Pretty Girl Avenue 🎀

here for the ✨vibes✨

[jollie387]

Okay, so I've had so many second thoughts about not making Rafael Cámara Carlos' son in my Charlos Fest entry ‘skipping to a beat’... but seeing this? This is the universe telling me that choosing Pepe was 100% the right call. 👌

[seoiur]

「Pepe & Luke」 Keep it moving on and see you in someday

As we know, Pepe is going to race in Formula E, so we won’t see the two of them race together anymore 🥹🥹🥹

This video is for their first podium together

[browinning7]

Luke Browning and Josep Maria Marti celebrate on the podium with champagne after the Round 11 Monza Feature Race of the 2025 Formula 2 Championship.

[jollie387]

Deleted excerpt #2

Charles’ perspective of the moments leading up to their first kiss in skipping to a beat (of a heart that's sweet on finding home) written for @charlosfest.

Charles had not expected to linger by the edge of the dance floor, yet he found himself rooted there, drink forgotten in hand, his gaze pulled inexorably to Carlos. Robin had managed, through some combination of coaxing and persistence, to draw him into the tide of music, and now Charles could do nothing but watch.

There was a lightness in him tonight that was rarely seen, a loosening of the careful reserve he so often wore. The faint stubble along his jaw softened the cut of his bones rather than roughened them, giving him a warmth that invited rather than kept at bay. Symmetry marked his features in a way that drew the eye but never clamoured for attention. It had always struck Charles as a quiet kind of beauty, understated, steady.

Yet here, under shifting lights that glinted off the slight bronze of his skin, that quietness was transformed. Carlos moved with abandon, caught between laughter and rhythm, his frame lithe where it should be, strong where it counted. Broad shoulders tapered cleanly to a narrow waist, his shirt catching the outline of him with just enough precision to sharpen what was already evident. He carried himself with an ease that seemed instinctive, as though nature itself had conspired to shape him this way. Handsome was too simple a word, and yet there was no escaping it: he was handsome in a way that begged to be noticed.

Charles had noticed, again and again, over months of dinners and late nights and shared responsibilities. He thought of the countless times he might have said something and did not. That evening at the restaurant, for instance, when he had deliberately chosen a place with a reputation for its intimacy, its whispered corners and dim light designed for couples. He had imagined the moment would unfold of its own accord, that confession might slip free as naturally as wine filling a glass. Instead, he had asked about flights and computer servers, as though logistics were safer ground than the truth pressing against his ribs.

How many times had he hidden behind such diversions? How many evenings had he wasted convincing himself that caution was wiser than courage? He had been afraid of misreading, afraid that Carlos might not feel the same, afraid that wanting more might unravel what they already had. And yet, what they had was proof enough. Every day showed him how easily they fit together, how well their lives intertwined, how natural it would be to close the distance he insisted on keeping.

The music shifted, drawing a cheer from the crowd, and Carlos spun Robin with a flourish that left him laughing, head tipped back, utterly unguarded. Charles felt something twist deep in his chest at the sight, sharp and inevitable. He had squandered too much time already, letting fear masquerade as prudence, letting uncertainty rob him of what was within reach.

Perhaps if he had spoken sooner, if he had found courage months ago, it would be him on the floor with Carlos now. Perhaps he would not be standing useless at the sidelines, watching someone else draw laughter out of him, watching someone else place a hand at his waist without hesitation.

And perhaps Valentina would not have met him as just Charles, introduced in passing, a name without anchor or claim. He could still recall the way her eyes had lingered on Carlos, the unmistakable tilt of her smile, the playful edge in her tone. He had stood by, pretending indifference, while his hand brushed Carlos’s arm in a fleeting, silent warning, a pathetic attempt at marking ground that was not his to mark. If he had spoken, if he had dared, it would not have felt pathetic at all. He would have had the right to bristle at her open interest, the right to fold an arm around Carlos and let her know precisely where he stood.

He was so intent on the tilt of Carlos’s head as he laughed, on the unstudied grace with which his body caught the rhythm, that he did not notice Mika at his shoulder until his name broke the trance.

“Charles.”

The sound of it jolted him. He turned to find Mika regarding him with resignation, the faintest trace of bitterness in his expression.

“I never really had a chance, did I?” Mika’s voice was low, his gaze also fixed on the dance floor. “Not with him around.”

Charles caught the implication at once, or at least suspected it, though he schooled his expression into polite blankness and chose the safer path of feigned misunderstanding. It was easier, less combustible, to act as though Mika referred only to Carlos’s constant presence in Ollie’s life.

“Carlos isn’t stepping on anyone’s toes,” Charles said, his voice dangerously even. “There are no points to be scored here. He’s been filling the shoes you abandoned.”

He turned to face Mika fully, his expression hardening with cold finality. “The only reason you ever had a chance was because Ollie gave it to you. He gave it to you freely, and instead of making good on it, you failed him. Over and over.”

“You know very well that’s not what I meant.” Mika’s jaw tightened.

“At least you are willing to admit it, then," Charles’s restraint thinned, sarcasm seeping into his voice. "That you tried to use the same child you once discarded as leverage to wedge your way back into my life.”

Mika’s expression twisted, a flicker of the old frustration surfacing.

“You never even wanted him in the first place,” he countered, his voice low and insistent. “So why was it that in the end, you chose Ollie over me?”

The words stung, though Charles had expected them. His reply was measured, steady, though he felt the weight of it pressing at his ribs.

“It was never about not wanting Ollie. It was about not being ready for the weight of a child when I was still so young myself.” He paused, the memory of those frantic, grief-stricken days sharp in his mind. “The thought of raising a child terrified me. But that was not the same as rejecting him.”

Mika gave a disbelieving shake of his head, as if the distinction were meaningless.

“Like every decision we ever made together, I yielded to you." Charles pressed on, unwilling to falter. "When you wanted London, we went to London. When you wanted us to build a life there, I followed. When you wanted us to take Ollie in, I agreed, even though I wasn't ready. I spent years going through the motions, moving at your stride, never at mine. Choosing Ollie, choosing to keep him, was the first time in years I felt I was choosing something for myself.”

“And why didn't you ever say any of this to me?” For the first time, Mika’s expression shifted, the sharpness softening into something almost uncertain. “If you felt this way, why didn't you just tell me?”

A humourless smile touched Charles’s lips.

“I did try, Mika. More than once. But you've always had tunnel vision. Once you decide on a path, you only ever think of seeing it through. You never stop to listen to what anyone else has to say.” He let the statement hang in the air between them, heavy with the weight of a history of silenced conversations. “Not even me.”

Whatever Mika said was lost to him, if he’d spoken at all. One moment he was caught in the weight of their history, and the next, his focus was pulled elsewhere. Valentina. Her body moved easily in Carlos’s orbit, a smile flashing as though she’d been there all along. And Carlos, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, had placed his hands at her waist. Something inside Charles simply snapped.

He felt his feet moving before he knew what he was doing. He didn’t think, he simply moved, his feet carrying him through the throng with a single, urgent purpose: to put as much distance as possible between Carlos and anyone else.

His hand closed around Carlos’s arm, the grip firm and unyielding. He didn’t look back, didn’t acknowledge the woman he was pulling Carlos from. He just navigated the sea of bodies, a current of pure intent, shouldering his way through until he found the heavy door to the toilets. The muffled thud of the bass was a distant echo in the stark, tiled quiet.

The air was cooler here, almost antiseptic, but Charles barely noticed. His hand was still on Carlos, guiding him into the narrow cubicle. The lock clicked into place with finality, and before Carlos could form the question he saw gathering on his lips, Charles pushed him down onto the closed seat.

He didn’t stop to measure the choice. Didn’t pause to weigh the consequences. Jealousy had burned away hesitation, leaving only the raw insistence of possession. He climbed into Carlos’s lap, knees braced, hands firm at either side of his face.

And then he kissed him, hard, fierce, not tentative but claiming, as though the very act might erase Valentina’s touch and overwrite it with his own. His mouth pressed with desperate certainty, his pulse a roar in his ears, leaving no space for doubt.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a frantic thought flickered: that Carlos would simply push him away, because the alternative, that he might pull away without a word or meet his eyes with pity, was a humiliation Charles knew he wouldn’t be able to bear.

[jollie387]

Deleted excerpt #1

Charles’ perspective of the opening scene in skipping to a beat (of a heart that's sweet on finding home) written for @charlosfest.

Clémence had always had a gift for exaggeration, and Charles had long since learnt to take her pronouncements with a certain amount of caution. Yesterday, after he’d finally coaxed Ollie through the classroom door with gentle assurances that the very moment the bell rang he’d be waiting just outside for him, she’d swooped in at his side with the air of a stage actress about to deliver her most dramatic line.

"Quel dommage, Charles, mais quel dommage!" she’d declared, her voice a conspiratorial stage whisper. He’d just missed the new boy’s father, a single dad, who was so handsome he ought to be wary of visiting the British Museum in London, lest the curators mistake him for one of the marble statues and add him to the permanent collection. He could almost hear the capital letters in her voice.

Charles had smiled politely and chalked it up as another of Clémence’s colourful flights of fancy. Yet, as he recalled it now, her words lingered, and he could admit that she hadn’t been entirely wrong. Clémence’s warning about Greek statues was absurd, but she’d been right about one thing. The man was good-looking. Remarkably so.

He’d seen him for the first time at pickup that afternoon, arriving just as the classroom doors opened. Charles had known at once that this was the man Clémence had been talking about, partly because he’d never seen him before and partly because, well, he was handsome. His son clung with endearing stubbornness to Ollie’s hand, and Charles found himself noticing, without meaning to linger, the lines of his figure.

Straight, thick, dark hair with a touch of volume swept to one side. A face balanced in its proportions with almond-shaped eyes attentive and dark, a straight nose, full lips that curved easily when he smiled at his son. The faint stubble along his jaw had softened the strength of his bone structure rather than roughened it, giving him an approachable cast. There was symmetry in his features that caught the eye without demanding attention.

His clothes did little to conceal the body beneath them. The cream-coloured ribbed polo fitted close across a broad chest and shoulders, the short sleeves skimming well-muscled arms. The tailored black trousers, neat and slim, drew a clear line to a narrow waist and legs that spoke of steady training. Not ostentatious, not showy, simply well-kept, as if his body was something maintained rather than displayed.

Charles had found himself noticing more than he intended. How the fabric of the polo shifted as he crouched to speak with the children, how his presence seemed to take up space without pressing on anyone else’s. He carried himself with an ease that was difficult not to admire. He remembered the way their hands had met in a brief, firm handshake, and how his voice (warm but measured) had carried a hint of reserve, as though he was careful with the world until it proved itself safe for him and his son.

Charles could relate to that, more than he liked to admit. And really, when faced with an attractive man, what was he meant to do? Pretend not to notice?

Later that evening, the moment the call connected, the boys appeared on the screen with the kind of boundless energy that seemed to spill straight into the room. Within seconds the quiet of Ollie's bedroom was drowned out by a storm of laughter and chatter, the boys speaking over one another in a tumble of excitement, waving soft toys at the camera and parading bedtime pyjamas as though they were on a catwalk.

Charles sat back, listening, allowing their joy to swell and overlap unchecked. Ollie was chattering with a volubility so uncharacteristic it was arresting. He was usually so reserved with new children, a slow and cautious process of assessment, of holding back until he was certain of his place. Yet here he was, barely a day in, not only utterly at ease with Pepe, but already looking at Carlos with a gaze free of any hesitation, as if the man had simply been pre-approved.

Across the screen Carlos was smiling, the same bone-deep weariness etched into his features that Charles felt in his own, yet tempered with something softer, a shared acknowledgement that they’d managed well enough today.

When it came time to end the call, the boys’ protests arrived right on cue, Ollie leading with the familiar refrain that they weren’t tired in the slightest. While Charles was quick in assuring them that sleep would find them soon, it was Carlos who turned the moment with remarkable ease. Suggesting with mock solemnity that without sleep the sun itself would refuse to rise, and that no school meant no reunion with Pepe in the morning.

A look of profound understanding passed between the two boys, and the protest died before it could fully form. It was the same quick-wittedness he’d displayed at the school gates, devising the video call solution to their sons’ heartbroken refusal to separate. The man was clearly adept at this, at finding the gentle pressure points in a child’s logic to guide them where they needed to go.

As the promise of another call was secured and the screen went dark, Charles set his phone aside. He looked at Ollie, already burrowing into his pillows with a contented sigh, and a complicated warmth settled in his chest. It was truly, profoundly unfortunate. Not only did the man’s physical presentation align so perfectly with Charles’s own quiet preferences, a fact he’d acknowledged with detached appreciation earlier that day, but he also possessed this. This quiet competence, this intuitive grasp of fatherhood that Ollie, in his impeccable and inconvenient judgment, had so immediately recognised and trusted.

He was, in every discernible way, precisely the sort of man Charles would have allowed himself to notice. And he was, by the unbreakable laws of social propriety and the sacred bond of their sons’ newfound friendship, entirely and woefully off limits.

This morning, the hallway was already alive with the low hum of parents and the shuffling of children, but Charles’s eyes had gone almost at once to the familiar figure across the way. The knowledge that the man was firmly off-limits did nothing to stop him from taking in the view.

He was dressed in a light blue and white striped shirt, the crisp cotton rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms that were corded and tan. The shirt was tucked neatly into dark navy trousers that were tailored enough to hint at the lean strength of his legs without being overt, and the whole ensemble was grounded by a pair of clean white sneakers.

Charles reminded himself to look away, to anchor his attention elsewhere, but it was surprisingly difficult when every line seemed calculated to catch it. The broad set of shoulders, the trim waist defined by the cut of the shirt, the easy length of him. Attractive, yes, but contained, as though his appearance were a consequence of his life rather than a pursuit in itself.

He allowed himself one more lingering look before forcing himself back to the children, only to find their reunion every bit as excessive as yesterday’s farewell. Ollie and Pepe had collided with the force of long-lost companions, arms wrapped tight around one another, their chatter a breathless stream of disbelief that an entire night had passed since they last spoke. It was as though a single sleep had stretched into an age.

Charles’s eyes flicked from the children back to Carlos watching them too, his face lit with quiet amusement. There was warmth in the curve of his mouth, a fond sparkle in his eyes, and it pulled at something in Charles he would rather not name.

The gentle but firm voice of Maîtresse Juliette cut through the morning’s fervour, signalling the start of the school day. As the children began to drift towards the classroom, the moment for farewells arrived.

Beside him, Carlos was crouched low, speaking softly to Pepe, reminding him that should he miss his father or need anything at all, Maîtresse Juliette would know how to reach him. Pepe responded with the well-worn exasperation of a child who had heard the same refrain too many times before. His dark eyes rolled with theatrical flourish, and he declared, with the long-suffering patience of one correcting an adult yet again, “I love you, Papá, but I won’t miss you.”

The fond amusement on Carlos’s face said it was an exchange well-trodden between them.

Charles turned back to his own son, ready for the careful promises and lingering reassurances he’d prepared, only to be met with something altogether different. Ollie leaned forward of his own accord, wrapping his arms tightly around Charles’s waist, pressing his cheek briefly to his side.

"Love you, Papa," Ollie said, his voice steady. He looked up and instructed him, as though he were the parent, "Have fun at work, okay?"

For a moment Charles could only blink, startled by the ease of it, before Ollie slipped his hand into Pepe’s. Without another glance backward, the two boys trotted off together, already immersed in animated discussion of their grand plans for the day.

Charles watched them disappear through the doorway, his chest still warm from the unexpected farewell. When he looked up again, Carlos was watching him, the corner of his mouth tilted in rueful amusement.

"If I’m lucky, maybe Ollie will rub off on Pepe," Carlos remarked lightly. "One day I might get a sweet goodbye instead of being shooed off like a nuisance."

“I’m sure it’s just a phase.” Charles let out a soft laugh, the sound mingling with his lingering surprise.

Carlos’s smile deepened before he straightened, offering his farewell with casual ease and moving towards the exit. Charles had just gathered himself to leave when Clémence materialised at his side with the swiftness of a hawk descending on prey.

“So,” she began, her eyes alight with curiosity, “now that you two are fast friends, what else have you discovered about him?”

“You’re conflating things." Charles shook his head, a faint smile touching his lips. "Our sons are fast friends, we're not. I’ve barely exchanged a dozen words with the man. I suspect you’re already better informed than I am.”

Clémence’s grin widened, amused by his attempt at reason.

“In fact,” Charles added, “how do we even know he is single? Perhaps Pepe’s mother simply hasn’t accompanied them yet. She could appear this afternoon, or tomorrow morning.”

In truth, he was deliberately omitting that during their call last night, Carlos had made no mention of a partner, nor had Pepe ever referenced his mother or another parent.

Clémence waved a dismissive hand, her expression one of supreme confidence.

“Adila overheard his introduction to Maîtresse Juliette yesterday. And I,” she announced with a touch of pride, “did a bit of light sleuthing. His Instagram was practically begging to be found. There is no trace of a wife. Or a partner of any description, really.”

“There you are, then,” Charles let out a quiet huff of amusement. “You know far more than I do.”

“Well,” she conceded, her tone turning wheedling, “if you do become properly acquainted, you must be a dear and share. It has been an age since we had a new face around here.”

Charles couldn’t help but laugh. “There were transfer students last year, Clémence.”

“A new face,” she clarified without a hint of shame, “that is genuinely pleasant to look at.”

“You are depraved.” Charles gave her a long, indulgent look before shaking his head, a smile tugging at his lips.

Clémence only laughed, unrepentant, and Charles found himself, despite his better judgement, silently agreeing with her.

[dreamlandbarnes]

[alexturntable]

HELPP

[versains]

Charles was quick to congratulate Carlos 🙌

[mafiosaseries]

💙"𝕄𝕪 𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕤𝕥 𝕊𝕞𝕠𝕠𝕥𝕙 𝕆𝕡𝕖𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕎𝕚𝕝𝕝𝕚𝕒𝕞𝕤, 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕝𝕒𝕤𝕥"💙

[alexturntable]

🥰

[alexturntable]

🍾

[sooshiz1]

obligatory podium sketch congrats my king

[jollie387]

skipping to a beat (of a heart that's sweet on finding home)

Single Parent AU & Kid Fic | 64K Words | Teen And Up Audiences

When Pepe befriends his classmate Ollie, Carlos begins spending more time with Ollie’s father, Charles. Playdates at the park and shared meals gradually bring their families closer, and along the way, Carlos and Charles begin to wonder if there might be room in their lives for something more.

or

Two single dads, two chaotic little boys, and a whole lot of feelings nobody planned for.

Written for @charlosfest.

[sevynchaos]

Luke Browning, Joshua Dursken and Pepe Marti from Monza’s podium celebrations

📸 Malcolm Griffiths

[browinning7]

Race winner Luke Browning, second-placed Joshua Durksen, and third-placed Josep Maria Marti celebrate in the paddock following the Round 11 Monza Feature race of the 2025 F2 Championship.

[leclercskiesahead]

Hmm

[browinning7]

Luke Browning celebrates on the podium after claiming his maiden feature race win in Formula 2 at Round 11 of the 2025 F2 Championship in Monza.