So what a man gotta do? ~ OP⁸¹
Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Fem!Reader
Short note: Reader has no idea that Oscar is a famous guy. Oscar can't handle babies to save his life. Reader is an overworker. The plot feels cliché but I am very unoriginal/j
Warnings: Light profanities, bickering
Summary: You are an overworked corporate freak. You were on business to Monte Carlo, Monaco. You were trying to enjoy a good breakfast, not hear some F1 racer's baby niece crying.
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You were in your hotel bed, sprawled up between the sheets. It was a sleepless night. A ray of sunshine penetrated your room from a tiny creak of a window and hit your face. Your phone alarm rang loudly, echoing through the room. You were annoyed.
"End my misery, good God," you huffed, annoyed.
You had no choice but to wake up. Your stomach was growling. As you tried to get out of your bed, you accidentally tripped and fell on your butt.
What a way to start the day, you thought.
You stepped into the large bathroom of your hotel room to freshen up. The morning seemed to run slow and lazy. You looked at yourself in the mirror while brushing your teeth. The eyebags under your circles had visibly darkened a lot more from overworking. You couldn't help but still think about work.
Man, I still have another program left. Why didn't the code compile? Did I write any statement wrong? Or was it the argument?
You were lost in your own sea of thoughts. You were pulled back to reality when your stomach growled again. The tap was running endlessly. You quickly freshened up and took a quick shower. You wrapped yourself in a bathrobe and got out of the bathroom. Shivers ran down your spine at the air circulating in the room, hitting the areas the bathrobe couldn't cover. You quickly wore an oversized t-shirt and a pair of jeans to head out for breakfast to a cafe.
Phone, check. Purse, check. Laptop in backpack, check.
You went downstairs at the reception to check out for some time. The receptionist flashed you a polite smile. You were headed to Café de Paris. The streets of Monte Carlo in the morning was a sight for sore eyes. Gentle breezes blew and hit your face every now and then. The road wasn't very busy.
"Taxi!"
You waved your hand at a taxi to take a ride to your destination.
"Où voulez-vous aller, madame?,The driver asked politely. where do you want to go, miss?
"Café de Paris. Combien cela coûterait-il?," you asked to make sure the driver got his pay and you reached your destination properly. cafe de paris. how much would that be?
"65€, madame."
You got inside the taxi to get to the cafe. The ride on the way there was pleasant. The rolled-down calm window allowed the occasional zephyr to hit your face ever so gently. The view of Monte Carlo was nothing short of an amazement. The lavish buildings, infrastructures, the hoard of luxury cars: Nothing about Monte Carlo was less than class and elegance.
You are drawn out of your reverie as the taxi suddenly stops. You stepped out of the car and paid the driver. Stepping into the café, your senses are overwhelmed by the smell of pungent caffeine, freshly baked goods, savories and drinks. The bright sunlight filters through the windows, bathing the room in a soft light. In the corner, you spotted an empty table. It was located near the wall of the café. A waiter appears nearby. He asks if he could assist you, and you inform him that you are looking for a table for one. The waiter escorted you to your table. He was waiting for your order. The light from the sun beamed through the window and hit his face as he took the order.
"One espresso, one chocolate chaud, le wrap saumon, and one tranche de cake. Will that be all?" The waiter asked, smiling.
"Yes, that will be all", you replied.
"It will be out in a few minutes", the waiter said as he walked away.
You were peacefully enjoying your breakfast in the cafe, enjoying the atmosphere and the taste of her delicious food. As you were eating, you suddenly heard the sound of a wailing and whining baby coming from the table behind you. A guy was trying desperately to comfort the baby, but the baby was only becoming more distressed and loud. You could feel your blood pressure rising, as you grew frustrated at the guy's inability to control the baby.
The child sounded hungry. Despite not being a mom yourself, you well knew how to handle and understand babies.
This guy is gonna get it from me.
You were getting visibly angry, and you turned to the guy and said, "I can't believe you can't handle your own baby!"
The guy, clearly frustrated by the situation and your anger, said, "I'm doing my best, but this baby is just so needy and always crying." The voice had a unique timbre to it, Australian accent rolling out.
You rolled your eyes and said, "You should have thought about that before having a baby. You're the father. Why are you so clueless?"
The guy was now getting annoyed and said, "Not like you're the mother. What's your problem? You should have some empathy."
You continued to bicker with the guy about his inability to handle the baby. The guy was beginning to become defensive, and said, "It's not my baby, it's-"
You became angrier, and said, "How dare you deny your own child?! Who do you think you are?!"
The guy realized that you were under the impression that he was the baby's dad. He smirked slightly in amusement before continuing, "You really don't know who I am?"
You looked at him in confusion and frustration. "And who are you sir?" You took in his features. He seemed tall, around 5'10. Maybe a centimeter or two taller. The guy looked athletic with dark blonde hair. Your eyes raked on him, head to toe. He has a strong jaw and large deep set blue eyes. He has a lean, muscular frame, with well-defined muscles on his arms and shoulders, and strong legs. He definitely wasn't hard on the eyes.
He noticed you eyeing him head-to-toe and smirked in amusement. He looked at you and spoke with slight arrogance. "I'm Oscar Piastri."
"Oscar Pastry? Who the fuck names their son 'Pastry?'"
"Piastri!," he interjected.
"Pastry or whatever, have some shame. You can't handle your own child." You rolled your eyes.
He was amused at your reaction. The fact that you didn't know anything about him made the situation funnier.
The baby started crying louder. As the verbal dispute escalated, other guests in the café began to look at them and whisper to each other. Some of them were trying to suppress their laughter at the sight of the F1 driver and the angry girl.
Oscar stood up from his seat and towered you. He countered, saying, "You think I'm not trying? Try sitting in my place and see how you handle the situation then!"
"If it's gonna shut your mouth then so be it!"
You took the baby in your arms and rocked it slowly.
"Boy or a girl?"
"Girl..." he looked at you wide-eyed. How easily you calmed his niece down. Though he was not ready to tell you right now that it's his niece, not his daughter...
"Name?"
"Ollie."
"Like from Oggy and the Cockroaches?"
"Shut the fuck up." He deadpanned. He looked at his now calm niece. He looked at you being gentle with her. He got weird butterflies seeing you like that. He saw how...motherly you are. Ollie was smiling in your arms and all giggly.
"Milk."
"Huh?" he snapped out of his thoughts.
"Milk, Pastry." You emphasized the stupid nickname to rile him up.
"It's Piastri." he rolled his eyes as he handed a bottle of milk from his backpack. "What's your name?"
"Y/N L/N."
"Ahhh I see...Nice name..." The name rolled off his tongue in a way that you liked.
You rocked Ollie in your arms slowly. Ollie was cooing cutely which made you smile. You fed the infant from the bottle as she peered up at you with her big, doe eyes. Oscar was looking at you in amazement at how easily you calmed his niece. He was smiling slightly at the sight in front of him.
"You know, you'd be a great mother..." he said with a slight chuckle.
"That came outta nowhere," you said. You chuckled in a breath, blushing at the comment. He noticed your flustered expression and smiled. He had a cheeky smile on his face.
"So, what brings you to Monaco?," he asked out of pure curiosity.
"Work," you sighed.
"What do you do for a living?," he asked.
"Software developer. I'm here to present our company's new project to our potential collaborator," you explained. He was listening to you carefully and nodded slightly in respect.
"You're very smart for a pretty girl," he said with a teasing smirk.
"And what does that mean?," you raised an eyebrow. You looked down and saw a now peacefully asleep Ollie in your arms. You carefully took out the bottle of milk from his mouth.
"Just that beauty and brains is a deadly but rare combination," he said with a playful shrug. You snickered.
"Pacifier." You extended your hand towards him to take the pacifier he'd hand you.
"You're a natural at this stuff," he muttered softly.
"Okay okay I get it. What do you do for a living though?"
"Wait— you don't know?" Oscar was genuinely surprised that you didn't know who he was. He was pretty famous after all, but you seemed to be completely oblivious.
"Am I supposed to know ya?" You scratched your head in confusion. He chuckled at your lack of knowledge on this.
"I'll give you a hint. I drive in weird shapes for living." He grinned as he waited for an answer.
"Drive in weird shapes?" You started pondering.
Well, he said weird shapes. Driving, the roads aren't of a specific shape so...
"You're a taxi driver?"
"What the—" He burst out laughing at your answer.
"What? Did I get it wrong?" Your cheeks flushed pink, a hint of embarrassment creeping up.
"You said you drive in weird shapes and roads aren't exactly always straight so I assumed..."
"Search my name on Google, dummy." He had a shit-eating grin on his face.
"Uhm...sure?" You rolled your eyes and took out your phone. You typed with one hand while rocking Ollie in your arms. Surely he isn't any hotshot, right? Your eyes widened at the search results.
"Okay. No words." Your eyes darted from the pictures on your phone and him, your mind processing he was a Formula 1 driver and you had no idea all this time.
"Surprise sweetie." He ran his fingers through his head. Your eyes went on the first picture that popped up. A race win in Hungary...
"You still can't babysit your daughter." You retorted to mask the surprise on you face.
But Google didn't show any wife or girlfriend or children on his profile. Where'd he even get this girl from?
"Sorry to break your little bubble but that's my niece. I'm no father." He chuckled.
"No wonder. I thought G.oogle was inaccurate." I nodded slowly. But I immediately bit back. "Still can't babysit to save your life."
"So what a man gotta do?" Oscar asked with a grin.
You chuckled exasperatedly and shook your head. "So, how can I teach you?"
"Come to Australia sometime." He smiled.
Can't believe I'm gonna have to teach a world-class Formula 1 driver on how to babysit his niece.
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IN HONOUR OF THE GREAT OSC PASTRY WINNING THE HUNGARIAN GRAND PRIX WITH A BROKEN RIB (ill pretend like it wasn't a maiden win and he lost the thrill of winning himself 😔💔) I had this in my drafts for a good amount time 😭 here's when I serve 😋