#dad fic

The day had started off just like any other.

You’d gotten up early, still in your unicorn pajamas, bouncing around the kitchen asking for banana pancakes while Oscar tried to pour his first cup of coffee without blinking one eye open.

But by mid-morning, something had changed.

You weren’t bouncing anymore.

Instead, you were curled up on the couch under your bunny blanket, knees pulled to your chest, face pale and drawn.

Oscar had noticed immediately.

He’d been setting up his laptop for a quick sim session when you mumbled, “Daddy… my tummy hurts.”

His heart dropped.

He was at your side in two seconds, crouching in front of you. “Hey, hey. Like a crampy hurt or a twisty hurt?”

You looked at him with glassy eyes and whispered, “It’s all twisty.”

Oscar placed the back of his hand to your forehead. You weren’t burning up, but your skin felt clammy and cold.

“Alright,” he said gently. “Let’s get you to the bathroom, just in case.”

You didn’t make it.

Halfway down the hall, you’d thrown up all over the floor—and all over his socks.

You burst into tears, horrified.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Daddy!”

Oscar, to his credit, didn’t flinch. He knelt down, pulled you close (despite the mess), and hugged you tightly. “Hey. Hey. It’s okay, baby. You’re sick, not in trouble.”

You sobbed into his shirt, your small body trembling.

“I got you, alright?” he whispered, brushing hair from your face. “We’re gonna clean you up, clean this up, and then I’ll tuck you in and take care of you. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

After a bath (complete with your favorite dinosaur towel) and a full sofa-linen swap, you were bundled up in clean PJs, curled into Oscar’s chest with a bucket by your side just in case.

Oscar sat with one arm around you and the other hand scrolling through his phone, looking up what kids with stomach bugs were allowed to eat.

Answer: basically nothing.

Toast. Sips of water. Clear broth if you could keep it down.

You’d already thrown up twice more, each time with less and less energy. Now you just lay limp in his arms, eyes half-lidded, clutching Maxie the stuffed bunny like your life depended on it.

Oscar pressed a kiss to the top of your head and whispered, “You’re doing so good, bub. So brave.”

You didn’t answer, but you leaned into him.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of cartoons, saltine crackers, and washcloths on your forehead. At one point you fell asleep, head in his lap, and Oscar didn’t move for over an hour—afraid to wake you, even as his phone buzzed with messages from his engineer and Lando spamming him with cat memes.

At some point you woke up with tears in your eyes and whispered, “I don’t like being sick. I want my tummy back.”

Oscar chuckled softly, brushing your hair back. “I know, bub. Your tummy’s just got a mean little bug in it. But we’ll kick it out together, okay?”

You nodded with a small whimper and curled tighter into his hoodie.

By dinnertime, you managed a few tiny sips of water and a quarter piece of dry toast. Oscar fed it to you in bites the size of racecar buttons, praising you after each one like you’d just won a Grand Prix.

“See?” he smiled. “Strongest little stomach on the grid.”

You gave him a weak grin. “I get the fastest recovery trophy?”

“Absolutely,” he said, tapping your nose. “And I’ll let you hold my real one until you're better.”

Your eyes lit up—just a little—and he knew that was worth more than any podium.

That night, he set up a little bed on the couch beside you with extra pillows, bringing in his own blanket so he could stay close.

You stirred in the middle of the night and whispered, “Daddy?”

“Right here,” he said instantly, turning to face you.

You sniffled. “My tummy still hurts.”

“I know,” he said softly, tucking the blanket higher up your chest. “But guess what?”

“What?”

“You’ve got the best pit crew in the world.”

You yawned. “Just you, Daddy…”

“Exactly,” he said with a wink. “And that’s all you need.”

Before you drifted off again, you murmured through half-sleep, “I love you, Daddy.”

Oscar reached out, gently rubbing your back. “I love you too, bunny. Always.”

He stayed awake a little longer, just to make sure you didn’t stir again. And when you finally settled into sleep, breathing soft and even, Oscar smiled quietly to himself.

Even if he had to miss every sim session for the next week and live off toast and water with you, he wouldn’t trade a second of this time.

His girl was sick—but she had her dad.

And he wasn’t going anywhere

Please to not copy or Translate without permission x

• Though you were having a girl she would definitely still be wearing the little arsenal jersey Chris had brought many months ago for announcing the news of your pregnancy to his friends (whose reactions were mostly shock and then extreme excitement).

• One night you and him sat in your baby's almost complete room. You were folding and organising the freshly washed little rompers and dresses while he built the comfortable nursing chair you'd bought. The room was completely silent but you were both so content, every other minute you'd glance over at each other and just smile. This was the life you'd always dreamed of... peaceful and happy.

• When you're little girl decided to make her arrival two weeks early while you were in the car on the way home from your parents house, Chris sped to the hospital, glancing over to you every few seconds. Though you were in pain Chris was way more stressed than you so you ended up reassuring him... "babe. Everything's fine, take a deep breath."

• It all ended up being absolutely fine. Though you got to the hospital within the skin of your teeth and she was born just fifteen minutes after you walked through the front doors, none of it mattered when your baby was placed on your chest.

• In the moment, when your baby girls cries filled the hospital room you looked over at Chris. His hand was holding yours tightly as tears streamed down his cheeks. Once his eyes met yours he smiled, leaned forward to press a kiss to your forehead and whispered, "you did so well. I'm so proud of you my love."

• The first few weeks were hard. You were so happy and grateful to have a healthy baby but you were absolutely exhausted.

• Chris would get up with you every. single. time. your alarm went off to feed Annabelle -which is what you decided her name should be- that helped a little since it ment you didn't feel so alone.

• Eventually, the doctor diagnosed you with postpartum depression. Chris was the one to sit you down and gently ask if the both of you should look into it, since he had noticed just how difficult you were finding everything. Which in the end run you were extremely grateful for.

• After some lifestyle changes and online appointments with a therapist each week you started to feel significantly better, thankfully you caught it early so you didn't fall deeper into the dark hole. Months later you felt like a new person, finally truly enjoying motherhood.

• "Babe?" You called groggily after waking up, realising you'd just had a full eight hours of uninterrupted sleep for the first time in... you couldn't remember actually. You got up to find Chris fast asleep in Annabelle's room on the rocking chair -clearly having taken the night shift as not to disturb you- while she also slept soundly in her cot. You smiled then left him to sleep. When he eventually got up and joined you on the couch you gave him the biggest hug and thanked him, he brushed it off as though it was nothing but you were so grateful that you had him.

• One day you sat in George and Arthur Hills apartment, the both of them meeting the baby for the first time and Chris was being extremely protective over your fragile little girl (which you weren't exactly mad about). "Wash your hands first!" "Hold her head properly!" He would instruct before adding a quiet "...please?" at the end.

• The dad jokes came in full force, he was constantly coming out with funny little one liners that always make you chuckle. A good example of one being when he said that Annabelle had more hair than Theo - which was even funnier because she actually had quite a lot of blonde hair, just like her dad.

• As soon as Annabelle could walk Chris was already -attempting to- teach her football and you would often find them sat together on the couch intently watching an arsenal game, which she surprisingly -but not so surprisingly- loved.

• "She's going to be in the big leagues one day," Chris quietly said into your ear with a proud smile as you watched your daughter play in her first actual football game at four years old. "She inherited your skills," you replied, your eyes admiring how happy she looked running around the pitch.

yourusername

yourusername oh how i love my little family

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user55 FAMILY GOALS

kellypiquet mila and p need to have another play date soon p misses her and i miss you 😢

↪️ yourusername we miss you guys too

↪️ yourusername also mila and alan miss their aunty kelly and uncle max

↪️ kellypiquet AWWW we miss them to

oscarpiastri my little family 🧡

↪️ yourusername 🧡🧡🧡🧡

lando do they miss their favorite uncle?

↪️ logansargeant i fear i am the favorite uncle i mean i am their godfather

↪️ oscarpiastri yes they miss you both stop fighting and come over for dinner tomorrow night

↪️ lando OFC

↪️ logansargeant 🏎️💨💨💨💨💨💨💨

↪️ lando i fear you need to still have a seat to use a race car..

↪️ logansargeant low blow norris low blow. this is why i’m the favorite uncle.

nicolepiastri are you guys coming to melbourne anytime soon?

↪️ yourusername we’re working on it maybe over summer break!

mclaren our favorite cheerleaders 🧡

↪️ yourusername love you admin 🧡

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yourusername and oscarpiastri

yourusername little piastri 3.0 incoming..

the comments on this post have been disabled

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yourusername and oscarpiastri

yourusername apparently we made twins?

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oscarpiastri i finally got my mini oscar’s instead of mini y/ns 💪

lando congrats guys

user47 OMG THEY ARE SO CUTE

logansargeant i better be the godfather

↪️ yourusername we’ll see 😉

user78 i just KNOW alan is pissed he’s not the youngest anymore

↪️ yourusername you would be correct

user60 my heart 💜

↪️ yourusername wrong color heart 🧡

oscarpiastri went from 4 to 6 in the matter of 4 hours

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It was like she’d drawn an invisible magnetic line through the household, one that linked her and Timothée so tightly that even you, her mother, couldn’t always cut through. Your home wasn’t just coated in soft light and neutral tones anymore; it thrummed with baby laughter, and sometimes baby fury, depending on whether Timothée was in or out of the room. You’d started calling her his barnacle. He didn’t mind. If anything, he encouraged it.

There was no preparing for the intensity of it. She was calm, joyful, and cooing as long as he stayed within arm’s reach. If he left, even to pee, a countdown began. Once, you watched her lying in her bassinet, eyes wide and searching. Timothée had gone to the kitchen for all of twenty-four seconds. Before you could say, “He’s just grabbing coffee,” her tiny face crumpled like a crushed flower. And then? War. A screech like a fire alarm.

The moment he stepped back into the room, coffee in one hand, the other rubbing his eyes, her cries stopped cold. You could swear there was smugness in her gummy little grin as he leaned over and whispered, “Miss me already?”

It became a joke between the two of you. “She’s your mini-me,” you said one night, watching Elodie pout just like he did when she didn’t get her favorite toy fast enough.

He didn’t deny it. “She’s my twin,” he said proudly. “You just carried her.”

You weren’t sure if it was hilarious or a little insulting. Maybe both. Because sometimes it stung. Not jealousy — just something quieter. A feeling of being invisible. You’d carried her for nine months, after all. But the bond she had with him was unlike anything you’d ever seen.

Her nap schedule lived and died by the rhythm of his chest. She responded to his voice before anyone else’s. Laughed for him. Cried for him. She’d wait at the front door like a little statue if he dared to go somewhere without her, arms twitching, mouth puckering into a protest pout.

One time, you’d insisted he go run errands without her. “You’re becoming a recluse,” you told him. “Elodie will be fine.”

“She’ll last,” he said, kissing your forehead. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. Maybe twelve.”

She lasted five.

She had been lounging peacefully in her swing until the front door clicked shut. You saw the change happen in real time. Legs kicking. Fists clenching. Then, the howl. A sound that filled the apartment like an alarm.

You tried everything, bouncing, singing, and shushing. But she screamed like she’d been betrayed by the universe. When Timothée returned, groceries in hand, Elodie reached for him like salvation. The moment he scooped her up and whispered, “I’m here, baby,” she went quiet. Instantly.

“She’s a traitor,” you muttered, brushing a tear off your own cheek.

“She loves you,” Timothée said softly. “She’s just dramatic about it.”

You weren’t sure you believed him. Until the day she chose you.

It was a rainy Tuesday. Timothée had a meeting downtown. You tried not to pace, even as Elodie stirred from her nap with that telltale lip quiver.

“I know, baby,” you whispered. “He’s gone. But I’m here.”

You braced for the inevitable storm, but instead, you turned on her music box, the one that played Timothée’s lullabies. Humming along, you rocked her gently in the glider. And to your surprise, she quieted. Watery eyes blinked up at you. Her mouth wobbled. Then, he sighed. Soft. Safe.

She fell asleep in your arms.

You didn’t move for an hour. Just held her, breathing her in, grateful. When Timothée came home, you told him everything. He wrapped his arms around both of you and whispered, “See? She knows you. You’re her whole world.”

You needed that.

Because the Velcro clung strongly. She spent most of her day strapped to his chest in her carrier, at the grocery store, on walks, during guitar tuning sessions, even when he brushed his teeth. You once caught them in the mirror, Elodie snuggled in her favorite starry wrap while he grinned at you with toothpaste foam around his mouth. “Multitasking,” he said proudly.

You had a whole camera roll to prove it: Elodie passed out on his chest, curled in his lap, swaddled in his hoodie while he cooked dinner one-handed. One afternoon, you caught them both asleep in the glider, Elodie stuffed inside his hoodie pouch like a kangaroo baby, cheek pressed to his heart, Timothée slumped and snoring.

And then there was the time when he went to brunch with some of his friends. You’d insisted he stay home and help with the baby.

He lasted twenty minutes before FaceTiming you from the car. “She misses me,” he said. “I can tell.”

“You’ve been gone less than half an hour,” you said, turning the phone toward Elodie, who beamed at the sight of him.

Some nights, when she couldn’t sleep, she’d cling to his drawstrings like reins while he paced the hallway, her pilot and spaceship in one. On rougher nights, like the time she had a mild fever, you both took turns carrying her, whispering reassurances into her flushed cheeks. At 3 a.m., you collapsed onto the couch. Timothée joined you minutes later, Elodie still strapped to his chest like a sleepy barnacle.

“She’s gonna do this forever, isn’t she?” he murmured.

“She’ll be thirteen and still making you carry her,” you replied.

He grinned. “I won’t mind.”

Neither would you.

Because as much as she clung to Timothée, she knew you. You were her home, too. Her heartbeat. Her safe place.

And for all her Velcro love, all her barnacle clinging, Elodie was yours.

You were born into a family full of FC Barcelona fans, so naturally, you became one aswell. Even after meeting your boyfriend, a Chelsea player, he couldn't change your mind. Thankfully, these two teams are in different leagues so you don't have to worry about having an aneurysm everytime these two played eachother (except for the champions league and thats also just a maybe)

This was a conversation the two of you have had multiple times, even before your baby was born. It was always shrugged off but now, that your son is here. It was time to decide.

"How about everytime Barcelona plays, he wears their jersey but any other time it's your jersey?"

"I'd look unloyal and like im joining Barcelona" (ironic isn't it) the brown haired man laughs.

You playfully roll your eyes at Mason's remark, knowing that this debate wasn't going to end anytime soon.

"Oh come on, Mason. It's just a jersey, it doesn't determine his loyalty at this age, just the fact that he's not a Madrid fan"

"But it's the principle, Y/N. We can't have our little boy supporting a rival team right from the start," Mason chuckles, ruffling Nicolas' tiny hair as he sleeps peacefully in his crib.

You lean in closer, a mischievous glint in your eyes. "Fine, how about this? We let him decide when he's old enough. Until then, we can take turns dressing him up in each team's gear. That way, he'll grow up knowing both teams and make his own choice."

Mason considers your proposal for a moment, a smile forming on his face. "Alright, deal. But I'm warning you, I'll be teaching him all the Chelsea chants in the meantime," he jokes, kissing your forehead.

"Okay but he has Catalan blood? He's gonna be a Culer by default"

"I'm pretty sure he's gonna be sick of both teams and become a Juventus fan by the time he can decide" The man jokes while looking at his son.

"Still better than Madrid"