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dedeinthewild · 2 months ago

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pepe martí x reader, botched haircut

~ from hand scribbles series (tell me an oddly specific situation/state of mind and I'll rec/write a fic about it)

"I have steady hands"

situation : she gets a botched haircut and wants to stay at home for months as she thinks it's the worst she's ever looked

When Pepe stepped out of his morning shower, the last thing he expected to see was her—sitting in her favorite armchair with a dejected expression, her hair, or rather, what was left of it, framing her soft features.

Her arms rested limply on her thighs as she stared at her phone, her full lips set in a pout, completely devoid of the smile she always had when they were in Spain together. The same smile that usually greeted him with the smell of pancakes when she didn’t sleep in late.

For weeks, she had been complaining about how her front layers had grown too long, saying she needed to trim them to feel like herself again, to feel even just a little pretty—because she wasn’t the kind of girl with untouchable confidence.

Pepe had been looking forward to the moment she’d come back from the salon beaming, twirling in front of him as she recounted everything that had happened while they were apart. But now, that vision felt far from reality.

“You’re back,” he said, leaning a shoulder against the wall of their Barcelona apartment, letting the towel slip from his hands as he finished drying his dark hair. He had spent the morning biking with an old friend, completing his daily training session.

“Guapa, hey,” he called again, nudging her shoulder playfully with two fingers. She looked up at him with the cutest pout he had ever seen, knowing full well how much she loved it when he called her that.

“Do you have a beanie in that pile of Red Bull merch you own?” she asked, biting the inside of her cheek, trying to keep a straight face as he studied her—his dark eyes, always so perceptive, already catching onto the way she was deflecting with humor.

“I think so, why?” Pepe asked, setting the towel down on the table in front of them.

She motioned toward her hair with a long, defeated sigh, bracing herself for him to either burst out laughing or—worse—tell her it was her own fault for being too picky and dramatic, like her mom often did without realizing.

But he didn’t do either.

Instead, he just smiled, stepping closer as he unwrapped one of their favorite candies and popped it into his mouth.

“What about that?” he asked, towering over her, looking at her the same way he always did—as if he didn’t see a lopsided mess of layers and botched bangs.

“Pepe…” she sighed. “Say something.”

He paused for a moment, rolling the candy from one side of his mouth to the other, hands on his hips, his usual infuriating kindness making her even more aware of the fact that her hair looked like something straight out of a Stanley Kubrick costume department.

“It’s different from usual, but it’s not that bad,” he shrugged.

“Then why does your face say something completely different?” she stood up, looking him in the eyes as he smirked, half-disappointed that she wasn’t glowing with post-salon confidence like those girls who walked out feeling beautiful enough to take over the world, but also entertained by how she was handling it.

“I’m not stepping outside that door for the next two months,” she declared, collapsing back into the armchair, throwing her head back dramatically.

“I won’t complain,” he chuckled, imagining how chaotic it would be to have her stuck inside with him for two whole months. “But I swear, it’s not the worst.”

“Yes, it is,” she groaned, throwing a pillow at him as he leaned against the coffee table, arms crossed.

“I look like I got stuck in a ceiling fan.”

Pepe couldn’t hold it in anymore. The way she said it, combined with the utterly defeated expression on her face, made him snort before he even realized what he had done.

“Did you just—did you just laugh?!” she gasped, throwing her arms up as if she had officially given up, resigning herself to looking like a complete disaster until her hair grew out. One thing was for sure—she was never going back to that hairdresser, who clearly missed their true calling as a construction worker.

Pepe tried to deny it, shaking his head, but the laughter was already bubbling up in his throat, his shoulders shaking, making it impossible to argue his innocence.

“Pepe, are you serious?” she tried to sound offended, but she was already on the verge of laughing, too.

“Listen, I’m so, so sorry, but the way you said ceiling fan was—” he lost it again, burying his face in his large hands, muffling another laugh as she glared at him.

“God, I can’t,” she muttered, hiding behind a pillow before Pepe pushed it aside, slipping between her knees and running his fingers through her hair as she pouted up at him, fully expecting him to take a photo and send it to Christian so they could turn it into a sticker for their group chat.

“We can always fix it,” he suggested.

“We? Fix it?”

He nodded, flashing that easy, confident smile, the one that made it clear he had all the time in the world for her. It was the relaxed, happy version of him—the one who wasn’t rushing to catch a flight or stressing over his next race. The one who let himself indulge in too many churros and spent time with the people who mattered.

“Pepe, you drive cars, not handle scissors.”

“I have steady hands,” he argued. “Precision. Good reflexes.”

“It’s not even nearly the same,” she scoffed, but she could see it in his dark eyes—that quiet, stubborn desire to see her smile, to make her feel pretty again.

“It won’t get worse, ojitos,” he murmured, wetting his lips as he twirled a strand of her hair between his fingers, noting how much lighter it felt—probably because half of it had been hacked off by someone in the middle of an artistic crisis.

“You say that, and I don’t quite believe you.”

“I’ve seen a lot of videos. I’ve practiced, too,” he assured her, trying to mask the bit of performance anxiety creeping in at the idea of actually following through.

“Fine. But if you ruin it—” she warned, pulling off her sweater so it wouldn’t get covered in stray hairs as he rummaged through the kitchen drawer for an old pair of scissors.

“I won’t.”

“If you do—”

“I won’t.”

“Pepe, listen to me. If you ruin my hair—”

“We’ll both get a buzzcut,” he declared, setting up a stool in front of the bathroom mirror.

“Are you crazy?”

“I won’t mess up, don’t worry,” he grinned, gesturing for her to sit down before dramatically mimicking a poor impression of Edward Scissorhands. It earned him exactly what he wanted—one of those smiles.

The kind that puffed up her cheeks and made the faintest hint of dimples appear, the kind that made her whole face light up.

Pepe circled her, assessing the damage. The hairdresser—or rather, the criminal—had attempted to give her layers, then suddenly decided to chop her front pieces into a thick, uneven fringe that made her face look rounder than it was.

“Ready?” he asked, running his fingers lightly along the nape of her neck, making her shiver.

“You’re literally just moving my hair around.”

“I got this,” he said, completely sure of himself.

And before she could fully grasp that he had started, she heard the sharp snip of the scissors, a chunk of hair falling away.

“What the hell did you just do?”

“Nothing… nothing bad,” Pepe said, eyeing his next move.

“Nothing bad is exactly what someone says before something very bad happens.”

She watched him through the mirror as he moved, noticing how he leaned in for better precision, how he brushed through her hair between each cut with a tenderness that almost made her forget to be nervous. It was just so him—the boy who always had a smile, who wanted the people around him to have one too.

“When my mom got older,” he started, setting the scissors down and picking up the hairdryer and a round brush, “and she wanted to go out, I always did her hair.”

He smiled, remembering all the times he had experimented on his mother’s blonde curls.

“She would sit down and let me do it, and even if nothing really changed, she was always so proud.”

It was so easy to get lost in the way he talked about his family, always with that deep, unwavering affection. Every time his fingers brushed against her skin—her neck, her cheek, her forehead—his touch was featherlight, as if he was handling something fragile.

And honestly? She wouldn’t mind if he always did this for her.

He was so focused, so dedicated, as if there were team principals from the most prestigious F1 teams watching his every move, as if he were in the middle of the most important lap of his life.

“Done,” he finally said, smiling.

She had been facing away from the mirror for the finishing touches, so he gently turned her toward it. Her hair was slightly tousled, just the way she liked it.

“Did I mess up?” he asked.

The layers were perfect—soft, voluminous, straight out of a Pinterest board. The bangs, while still short, were lighter, more flattering.

And there it was.

That beautiful smile—the one he always wanted to see.

The one that said, maybe I am pretty.

“Pepe Martí, you’re the eighth wonder of the world,” she said, running her fingers through her hair.

He stepped closer, resting his hands on her shoulders and pressing a sweet kiss to her cheek, heart full at the sight of her happiness.

“I just wanted to see you smile,” he murmured.

“Still want that beanie?”

When I said oddly specific situation, this is what I meant. Two days ago I went to the hairdresser and she decided, without asking me prior to the cut, that I would look good with obnoxiously dense bangs. The result? I don’t wanna go out for at least two months…

#f2 #f1 #motorsports #prema racing #formula racing #f3 #campos racing #pepe marti x reader #pepe marti #pepe martí #hand scribbles💫#send me situations pls #dede asks🍀#f2 fics #f2 masterlist #feeder series #redbull driver academy

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