday night. If not, well, Charlie found friends wherever he went.

He found himself subconciously moving towards the smoking area, patting down his other pocket in search of his Vape - man, he needed more hands - when he found himself pinned in place by the gaze of a stranger directly in his path. Looking up, Charlie offered him a lopsided smile. If Charlie registered the fact that stopping directly in his path was a super fucking weird thing to do, he didn't comment on it. The guy was extremely good looking, with big, pretty eyes and the body language of somebody who didn't want to be there.

"Yeah?" Charlie said, a grin threatening to split his face in two. "You can direct all complaints to the bar, my guy. The girls really just wanna hear Charli this Summer."

He laughed, redistributing the weight of his laptop under his other arm, as the man quickly backtracked.

"Aw well, much obliged, dog!" he thanked the other man. With some slight of hand, he ferried his vape and his phone to one hand so he could hold out a paw to the man he now considered his new friend.

"Name's Charlie. I'm here most nights." he greeted, holding his palm outright for the other man to shake, or slap, or whatever.

If you knew nothing about Marcus – which he found most people did - and were totally fucking stupid – which he found most people were – then you would probably assume that night-clubs were right up his alley. Marcus dealt in music, blasting it as loud as is medically safe to human ears through his headphones, and he was certainly no stranger to sneaky joint in the comfort of his own flat. The common denominator, of course, being that Marcus found comfort in both music and drugs while tucked neatly into his own comfort zone, away from the loud boom of an inconsistent bassline, poor sub control, and the sweaty bodies of strangers.

Producers, directors and executives alike tended to primarily focus on where the money was rolling in, rather than focus their attention on the actual talent behind the sound. Case in point: Marcus Greene had found himself situated in arguably one of New York’s busiest clubs on a random Tuesday night, cringing away from the unwanted touch of some Big Wig record producer who kept insisting on resting his hand on his thigh. After a solid thirty minutes of what was allegedly being confidently referred to as active negotiations, Marcus waved away the contract that was currently stuck to the table in front of him, remnants of jäger bombs glueing it to the surface. The Brit wasn’t drinking, but the men scouting him – and poorly, at that – had been.

Feeling resigned already and bored out of his mind at their misguided attempts at poaching him, Marcus pushed to his feet and held up a hand to silence the protests that were readily flowing from their lips.

“Even if the money you were offering me was even worth half a glance, I still wouldn’t be interested,” Marcus stated bluntly, his voice lifting into a near-shout to be heard over the music that filled the club. He had never been interested in policing his tone with people he didn’t like. He had no desire to baby anyone, and he wasn’t about to apologise for being honest. His mums had taught him better than that. “Your offer is shit, and I don’t like any of you. I’ve heard more than enough, and I’m not interested.”

Without waiting for a retort, Marcus simply shrugged and turned his back on the men and redirected himself towards the entrance.

Fists clenched at his side, Marcus glanced around him as drunk strangers sidled up next to him, hands pulling and grasping at him as thin-lipped girls so white-girl wasted on bottles of WKD tried to lure him out onto the dancefloor after them. Unfiltered and visibly disgusted, Marcus uttered several Absolutely Not’s as he openly grimaced in their direction, before veering away from the dancefloor entirely.

Another thing that Marcus was looking forward to getting away from – besides the obvious presence of money-grabbing label execs and girls with their inhibitions so loose even Natasha Bedingfield might have something to say about it – was getting well away from the jarring music that was chorusing over the speakers. Earlier on in the night – back when he’d arrived over 40 minutes early for his ‘meeting’, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt as he’d tried, to no avail, at finding a quiet corner to burrow himself in – Marcus had noted the DJ at the decks. Primarily, he wouldn’t have paid him much notice, not in a setting so far from his realm of comfort, but he’d found himself enthralled with the way the man was seamlessly transitioning between tracks. From his song choices to the way he managed to command the room, even from behind his turntable, he seemed to have complete and total control over each sound that vibrated through the room, and each body that swayed in time to it.

There was none of that, now. With the DJ from earlier seemingly gone, the room was filled with a mismatch of genres, mixed lazily together in a way that made him feel like his ears were bleeding.

With another grimace, Marcus continued his search for the exit, before his gaze landed on the face of a stranger – but a familiar one, at that. Unthinking, he rerouted towards the other man before stopping abruptly in front of him, arms crossed awkwardly across his chest as he blocked the other man’s view, uncomfortably trying to garner his attention.

“I saw your set earlier.”

It was a statement, and a rather abrupt one at that. Kennedy often told Marcus that he could be... awkward. She didn’t say it with an unkindness, but merely because she knew that reading tone wasn’t entirely Marcus’ strong suit – particularly his own. It helped ground him on the rare occasions where he found himself not wanting to offend somebody.

“Sorry. Let me try that again,” he winced, his voice muffled under the ruckus that the other alleged DJ was causing. “I enjoyed your set earlier. You were good. Really good.”