gold-skinned, eager baby ⛐ 𝐉𝐌𝟑
an off-shoot of @cinnamorussell’s that’s the way it goes bandverse ⸻ you tell yourself you’re just here to manage the chaos, but your heart’s already keeping tempo.
ꔮ starring: lead singer!pepe martí x band manager!reader. ꔮ word count: 3.1k. ꔮ includes: romance, friendship. alternate universe: non-f1, alternate universe: university. mention of alcohol. idiots in love, pining!!!, mentions of f1a girls. title is from touch tank by quinnie. ꔮ commentary box: birdy & i have been working behind the scenes on bandverse for monthsss, and while their work is centered on our beloved rookie ‘25—featuring the 2025 rookie class!!! REQUIRED READING, READ IT NOW!!!—i wanted to take a crack at the band on the other side of the stage. i had visceral images of pepe covering this song & got dizzy as hell. ouuu r25 and fw, you are our shaylas. this is entirely self-indulgent, but i also send all my love to fellow pepe enthusiast @spiderbeam 🎤 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
Like most Friday nights, tonight smells like beer, sweat, and somebody’s bad decisions. You’re standing near the stage, clipboard in hand, pretending you have your life together while watching the band set up for soundcheck.
Rafaela is the first disaster of the evening. She’s perched on an amp like a caffeinated parrot, arguing with the sound tech about whether her pedalboard ‘has a spiritual connection’ to the venue’s electricity. Her hair is an electric halo, her eyeliner war paint, and her guitar strap covered in glittery stickers spelling out things like GIRL POWER and CAUTION: NEW DRIVER. You once described her as a fire hazard with perfect pitch, and she thanked you.
Chloe, the keyboardist, is her opposite. A human spreadsheet wrapped in thrifted sweaters. She’s currently aligning her synth cables by color while muttering about MIDI latency. She has a calm, nerdy energy that grounds the band’s chaos, though she’s been known to throw hands if someone messes with her meticulously labeled USB drive named Bachstreet Boys.
Then there’s Amna, the drummer-slash-content creator, who’s been filming B-roll of the crowd since she arrived. She’s got the kind of smile that belongs in a skincare ad and the kind of arms that make the drumsticks look like toys. Every time she posts a drum solo on TikTok, the band’s follower count spikes, and so do your blood pressure levels.
You’re mentally tallying up the odds of everything going wrong when the final member steps onto the stage.
Pepe Marti.
He’s wearing that casual confidence like a leather jacket, grinning as if the stage was built for him. The girls stop their bickering the moment he picks up the mic. Partly because it’s time to play, partly because Pepe has that effect on people. He flashes a look toward you, a small salute with the mic, and the corner of your mouth betrays you with a smile.
“Good evening, everybody,” he says, his voice smooth and teasing through the speakers. “We’re Formula Weekend—there’s no math involved, though. Unless you count how many times Rafaela’s gonna break a string tonight.”
Rafaela flips him off affectionately. The crowd laughs.
Pepe paces a little, looking too at home under the lights. “I’m Pepe, the only guy in this band, which basically means I’m living every teenage boy’s dream and every feminist’s nightmare. But don’t worry, these ladies keep me in line.”
“Barely,” Amna calls from behind the kit.
Chloe adjusts her keyboard stand with surgical precision. “We’ve got graphs that prove it.”
Pepe laughs, that effortless kind that pulls the crowd in, and turns to you briefly before facing the mic again. “Let’s make some noise, yeah?”
The first chord hits, loud and alive, the kind of sound that drowns thought. The lights flare, Rafaela’s hair whips in rhythm, Chloe’s synth hums like electricity, and Amna’s sticks come down like thunder. Through it all, Pepe’s voice cuts clean, easy, magnetic.
You tell yourself you’re just here to manage the chaos, but your heart’s already keeping tempo.
You’re watching all of them, clipboard pressed to your chest like it’s armor, pretending you’re calm. You are not calm. Pepe’s at the mic again, fingers tapping against the stand in that restless way he does when he’s fighting the urge to say something unserious. He loses the fight.
“So,” he says, flashing a grin that could power a small village, “we’ve got a five-track setlist tonight. The girls let me pick one song. Just one.”
The crowd chuckles. Rafaela shouts, “And we almost vetoed that too!” without looking up from her tuning.
Pepe feigns a wounded gasp. “Yeah, democracy is alive and well in Formula Weekend. I get one vote, they get three.”
Amna leans toward her mic. “It’s because your taste is suspicious, Pepe,” she sing-songs.
“Suspiciously good,” he fires back.
The crowd laughs again, softer this time, warming to him. You can still feel it. The tension, the subtle weight of every gaze that lingers a bit too long on him. The way some people whisper, the small smirks, the unspoken question hovering like humidity: What’s he doing here?
You brace yourself for the shift that always comes after that question.
Chloe glances up at him, gives the smallest nod. Rafaela rolls her shoulders, ready. Amna counts them in with a stick click that slices through the noise. The first notes bloom, warm and woozy, and the crowd’s talking cuts out like someone flipped a switch.
Pepe leans into the mic, voice low and unhurried. “Cancelled a hot hipster threesome for you ’cause I preach a freedom, but you’re a fucking great excuse.”
It’s disarming, the way his accent rounds the vowels, softens the edges, turns the line into something flirtatious instead of defiant. Rafaela grins mid-riff; Chloe’s eyes flick up in quiet amusement. You can feel the energy turn, slow and deliberate, like the air itself deciding to listen.
The crowd’s judgment melts into something else. Curiosity, maybe. Awe, definitely. You watch as the girl in the front row, the one who was whispering a minute ago, drops her phone a little and just stares.
By the second line, it’s not Pepe versus the band. It’s Formula Weekend, in sync, magnetic. The noise of the bar folds into the rhythm, the lights catch in the haze, and for a second, you forget to pretend you don’t care.
You’re smiling. Again.
The crowd, once buzzing and half-distracted, leans in, the air growing thick with the kind of attention that can’t be faked. The lights wash the stage in syrupy amber, catching on Rafaela’s glittered strap, on the curve of Amna’s drumsticks, on Chloe’s hair as she moves. But it’s Pepe that centers it all. He doesn’t need to demand the room; he just takes it, quietly, effortlessly.
His voice dips into the next verse, smooth and almost lazy: “’Cause he’s so pretty when he goes down on me, gold-skinned eager baby, blue shirt out the laundry.”
There’s a quick, collective inhale from the crowd, the sound of shock and thrill colliding. Someone whistles. Someone else whoops. A few guys near the bar shout things that don’t deserve to be repeated, but Pepe doesn’t flinch. He never does. He just leans into the mic, a grin ghosting his lips, eyes half-lidded like he’s savoring every word.
Rafaela doesn’t miss a beat, grinning like she’s in on the joke. Chloe’s fingers dance across the keys with deliberate grace, grounding the moment. Amna’s drumming grows sharper, louder, daring anyone to talk over them again.
Your clipboard has become useless—a prop for pretending you have control over any of this. You watch him, trying to keep your expression neutral, though your pulse betrays you.
Then he looks at you.
Not a passing glance, not an accidental flicker. He finds you in the crowd like it’s muscle memory, like the lyric was meant to be sung to you and you alone.
His eyes stay on yours as he sings, softer now, almost tender: “He tells me he’s gentle when he wants to be... so I think he wants to be gentle with me.”
It’s stupid how much you feel it. The intimacy of it. The crowd is still there—cheering, laughing, filming—but for that one impossible moment, it’s just the two of you suspended in light and sound. You should look away. You don’t.
Pepe’s smile shifts—small, knowing—and then he looks back to the mic, letting the next line pull him away. You breathe again, or at least you try to.
The rest of the set unspools in a blur of lights and laughter, the kind of beautiful chaos that feels choreographed by luck. The crowd is fully in it now. Bodies swaying, drinks sloshing, a chorus of off-key voices shouting along. Rafaela is in her element, shredding through a Chappell Roan cover. Chloe’s synths melt and shimmer under her fingers, eyes closed, lost somewhere in her own rhythm over the boygenius cover. Amna’s drumming holds it all together, steady but smug, like she knows she’s the backbone of every good thing happening tonight.
And Pepe—of course it comes back to him. His voice dips into Frank Ocean’s Forrest Gump, that unmistakable blend of velvet and ache. You know this one was his pick. It’s written all over the way he sings it, half confession, half prayer. The girls teased him for choosing it, but no one’s teasing now. The crowd is quiet, reverent almost, letting him spin the last few notes into something that hangs in the air long after it’s done.
The lights dim. The cheers rise. It’s over.
You push your way backstage before the first drunk fan can corner them for selfies. Your clipboard is crooked under your arm, and your bag of bottled water feels like a peace offering.
Rafaela sees you first, hair sticking to her forehead, eyeliner smudged into something rockstar chic. “Manager of the year!” she declares, reaching for a bottle. “Did we sound hot or really hot?”
“You sounded like you might actually know what you’re doing,” you say, and she laughs as if it’s the highest praise imaginable.
Chloe takes her bottle next, muttering thanks while already cataloguing every minor imperfection out loud. “I hit that bridge half a beat early. You heard that, right?”
“Nope,” you lie. “Flawless.”
Amna’s phone is already in her hand, a notification pinging from somewhere. “The TikTok clip’s going to blow up,” she says. “Pepe’s intro for touch tank? That’s going viral. I’m calling it.”
You groan. “Please don’t say ‘viral’ in front of me. It gives me hives.”
She just grins, all teeth and trouble. “That’s just your anxiety speaking.”
Pepe is slower to come offstage, always is. Takes his time wrapping the mic cord, chatting with a tech, running a hand through his hair in that careless way that somehow looks planned. When he finally walks over, the others are still buzzing, their voices overlapping. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just reaches for the last water bottle, the condensation slick against your fingers when they brush.
“Good show,” you manage, too casual to be casual.
He grins, a little too eager to be cool. “You think so?”
“I think the crowd didn’t boo, and you didn’t fall off the stage. That’s two wins.”
Pepe laughs, low and genuine. “I’ll take it.”
The air feels thick again, like the music never actually stopped. Before you can think of something smart to say, Rafaela throws an arm around both of you, gestures towards the bar’s photographer, and yells, “Group photo!”
The tension snaps like a string, replaced by a tangle of limbs and laughter. The flash goes off. Everyone’s smiling.
You, maybe a little too much.
The photo barely saves before Rafaela’s already yelling for another round of water. “We’re parched, boss!” she says, collapsing onto a nearby stool. Amna throws an empty bottle dramatically into the air; it lands on Chloe’s lap.
Chloe sighs. “We’re out, aren’t we?”
You look into the bag—empty. A tragic sight. “You downed the last of it.”
Rafaela clutches her chest like you’ve betrayed her. “You’re telling me we shredded that hard, and you didn’t restock hydration?”
“I didn’t realize I was managing a small army of camels,” you shoot back.
Amna props her chin on her drumsticks. “We could just grab some from the bar.”
The collective noise that follows is a symphony of horror. “No,” Chloe says flatly. “Their water tastes like regret.”
“And backwash,” Rafaela adds.
“Plus they charge obscene amounts,” Amna concedes. “For tap.”
You exhale, already resigned. “Fine. I’ll go get some.”
Rafaela waves you off with an exaggerated flourish. “Our hero!”
Before you can grab your jacket, Pepe speaks up. “I’ll come,” he says, already scrambling to his feet.
You turn. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to.” He smiles. “I owe the team hydration.”
Amna whistles. “Take care of our fearless leader, Pepito!”
You pretend not to hear that as you both slip out the back door into the night.
The air outside is a relief. Cooler, quieter, touched with the smell of rain that never quite happened. The bar’s neon hum fades behind you as you walk, the world shrinking to the soft rhythm of shoes against pavement. Pepe hums under his breath, probably still half in setlist mode.
The 7-Eleven sign glows ahead. Divine intervention. “Romantic, isn’t it?” you say. “You, me, fluorescent lighting, and the promise of electrolytes.”
He laughs, hands tucked into his pockets. “This is what they don’t show in rock documentaries.”
“You mean the part where the lead singer buys bottled water for his band because the manager’s too responsible for their own good?”
“Exactly that.” He glances at you, eyes bright even in the flicker of passing headlights. “You make it sound heroic.”
Inside, the store is all about the artificial life. White lights, stale scents. You grab an armful of water bottles while Pepe insists on getting extra snacks. “For morale,” he insists, holding up a pack of instant noodles.
“We don’t have the budget,” you say, “or any budget at all, in fact.”
“I think we can spare six dollars. As a little treat.”
“You ask for a little treat at every gig.”
“And I carry all your bags.”
Somehow, it feels like a fair trade. You pay, he insists on carrying the purchases, and when you step back out into the night, the silence between you trills with something unspoken. Comfortable, careful, and a little bit electric. The world feels smaller again, like the universe has rearranged just enough to fit two people, a bag of water, and everything neither of you are ready to say yet.
The walk back takes twice as long as it should. Not because the bags are heavy, but because neither of you seem in a hurry to return to the noise again. The street is half-lit, quiet in that way campus roads get after midnight—crickets, the hum of distant traffic, the faint shuffle of your shoes against cracked pavement. Somewhere far off, a car door slams, a dog barks, and it all feels like background music to something you’re not sure you want to name.
You end up stopping under a lamppost that hasn’t given up yet. It throws a soft yellow ring around you both, catching on the condensation of the bottles, the sheen of sweat still at the back of your neck, the crooked grin on Pepe’s face. The bag rustles between you as he shifts it from one hand to the other, the plastic squeaking. The light makes his hair look gold at the edges. It’s stupidly cinematic.
“You really didn’t have to come,” you say, breaking the silence first. “I’m perfectly capable of buying overpriced water alone.”
He grins, that easy, unbothered grin that has no right to exist at this hour. “Yeah, but then who would make sure you didn’t run off with the 7-Eleven cashier?”
You roll your eyes. “That’s generous. You think I’m someone people flirt with at convenience stores.”
“I think people flirt with you,” he says, then he amends: “People notice you.”
It’s casual, tossed out like a joke, but it lands too softly to be one. You look away. The lamplight makes everything too visible. The outline of your shoulders, the faint pink in your cheeks, the way you suddenly don’t know what to do with your hands.
He kicks the toe of his shoe against the curb, watching the pebble skid away before glancing back at you. “You didn’t answer me seriously earlier. Did you actually like the set?”
You shrug, pretending you have better things to analyze than your heartbeat. “It was good. The quinnie cover was hit.”
“Only because you like pretending you don’t like my voice.”
“Please. You sound like a heartbreak wrapped in a Spanish accent. It’s very manipulative.”
He laughs, low and real, the kind that sits in your chest after it’s gone. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me tonight.”
There’s a beat of silence. The sound of the streetlight’s buzz fills it, and you realize you don’t actually want to ruin it with words.
Then, because you’re an idiot with poor impulse control, you blurt out, “You didn’t change the pronouns.”
He looks up. “Didn’t feel like I needed to.”
His tone is even, steady, but something glints in his eyes. Something deliberate. He shifts closer, just slightly. “People get weird about that. But it’s just a song.” A pause. “Or it was supposed to be.”
You try to laugh, but it comes out too thin. You don’t know if he means just a song or just a feeling. The difference blurs somewhere between your ribs.
So gentle when he wants to be.
He reaches into the bag, grabs a bottle, and hands it to you. His fingers brush yours—brief, careful, maybe accidental, maybe not. The touch lingers like the echo of a lyric. “Thanks for managing us,” he says, voice quieter now, weighted with something that doesn’t need a name. “Even when we’re impossible.”
“That’s generous.” You snort softly. “I don’t actually manage any of you, Pepe.”
He tilts his head. “You do. Maybe not the chaos, maybe not the girls all of the time. But… uh, me. You manage me.”
You should deflect, crack a joke, say something sharp enough to cut through this moment before it melts too much. But you don’t. Instead, you stand there, two idiots under a lamplight, holding water bottles like talismans, pretending this isn’t exactly what it looks like.
A moth flutters dangerously close to the bulb above, drawn to the heat. Pepe’s smile shifts—small, secretive, like he’s thinking something you’d want to know but he won’t say yet. The air between you feels stretched thin.
He breaks it first. “We should probably head back.”
You nod, but your feet stay still. Neither of you move. The silence fills back in, patient, soft, like the universe is giving you one more second before something changes.
He glances at you again, eyes glinting with something too delicate to be friendly. “You’ll tell me if I ever sing something that’s too much, right?” he asks.
You smile. “That’s assuming you’ll ever stop being too much.”
He laughs, the sound easing into the hum of the world that goes on around you. “Am I too much for you?” The world holds its breath.
There’s only really one answer to that question.
“Not at all,” you say. “You’re just enough.”
Both you and Pepe have to bite back a smile. ⛐
