#auds-and-charlie

[stairnaheireann]

#OTD in 1916 – The first casualties of the Easter Rising were on Good Friday in Co Kerry.

Three Volunteers, Con Keating, Charlie Monahan and Donal Sheehan, drowned when their car plunged off a pier into the sea while they were on the way to Cahirciveen in order to set up radio communications with Sir Roger Casement and the German arms ship the Aud. Five men set off from Dublin by train to Killarney, Charlie Monaghan, Donal Sheehan, Con Keating, Dennis Daly and Colm O’Lochlainn.…

[leclsrc]

it’s never over ✴︎ cl16

genre: childhood friends to friends with benefits to lovers (a mouthful), smut, humor, Fluffff!!!!, several references to 70’s music, 

word count: 12.9k  

You must have lost the plot along the way, because pretending to date your childhood best friend was not on your 2023 bingo card. (Neither was the fact that things are looking a lot more real as time passes.)

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... handjob (f receiving), penetrative sex, semi public sex, praise central, size kink

auds here… hi hi hi!!! you’ve no idea how much i missed writing posting and interacting w u guys. thank u for all the love & follows i’ve gotten in my periods of mia. more things soon i promise ty for ur patience love love love u allll 🌟🤎🤠💋 this is my love letter to fic tropes. i feared if it was too long i’d lose the plot somehow so i had to condense it. i truly hope u all like it :) will try & reopen reqs sometime soon to get inspo kicking

It’s later than late. The lights are strobing purple and blue, the “let’s get you even drunker than you are” headache inducing kind. The floor is crowded, swelling with teenagers who are probably too young to get in, drunk off cheap aperol and watered-down tequila shots. You’re balancing yourself on a barstool, one hand busy wrapped around a slim glass, the other clawing your miniskirt lower because the air bites at your legs.

“Another voddy Red Bull!” You’re slurring, mind spinning almost as fast as your vision. You almost drop your empty glass in your rush to look for another one—but right as it slips clumsily out of your fingers, it’s caught. 

Charles, your cocktail’s knight in armor and yours just as well, is eighteen. His hair is  light brown and long, but not draping over his eyes like before. You know before because you’ve never not known before—Charles has been your best friend since you were five.

Snoopy, he says, voice steady and calm in your ear. His frame is still lanky but he’s tall and his grip on your shoulders is enough to quell the yelling. You pout. Get me another voddy red, you plead. Charlie, it’s my birthday. He smiles to himself, knowing your vision’s too cloudy to see him and your mind’s too bogged to remember any of this. You’d already slipped up and told two bouncers you were seventeen and not eighteen, like your poorly-Photoshopped ID suggested; Charles had to keep you in check, lest you or your friends end up kicked out of the club.

A song booms in through the speakers and your eyes widen with recognition. Charles doesn’t anticipate your reaction fast enough, affording only a stumble backwards when you attempt to leave the barstool to dance. He swears under his breath, mind recounting the five previous dance sessions that left you exhausted and out of breath earlier.

I’ll get you a vodka Red Bull if you sit down, he tells you. He enunciates because, twelve years later, you still can’t wrap your mind around his thick European accent. Sit down.

Alriiiight! You hoot, throwing two fists up in the air. Customary for many bartenders on nights as busy as this one, a free shot is thrust into your vacant hand and you cheer loudly, much to Charles’ chagrin. With whatever malice the eighteen-year-old can muster, he casts the bartender a dirty look before turning to face you again, worried. He places a hand on your shoulder and watches, half-anxious and half-endeared, you take the shot and visibly grimace at the raw taste. Fuck. It’s gin I think, you sputter. Charles presses: You okay?

More than, you holler, smiling. I am officially seventeeee— 

The bartender’s eyebrows furrow, the thirty-something businessman in the adjacent stool turns to look—so Charles has no choice but to shut you up, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours before you can seal your fate.

Your eyes widen briefly, and when Charles feels the passed seconds are sufficient, he pulls away. You stare, eyes hazy, at the pretty boy you’ve had feelings for since you turned fourteen, and lean in to kiss him again. 

—

Pascale is hosting her weekly Sunday brunch at the Leclerc residence, all French windows and wide kitchens and bowls of fruit. As always, your place is at the kitchen island picking at plates to taste test them. Bonjour, Arthur drawls when he walks in. He turns to Pascale. Mum. Then you. Snoopy.

You halt biting into your forkful of arugula and turn toward the younger Leclerc, eyebrows raised. “What’d you just call me?”

“Snoopy,” he says simply. He’s beside Pascale, one arm wrapped around her affectionately. “Or, Snoops, if you like that. Yes?”

“Who told you about that nickname?”

“Lorenzo.”

“Hasn’t been in use since your voice was cracking every sentence.”

“Tête de noeud.” Pascale swats his arm and he yelps, so you resume your arugula with satisfaction.

Charles is late for reasons he did not disclose, but everyone is used to it. The open kitchen door stretches into the front yard, where the table is set up and Lorenzo is setting the places. You know that although you usually expect a few more relatives, today’s just for the family—and you, but you’re basically family.

“How is Paris?” Arthur asks, licking hummus off a spoon opposite you. Your position is reminiscent of how you spent afternoons after school with Charles before, and the memory strikes a chord in you. Strange nostalgia, fondness.

“It’s fine.”

“Oh really?” He laughs in-between nibbles of carrot.

“I got an offer for a higher position,” you relent. Pascale calls you both, and you get up and walk toward the yard to sit down. “If you must know.”

“Oh? Let me know how that goes.” He follows you, carrot slice in hand, chewing. The conversation is cut short by the smooth noise of Charles’ decidedly un-smooth parking outside.

You’re seated at your usual spot—in-between Charles and Lorenzo, across Arthur—when the former finally walks into the yard. He looks tired, moreso than usual, bags under his eyes deep and hair a bit more disheveled.

He sits beside you. “I need to talk to you.” Then, quieter, “Private.”

You hum confusedly, eyes flitting across the three other people at the table to gauge their reactions. They’re equally aloof. “Wh—now?” He nods.

You end up talking in the kitchen. He’s sighing the whole fifteen steps there, rubbing the bridge of his nose, exhaling, inhaling. Ever observant, and of someone as close to you as he is, you pick up on the tiny actions, behaviors. Charles is wringing his hands. He’s tried to pop the same knuckle twice. He isn’t frantic—he’s scared. You lean against the counter, waiting, eyes looking him up and down to identify his exact emotions.

“Tell me,” you press. “Whatever it is, I won’t judge.”

“The—my—the iCloud of my phone has been leaked. The press found out.”

When you were eight and he was nine, you and Charles summered in Villefranche with your mum and dad. The weather then was the kind you could write love letters to and about—blue skies, salty wind, soft sand. The current was calm enough that you could ride the gentle waves without fear of going under or straying far from the shore, where your parents sunbathed blissfully.

Don’t drown, he’d warned you, ever protective. You wore pink floaties over your arms, so it was already difficult to.

You dove under with great effort, fighting against the buoyancy, and poked his bare knee, surfacing to watch his reaction. He grimaced. Slowpoke, you teased, swimming away. You wondered then what it might feel to drown. Maybe not in the blue water of Villefranche, but anywhere else.

You think it hurts to drown? You blubbered, bobbing above the wave. Charles swam in front of you and wiped water off your face gently. I hope you never find out, he said, smiling.

But this is you finding out. This is it now, the drowning. Your fingers flex over the edge of the counter and you gulp, eyes fluttering with nerves. “Shit?” It comes out like a question from how nervous you are. “Um, sorry. What are we—” But your question is cut short by Pascale’s voice, cutting through the tension like it’s wet cardboard. The agreement is silent and mutual: save this discussion for later.

—

Charles can’t wake up fast enough. There are calls, texts, voicemails from every officer on his team, which isn’t that surprising given he’s up two hours late. But the amount—the sheer amount of notifications is dizzying. Overwhelmed, he finds it in himself to pull up his search engine app and let his fingers possess themselves.

All he types is his last name, and then The Sun article is splashed onto his face like a pot of scalding coffee: “F1 DRIVER ICLOUD LEAKED, PERSONAL PHOTOS ALL OVER INTERNET.” Daily Mail is next, of course, watering down the situation to seem more dirty and scandalous: “Naughty Driver? Charles Leclerc’s iCloud Hacked, Reveals Mystery Girl.” And then of course Page Six, who doesn’t miss a beat—

Wait. He blinks and presses the back arrow to return to the previous webpage. He reads over it again, slower this time. Mystery Girl? Shit—no. No way. It’s almost (it should be) silly, the way he’s reading vigorously over the reports like he’s a fan, but he’s anxious. He scrolls, because if any tabloid is daft enough to publish the leaked photos, it’s got to be the Daily Mail.

He pauses his quick swiping when his eyes harden with recognition, and staring back at him, on his phone’s full brightness, is a picture of you on his lap at Christmas. It’s the one Lance took while attempting to guess Charles’ password, one of you wine drunk with his head buried in your neck.

It’s unmistakably him, at his own house in Monaco where the drivers had a holiday get-together. It’s unmistakably you, hair draped over your face, three gold rings on your fingers. You had just given him a Strokes vinyl, he recalls. That’s why you were hugging.

There’s another one of you playing Scrabble in his bed—he’s not in the frame, but he remembers taking it. This, he could deny. He’s not in it, and he’s pretty sure the fans don’t know his house this well. Already his brain’s doing manual damage control, dread filling his veins at the thought of reading through his team’s frantic messages.

Another message stands out, pinned on top of all the others—from his mum, reminding him about brunch. He gets ready half-focused, half-lucid. Fully worried. He worries about the PR crisis this may cause, about his iCloud security, about the reactions online. Above all, though, he worries about you. About what he should tell the press. About how “actually, we’re not dating, we just fuck constantly” might hold up for the fans.

—

You’re twelve and Charles thirteen, both of you seated across Hervé and Pascale. Behind them stand your own parents, and they all look stern. What this is, Pascale says gently, is a family meeting. Okay?

Okay. It leaves your high voices in shaky unison. You both know what you’re doing here—you snuck out of school to catch a movie earlier, the teacher naturally caught wind of the misdeed, and now you’re in a meeting for it.

Snoops, Charles whispers, trying to ease your nerves with lighthearted commentary. This is the worst.

No, you want to tell preteen Charles—this is. You’re older now, yet still subjected to similar questioning, though today it’s Pascale going solo. It’s been three days since the fated day where the press leaked the pictures of you and Charles in compromising positions, and like any boomer, she’s used Facebook to her advantage and gotten ahold of the compromising pictures, too. 

“How long?” Her voice is enunciated in hard syllables.

“Mum—”

“Answer the question.” She looks back and forth, moving into territory of intense questions. “Both of you.”

“Um.”

“Because… I’ve been…”

You notice it immediately, given your observant track record: her shoulders relax and her lips smile just slightly. You sit still, and wait for the next words out of her mouth. “…waiting for this all my life!”

You and Charles watch in mild horror as Pascale’s face goes from firm to absolutely elated. Her eyes soften and a smile spreads over her face, illuminating her with pure joy. Do you even know how many bets I made with your papa, Charles? She claps her hands together several times.

Charles opens his mouth to verbalize dissent, but she doesn’t take it—she’s already droning on and on about how long she’s waited for this to finally happen. Your eyes glide over to the doorway of the dining area, where Lorenzo and Arthur watch with smug looks on their faces. Little shits won’t help you. You don’t even try to protest, and at some point Charles gives up, too. You don’t know how it’ll come across, anyway.

Ninety minutes later, you’re in Arthur’s bedroom rifling through his desk and praying you don’t find anything too gross. He’s on his bed throwing a bouncy ball up in the air, conversing with Charles about your gameplan with their mum.

The sky outside is in limbo between afternoon and night. It’s cloudy, so the sunset is a pale yellow instead of angry orange. “Why not just tell her the truth?”

You’d also thought that was the easiest option, escape route, exit path. But that would involve breaking Pascale’s heart, and that was out of the question for you, let alone Charles, certified mommy’s boy.

“I can’t, Arthur.” Charles’ voice is steady and unwavering.

“You can.”

“No.”

“Fine. Next best thing then.”

You fiddle with a Rubik’s cube, then turn in the seat. “What?”

“Pretend you’re dating.”

“Arthur,” you say seriously. “Shut up.” But he doesn’t join you, and you realize neither does Charles. You stare blankly at both of them, unwilling to believe they’d actually bank on this as an actual plan. 

“You guys realize this kind of thing never works? Zero percent success rate.”

“It’s just paddock appearences. You’re not pretending for millions of people,” Arthur says, shrugging. He catches the ball and throws it to you—you catch it one-handed. “You’re pretending for Mum.”

“Sure. And by extension, millions of people. Are you dense, or do you think the paddock appearances will just breeze by everyone who saw the leaks?”

“Ughhh. You’re acting like it’s impossible.” Arthur holds his breath before he utters the next sentence. “Like you two aren’t fucking every other w—”

“—oh, my God!” Shocked, you get up, and so does Charles. “Wh—I’m—language, Arthur!”

Charles balks. “How did you even—”

“I didn’t. But merci mille fois for confirming my theory,” Arthur quips faux-sweetly, smiling dopily. “I mean, I was going to find out! Your pictures are so… intimate. So just pretend to date and throw Maman off your scent.”

You protest briefly, wrestling with the option, and reconvene on the bed, you cross-legged and leaning on Charles’ shoulder and Arthur in front of the both of you. He’s always had a knack for schemes—he never got caught sneaking out, which destroyed your and Charles’ record of being caught twelve times by either of your parents. It’s a bit childish, but he gets the job done.

“Do it for… let’s say a month. Tell Mum you’ve been dating a while—Christmas isn’t that long ago, and that was the least recent picture. D’accord?”

You both nod, hyperfocused. 

“During race weekends, be all over each other—shouldn’t be hard—especially in front of Mum. People might catch you doing it, but I wouldn’t worry.”

“No, wait—I mean.” You shrug. “People—tifosi—they know I’m Charles’ friend. They’re going to be all over the fact that we’re apparently dating.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll use palatable density,” Charles says, nodding.

You pause. Arthur does, too, sensing something off.

“You mean plausible deniability.” Your deadpan voice is tinged with amusement, muffled into his shoulder. 

“Right, ouais, that.” He smiles, chuckling a bit; his shoulder shakes with it and your head nearly slips off. He brings a hand to cup over your jaw and hold you steady. “Sorry.”

“S’fine.” You sigh. “I’m totally okay with this. Just worried it’s going to have unintended consequences.”

Arthur quells you with rushed explanations about how it’ll be over and you two can say something like we decided we’re better off as friends to really sell the thing. At the seven-minute mark of your and Charles’ intense interrogation, he promptly kicks you out to figure out if you’re willing to do it yourselves.

You wedge yourself into Charles’ front seat, knowing you were headed to his place anyway. You massage your temples with one hand and fiddle with the hem of your shorts with the other. Nervous. Antsy. “Did Fred say anything?”

“Got the IT team to fortify my account.” 

“You think this thing’s going to be okay from a professional standpoint?” You look up and toward him; he’s already gazing at you, eyes soft. “I’m worried. Plus, with my job offer thing in London and New Y—”

“Don’t be.” He starts the car and maneuvers out of the driveway, into the dips of Monaco streets and the familiar route back to his place. “Bitter with the sweet. The only thing you need to worry about”—he takes your hand in the centre console, laces your fingers together loosely—“is your acting skills.”

“God, you’re right.” You sigh, looking out the window. “How am I going to pretend I can stand you?” Then, for good measure, you squeeze his hand wrapped in yours.

—

You visit Monaco from uni in London over spring, and for the first time in months, your schedule aligns with Charles’—though you learn this indirectly when you visit the Leclerc home. Pascale, of course, is the one who tells you his new flat’s address before she presses a kiss to your cheek and then leaves to run errands in the city. Alone, and in a burst of excitement, you make the drive there, take the elevator upstairs and shove the door open without knocking. He’s there. Your Charles. You can tell because the music he plays is loud—The Kooks—like his ears are still fourteen and not twenty-one, like he’s still in middle school and not in Formula One.

“Save your eardrums,” you say, before beelining toward the couch and leaping onto him for a hug. He sits up to match your energy, arms wrapping around you, sitting up straighter to keep you from totally falling atop him. 

“How’s uni?”

“Shit,” you say into his hair. It smells like his shampoo and his favorite cologne. Clean, soapy. “Obviously. How’s the Ferrari?” 

“Amazing.” He smiles. “Obviously. How’d you know I was in? Mum told you?”

“Ouais. She’s running errands. Listen, can we drink tonight?” You sigh, parting from the hug and sitting across him.

Yeah, sure. His voice is concerned, thick with worry. You shake your head—it’s not that deep, you tell him. It’s just—I had a bad date before I left and it’s put me in the worst mood.

Oh? He leans back, clasping two hands behind his head as he goes.What happened? He laughs. 

You tense visibly, rolling your eyes despite yourself. “He was just weird. Nothing.”

He wiggles his eyebrows. “You shy, Snoops?”

Ha-ha. You roll your eyes, but your face is flushed and your gaze avoids him. You reach up to tuck the loose strands of hair by your ears behind them, face warm. You’d never talked with Charles about boys or flings before—maybe several times, but never in full detail. It was always vague umbrella statements, like Ryan is boring or Greg is such a prick, but never anything beyond that. Come to think of it, you don’t know why, either.

“You can tell me.”

“The—when we—I had to fake,” you say cuttingly. “You know.”

He purses his lips and smiles, eyebrows furrowing. I don’t, actually. Something unnamed trills through you—through your stomach and into your fingertips. Your first time talking to your best friend in real life after months of uni and racing and this is the topic? It’s, if anything, a sign of your growing up, you guess.

Charles lets up on the teasing and you end up rejecting the club in lieu of sharing a bottle of vodka, throwing it back raw and without any type of chaser (to really prove nothing at all; you don’t even know why any sane human would do this). You do a Just Dance party on his TV, even try out drunk sim racing and FIFA, but by the end you’re well exhausted and retired to the couch again.

His voice is wavy and tipsy when he speaks. “You really had to fake it?”

“Yeah.” You pout. “Can never—um, finish, I dunno.” Your inhibition’s gone, shame loosened and untied by the vodka. You shift in your position on the couch.

“Maybe because it was too casual.” His voice hardens.

“So you’re saying I should…” You swallow dryly, eyes fluttering. “Sleep with somebody I know?” You’ve dropped the implication and it floats up, hangs above.

His eyes flick over to your legs, folded on the couch. The hem of your shorts. Your fingers playing with your empty shot glass. He didn’t mean anything by that. He’s half-sure you didn’t. 

“I am just saying that a good friend would do that for you.”

“You’re a good friend,” you say, volume low. 

Five minutes later you’ve properly crashed into each other, him pinning you down against the couch, licking fire up your throat. His lips trail across your jaw. 

He dips a hand into your shorts, presses against your clothed core. He’s smiling. So wet for me. He’s got his mouth pressed messily up to your jaw, when he sinks one finger all the way in, slow and stretching; and you’re clenching around him—

Come on, he’s saying. Insisting. You’re trembling, yanking desperately at his hair as he pumps his finger slowly in and out of you, aching to be full of him, to take him deeper. 

He slips another one in, and you feel the cold of his ring pressed against your entrance, then he’s fucking them into you and you’re leaking around them. 

Yes, yeah, Charles—you’re gasping, airy breaths tapering into whimpers that sound sinful, desperate. He knows you so well already. Presses his fingers against your sweet spot, watches your eyes flutter.

So needy, and you’re chanting his name under your breath as he quickens his pace, craving the stretch of him desperately. I know you want to cum, baby. He’s calling you baby and you’re closer, so much closer. Come on, for me, yeah? 

You melt, crashing and crumpling into him and shuddering as you release all over his fingers. He presses his forehead to yours and lets you take a beat. You feel giddy and dizzy and warm, which is weird because you don’t feel drunk at all anymore. This dizziness is something different. It’s Charles.

“Are we going to do that again?” You ask meekly, hand still in his hair.

“Only if you want. Whatever you want,” he says. He’d do anything for you. He’d do whatever you wanted.

“I do, I do want.” And Charles, the good friend he is, helps you out.

—

Imola is humid, warm, and the racetrack is absolutely teeming with people. But you’re not there—clad in linen shorts and a fresh tank top, you’re walking around the vicinity of the track, cup of gelato in hand, sunglasses over your eyes. The restaurant near you is playing music out loud. Beside you, singing along and drafting a list of wedding appetizers, is Lorenzo.

“Lamb chops?” You suggest, licking amaretto off the plastic spoon. The weather is pleasant enough that people are crowding the streets without it being too unbearably hot. Stevie Wonder flows from the speakers, permeates the entire block.

“I was thinking more seafood.”  

“Tuna? Make ‘em little tacos.”

“Good idea. Think I’ll go for those. Hey, are you sure you’re on board with fake-dating my brother?”

You turn sharply toward him, taken aback. He hadn’t brought it up in the week and a half this plan had been in the works—he’d been privy to it the entire time, too, which makes it weirder that he’s asking so suddenly.

“I meaaan…” You slow your pace, contemplative. A shy smile plays at your lips, brows knitted together. “It’s only going to be for a month. Ish. So, yeah. Are you—do you—sorry. Is it alright with you? Sorry.”

“It is not not okay.”

“So it’s…” You pause. “Okay.”

“It’s—yes, but I worry, is all. How sure are you that this won’t hurt anyone?”

“I don’t know, it’s… bitter with the sweet. And who’s getting hurt… like the fans?” You laugh a little. “They’ll live, won’t they?”

“Like you.” He pauses. “Like Charles.”

—

Pierre is running a comb through his hair, staring at himself in the mirror; his Narcissus moment is interrupted by a banana to the back of his head. Bonjour, he says, monotone and already knowing the culprit.

“We need to talk.”

“Could this possibly be about the news of your brand new ‘girlfriend’ over last week? Where is she, by the way?”

“With Lorenzo. Listen, here’s the thing. Mum thinks we’re dating, and I don’t know how to tell her we’re not—so I won’t.”

“Lie to your mum, go ahead.” Pierre crosses his arms and hums.

“Tais-toi. It’s for her own good.” 

“So you’re going to pretend to date.”

 “Ouais.” 

“Should be easy. You guys are hooking up and making out or whatever all the time.”

Charles pauses and lets the silence speak for itself. When Pierre makes a noise of confusion, he gives. We don’t kiss, he says finally. She thinks it is too intimate, and we ‘are not dating,’ so sex is the only thing we do. Sex, and if you still have leftover antsy energy, you pull on his shirt and sit up against the headboard to finish a crossword puzzle. Sometimes he helps you, but most of the time he’s just there to press lazy kisses to your hair and temple, cheekbone and jaw—never your lips.

“You don’t kiss?” Pierre’s genuinely shocked. “Putain, you’re a hero. How does that even work?”

“We just do not kiss. We fuck, but no kissing.” He shrugs. “It’s always been that way.”

“So how about her birthday?”

“She doesn’t…” Charlex exhales tightly. “Remember.”

“Charles,” you suddenly say, head appearing into the doorway. “Oh, hey. Fred said you might be here. What are you guys talking about?”

“Sprint racing,” Pierre says, an easy lie.

Charles, though, is never good at the lying bit. “International tariffs.”

—

Your only memories of your seventeenth birthday are applying lip gloss and mascara, wearing your shortest skirt and tightest top, and reciting your supposed date of birth in line like a mantra. Anything after that’s been sprayed off by the ultra-clutch strength of vodka. Which, you’ve been told, was your drink of choice.

“Headache’s better,” you moan over the phone, face squashed onto your pillow. “Mum gave me an Advil but I was so sick all morning.”

“Did you snog anyone?” Charles is always teasing.

“God, I wish.” You shut your eyes and try to remember if your drunken stupor had somehow managed to get you successful in lip-locked matters. Nothing comes up and you wipe a dry hand over your face, heaving a sigh. “I really wanted to kiss Matthew but I think he left before you and I did.”

A pause. Then Charles clears his throat. “You mean you and me and the police car that escorted us home?” He snorts.

“You’re such a prick!” You scream into your pillow, laughing. “I already thanked you for being my literal savior last night.”

He smiles to himself. “You’re welcome.”

“Did you have fun?” You flop onto your back and stare at the stick-on stars on your ceiling. You make a mental note to try and remove them.

“Bit boring because I vowed not to drink at all, but I got to dance. Bitter with the sweet, right?”

—

“Nervous?”

“I mean, fuck, yeah.” You fix the hem of your dress, speaking to Giada through the phone. “Pascale’s waiting for us on the paddock. And so are, like, a hundred photographers.” You wince. “Can you even imagine Charles and me? It’s just—I dunno—it’s weird.”

“It isn’t,” she says, laughing. “Not really. It makes sense. Plus, aren’t you on the whole arrangement?” You envision her air quotes.

“Yeah, but”—you slip your sandals on—“it’s on and off, and that’s not dating. It’s sex. Two different things.”

“Is it really, though? Considering how close you are outside of bed, aren’t y—”

“Okay, input no longer needed,” you laugh. “Bye, Gi. I’ll text you later.”

You reunite with Charles just by the paddock entrance. The throng of fans holding cutouts and posters notice you two before anyone else does, inciting a collective bout of yells around the both of you. He notices your blue silk dress first, eyes unmoving. “You look like the sky.”

“Thanks, man.” A beat, and you squint through your sunglasses. “That’s a compliment, right?”

“Sure.”

“Prick.” You peek over them and to the fans, who wave more aggressively when they notice you’re looking. Nervously, you raise a hand and wave back, and the noise heightens. “I think I’m going to be replacing you.”

“Dream on. On y va?”

You turn back to him, smiling, and you both enter at the same time. His hand wraps around your waist, dips a bit lower to rest at the small of your back as you walk—the fans clearly dig it, because everyone’s yelling in a frenzy as you depart. What are you doing, you ask through your smiling teeth.

“Did you forget we’re supposed to be dating?” He maintains an equally pleasant (totally duplicitous) façade, smiling. 

“I didn’t think,” you say, still smiling falsely, “that you’d put your hands on me five minutes into the whole agreement.”

“Smile, honey,” he teases. “I see at least five cameras at us right now.”

“It’s seven,” you beam. “Dumbass.”

“Again with the competitive streak.” memory

“I totally deserved to win last week’s game. You’re just a sore loser.”

“No you’re just a—hi, hi, hello!”

Your walk to the motorhome is interrupted by running into a friend of Charles’—someone from McLaren, one of the executives there. While Lando has been informed of your stunt, nobody else on that team has. 

They handshake and he waves at you politely. “Whole paddock’s buzzing with news of you dating,” he says, smiling. “It’s a tad crazy! I remember seeing you as Charles’ plus one back when he was in Formula Two. And now you two are dating. How did—well, if you don’t mind me asking, where’d it all happen?”

“Oh,” you say, laughing. “Yeah, Monaco.”

“Texas,” Charles says at the same time.

Alarm bells go off in your head at the totally random, unwarranted statement out of Charles’ mouth. Texas? Neither of you have even ever been at the same time. “He means”—you say, coughing and nodding—“we went on this, um. Wild West themed, um, restaurant in Monaco, and that’s where he asked me out.” You make a face that you hope conveys you get it, and it seems to work.

“Definitely not what I had in mind, but if it worked, it worked, eh?” He grins. “I guess I always knew you two would end up together. Alright, ciao!”

You’re smiling and waving after him as he leaves, and then you’re (semi) alone again, or at least within your own space on the incredibly crowded paddock. 

You turn to him, unable to hide your confusion. “Um? Texas?! What’s up with the backstories?”

“It slipped out! Sorry. But nice save.”

“You’re so f—” You try to scold him, but can’t, bursting into laughter and leaning forward to laugh into his chest. “Texas, really?”

“Sorry,” he says. You feel the vibration of his own laugh through his chest and it’s warm and nice. You peel yourself off lest you look too clingy, and resume your walk to the motorhome.

Ferrari is crowded, filled with people and strategists and guests. You’re given a bottle of water and then hounded with questions from the team who haven’t been informed of the situation at hand. David, one of the engineers close to Charles who you’d previously spoken to in one of the earlier races, asks to borrow him.

“Ciao, ciao.” They speak in one of the outdoor patio areas. “Is everything okay?”

“The car is fine. I just wanted to ask about the girl.” David punches his arm, playful. “You finally got her!”

“Oh.”

“It’s just… I remember all the times she would show up and you’d tell me about how much you liked her… I don’t know, it’s perfect for things to end up like this, no? Bravo!”

“Oh, si. I’ve just been, you know…” He looks through the glass sliding door and into the hospitality, where you’re talking to Isa and Carlos, sunglasses over your hair. Your hands are moving quickly, and you’re smiling while talking. He wonders what you’re so passionate about. When you’re caught in fits of happiness and passion, you’re extra animated. Your eyes are lively, and your lips can’t stop curling into a slight beaming smile. Now, maybe it’s France, maybe it’s crossword puzzles, slim chance it’s your job—whatever it is, he could watch you talk like this for hours. He thinks it’s beautiful, the way you transform, the way you smile, when you talk of things you absolutely love. 

“… crazy about her forever.”

—

There are banners, Italian flags, and Charles’ face on every other wall. He’s done his first hat-trick of the season (of several more, you’re hoping). You’ve foregone the usual clubbing for dinner with a smaller group of people, but only because you’ve been told the nightlife is bleak and you’d rather save that energy for the next race.

Lando picked out the restaurant—he’s “on a massive Yelp high” trying to get the best restaurants in every city they get to. He’s tried two over the weekend, and is hoping this guns for first place. The restaurant’s name is long and so very Italian, to the point where your semi-fluency fails you. The food is amazing, though, and so is the wine—a whole other level of grape-flavored bliss.

You’re in-between Joris and Charles, nursing your fourth glass while Charles downs a bottle of beer. Light conversation flows through the table, but your sleepiness only allows you to hear some of it. You’re content with the white noise.

Lando is getting a new cat, Lewis bought a new pair of shoes—oh, no, shares in the company that makes the shoes—Joris bought the shoes, Lorenzo will now buy the shoes, why isn’t anyone paying attention to Lando’s cat. It’s funny, entertaining, and the perfect nightcap to your immensely exhausting day of acting.

Wine tipsy makes you loopy and snoozy. By default, your head lolls onto Charles’ body; he immediately wraps a sweater-clad arm around your frame, leans back, pulls you closer. Doesn’t miss a beat. In fact, while doing so, he’s even able to get a dig in against Lando’s affinity for cats.

“No more wine, m’kay?” He whispers quietly, angling his head to yours. 

“Oh, but it was so good, though.” You mope, but nod in agreement. “I could seriously drink wine out of a keg here.”

“Sure did that a lot with beer.” You laugh, punching his bicep with what little space you’re given. “You sleepy?”

“Yeah. But I’m fine,” you respond, smiling. “Now shut up. I need to know what happened to Lando’s cat.”

Lewis leaves first, claiming he’s into this whole “sleeping at 9PM” thing, and Lorenzo follows to get ahead of an early flight tomorrow. It’s you, Joris, Charles, and Lando now, and you’re good as dead, eyes half-shut and fluttering, head slipping off his shoulder.

How was it? Lando asks, lowering his volume to keep from being too jarring. Day 1, fake dating? I actually read something like this in one of those, um, fanfiction stuff the fans do. Joris and Charles cast him a half-weirded out, half-amused pair of looks, but Lando defends himself. They’re actually pretty good, guys. I read one where I ended up with my rival or summat.

“Sorry to burst your bubble, Lando,” you croak, voice raspy with sleepiness and a day of bubbling laughter, “but Charles and I probably didn’t do your fanfiction kink justice.”

“Ignoring the emasculation.” He says, turning beet red. “What’d you do, then? Wasn’t it hard?”

“It was hard, but it’s like that.” Charles likes to substitute the phrase it is what it is to it’s like that, a result likely stemming from his trilingual childhood. “We just. Pretended. Oi, we held hands in front of the cameras.”

“Yeah, you can get a good wank in if that does it for you,” you joke. Lando hurls a cube of parmigiano at your face; it lands squarely and you flip him off, the table erupting with peals of laughter.

“In all seriousness, though—how are you two okay with this? I know I’d be second guessing my feelings every second.”

You shift, trying to hide your obvious lack of answer. It’s quiet for a few seconds, and then Charles says, “We’re both comfortable with each other, I think.”

“Yeah, comfortable enough that we can, you know, be honest.” You’re looking at Lando when you say that. You don’t know how well you could repeat the sentence if you were looking straight into Charles’ eyes.

You leave the restaurant with a generous tip, and Charles helps you pull your coat on when you’re out the door, back into the chilly night air. It’s then that all four of you catch news via text, of a club invite somewhere in the city.

“It’ll be fun, guys.” Joris and Lando stand in front of you and Charles, bumbling with excitement. “I heard Lil Tjay is going to be there.”

“It sounds very fun,” you say, smiling, “but I might pass out if I drink anything other than water, and I have zero energy. You three go ahead.”

“Wh—no, I’m not going, either.” You raise an eyebrow at Charles. “Serious! I wasn’t in the mood much, anyway. Joris, take Lando’s car and we’ll take mine.”

“Alright,” Lando whistles. “Suit yourselves, agoraphobes.”

“Joke’s on you”—Charles smiles, smug—“I don’t know what that means.”

“Not the dig you think it is, Charles,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Night, Joris, Lando. See you guys tomorrow. Use protection!”

“Should be saying that to you guys,” quips Joris with an evil grin that he closes the car door on.

The climb into the car feels like a chore in itself with how tipsy and sleepy you’ve become. Charles likes to bring his Ferrari to race weekends, but you convinced him to use a different car for this one, because you honest-to-God can’t stand the low seats anymore. 

“You want dessert?” He asks when he’s rounded the car and settled into his seat. “Gelato, a cone, biscotti…”

“No, no,” you say, voice thin. A palm covers your shutting eyes; blindly, you reach for his hand. It’s easy because he sees you searching and takes your hand to cut it short. “I’m good. So sleepy. Can I sleep at your hotel room?”

“Sure.” He starts the car, waves to the wait staff idle by the entrance, and drives off. “How was the day as my fake girlfriend? Anyone ask about me?” He wiggles his eyebrows, flickering his gaze to your figure beside him. “Wasn’t too tough, I hope.”

Imola whizzes by, trees and city, and a poorly stifled yawn escapes your lips, wine stained. You laugh sleepily. “It was a bit awkward, but bitter with the sweet, right?” He smiles, nodding, and you continue. “Yeah, few strategists, some people who knew you from Prema. I was talking to Isa and Carlos, too, earlier. Even if they know it’s fake.”

He recalls seeing you talk to them through the glass. “About?”

“You.”

—

The sun is merciless on the clay courts, and so are your shoes, shuddering against the surface in your continuing attempt to beat the opposing team. Charles cowers behind you—he’s scored less than half of your points thus far—but you’re on a mission, like your competitive self always is when you’re put in a position to be able to win.

You’re two points down now, and the noontime is becoming increasingly itchy and unforgiving; across you both, Giada and Joris call a mutual time out. “That’s not allowed!” You say, petulant.

“This is a practice session,” Charles says gently, nearing you. “Mate, none of us are actual players.”

You wipe sweat off your forehead. “Right. Désolée. I’m just—I’m in the zone.”

“Ouais, I get it. Relax, m’kay? We got this.”

You shake yourself off and hop a few times, skirt bobbing by your waist as you go. Your braid bounces on your shoulder and you nod, turning your racquet over in your grip. 

Charles pings the ball hard and it soars over to land just shy of the line, seemingly scoring a point for you two and securing your win. Giada and Joris chime in with protests, claiming that the ball’s out. You throw your hands up in question.

“Okay, what? That was clearly a point!”

“Snoops, I think they might be right. The ball looked out to me,” Charles says, wrapping a sweaty arm around your red shoulders.

“What are you talking about, Charlie? That ball was in! I saw it!” You elbow yourself out of his grip, aghast.

“How about…” He suggests quietly. “We let them win? You did win the last”—he pauses to count—“five sets. Come on, Snoops. They need this. Bitter with the—”

You take a deep breath, staring into his eyes. “Fucking sweet, right, okay. Fine, fine.” 

Charles thinks he’s in the clear and he’s managed to extinguish your flames of frustration—that is, until you walk into the Leclerc household for lunch an hour later and, after greeting Pascale and Hervé, you point squarely to the jar on the kitchen counter. “Five euros.”

He splutters. “Five? Wh—non, non! I was trying to calm you down.”

“You were blind and gave Giada and Joris a fake win,” you say playfully.

“Saluuut,” Lorenzo greets, sitting at the stool beside yours. “Quoi de neuf?”

“Charles has five euros for the jar.” The jar, the infamous jar, sometimes dubbed the Dumbass Jar when Pascale’s out of earshot. It was Lorenzo who first made it up after three straight instances of Charles pulling a push door (three different establishments).

Arthur’s joined in at this point, but its biggest indirect donors are definitely Lorenzo and Hervé, who view it as just about the funniest thing in the world. Out of pity, you don’t call dumbass too often, but the tennis loss is bruising enough that you warrant the usage.

“You heard Snoopy. Five euros. We’ll be able to get milkshakes with this money after next week.” You high five. “At this rate, Charles, you could open a restaurant in Paris.”

“He’s going to race,” you correct. You both watch a begrudged Charles junk a bill into the nearly-full jar. “What race driver is going to open a restaurant?”

—

You meet Yuki Tsunoda on a flight to Nice. You’ve seen him several times before, not too frequently but enough that his name and face are familiar on your mind. Also a personality trait that Pierre would bring up in fond conversations with you and/or Charles: he loves food, apparently.

“Yuki’s volunteering AlphaTauri to be your hideout,” Pierre tells you and Charles, across him. 

Turns out, the hardest part (insofar) of this whole schtick: the officially appointed paddock photographers are being extra sneaky with it, finding the best vantage points to snap pictures of an unwitting you and Charles.

They’re like hawks, watching for even the slightest glimpse so they can post the photos on Instagram and get clicks.

So, just a few hours earlier, Charles asked if there was a place you and him could talk if needed where photographers wouldn’t be awaiting you already, and this was the answer.

“If it’s too much trouble, feel no need to… you know.”

“Nonsense.” Pierre smiles goofily and Yuki pokes him to stop, pausing his session of eating a quesadilla (where he’d even acquired it, you’re clueless). “Yukino would be happy to.” 

The flight lands and the drive to Monaco is infected with notoriously slow traffic; you pop an Advil to try and alleviate the motion sickness. Pierre and Yuki, it seems, have joined you even outside of the flight. They’re in the backseat offering bits of conversation.

“Oh, mate, we should totally play tennis while we’re here.” Pierre sighs. “Didn’t you guys play before?”

“Mmm, yeah,” you mumble with a lilt of amusement at the memories from basically a decade ago. “At the country club. Doubles always, otherwise I’d knock Charles out of the park.”

“Hey, I won a couple times!” He protests weakly. “Like… twice.”

You laugh out loud. “Anyway, Pierre, do not bring me into tennis. I get all competitive and develop anger issues.”

“I had to calm her down twice a set,” Charles says; you swat him lightly to silence him. “Still do.”

“You know, if the Dumbass Jar still existed,” you say cuttingly, “I swear I’d be able to buy off Ferrari with that money.”

—

Monaco is swelterinly hot today. You know this because you know the weather here, you know the curves and ups and downs of it—this is your home. And today is hot. Every few minutes a breeze filters through the air and you can hear journalists or PAs sigh a collective breath of relief before they’re all subjected to the inane, high-degree weather again.

It’s also, according to Arthur, a good day to kiss in front of the cameras. He says it easily over a plate of sliced kiwi, with a devious smile, because he assumes your friends-with-benefits arrangement equates to constant kissing. But the truth is you’ve never kissed Charles, and it intimidates you.

“Do we have to kiss?” You play with his bracelets, sitting beside him on the sofa. The talk of kissing entertains the thought of sex and you can’t help but mentally complain at the remembrance that you haven’t gotten laid in weeks.

“If you don’t want to—”

“I do.” You splutter, eyes going wide, face warm. “No! I mean I don’t mind. If it sells the thing.”

“D’accord, then we will.” He smiles. “That okay?”

“Sure. First kiss,” you say. Your voice feels as clammy as your hands.

“First.” He looks away.

You take your woes off the kiss by playing a friendly round of tennis with your favourite opponents, Giada and Joris. They bemoan your competitive nature (that, to be fair, allots you and Charles three straight wins), and Giada incites a protest for a girls versus boys round.

You both embarrass Charles and Joris, heckling them as you win another two straight games. Charles runs over to you when you throw up the L sign on your hand, lifting you up and making you squeal.

“Put me down, loser!”

Giada and Joris exchange a look. Amused, knowing. “Charles! You’re such a cunt.” You kick hard, and manage to snag his abdomen, so he gently places you onto the clay again. He laughs and paces back over to his side, and you play with the tail of your braid as you watch.

You play set after set, but the kiss comes anyway. When you know photographers can see you—by the entrance—and it happens faster than your mind can muster. He’s leaning in, you’re reaching up, and your mouths slot together. It’s—and it feels crazy to say it, but—

It’s perfect. It’s lovely. You smile against his lips like they belong there and like they’re familiar and yours and like maybe this is all you’ve ever wanted, and like they deserve the smile, because they do. You feel your need to pull away before you can’t help but keep him tethered to you always. It’s strange and it’s not platonic—you’re mature enough to admit that, but not enough to label exactly what it is.

You spend the day with your fingers pressed to your lips, like you’re sealing the memory. Hours later, Charles wins. There’s massive uproar and you’re in the crowd when it happens, in the sea of strategists going to congratulate him on winning Monaco, which—that’s—it’s winning Monaco. Your ears ring by the end of it and your throat’s dry from your own cheering. Carlos comes in second, and the outlook for their team is going much better than it’d been at the start of the year, so there’s a lot to celebrate.

And celebrate you do. It starts with being pinned up against the door, hungry kisses along your jaw and neck. One kiss, it seems, has broken the dam from the few years you’ve spent abstaining from the kissing. He’s just finished interviews. He’s only just changed into his polo, and now he’s tugging it off again, feverish.

This is rushed and dirty, down low and dark. Only one light’s been switched on and he’s hiking your dress up, panties down with one hand to tug his cock out with the other. He’s kissing you—kissing you stupid, almost. Like he’s waited forever to taste your lips and now he’ll starve if he’s away for just a moment. He needs you. So have me, you want to say, all of me, push me up against the wall again and cover my mouth with your palm. Or don’t, don’t—so everyone knows I’m yours.

He presses your chest against the wall so your back’s turned to him, thrusts in with a breathless, throaty grunt. 

“S’ big,” you’re saying, clawing at words the pleasure bars you from finding.

“Barely even in,” he whispers. “Slow down, baby, come on, take it.”

Your toes curl. You’re high on the win, on the kissing, on Charles, on the slow delicious stretch of his cock. “I’m taking it, I’m taking it,” you say, shaky. He thrusts, slow and deep and dirty, until he’s bottomed out and you’re tiptoeing from the overwhelm.

“I feel you,” you’re whimpering, moans and gasps leaving your mouth. You blindly search for his hand, find it against your hip, drag it to your abdomen, under your dress that he hasn’t even fully removed. “I feel you there,” you say, an edge of teasing to your voice.

His cock’s bulging, almost, out of your stomach, and it’s getting you both all lightheaded. He thrusts harder, a devious smile felt against your neck.

I need it, Charles, you plead, please, please fuck me harder. You feel it coming, the familiar pleasure intensifying so quickly—you don’t usually cum so early, he’s always making you wait for it—pussy squeezing around him.

Jesus, already? He’s groaning but a laugh escapes, breathy and amused and taunting. He’s fucking you harder, faster. It’s so good, each hit getting you closer. Taking me so well, you’re bruised all over now, baby. You hate how well he knows what turns you on; memories of mornings post-sex spent inspecting the purple marks on your hips flash through your head and you’re even closer now, shaking, whimpering, begging.

You’re half-sure someone can hear, but it doesn’t even phase you. Harder, deeper— and you’re collapsing, legs spasming uncontrollably, orgasm so intense it’s on the brink of totally hurting. Tears roll down your sweaty face and he kisses them away, cumming onto your back to wipe off in a few minutes.

“I never even”—you pant, tired—“got to say congratulations.”

“That was more than enough.”

—

Charles is elated when you tell him his family has thrown a party for him the day next. He’s boyish in that way, optimistic and kiddy, the kind of person who’s up at five-thirty to announce their own birthday. 

He drives you both to his childhood home, a route so familiar he could drive with his eyes closed. (“I hope you’re not driving closed-eyed,” you’d warned.)

Even if he could, anyway, he’d rather not. The scenery of Monaco is stunning, ever-changing, and he never tires of it—the buildings, the skies, the trees and shrubbery, stores lining the streets, clean entrances. 

And you—in the passenger seat, humming softly to a song of his choosing. Drives are always better when you’re in the passenger seat.

The turnout is generous: extended family, and several friends from school. There’s bowls of fruit, salad, plates of salmon and racks of lamb, knobs of butter with warm bread. Pascale commands the kitchen—visible in how she leaves it cluttered with bowls, ingredients, whisks still dripping with syrup or batter, spoons licked for tasting. The good kind of clutter.

Lorenzo has also taken reign of the AUX, because it’s 70’s music playing, which is what he’s fond of for family gatherings like these. It’s My Cherie Amour now, Stevie Wonder mellowing across the lawn and into the house.

Charles knows you love the kitchen as much as his mum does, so when you get to the house, he’s not surprised to see you leave him in favor of checking out what damage has been done to your favorite marble countertops. He watches Pascale turn from the gas range, her eyes lit when she sees you, inviting you into an embrace. 

You look like the song playing, pretty and lovely, breeze in the summer. He almost loses himself in thought before his great-aunt Eden places two bony hands on his arms and greets him in feeble Italian.

He flits his eyes away from you, if just briefly, and faces the woman with a smile on his face. “Ciao, zia,” he says, voice buoyant, happy. “You came here to see me, no?”

All five-foot-one of her shakes in disagreement. She wags a finger for extra measure. “No,” she says. “Sono venuto a vedere la tua ragazza.”

His eyes widen. “She’s—” He pauses. He debates telling Eden you’re not actually his girlfriend, that this was a setup to appease Pascale and, by extension, tifosi. But he backtracks.

He shouldn’t, but he gives in, lives out his dreams for a bit. “Ah, she’s over there, zia. Con mamma.” He points to the open door, and to you on the far end of the room inside, holding a spoon. “Beautiful, yes?”

“Molto,” she says proudly. “You marry her?”

Fact: his great-aunt has the worst memory. She forgot Charles’ name twenty times, let alone niche facts like this one. Another fact: she rarely shows up to family events. Maybe now, because it’s a racing thing; but baby showers and funerals, she’s at home. So he indulges a bit more.

“Si, we’re engaged. But—it’s a secret, zia.” He grins. “Non dire a nessuno. Okay?”

“Sei fidanzato?!” She claps once, excited. “Ay, Charles. I waited my whole life for this moment, si?” And she’s wobbling away, still muttering under her breath.

—

“How is my son?” Pascale’s voice is teasing. She sighs happily. “For years I wondered if this would happen. And it really is.”

“Oui, sure is,” you sing-song, laughing a bit awkwardly. “We’re—he’s okay. We’re great. In love.”

“Oh, in love,” she swoons. She leaves you, after fifteen more minutes of detailed discussion, with half a spoonful of vinaigrette to taste-test, departing to check on the guests for a few minutes. In her place arrives Lorenzo, already bearing a shit-eating grin. “Saluuut.”

“Mmm, good to see you, too.” You taste the liquid and add lemon to the bowl. “How’s wedding planning?”

“Think we’ll throw a shower. Is that pretentious?”

“No,” you say, mulling over it. “Sure, a bit. But just don’t make it a whole thing, you’re golden.”

“I see.” He sighs fondly. “You know, many a conversation we’ve had right here at this counter. About anything.”

—

You loosen your school tie, slicing an apple like you so often do, waiting for Charles’ karting practice to end. Pascale had fixed you a bowl of something, Hervé a glass of orange juice. And somebody else would always, without fail, steal your food. A hand swipes two slices form your chopping board and your head whips up.

“Lorenzo!” You stomp your foot. “Stop stealing! That is my apple.”

“You mean the Leclercs’ apple.” He laughs, pops another slice into his mouth, smiling. 

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. The braid beside your head shakes with it as you continue slicing it into perfect quarters. He pipes up again: “How was school?”

“Shit, as usual.” You lower your voice and smile, leaning in. “Pascale scolded me earlier, for saying that word.”

“Did Papa?”

“Obviously not. He fist bumped me.” You share a laugh, both chewing on apple slices now. “Anyway, I aced a math test, had aubergine for lunch… got driven here by Charlotte’s mum.”

“Charlotte?” Lorenzo hums conspiratorially, making a mmmm sound. You look up from the yellow chopping board, furrowing your eyebrows. He persists: “Mmm. Cha-r-lotte.”

“What’s up with Charlotte?” Bit impolitely, you ask, in-between chews.

“I think she likes Charles, a little.” You nod slowly, trying to follow. Charlotte liking Charles. Your Charles. Wait, no. Not your—or nobody’s, really. Just Charles. Yeah.

“What? Bull!” You narrow your eyes. “Says who?”

“Why do you care?”

“Wh—I don’t!” You squeak, caught. “Just… I think I’d know, Lorenzo.” You make a tch noise, crossing your sweater-clad arms. “So—says who?”

“I saw her leering at him during his birthday party.” 

“You’re wrong,” you say, but you don’t really know who you’re convincing. He reaches over for an apple slice, and you move the chopping board out of the way sharply.

“Mon dieu, you’re snappy. Fine, fine. I might be wrong,” he relents, shrugging. He gets up and slides beside you to be able to acquire more slices. “I talked to her during the party, too.”

“Weirdo,” you tease, allowing him to take a few more. “About Charles, yes?

“No, about her brand new dress.”

“You’re the funniest Leclerc brother, I assure you.”

“She told me…” He says, louder this time, shushing you effectively. “She told me she ‘finds Charles cute.’” Air quotes, shrug. “But that they ‘probably won’t’ date.”

“Huh. Did, um. Did she say why?” You play with the tail of your braid, shuffling back and forth on your flats. You don’t know why you’re so fidgety—you aren’t nervous, you don’t think.

“Because…” he says, chewing to allow for a pause. “She said every time she looks for Charles to try and ask for time alone, or on a date, or something, he’s already following you around like some puppy.”

—

You comb your hair into a bun and venture into the patio, having avoided a good chunk of the noon heat. You greet some relatives politely along the way, and receive a hand squeeze from great-aunt Eden. At one of the tables is Charles, beside Joris and another friend, and Giada and Charlotte across them, an empty seat beside the latter.

You seat yourself in it and Giada kisses your cheek. “Hey. Ça va?”

“Fine,” you say, smiling. Then you lower your voice to a whisper. “Do you remember when I told you about my crush on Charlie? For the first time?”

“Yeah,” she whispers back. “Around… 2013.”

“Ouais. And… and it disappeared after that,” you say. “Right?”

“You said it did,” she says. “A year later. When we were sixteen.”

“Right.” You think. Seventeen onwards—you’d never formed a full-fledged crush on Charles. “Okay. It’s nothing. Just a memory. I was just. Yeah, oui.”

“Oui, let’s eat.” The memory fades and so does your running mind. Charles’ eyes meet yours across the table, and suddenly you feel a little less like your thoughts have ripped you open.

—

When you and Charles were younger, you adopted the adage “bitter with the sweet.” Charles will have people believe it was made by the both of you, with philosophical minds stretched so far beyond their years. Well, revisionist history. The truth lay in the Carole King song of the same name you’d heard on the stereo.

Those are the exact words Charles tells Ted when he’s interviewing for the Spain Grand Prix. It’s a hot day and you’re especially doubled down on by the fact that he’s finished ninth. 

You’d been fake-dating for the cameras all weekend. At all costs, you try and avoid interviews, but the damned Drive to Survive producers insist on a soundbite and start following the two of you around everywhere (only to find your conversations sound very weird and niche, and not scandalous or sexy).

Pascale also called—Charles first, and when he didn’t check his phone, you. You spent an hour on the phone just talking about the race. About the penalties and the nasty headlines that followed, and just everything.

“I’m glad you’re there,” she says. “God knows he needs you.”

You end up biking to try and relieve the stress, posing with fans for pictures.

“I’m such a big fan. I stalk Charles’ Insta like, all the time, and it’s crazy how you guys are dating.” A teenaged girl laughs nervously. “Where’d it happen?”

“Texas!” He, again, tries out the bit to appease the fans but you have to extinguish the flames of his blatant lies.

“He’s kidding,” you interject. “It’s just—it just happened, really.”

How does something just happen? Someone told you once, in a Paris bar, that love is like an echo. It’s always there, in the underbelly, underneath it all, and then one day it echoes, like a bass drum or a cymbal. And the echo—the echo is you feeling it. You feel the echo, the all-encompassing echo, even if the love itself’s been there all along.

With Charles, it’s out of the question. You love him. He’s your best friend. You trusted him before you even learned what trust meant, for Chrissake.

How could you not love him? That seemed impossible. The love was there. The love’s always been there and it’ll never go away.

It echoes at half-past-two in Barcelona, when he whips past you on his bike and says on your left. The breeze pulls your hair to the left, covers your face, and when you rake it away he’s stopped to check if he accidentally bumped you in his rush to look cool.

You’re creepily observant; you’ve been told this many times before. What people don’t know is with the observance comes even more questions. Ifs, whys, wheres, whens, hows, God the hows. The questions keep coming because there’s never an answer.

“Are you okay?” He asks. Green eyes glittering like a lake. Smile like the sun. Hair curly at the ends. “Did I hurt you?”

Then you realize. In the matters of love, every question—every single question. Every single one. The answer is Charles.

“Of course not,” you say. And you smile.

—

You almost drop your book in your rush to scurry past the paparazzi. They’re still busy on the two figures (Alex and Lily, you think) on another end of the paddock, which allows you only a few moments to try and evade them.

Others are stationed near the Ferrari hospitality, which means you’re going to need your hideout. Yuki had texted Pierre who had texted Charles who had told you that it was all clear to go there for a few minutes while waiting for the photographers to clear out.

Hurry, Charles is saying. Laughing. His hand’s gentle in yours. You want them there forever. You want to drag the tip of your nail over the barely-perceptible grooves of his fingerprints so he knows how much you need him.

The days post-Spain were spent biking, watching shows, listening to music, eating food. The travel to Canada—long, cold, compression socks. Pascale had called mid-flight to check on her “favorite pair”—you maneuvered yourselves into a much more cuddly position to appease her, and her giddy smile was incentive enough to stay that way for ninety minutes.

You’d been in a weird mental state trying to grapple with your rapidly returning and intensifying feelings for him, which have dawned on you all at once.

But he makes it better. You’re still laughing when you wedge yourselves in, eyes meeting.

And then you’re quiet.

The gaze you share is intense, but almost unsure, like you’re supposed to be looking away anytime now. You step backward shakily, and his hand moves from your waist to the small of your back to keep you from stumbling any further. You’re closer now. But this shouldn’t feel as strange as it does when you two have been in much more scandalous positions before—what’s different?

He’s so close, so so close, his green eyes looking right through you. You lean closer, ready to kiss him like you have before, ready to feel his mouth slot softly over yours, comforting and safe and Charles.

Funnily enough, it’s then that the illusion breaks, his grip loosening and the distance between you increasing. He coughs twice, awkwardly.

“Shit—sorry,” you say profusely, clearly having read the moment wrong. Embarrassment wells up in your system, warming your face. You laugh to diffuse the tension but it barely does anything.

“No, don’t—” He exhales, squeezes the bridge of his nose, trying to find words. “It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you. I do.”

“So kiss me,” you suggest simply, looking around for anything that might stop him. The embarrassment ebbs away, replaced quickly by confusion. 

“I don’t want to kiss you in an AlphaTauri stock room,” he mopes, burying his head in his hands in clear frustration. “An AlphaTauri stock room.” He repeats it in a hushed whisper, disbelief etched all over his pretty face.

“Charles,” you begin, smiling already, the quaint way that makes his knees go weak every time. “You’re acting like you and I haven’t kissed before.” 

“This is different.” He says firmly, looking away lest he lean in involuntarily. He interjects with conviction, not realizing what he’s implying until the implication’s hanging in the air. The longing kills him softly, and he feels if he looks at you a second longer he’ll kiss you anyway.

It’s a wonderfully confusing feeling. You open your mouth to respond but you can’t; your brain tacks itself onto his sentence, the division created between the kisses before now and the kiss that might happen anytime soon.

“H…” you trail off, throat drying. Blinking, you try again, “How different?”

He looks up, eyes conveying all the things his lips never will. This is different. You know it. I love you this time.

The answer is exchanged and accepted wordlessly. You slip out of the room when Pierre tells you it’s okay to, and it’s only then—only then—that Charles’ hand leaves your body. You seem to burn alive with its absence.

It’s a Ferrari 1-2. You snap a thousand pictures with Isa and Carlos holding Carlos’ trophy while Charles is doing interviews, and they invite you to join them for the break. You’re open to it—the win, the good standings, they definitely warrant a celebration for the few weeks’ break. So your original itinerary is Portugal—beaches, coasts, food—but the jet re-charts a route and the flight is cut much shorter because you’re in New York City.

—

Somewhere in Manhattan, a wedding shower is thrown on an outdoor rooftop. “This is one hell of a wedding shower,” you squeal excitedly when you spot him, bringing Lorenzo in for a hug. Your yellow dress flows in the wind. “I thought you guys were going to throw it in Monaco?”

“Yeah, well… why not here, right? It’s beautiful.” He gestures to the skyline, smiling. “Plus, Charles, Arthur, and Mum were already near the country for work, so we got ahead of it. Everyone was happy to fly out.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I love it.” You beam. “I can’t believe it, either. When’s the final date?”

He opens his mouth to reply, but the wind is knocked out of him by Charles barreling into his arms for a hug. You roll your eyes at the latter’s childish behavior, smiling despite yourself. They part and Charles finds his place beside you, arm snaking around your shoulders. “What a wedding shower!”

“Don’t flatter me, dipshit,” Lorenzo jokes.

“It’s a lovely one.” Lorenzo thanks him. “An amazing shower. You know, it’s a total golden shower!”

You purse your lips. “Charles—”

“A golden shower, mate. Absolutely.”

That garners at least three odd looks and you calmly place a hand on his chest to whisper don’t ever fucking say that again it means something completely different please don’t embarrass me or your brother. 

For all your embarrassment, you make up for it in having the literal time of your life. The food is good, the city view is amazing, the weather is fair and the music—Desafinado now—is amazing. “I could see myself here,” you say offhandedly to Charles, who nods back with a faint smile. He’s half-distracted.

“You look beautiful, by the way,” he says, squinting from the sun in his eyes. “Very.”

You part ways at some point—Pascale whisks him off, no doubt for another long round of questioning about your relationship, and you meander around with a glass of champagne.

You’re halfway through swiping a mini quiche when a hand wraps around your wrist and squeezes to get your attention—Charles’ great-aunt Eden. She speaks only intermittent English, and your Italian fails to carry you through well enough, but you smile and greet her. “Ciao, Eden!”

“Ciao, bella.” She smiles. “Flight was long.”

“Oh, yeah. New York’s far. I might work here someday. I’ll hear results in around two weeks, but I’m hoping for London instead.” You slow your speech.

“When will you two wed?”

“Wed?” Your face warms and you stutter through a giggly mess of a sentence. “Oh, Eden—zia—no, no! We’re just friends.”

“My Charles told me you two are to be married.” You both crane your heads to the right, where Charles is leaning against the terrace railing talking to one of your friends, Matthew, animatedly. He meets your eyes, sees Eden beside you, and seems to connect the dots.

Jokingly, perhaps, he raises his hand and wiggles his empty ring finger. You can’t help but smile as you turn back to the old woman. “Oh, did he, zia?”

“Si, he did.”

“Well, we’re just going to let it happen, then. You’re invited. Front row.” You kiss her cheek and she smiles, wobbling off to drink more wine before any of the adults can stop her.

It’s announced then that the dance floor is open, and many of Pascale’s friends filter through to show off their moves to the 70’s music. You watch, amused, at the display of dexterity to Frankie Valli and Aretha Franklin. You cheer them on, content to watch them against the backdrop of the New York sunset.

When Ain’t No Mountain High Enough plays, the dance floor grows, because nobody can resist the song—not even Charles, apparently, who takes your hand without preamble and takes you, squealing, to the centre.

You sing each of the parts, like you always do when the song comes on. It’s semi-tradition at this point: you take Marvin Gaye’s, Charles takes Tammi Terrell’s. You both exaggerate your dance moves and pretend you’re performing.

His hand’s in yours, winding you around and pulling you close. At some point he starts robot dancing to entertain you. It works—you laugh out loud, your eyes half-shut and faced to the stars above. He could write a poem about this. Or a song.

The song ends and you lean onto his shoulder to take a breather—then the photographer swoops in and takes a picture. “That’s going into the RSVPs!” He says, accent unmistakably American.

“Does he know we’re not the couple here?” You ask.

Do we know we’re not the couple? Charles asks himself.

The night escalates as the “oldies” leave, and Matthew, Joris, and Giada join you both for one last round of drinks again. You’re all standing at the exit making conversation; Lorenzo attends to his friends at the other end of the terrace.

“I feel young again,” Matthew says, liberated by Tito’s vodka. He takes another swig and pulls his coat on.

“You’re twenty-five, calm down,” you joke. “Dodged that bullet.” You’re poking fun at the semi-massive crush you had on Matthew in secondary school, and a laugh passes through the four of you. “Anyway, you three be careful. No driving.”

“Jesus, but really—I haven’t been this drunk since you”—he points at you, laughing—“turned seventeen at that club, Amber? No?”

“Oh, God. Y’know, same.” You fail to notice Charles and Giada share a look. “I remember nothing from that night! Or, like, the first two hours at least.”

“I remember drinking my body weight because of heartbreak,” he jeers. 

“Heartbreak? Were you—were you with anyone?” You ask, confused.

It happens before anyone can stop it. “No, when Charles kissed you. And you kissed him after. Alright, night mates! Lorenzo—merci!”

Oh, fuck, you hear in the back of your now-muddled brain. Giada’s voice.

You open and close your mouth. “Ch—wait, he—what?”

“I—let’s talk here,” Charles flounders, dragging you to a more secluded spot and facing you. The three of your friends exit; Giada waves, apologetic. “When… we were at Amber… and you were absolutely hammered, we kissed. It was twice—just twice. And you didn’t, um. Remember a thing.”

You’re unsure. “In Amber?” You blink, confused. “What do you mean?”

“We… I don’t—I mean, I understand why you don’t remember. We kissed that night.”

“So that’s… Charles… You didn’t tell me.” Your voice quivers, like a wire flicked. “Why didn’t you say it at the time?”

He doesn’t give you an answer. He just looks at the counter, imagines the way your eyebrows furrow, your lips move, eyes glitter. He can’t give you one. He doesn’t want to hurt, disappoint, sadden you. He wants to get on his knees and root you here, so he’ll have all the time in the world to come up with an answer.

“Charles.” But he loves you, and he can at the very least be honest for you. “Look at me.”

“I was scared.” His eyes gravitate to yours.

“Of?”

“It felt stupid, is all. That you didn’t remember, and maybe you did but you were pretending you weren’t. I didn’t—it didn’t—sorry.” He laughs, stutters. “I convinced myself it didn’t mean anything because we didn’t have feelings for each other.” He pauses. “Then.”

“Well,” you say, slow. Eyes stuck to his. “How about now?”

“Now?”

“I love you, now. I mean, isn’t that all this is? Loving? Even if? De—despite of?” 

And this—God. This is how it feels. He’s looking at you and you’re telling him you love him because you do, and finally he’s been over with reassurance.

You love him, too. That way. He trembles with it. His hands are shaky when they lace into yours, like you’re a shrine, a prayer, and he feels like maybe these are the emotions that swirl through the human body when one wins the lottery and gets struck by angry lightning at the same time.

This is it, he thinks. Profound and lovely and an echo of sweet memories. He’s yours. Here in a city unfamiliar to both of you, yet to be conquered, your fingers lace lightly and you smile, smile, smile at each other, as if you’re the last two people on Earth. He’s yours, so foolishly in love with you.

Even far from home, you’re both filled with warmth, with longing. Extended stares, pits of your stomachs welling up with something lovely in between homesickness and nostalgia. Here again, you again, us again—it’ll always be us again, your heart seems to say, surrounded by the same love the same hurt the same sad the same everything, you and me, all the love in the world, all the confusion, we’re here. It’s never over.

Across the terrace, Lorenzo watches. Two figures, laughing, emanating happiness, gentle unkowing love. You two have finally made it here, after what felt like a thousand trials and dreams and stories.

So even if you’re taller, in high heels and a yellow dress—and Charles is broader, in a suit and tie—Lorenzo thinks he can blink and see the two little kids who hosted a tea party in the backyard. He can blink again and see you hugging, eyes shut, his lips pressed to your forehead to convey the intimacy nothing else will do as well. 

“So what now?” You ask. Again with the questions. In your defense—it begs so many follow-up questions. A love so many years in the making—layer after layer after layer—of course it begs all the questions, almost to the point of overwhelming capacity. What’ll we tell Pascale? The fans? The family? Everyone?! 

But one look and he makes it better. His green eyes, bright against the deep black of the skyline. You’ve grown. You’ve done it. You’re here. “We’ll figure it out.” He smiles. “We deserve this kind of ending, don’t you think?”

—

“He has my name.” A tubby finger points to the boy on the greeting card. “That one.”

“And who’s the dog?” Asks the girl beside him, hair wound into a plait. She likes this boy. He’s cute. She plays with the end of her braid and stares, eyes flickering in-between him and the card they’re staring at.

“The name’s right there. They’re best friends.”

“Okay, that’ll be me.”

“So that’s us.”

“Oui.” She smiles. “Charlie and Snoopy.”

–

read an omitted scene here :)

[cure-whimsy-arts]

Promoting my ko-fi and commissions!

hi!! I just got told today that I may have to pay $6k AUD/$3.9k USD for an operation, plus another $2k AUD/1.3k USD for allergy treatment, and my medical issues are meaning I'm unable to work to get the money for these things. So while I'm trying to sort these out, I'm trying to promote my ko-fi and commissions if anyone is wanting art drawn!

I don't have a proper commissions sheet atm, but you can see some examples of my art here and on my ko-fi which also has my prices.

only accepting donations and requests through ko-fi!!

I'd appreciate so much if you are able to help out!

[giantratarts]

yeah ya boi opened commissions to try and get back into doing more art and make some pocket money because I'm struggling to work!

I only accept payments through PayPal or Ko-fi, and all payments are done in AUD by default!!!

you can see more examples of my art on this blog, or on my Ko-fi below. my Ko-fi also has the same commission details:

DM me on ko-fi or send me an ask if interested!

5 slots. first come first serve!!

[stars-mischief-archive]

Hellooo!

Charlie recently got 2 chicks from Marnie and I need some name suggestions.

I wanted to call them Nugget and Drumstick but Charlie said that's rude. They think they should be called Cinnamon and Vanilla. One chick is white and the other is brown, hence Charlie's idea.

What are your thoughts? Also, general stance on chickens?

•○• Farmer Audrey ( @audrey-and-charlie-sdv )

//totally not inspired by 1.6 coming to console and me playing a meadowlands farm. I actually need naming help

//also nicknames totally approved for both of them hehe

oohh... tough choice here, aud.

how about... salt and pepper!

those seem pretty good, no?

ooh! or you could do.. either of your options, i suppose!

they're both so good..

as for my stance on chickens, i think they're pretty neat!

they're very cute animals and miss marnie taught me a lot about how to care for them!

however.. i don't know if i'll ever need that information, of course.. but it's always nice to have, hehe.

though, my favorite coop residing animal has to be the ducks.

i don't know why.. i just like them, i suppose..

when i was a kid.. some of my fondest memories include my mother taking me and my siblings to watch the ducks swim around a nearby lake.

i guess i like them because of that..

something about it is just so.. peaceful, you know?

[ sigh ]

i miss the peace.

[mad-c1oud]

Starcicle Playlist for it's making me insane

Hi!! I saw someone mention starcicle playlists on twitter and a while back someone asked what songs they should listen to when reading immi and well here i am to share the songs that inspired the fic and the ship in general for me!

Since I can't share playlists, i'll have to link the songs individually, whomp whomp, but anyone is welcome to add them to their own playlist or throw them into a separate one if they'd like! maybe just give me or the fic a shout if you do the latter haha

No spoilers for the fic! I just use music for the beats and sometimes general vibes

enjoy ☆–-

*ੈ °✩₊• ‧₊˚✧˖°⁺˚⋆｡ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ °✩₊•✧˖°.☾ ₊ ° •⁺˚⋆

Without You- Francis Aud Warmth- Bastille Downward- Ripe Nervous- Origami Button Life was easier when I only cared about me(robotaki remix!!)- Bad Suns Apogee- Tycho (and if I like that then i have to share the remix) Round and Round- Imagine Dragons You’ve Got Me Flush- Future Generations The entire album by Olen called who’s gonna love me( when I’m not young)- a very Charlie sounding album in general but Human Touch is ☆—- Glue- Daulton Hopkins Adecentcupofcoffee- Bilmuri Turn- the Wombats All Over- CRUISR Fireflies- Owl City Room for You- Sub Radio Repaint My Mind Blood Orange- The Wlflfe (2 songs, once cross fades into the other- charlie-centric) You've Got Something- The Jungle Giants 2 Rocking Chairs- Jon Bellion I Wear Glasses- Mating Ritual Waste a moment- Kings of Leon Show Me What I'm Looking For- Carolina Liar Evergreen- Richy Mitch & The Coal Miners Simpsonwave1995-FrankJavCee The Fighter- The Fray Burnt Out- Imagine Dragons Tree House by Cinders This version of Sweden by C418 this criminally short video is just the inside of Étoiles’ head whenever Charlie is just- Charlie Having a Party by Sam Cooke ( both this and this version) Love Grows (Where My Rosemary Goes)- Edison Lighthouse creature- half.alive Fish Tank- HARBOUR Opening Up- CRUISR Hard to Love- The Mowgli's

Note- now my word isn't gospel for starcicle music, this is just personal music I listen to that reminds me of them or directly inspireds my fics. it's always growing lmao

also some of the lyrics may not match them, but the musical aspects are what got me, for example: without you which is what inspired the title of the fic but it doesn't necessarily fit them lyrically since it's a breakup song but instrumentally it's a bop. Same with Apogee - it's a dancing in the kitchen late at light kind of song and the remix is a tense/hopeful tango or something. That or I'll fixate on a line

I'll let you know if I ever add more- also feel free to ask questions if you want!! I love talking about music and fics <3

cheers :D

[justinsentertainmentcorner]

Carmel Dagan at Variety:

Successful national talk show host Phil Donahue, who entertained, challenged and informed two generations of daytime television viewers, died on Sunday night following a long illness, Variety��has confirmed. He was 88. The news of his death was first announced Monday morning on the “Today” show. “Groundbreaking TV talk show journalist Phil Donahue died Sunday night at home surrounded by his wife of 44 years Marlo Thomas, his sister, his children, grandchildren and his beloved golden retriever Charlie,” his family said in a statement. “Donahue was 88 years old and passed away peacefully following a long illness.” The pioneering, issue-oriented “The Phil Donahue Show” was picked up for national syndication in 1969, was redubbed “Donahue” in 1974 and eventually reached more than 200 stations across the country. It ran until 1996, when the daytime talkshow landscape had changed radically into a tabloid circus and competitors including Oprah Winfrey had drawn away his female viewership. While Donahue was not above resorting to sensationalist topics, his show was still rather tame compared to the imitators like “Sally Jesse Raphael” and “Jerry Springer” that followed.

Never a stranger to controversy or hotly debated sociopolitical issues, the silver-haired Donahue brought a strong journalistic spine to his popular show and was a potent contrast to the regular celebrity chatter and soap opera menu of daytime television.

[...] In 2002-03, Donahue briefly returned to television with a self-titled MSNBC talkshow in which he interviewed newsmakers on social and political issues. Its audience was dwarfed by that of Fox Network’s “The O’Reilly Factor,” with which it competed, but drew the highest ratings of any show on the cable network at the time. Nevertheless, MSNBC canceled “Donahue” after six months, leading some observers to conclude that the network felt the show unwelcome given the political climate prevailing in the country at the time. “Network management apparently didn’t care for the anchor’s left-leaning politics, a contention that echoes a recently leaked internal memo that found Donahue’s politics would not have been palatable to aud[ience]s in wartime,” Variety said at the time. Oprah Winfrey praised Donahue in a September 2002 interview as she was contemplating running an anti-war series on her own show, saying: “The bottom line is we need you, Phil, because we need to be challenged by the voice of dissent.”

Talk show host and liberal icon Phil Donahue died at 88.

[doomandgloomfromthetomb]

Don Cherry - The Five Spot, New York City, June 7, 1975

The Sandy Bull doc I shared with y'all a few weeks ago shared some sweet glimpses of Sandy's wedding — and apparently Don Cherry officiated? That is one cool wedding. The pics reminded me that I had heard tell of (but never heard) a live tape of Don and Sandy recorded sometime in the mid 70s. And lo & behold, the great Observations of Deviance had posted a snippet of it last year! Not only that, but OoD had linked over to the Deep Focus podcast, who not only had played the entire tape, but they'd also gotten that night's bassist, the legendary William Parker, to listen in and offer his valuable insights. Sometimes the world is ... good? I know, I can barely believe it either.

Anyhoo, what we've got here is a fairly lo-fi AUD, but nevertheless ... an amazing snapshot! The band is remarkable — not just Parker, Bull and Cherry, but also Frank Lowe, Selene Fung, Hakim Jami, Ed Blackwell and Roger Blank. It's typically eclectic stuff, positive vibrations all around, a true fusion of modes and moods, Cherry moving joyously from keys to trumpet to vocals. Occasionally, it's a mess! But it's a mess you're gonna love.

"Groove after groove after groove," Parker marvels, nearly 50 years later. Cook up some brown rice and get into it.

William Parker: There’s always someone bringing a tape recorder and sitting in the audience recording. I mean, they did it with Charlie Parker and John Coltrane and any musician that plays in a jazz club. There were people who came and they taped whether they had the tape recorder, you know, underneath their sleeve, hiding in their pants, the mics coming out of their hats, you know, all kinds of things. Because once you begin to listen to this music, you become obsessed with it. It really becomes a lifeline. The people that taped weren’t necessarily trying to start a record company, but they're taping it because it's really feeding them, and it keeps them balanced.

[wqbytop100]

WQBY

Top100 for the week ending February 16, 2025

Believe (Shooting Stars) --R3HAB, Mufasa & Hypeman, Mufasa, RANI -1 ---9weeks-- [3weeks@#1]

Everything Changes (But I Wont) --Rose Gray -2 --3weeks--

Focus --John Summit f/CLOVES -7 --4weeks--

Heaven Knows --KASKADE & PUNCTUAL f/Poppy Baskcomb -5 --10weeks--

Yesterday --Alan Walker, Ali Gatie -14 --4weeks--

Told You So --Martin Garrix & Jex -4 --11weeks-- (#4)

I Only Smoke When I Drink --NIMINO -3 --22weeks-- (#3)

The Door --Teddy Swims -8 --8weeks-- (#7)

TYSM --Cheat Codes, Salem IIese -12 --9weeks--

Without You --Petite Biscuit, Surf Mesa, JP Saxe -17 --8weeks--

Lights On --Marshmello, FAANGS -49 --11weeks--

You --BUNT., Oaks -58 --11weeks--

Someone Else --GT-OFICE -6 --9weeks-- [4weeks@#1]

Push The Tempo --Sub Focus f/Katy B (Odd Mod Remix) -87 --2weeks--

Filthy Richmas --Ella Henderson -15 ---8weeks-- (#4)

Vibe --Bruno Martini, Avi Snow, No/Me -10 --15weeks-- (#10)

Imposture Syndrome --Let Down -19 --5weeks--

Zen Cowboy --Anabel Englund -18 --7weeks--

Slow Motion --Marshmello, Jonas Brothers -22 --4weeks--

SunnyD --Emel, Whethan -9 --6weeks-- (#5)

Chain Reaction ---Ferry Corsten, MERYLL -24 --12weeks--(#19)

Positions --Andy C, Wholsmoli -11 --14weeks-- (#2)

Let It Go --NOTSOBAD, MA:RK -23 --11weeks--

Dancing In The Dark --Noizu, Annaca -29 --3weeks--

Heart First --Lucas & Steve f/Jordan Shaw -13 --11weeks-- (#2)

Maybe It's Over --Morgan Page, Damon Sharpe -16 --15weeks-- [2weeks@#1]

Call My Name --AVAION -30 ---5weeks--

Is This Love --LP Globbi, Danielle Ponder -21 --17weeks-- [4weeks@#1]

Swim --Becky Hill -20--11weeks---- (#6)

Alone With You --Josiah Queen, Jervis Campbell -48 --10weeks--

Goodbye's Been Good To You --Teddy Swims -69 --2weeks--

Don't Let Go --NERIAH -32 --20weeks-- (#3)

Falls Down --James Carter, Lucas Estrada -99 --7weeks--

Senorita --Tiago PKZ -93 --2weeks--

Love --Armin Van Buuren, Omnia -75 --4weeks--

Modern Tragedy --Cheat Codes, Julia Church -28 --20weeks-- (#2)

Disease --Lady Gaga -33 --15weeks-- (#14)

Lead The Life --Morgan Page, Bymia -27 --21weeks-- (#2)

Along For The Ride --COIN -26 --19weeks-- (#2)

Bread --Sofi Tukker, Odd Mod (Odd Mod Remix) -25 --12weeks-- (#2)

Keep It Exciting --Mr. Belt & Wezol, Qobra, Alex Hosking -35 --11weeks-- (#13)

Somedays --Sonny Fodera, Jazzy & D.O.D (Dombresky Remx) -36 -- 14weeks-- (#13)

Dead Right --Let Down -38 --11weeks-- (#12)

Before I Let You Go --CYRIL, MarLo -37 --17weeks-- (#4)

This Rhythm --PROSPA f/RAHH -34 --11weeks-- (#34)

Cinema --YouNotUs, Cheat Codes -45 --14weeks-- (#17)

Been There Before --Jorvis Voorn, Pig&Dan, LIVI -46 --15weeks-- (#8)

Walk With Me --Felix Jaehn, Shouse -61 --8weeks--

Turn Off The Lights --Chris Lake, Alexia Roberts -44 --12weeks-- (#16)

Wrong Feels Right --Format:B -43 --12weeks--

Forever --HUGEL, Diplo f/Malou & Yuna -47 --14weeks-- (#5)

His Problem Instead --Alexander Stewart -55 --10weeks--

Beautiful Day --Mike Posner -50 --20weeks-- (#9)

Without You --Phantoms, Mariah Colon -57 --10weeks--

Looking For Love --Alok, Anitta -60 --11weeks-- (#50)

Keep On Movin Up --Qorion -42 --11weeks-- (#42)

Without Ya --BAKERMAT -40 --10weeks-- (#40)

Heaven In My Hands --Matoma -41 --11weeks-- (#41)

Black Friday (Pretty Like The Sun) --Lost Frequencies, Tom Odell -53 --16weeks-- (#20)

Rain --PARISI f/Clementine Douglas -62 --9weeks-- (#XX)

Save My Soul --BAKERMAT, AMANZI -54 --11weeks-- (#19)

Another World --HUGEL, HAYLA (HUGEL Remix) -65 --4weeks--

Nuraan --Nandu, Tripolism -68 --4weeks--

Apple --Charlie XCX -76 --3weeks--

Someone For Me --Kylie Minogue, YouNotUs -79 --4weeks--

Want U Bad --MKX (Dave Aude Remix) --94 --5weeks-- (#67)

Wacuka --AVAION, Sofiya Nzau -67 --4weeks-- (#67)

Lights Camera Action --Kylie Minogue -64 --13weeks-- (#60)

Hurry Up Tomorrow --The Weeknd -90 --2weeks--

After Five --Luke Alessi -56 --11weeks--

Hold On Me --Kygo Sandro Cavezza -39 --10weeks-- (#48)

All i Know --TELYKAST -81 --7weeks-- (#65)

***Last Song --Alan Walker, Faouzia -(new) --1week--

Toxic Til The End --Rose -100 --2weeks--

***Is It Just Me --Mike Posner -(new) --1week--

Hypnotized --Anyma, Ellie Goulding -78 --4weeks--

Blue Symphony --KREAM, Jem Cooke -92 --2weeks--

Alibi --SEVDALIZA YSEULT, Paballo Vittar (Tiesto Remix) -77 -5weeks--

Edge Of Saturday Night --The Blessed Madonna, Kylie Minogue -95 --16weeks--

By Your Side (In My Mind) --Leony -85 --4weeks--

Good Lie --Sonny Wern, Felix Samual -66 --3weeks--

Heal My Heart --Imanbek, YouNotUs -52 --24weeks-- [1week@#1)

Another Life --NOTD, Oaks -91 --2weeks--

***Feel Again --TELYKAST, Moe Lisa -(new) --1week--

Autopilot --NIIKO & SWAE, Twin Diplomacy -86 --4weeks--

***She's The Last One --ARTBAT, Vintage Culture -(new) --1week-

Do You Really Love Him --Good Life, Elderbrook --51 --20weeks-- (#17)

***Superhuman --Lyrical Mar, Dave Aude -(new) 1-week--

***Gimme --Riordan -(new) --1week--

***Confessions --Flo Rida, ENHYPEN, Paul Russell -(new) --1week-

****Meet Me --Ownboss, EME -(new) --1week--

***Loving You --Kideko, A-Trak -(new) --1week--

***With You --Sigala, Ely Oaks -(new) --1week--

Please Don't Go --Gioli & Assia -80 --5weeks--

Angel In The Dark --Anyma, Massano, Nathan Nicholson -96 --4weeks--

Right On Time --Felix Cartal, Tegan & Sara -97 --9weeks--

Dancing On My Own --Flight Facilities, DRAMA -98 --11weeks--

***Jazz Club --Goldfish, Dubdogs -(new) --1week--

***Act Of God --Layton Gioridani, Linney, Sarah de Warren -(new) 1week--

***Angel Of Mine --Tobiahs -(new) --1week--

13 new this week 2/16/2025 #73 Last Song #75 Is It Just Me #84 Feel Again #86 She's The Last One #88 Superhuman #89 Gimme #90 Confessions #91 Meet Me #92 Loving You #93 With You #98 Jazz Club #99 Act Of God #100 Angel Of Mine

[galgali]

just gonna answer all of these bc i want to hope that's cool

like everyone else my favorite episode is 25 😔 (special shoutout to the last ten minutes of episode 37 though that is one of the best show endings i've ever seen in my life)

like rem. i'd be all over that

honestly for a while

i want to answer this but the opposite way-- i think kabru from dungeon meshi would thrive in death note skjfgdfjg (and light would make a great trigun villain)

sooo many (death note is a comedy) but probably the funniest sequence to me in the whole thing is when they're at school and light calls misa to get L's name and is incredibly smug and maniacal about it and then L picks up the phone

first one of course

light 😔

GOD.... WHY DID I ALMOST TEAR UP AT L'S DEATH EVEN WHEN I KNEW THAT WOULD HAPPEN FOR OVER A DECADE... THAT WAS CRAZY

my FAAAAVORITE light yagami song is bird song by florence + the machine. it's so so so so him it's crazy i can't believe there's not a billion amvs of it

matsuda OBVIOUSLY. also naomi and honestly L like that would be so funny

omg the end of the yotsuba arc where everyone on the task force starts touching the death note and everyone can see the shinigami was crazy i loved how that was done. but also as someone who somehow was not spoiled on what misa's actual role is and only knew her as "light's girlfriend or something" for 12 years, finding out that she also has a death note was surprising and so cool!

read the hinterland doctrine NOW. YES ALL 700K. CLEAR YOUR SCHEDULE AND DO IT RIGHT NOW.

i'm clinically insane over lawlight sorry. also a big remisa fan though

adult sayu....? i guess....? 😭

oh ABSOLUTELY matsuda obviously but also deeply ryuk. i'm also here to laugh at everything, go "oh you're crazy crazy" to light yagami, and pester people to feed me my favorite food

the entirety of light's warehouse speech because the voice acting for it is insanely good, and especially the "who else could have done it and come this far?" line

literally how shinigami use the death note. which is crazy because that's the whole premise but i feel like that's so weirdly unexplained?? like ryuk says that shinigami are doing fuckall in their realm and not even killing humans anymore but isn't being reaped by a shinigami how humans die? clearly people were still dying like normal before light got the note?? we never see any shinigami do "regularly scheduled" death note kills at all so HOW is ANY of this working

PERIWINKLEEEEEEE ☺️ (also they do in the jdrama! misa's is red it's so cute)

CUNTY! i'd need some strappy goth fit that could also double as charli xcx concert clothing

SALT AND VINEGARRRRR

other than some stupid posts here and there, the one i'm currently working on is a fic where L uses the death note and i'm very pleased with the idea... time will tell if i do anything with it

that mello and near are meant to represent L's two halves-- emotion and logic respectively

the rain/foot scene in the anime, but the entire blue scene in the jdrama. god. i'm not over that. there's soooo much you can read into for both of those scenes

misa of courseeee

episode 2 :') episode 1 was already fun but episode 2 was where it REALLY grabbed me. i LOVED seeing the set-up of light versus L and how the lind l. tailor thing + the resulting SCATHING call-out that followed played out. i was just having so, so, so much fun with it and continued to have a lot of fun with it

my favorite character is unfortunately light so everything bad that happened to him i was cheering for and he deserved it buuuuut if i had to pick a saddest thing to happen. i really adore everything about his death and there is something undeniably tragic about the scene where he runs past the vision of his younger self. i love that light, corrupted beyond belief, bleeding out and running away like a coward, has to face the memory of who he was before he ruined himself forever, and has to face just how much he's fallen and lost everything. it's incredibly cathartic for the audience to see light finally have to recognize that he's failed beyond redemption, even minutes before his death

💀🪽🥱->📕🌏->📕👦-> 💀💀💀💀💀💀->🇱🤔->🇱👦->🇱🔗👦->🏳️‍🌈❓->👦🫱📕->⌚🖊️->🇱💀->👦🥳->👦🪦💃->💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀->🇳➕Ⓜ️🟰💀🪽🖊️👦📕->👦💀->🥳

oh my godddd picking just one is so hard when death note honestly has some of my favorite official art of anything ever. i just love the style of it, the colors, and the imagery used. so i'll just use a recent favorite which is:

29. THE 2015 JDRAMA.... i jokingly call it death note stampede because it feels like a remix of the source material in a similar way as trigun stampede, but as with stampede, i also really love it. for the most part the differences it makes are pretty interesting and i think it stands really well on its own. while i love how unapologetically evil canon light is i also love how tortured light is in this one and how much desperation is in his relationship with L. it's a fascinating take on death note! (and in many ways, a much more cohesive one) also a huge fan of the musical though

30. REM.... i love her so much. i would say naomi but i've yet to read the bb case (SORRY I WILL I PROMISE). also kiyomi had such fascinating potential but o&o are too misogynist to do anything about it 🥲 the pattern here is just female characters.

Favorite chapter/episode?

If you had a Death Note, what would you want your Shinigami to look like?

How long do you think you could get away with hiding a Death Note?

If your favorite character weren’t in Death Note, what anime/manga do you think they would thrive in?

A scene that makes you laugh.

Which is your favorite opening?

Your favorite kira?

The death that affected you the most.

What song(s) fit the vibe of your favorite character?

A character you would hang out with irl.

What moment surprised you the most?

What is a fanwork (edit, fic, art, etc.) that you still think about to this day? (Pls link to the original!)

Favorite ships?

What character do you think you look the most like?

Which character’s personality do you relate to?

A line from the series that stuck with you.

A question that was never answered, but you wonder about all the time.

If Death Notes came in different colors, what color would yours to be?

What would be your staple kira catching outfit?

Favorite potato chip flavor?

A Death Note fanwork that you’ve made and are proud of.

A favorite Death Note theory.

Your favorite interaction.

Who do you think had the best style?

At what point did you fall in love with Death Note?

Saddest moment for your favorite character.

Lay out the plot of Death Note using only emojis.

Favorite official art.

Favorite Death Note Spin off media.

A character that needs to be mentioned more.  

[gossiptelfer]

Charlie and Natalie Telfer were spotted sharing a chinwag with Auds at the Tower of London and the air was thick with intrigue. Word has it they were discussing none other than our Queen of Kidbrooke herself. Fast forward to the next morning, and S arrived at the pier looking like she’d just stepped off the wrong train. What was said that left her all in a tizzy? The truth, as always, is a slippery fish. Hold tight South Easterners, this tale is only beginning.

XOXO

Gossip Telfer

[ritualvirtuality]

iv bin mesing around with SoundSpel môr and hav cum to th concloozhun that it is so much cleerer to ûz th sircumflex to indicât th difthong rather than th 'oe' dîgraf, despît th ofishal recomendâshun, for three reezons:

sum wurds becum longer becauz of th dîgraf, such as *miener or *raeser, becauz th 'e' which indicâts th preevius vowel is long must remân in this câs. this can creât unmanajabl compound wurds and is jeneraly undezîrabl.

many, many other wurds ar wun karracter shorter (than TO) when ûzing th sircumflex, such as *uez, *plaes, and *maet.

th dîgraf is not an acûret representâshun of th spôken vowel, but it also duz not acount for dîalectic vareâshun becauz it implîs mor spesifisity than is reealy thair (a mâjor gôl of SoundSpel is to not be ôverspesific in maping sounds to orthografy). ûzing th sircumflex implîs les about th pronunsyâshun, which in this câs is a guud thing.

this meens th SoundSpel vowels luuk lîk this (in th order: short, difthong, long pûr):

a, â, aa | e, [], ee | i, î, [] | o, ô, oo | u, û, [] | uu (SoundSpel's '*put' vowel)

enywâz, heer is Th Hurmit by Richard Dawson in SoundSpel under th cut. i am reezonably confident in th transcripshun.

———

i'm awâk but i can't yet see;

an eeger chifchaf is herralding me

th imej starts to form of a for-poster bed

sprung in th clarts of a riverbend

and th clavijer nôz

when th beeded shoots go

throo th arrid interstix of mi tôs

amung th mâzd roots of Rô’an as

i pas mi wâst

vâporus shafts of a burjoning sun

skûer th forest-flor onto a wurld fresh begun

all in th Nâm of th Harvest

i.e. our ever-onrushing plasma

shadôz of leevs

motld bi th cleevs

of caterpilar's ardent mandibls

form a basketweev of glôing mud

bloobels in bud

linen smok

and scarlet-embroiderd mantûa

desend from aulderbranches shînd with dû to setl

onto mi body

a litl emerald brooch [or brôch]

unclasps itself from mos

to alît upon mi brest

i step into a sliper-pâr --

exqizit replicas of thôz worn bi

Âda, th Enchantres of Numbers

-

too swolôd cups

of pûrâd bilberrys

which gro in abundans

bi th cornmil rooins:

wun hungers for nuthing

-

now let's folo

theez traks of a Falo Deer

sentenses of clâ leeding awâ from heer

out of the yauning deen

and over a gorsy brow vanishes

her blak hors-shoo rump and taterd tâl

into a gosamer vâl

-

at th hether-tousld crest of

Yeevering Bel we mâ enter a

stôn beecon-tower

from which th î mâ

hôld a hôl sweep of th kingdom:

hâzy marshes, crô-pokt copses,

pachwurk medôs laberintht with hejrôs

jently declîning to a fluf of wuudsmôk

clung to th frinj of th north see

th vilej of Beba

whâr wuns i livd, a

fisher, befor i was forst to flee

-

wun fâr morn, rapt in a shaul of salt-mist

i gatherd in mi pots of Whît-Clawd Crâfish

and from thôz suking sands

did i mâk mi wâ

driping to th kichendor of th Crost Kees

yung Charly Wheetstôn, th inkeeper's lad

with th sâm star-shâpt birthmark as his dad

set sqâr on his chin

bid me a shî 'hâl felo'

and empteed th sqeeking traps

into a pûter trauf

th forlorn broo'er laking ampl coin

apolojîzd with a tôken of grubs on a stik

and sugjested pâment tâk th form

of an upgrâd to mi vizhooal and ontoseptooal cortexes

bak in th thrôs of mi then-hôm --

(a bluberlit châmber, off th clif-crâzing tunels beneeth th fort)

-- i dond Dîojeneez' Rôbs, imbîbd th Côd

and disapeerd into a dreem of Kitiwâks

a hundred billyon voises ekôing around a

dark amfitheeater;

stil ringing in mi eers

as i went, creel in hand

throo th Bog of Nâms

upon entering a blosom grôv

i went into tôtl spasm as a

storm of info brôk abruptly acros my retinas

i câm around to an enhanst persepshun

of every lîf-form within a ten-yard radius

eech throbd with its ôn aurora

-

uterly aud

i'm inadvertently drawn to mi mind's-î

a lôn Ashy Mîner Bee, as if to a plât

under a mîcroscôp

i sobd as i zoomd amung

indivijooal hârs on its fôrlegs and fâs

and stârd for a long tîm into th omatideea

performing a scan

on a cash of Fals Deth Caps

i found i cuud trâs thâr history

all th wâ back to manûfakcher

Slipery Jak, Amethist Deseever,

Fâry Rings, Peny Buns, Hen Of Th Wuud...

i was amâzd

scroling not only th funguses yesturdâs

but also thâr meereead yet-bloomd tomorôs

-

with a burden of redcurants

and wîld garlik at mi elbo i

weerily mâd mi

wâ along Crakpool Burn,

joining th côst rôd at Glorôrum

up ahed i cud see what

luukt to bi a rôbot nelt in th lân

reveeld at a hîer magnificâshun

as a gilt-clad nît of Ôld

submerjd at th wâst in

unnyeelding concreet

flâling his arms to a windmil of gôld

lifting up th puur sôl's vîsor

mi gâz met with a mask of

vân-poping fûry --

or was it abject feer? --

gasping th shivalric ôth

then, it was over --

he split asunder

gleeming armor disolving to reveel

th aprentise of Godwin th

Whîtsmith, a meerest sliver of a man

stoopt to retreev th platinum

from his mouth i

hurd haulted hoovs in th dust, and

th crî 'MURDERER!'

-

tiny côbls out at see

a blak wal of cloud in th eest

and a tâper of rânbo

fântly aglo

amidst thâr wâks

[leclsrc]

wake up babe its # leclsrc3000 time... can we get a breathing deeply and bouncing legs for some wedding vibes w/ charlie (We being me and my 4 cats)

test run – cl16

Filled with nerves, Charles asks for advice on his vows.

auds here... i would love to see the cats <3 hope u like this!

“Okay.” Charles fiddles with his tie, blinks a few times, and takes a few nervous breaths. He’s confident in the words, but still his eyes find refuge on the tattered, folded-up script he’d spent the plane ride over reading and scribbling to perfection. “Okay, here goes. Don’t judge with the edits.”

“Do you remember when we first met—you made fun of my parking, and I bought you a coffee, and we stayed in the café until it closed at midnight? The coffee was shit, but I was full of energy all the same. If I told myself then I’d be marrying that girl, the parking bully who joined me in making fun of the coffee, I’d be shocked, yes. But I would also be happy. Everyday I get to be with you is shocking, because you’re the best person I know. But there are a few things you—and a lot of people in the crowd—don’t know about how we met.”

He gulps and reads over the lines for a bit. “For starters, I wouldn’t have parked outside that café if Lorenzo, my brother, did not pester me to get him a croissant at nine in the morning. And he wouldn’t have wanted the croissant if Pierre, my good friend, didn’t post a picture of a croissant the day before. And Pierre wouldn’t have posted that picture if he was not gifted a box of them by Lando. I could go on and on, but the sentiment stands, in a sort of soulmate roundabout way. I was destined to find you.

“It’s difficult for me to say the words I want to say, which is why my reception speech will be in Italian.But this doesn’t mean I don’t love you—in fact, I’m convinced it means the opposite. My love for you, however new it is in my life, can last me my next five lifetimes. I love our crazy days together, I love your coffee order, and I love that you still bully my parking. I love you, my dearest.”

He stares at the last two words, my dearest, which he’d written last minute. As he does, he realizes his knee’s bouncing with nerves and he has to manually stop it, lost in thought. It reminds him of all the nicknames he uses for the people he loves, unique and a bit silly, but it’s a trademark of who he is in the end. It reminds him of kisses and love and the proposal in late November. 

Two heavy inhales and exhales, then he looks up. Across him, in a bridesmaid’s dress holding a bouquet of lilies, you allow yourself to smile.

The stunning realization that you’ve loved much too late, that you’ve realized the gravity of your feelings on somebody else’s wedding day, hits you, a spear to the back. You turn slightly and face the window, watching the wedding prep on the lawn outside, trying with quiet desperation to blink your tears away. You hope he doesn’t ask too many questions, because you’re short of words; selfishly, all you really feel like saying is stay. It was a long time ago, being in love with him. But he let it go. It’s you who’s still tethered.

He comes up beside you. “Was it good?”

“Amazing. She’s going to love it.” In the pain and the haunting and the regret, you only wish you were lying.

[axelpvtmkt]

Market Trends and Economic Indicators Ahead of PCE Release

Introduction

Welcome to the latest analysis from Axel Private Market. As we approach the critical Friday PCE release, understanding market trends and economic indicators is essential. Our blog offers detailed insights for traders on our trading platform, covering everything from currency movements to commodity prices.

Market Insights and Reminders

Reminders

As the market sets up before the Friday PCE release, it is vital to monitor current trends and understand overall sentiment and economic standpoint. While the US economy remains the focus, news can often turn the market or move it aggressively. Avoid speculation and wait for a more stable trading environment.

Market Overview

The DXY showed strength as treasury yields climbed, with the 10-Year rising to 4.616%. A Tuesday FED official statement conveyed a hawkish perspective, lifting uncertainties for some investors and pulling the dollar up.

Equities are slowing down as the market nears the PCE release.

"On the equity market side we're getting close to month-end, so people may be taking profit," said Charlie Ripley, senior investment strategist for Alliance Investment Management. He also cited a weak 7-year U.S. Treasuries note auction following similar results for Tuesday's 2-year and 5-year note auctions.

"With the seven-year auction selling notes at a higher rate than the pre-auction level, that's three auctions in a row where yields came in higher. Higher rates are less attractive from an equity valuation standpoint," said Ripley. Investors focused on the Treasury auctions while waiting for key economic data releases.

The FED Beige Book noted that national economic activity continued to expand from early April to mid-May, with employment rising at a slight pace and prices increasing modestly. Despite high interest rates, the economy continues to grow, requiring minimal intervention.

Oil prices eased due to worries over weak U.S. gasoline demand and concerns that the Fed will maintain higher interest rates.

U.S. crude settled down 0.75% at $79.23 a barrel, and Brent fell 0.74% to $83.60 per barrel.

GOLD

With ongoing discussions about FED policies, GOLD is pressured lower after failing to reach a key structure at 2365.443. If the price breaks through 2332.174, a deeper retracement toward 2295.536 is expected. We can follow near-term momentum while awaiting the Friday release, positioning ourselves safely from potential market movements. This move by GOLD is a call to action for some traders to buy at lower prices.

SILVER

Despite market influences, high expectations of rate cuts by the ECB, BoE, and PBoC, lower opportunity costs to hold bullion, and central banks' growing interest in diversifying away from the dollar, Silver grew considerably over the second quarter. More growth is expected as silver moves within the 30.938 and 32.518 range. Once silver breaks through the top of the range, further developments may unfold.

DXY

The dollar rose significantly yesterday after a hawkish statement by a FED official on Tuesday. The price has broken through 105.071, and we wait to see if it will settle above this structure or continue its aggressive move.

GBPUSD

The market was pushed lower after reaching the top of the range, seemingly aiming for the anchor point at 1.26487. We expect the price to drop lower or possibly hold steady at 1.27006 and consolidate until tomorrow's news release.

AUDUSD

The AUD fell to 0.66145 after failing to hold above 0.66541. We await further developments, but the bullish structure remains respected with the possibility of completing the second leg of the M formation.

NZDUSD

The NZD returned to the range, showing a possibility of testing 0.60954. The price may extend its stay within the range, but we continue to wait for further movements.

EURUSD

The EUR is showing a large M formation, with the second leg breaking through the top side of the trendline, indicating a possible return to the downtrend. We await further confirmations as ECB rate cuts are highly expected, slowing currency growth.

USDJPY

The Yen is trading toward the May 1 high, the level at which BoJ intervened to control Yen weakness. Prices are currently at 157.508, up several percentages from yesterday's close. Traders should remain prudent and control speculation risks to avoid significant losses.

USDCHF

The CHF respected the bullish structure at 0.90940 and rose back to 0.91329. This may indicate a huge M pattern formation or the completion of a bounce for another bullish run. We wait for further movements to confirm market direction.

USDCAD

The market gained after failing to reach 1.36052, showing a lack of momentum and volume for sellers. The price may consolidate and react at 1.37435, but we wait for further price movements to confirm a break above this structure.

Summary

In summary, the market is in a state of anticipation as traders look forward to the Friday PCE release. Key indicators such as the DXY, treasury yields, and equities reflect cautious sentiment. Commodities like gold and silver provide mixed trading opportunities. Traders using Axel Private Market's trading platform should remain cautious and await clear market signals.

[stairnaheireann]

#OTD in 1916 – The first casualties of the Easter Rising were on Good Friday in Co Kerry.

#OTD in 1916 – The first casualties of the Easter Rising were on Good Friday in Co Kerry.

Three Volunteers, Con Keating, Charlie Monahan and Donal Sheehan, drowned when their car plunged off a pier into the sea while they were on the way to Cahirciveen in order to set up radio communications with Sir Roger Casement and the German arms ship the Aud. Five men set off from Dublin by train to Killarney, Charlie Monaghan, Donal Sheehan, Con Keating, Dennis Daly and Colm O’Lochlainn.…

[thatgirlstrawberry]

💛Sunshine💛 - The Visit pt. 2/The Son

In which you all read about Spencer’s family life

Overall warnings: mentions of sex, children, violence, regular cm stuff y’know

After everyone was calm, they all sat around the living room eating soup and grilled cheese.

It was oddly quiet. The sound of spoons clanking against the edges of the bowl was awkward.

"Spence?" Audrey cleared her throat.

The man looked up at her. Her eyes were a little wide and her lip was caught between her teeth. She set her bowl on the end table next to the couch.

"Can you tell us about the case? When we can get out of here and go home?" Audrey asked, eyes full of hope.

Sadie nodded from her spot at her little plastic chair. "Yeah, daddy. I wanna go home."

Charlie's eyes just shot back and forth between his mother and father waiting for a response. Joey was fidgeting with his spoon.

"Uhm-" Spencer's voice cracked nervously and he cleared his throat, eyes tearing away from his wife's. "Well, we haven't Uh... the unsub hasn't been active. So... so we... we don't know, Aud. We're at a loss."

The woman's face fell for just a moment. Her smile lit right back up and she glanced at her children. "Will you guys start cleaning the kitchen, please?"

Charlie scoffed. "That's not fair!" Both of his parents looked at him. "Dad just got here and you're making us clean?"

Audrey looked between her husband and Charlie hoping that he would say something to calm him down a bit. When he didn't Audrey smiled. "Dad will come help in just a minute, okay?"

Charlie rolled his eyes and spun around walking into the kitchen with loud footsteps. Sadie and Joey followed him quietly.

When the kids were out of earshot, Audrey looked at Spencer. "Honey, it's been 5 months." She shook her head. "Don't you think of the unsub isn't active... we can go home? I mean, c'mon, the kids hate it here."

Spencer tilted his head and moved closer to his wife. "I want more than anything to get you home but we haven't even found—" He stopped and looked at Charlie to make sure he wasn't listening. "We haven't even found Emmy yet." He whispered.

Audrey sighed. "How are my parents? And Marcus?"

Spencer smiled a bit. "Your parents are doing good. They miss you and the kids, they're safe." He nodded. "I haven't heard from Marcus in a few weeks. I think he's still sad about Chloe."

The woman sighed and placed her hand on her belly. "She's started kicking." A soft smile graced her lips.

Spencer got on his knees on the floor, reaching to touch her stomach. He smiled as he felt the baby's kicks. "I hate that I can't be with you everyday." He whispered. "I hate that I can't see your beautiful face and our beautiful kids and feel our beautiful baby."

"How much longer do you have left?" Audrey asked.

Spencer looked at his watch. "Thirty minutes."

Audrey sighed and bit her lip. "Go help the kids. Catch up with them." She smiled, nodding her head in their direction.

Sadie stood up on the step stool putting dishes away, Joey wiped down the counters and Charlie pretended to clean off the stove.

Spencer chuckled softly and pulled his wife in for a kiss. They stayed like that for a while until she sighed and pulled away.

Spencer got up from the ground and walked into the kitchen, tickling Sadie. She squealed and Joey laughed as he pretended to body slam her into the counter.

Audrey smiled, her lips quivering as she look away from them, tears filling her eyes.

.•.•.•.•.

30 minutes later Spencer sighed and walked over to the door slowly. Joey and Charlie followed behind him and he carried Sadie in his arms.

Audrey was waiting for him with her hands on her belly. She had a smile on her face but Spencer could tell it was fake.

"I'll be back as soon as I can." He spoke, kissing Sadie's head. Tears were running down her cheeks but she said nothing as he sat her down.

He turned to his boys and tugged them both into him, wrapping his arms around them.

"Dad, please don't go." Joey cried.

Spencer sighed and rubbed his son's back. "I'm sorry. I will work my hardest to solve this case and you guys can come back home. I swear."

He pulled away from them and turned to Audrey. "I love you." He said. "And I'm sorry. I will figure this all out."

She nodded and smiled still. "I love you too."

He turned to the children. "I love you all."

He left shortly after they repeated it, walking sadly towards the SUV where Hotch sat waiting.

Spencer climbed into the car and exhaled heavily when he shut the door. Hotch saw the quiver of his lips and sighed.

Suddenly, a tear rolled down his cheek and clicked on his seat belt. "I don't want to talk about it." He told Hotch. "We just need to get this case done and take down this piece of shit so I can take my family home."

.•.•.•.•.•.3 weeks later.•.•.•.•.•.

Audrey was humming and rocking in the chair in the living room. She had her eyes closed and she was rubbing her belly.

It was about 10 pm. The kids were asleep and she was thinking about how much longer she and the kids had to be cooped up in the house.

"So, when your father and I got married, we didn't have rings." She whispered. When no one was around, she liked to talk to Peach. Especially about Spencer because she didn't want the baby to not know who he was. "That night, in the middle of us— Um wrestling, he remembered that we didn't have rings so he put some pants on and drive to a jewelry store." She giggled. "He came back with five rings and a band and told me to pick my favorite one."

"And when I picked, he put the rest in his drawer and said he was saving them for his children." Audrey opened her eyes and shook her head. "So that means, you'll get yours one day when you decide who you want to marry. And-"

There was a knock at the door.

Audrey's heart dropped when she realized that the knock wasn't the BAU's code.

She got up quickly, making sure that she wasn't able to be seen from the blinds. She rushed into the kitchen and opened the utensil drawer where the burner phone was supposed to be.

Her hands searched through the drawer but the phone was nowhere to be found.

"Shit." She cursed, her heartbeat picking up. She opened the other drawers in search but still couldn't find it.

"Audrey?"

She stopped dead in her tracks. She recognized the voice immediately. "Marcus?" She whispered, placing her hand on her stomach and walking towards the door.

She stood on her toes and looked through the little hole in the door.

Audrey bit her lip and dropped back down onto her feet and furrowed her brows, hesitating. She sighed heavily and unlocked the door. She opened it slowly, peering out at him.

"Marcus?" She spoke quietly. "Marcus, what the hell are you doing here?" She asked.

Marcus looked sad. "I think I know who Chloe's killer is!" He whisper shouted. Audrey raised her eyebrows and stepped back a little, letting Marcus step inside.

She quickly shut the door and locked it again. She spun around to see Marcus pacing. "W- Marc, I don't understand, how did you find us?"

Marcus glanced at her, his boots heavy on the ground. "Spencer's team. They told me." He nodded. Audrey furrowed her eyebrows.

They wouldn't do that.

She walked back towards the covered window and used her fingers to separate the blinds.

The watch car was across the street but the officer inside didn't look like he was awake.

Something is wrong.

Audrey breathed and turned back around. "You think you found the killer?" She asked. "How?"

He stopped pacing. She felt that something was wrong. "I-"

"I think I hear Sadie, give me a second." Audrey stopped him with a soft smile.

Something is wrong. Keep your composure.

"If you ever feel uncomfortable, threatened..." Spencer sat himself down in front of Audrey who was playing with a baby Charlie. "Audrey, are you listening?"

The woman looked up with a smile. "I'm sorry! He's just so cute." She shook her head and gently touched her baby's nose with her pinky.

Spencer chuckled. "I know, we make pretty cute babies, we should make more, but Audrey I need you to listen to me."

Her smile faltered a little bit and she nodded. He tilted his head. "My- My job is dangerous and I come face to face with some pretty dangerous people." He told her. "And I put... a lot of people away."

Audrey nodded, trying to keep Charlie from crawling out of her arms.

"And to get back at me, they might go for you o-or one of our kids." He said. He leaned forward, placing his hand on Audrey's knee. "So if you ever feel like something's wrong when you're around someone, you get yourself out. You give an excuse and you go. If the kids are with you, you get them and leave. Okay, Aud?"

She tilted her head to the side. "Okay. But, what if whoever is making me uncomfortable doesn't let me go?"

Spencer sighed and made sure that his eyes were locked on hers.

"Then you fight like hell."

Audrey glanced at him as she began to walk towards the kid's room and made sure to unclench her fists. She didn't know exactly why or what was happening but her brother was giving her a really bad feeling.

Marcus cleared his throat. "I don't hear anything." 

Audrey slowed her feet down a little. "Yeah, but I should go check on her. It must just be my mom brain." She laughed.

He stepped in front of her.

"Audrey, I don't hear anything." He said. The woman lifted her eyes from his chest to his face.

"Marcus?" She whispered.

"Yeah?"

Her eyes flickered down to his shirt once again. "Who's blood is that?" Her voice was low.

Marcus' breath hitched. "I'm sorry, Aud." He shook his head and planted his face in his palms. "Peter, from the car outside, he wouldn't let me come see you."

Audrey shook her head as tears filled her eyes. "Marcus, what did you do?" She asked, her voice breaking.

"I did what I had to, Audrey."

"Marcus, I really need to go check on the ki-"

He pushed her back. "Shut the fuck up!" He screamed, and Audrey flinched and stepped back.

She glanced to her left at the key table by the door. She took note of the metal lamp that sat there and looked back up at her brother. "Marcus, did you kill Chloe?" She asked, a tear slipping down her cheek. "And Lucas?"

Marcus shook his head with a smile. "Oh, I killed a whole lotta people." He laughed lazily.

"And you sent those pictures to Charlie?" She said. He nodded and she thought back to the night it all started.

The minute he left the room after "finding out"about Chloe, Charlie got the text.

"And you gave the folder to Sadie?" He nodded again. "But how? She knows who you are."

Marcus rolled his eyes. "There's this thing called a mask, Audrey."

"Marcus, w-why are you doing this?" She asked, stepping forward so her hand was right next to the lamp.

He shook his head and laughed again. "Remember uncle Lou?" He asked. "From Vegas, the one I was staying with on vacation all those years ago?"

Audrey nodded. "The week I met Spencer."

"See, Uncle Lou told me all about everything. He's the one who got me into this. He showed me exactly how to do it. How to kill people." He nodded, pointing his finger at his head. "But I came up with my own way when I got old enough. I didn't want them to trace it back to uncle Lou."

Audrey shook her head. "But why Marcus? Why are you doing this to us?" She cried. "Your family?"

Marcus bit his lip. "Audrey, the perfect daughter." He said, his eyes widening. It's like he was crazy.

"Wh- Marcus, mom treated me like shit. I don't understand." She told him, stepping forward a bit.

"She might have treated you like shit, but they treated me worse." He said, stepping up to her. "She treated me like nothing."

Audrey tilted her head to the side. "Oh, Marcus..." She grabbed his face and tried to get him to look at her. "I'm so sorry."

He shook his head and shut his eyes. "They forgot my birthday four years in a row while you were away at college." He cried. "I didn't even go to college, I'm their little disappointment."

"Marcus, our parents love you." Audrey told him.

He open his eyes. "Loved." Audrey's entire body tensed. Her heart dropped— hell it might have stopped.

"Marky, you..." She shook her head. "You didn't." Her voice was quiet.

The man scoffed as she removed her hands from his face. She didn't back up, she was too afraid to move.

"Do you know what she said to me right before I stabbed her in her throat?" He asked. Audrey could throw up, she grimaced at his words.

"'Audrey wouldn't have done this.'" He mimicked their mother's voice.

Audrey gasped in pain as she felt something sharp in her back. She looked up at him and her breath hitched as he felt her brother pull a blade out of her.

He unwrapped his arm from around his sister (that she never felt) and shook his head.

He waved the bloody blade in front of her face as she stumbled back. Her turned around and began walking towards the kid's room.

She felt more tears fall as she reached back to the key table. Her hand gripped the cool lamp and she stalked forward.

Her pain was unbearable but she kept her lip between her teeth trying to keep in a scream.

She caught up to him somehow and raised the lamp over her head quickly. She brought it down and it made contact with her brother's head and hard. He collapsed and hit the ground, groaning in pain. She dropped the lamp and grunted in pain as she felt the stab wound in her back rip open even more.

Her chest heaved as she stumbled over him. "Charlie, Joey, Sadie, wake up!" She screamed.

She opened the door to the kids room and they were stirring in their beds.

She grunted as she tripped over a toy and landed on her belly. Her mouth fell open and she shouted in pain.

"Mom?"

She felt hands on her arms as she tried to get up and the light was flicked on. "Mommy?"

She looked up at Charlie and he immediately saw the tears in her eyes. "Mom, what's wrong?"

"B-basement— basement now!" She screamed as he pulled her up.

"AUDREY!"

Sadie screamed at the loud voice.

"Mom, you're bleeding!" Joey noticed.

Audrey nodded. "I know baby, I know, I'm okay. We have to get to the basement now." She said, her voice coming out broken.

Charlie held his mom under his arm as she cradled her stomach. "Who's out there, mommy!?" Sadie cried as Joey picked her up.

"Don't worry about it, bunny, come on." She cried, her back stinging.

She started to walk towards the door and she peeked out of the room quickly, pushing Charlie back a bit.

There was no sign of Marcus but there was a pool of blood where he landed.

"Okay, come on guys." She whispered.

Charlie wrapped an arm around his mother once again, helping her walk through the hallway.

Luckily the basement door wasn't far from the children's room. She stopped in front of the key pad and squeezed her eyes shut as she felt the baby kick hard. "Oh, God."

Her shaking hand punched in the three-digit key quickly and the door opened.

"Hey, kids."

Her head plummeted again as she looked back, Marcus standing there with a bloody hand against his head.

"Uncle Marcus?" Joey spoke.

Audrey looked up at Charlie. "Hey, you gotta let me go, okay?" She told him, her voice wavering. Charlie shook his head but Audrey softened her eyes and nodded. "Yeah baby, you gotta let me go."

She stepped forward, squeezing her eyes shut again and she looked back at her kids. "You guys go down there, okay? Do not come back up, do you understand?"

Sadie sobbed/screamed as Charlie nodded, a tear slipping down his cheeks. Joey stood there glancing between his mom and uncle.

Audrey turned back to face her brother. "You stay the hell away from my kids." She glared as she heard Sadie's screams descend down the stairs.

Marcus laughed. "What will you do about it?"

He asked. "Once I kill you, I'll go downstairs and gut them just like I did our mother."

Audrey flinched. "I swear to God, you even put a scratch on one of my kids, Spencer will kill you with his bare hands."

Marcus stalled towards her and she stood there, one hand holding the wound on her back and one holding her aching stomach.

"Shit, you messed me up, Marky." She shook her head. She lowered her head and heard his footsteps getting closer to her.

When she saw his shoes on the ground beneath her, she quickly looked up and clicked him in the face.

Marcus stumbled back a bit and clenched his jaw. "You pack a punch, big sister." He seethed as he looked at her.

He leaped forward and punched her back. She fell backwards and landed on the ground, groaning and coughing.

"Mommy, no!" She heard Sadie scream.

No, Sadie go downstairs!

Audrey gasped as Marcus got on his knees next to her and flipped her onto her back.

His hands wrapped around her throat and she looked up at him with wide, teary eyes. "N-no, Ma-Marky-"

Marcus laughed at her and tightened his hands.

"Get the hell off of her!"

Suddenly, Marcus flew to the side as someone, Charlie, tackled him. "Charlie!" She coughed, rolling over.

She looked at Joey and Sadie who stood by the open door to the basement. She got to her knees and crawled over to them. "Go! Go downstairs now!"

She hated screaming at her kids but she needed them to go downstairs. She couldn't let them witness her get brutally murdered.

They flinched at her serious, almost angry, tone and tan down the stairs, Sadie still screaming.

She pushed the heavy metal door shut with a grunt and spun back around. They couldn't get out unless they knew the code and eventually Joey would find some way to communicate with the team.

Or someone would come across the mangled man in the front seat of his car that Marcus killed.

Marcus stood there with Charlie up against his chest and his knife on his neck. "Marcus, no." She shook her head and stepped forward. She glanced at Charlie who had his eyes closed, his chest heaving. His nose was bloody and she could tell that Marcus did that to him.

"I was going to kill you here but now I have a better idea." Marcus spoke slowly.

"Please, Marky. Let him go. Let him go and-" She coughed. "I'll let you kill me."

Marcus acted like he was thinking about it. "Mm..." He rocked his head from side to side. She glanced from him to her shaking son. "No." He chuckled. "You two are coming with me." He nodded and glanced at Charlie before looking back up at his sister. "And if you try to run, I will cut this kid from the neck down."

"Do anything to buy more time." She heard Spencer's voice in her head. "More time means a better plan."

Charlie opened his eyes and locked eyes with his mother. "Mo-"

"Shut the hell up!" He said, pushing the knife further against Charlie's neck.

"No! Marcus, okay! We'll go, just stop!" She held her hands out in front of her.

Marcus smiled and shook his head.

"Remember, Audrey. You run, he dies."

———————————-

HEyyy

WHO SAW THAT COMING OMG?

Anyways! Sorry I haven’t updated this story in a while but it’s starting to get rrrrreeeeeaaaaallll

Let me know your predictions!!