⠀⠀⠀⠀my masterlist | requests are open! | more dad!driver!
wc: — carlos and justine are divorced parents to a six years old that's convinced she get get her parents to love each other again (they never stopped)
carlos sainz jr x justine espinosa (ex wife!female oc)
warnings: not much just fluff. poorly developed in timing terms, mostly dad!carlos, really soft.
"You staying for a bit?" — australian gp weekend.
Justine hadn't even finished unbuckling Lana’s booster seat when the little girl spotted him across the paddock — helmet under his arm, still half in his racing suit, grinning like he had just won the whole championship.
"DADDYYYYY!" Lana screamed, launching herself at full speed across the parking lot.
Carlos barely had time to set his helmet down before he caught her mid-air, spinning her around in a tight, laughing hug.
"There’s my champion!" he said, peppering her cheeks with kisses until she squealed. "You came all this way just for me?"
"Of course!" Lana said seriously, pulling back to hold his face in her tiny hands. "Of course, papa! I would go to the moon to see you!"
Carlos looked like he could have burst into a million stars right then.
He tucked her against his chest, holding her so tightly it was a wonder she could still breathe.
Justine watched from a few steps away, arms crossed lightly, the smile tugging at her lips impossible to hide.
He looked over Lana’s head at her, warmth bleeding into every corner of his expression.
"You know my dad was coming, right?" Carlos said, half-laughing. "You could've sent her with him."
Justine shrugged, feigning nonchalance.
"And miss the sugar rush? Impossible. Your dad gives her more candy than a piñata at a birthday party."
Carlos laughed, the sound soft and easy between them, as Lana giggled into his neck.
He saw right through her, of course — he always had.
She wanted to be there too. She chose to be. He smiled at her like he knew it, too.
Later, after the race — after Lana had cheered herself hoarse and climbed every barrier trying to get closer to her dad — they stuck to their ritual.
Watch daddy race. Eat something nice. Tuck Lana into bed.
At a small, quiet restaurant tucked away from the chaos, Lana sat between them, drawing racing cars on the paper napkins with the crayons the waiter brought.
Every so often, she would lean her whole body against Carlos, or hook her small hand into his arm as if anchoring him there.
And Carlos let her. Always had. Always would.
By the time they got back to the Airbnb — which was a family preference; the little boss hated hotel lobbies, Lana was blinking heavy-lidded and trying valiantly not to admit she was exhausted.
Carlos scooped her up from the car again, her arms looping easily around his neck.
"You’re getting bigger, you know," he teased, carrying her inside anyway.
"So you'll have to get stronger, papa." Lana mumbled sleepily against his shoulder.
Justine followed them inside, heart so full it almost hurt.
The Airbnb was small but full of life: a soft, open space with colorful rugs and the smell of the ocean leaking in through the windows. Lana loved it here — she called it "our race house."
After Carlos helped tuck her into the little twin bed — stories, goodnight kisses, promises to come back in the morning — he found Justine half-heartedly cleaning up the kitchen island, dark circles under her eyes.
"You okay?" he asked gently, moving closer.
Justine smiled, soft and tired. "Long week. I’m good."
He didn’t believe her, not for a second.
"You don't always have to be the superhero," he said, voice low. "You know that, right?"
She shrugged, but there was the tiniest crack in her armor.
He saw it, always saw it.
"You staying for a bit?" she asked, pretending casual, brushing hair from her face.
Carlos hesitated — not because he didn’t want to, but because he didn’t want to read her wrong.
But Justine lifted a hand, grabbed his t-shirt loosely, and pulled him gently toward her.
"Yeah," she said, voice softer now. "Of course, Ine. I can stay."
By the time she changed into her pajamas, Justine was running on empty.
She barely made it to the bed before slumping sideways across the mattress, half on top of the comforter, one sock forgotten on the floor.
Carlos moved around quietly, like he had a thousand times before — switching off the lights, pulling the blankets over her.
When she stirred, blinking up at him sleepily, she didn’t say a word — just reached out with the smallest, most trusting gesture.
And he went.
Shoes off, jacket tossed onto a chair, Carlos slid into the bed fully clothed, careful not to jostle her too much.
Justine curled into him instinctively, face pressed into his chest, her hand fisting loosely in the fabric of his shirt.
Carlos brushed a hand down her back, slow and steady.
He kissed the top of her head — just once — and stayed.
Not because she needed him. But because she let him.
Justine turned from the stove, wooden spoon in hand. “What on earth—?”
"If you kissed, everything would be perfect" — london, justine's house.
“THIS IS NOT A DRILL!” Lana crashed into the kitchen, socks sliding across the wood floor. “MOM! THE PASTA NEEDS TO BE PERFECT!”
“Dad’s coming!” Lana threw her arms wide, knocking a pile of mail off the counter. “THIS IS A PASTA EMERGENCY.”
Laughing, Justine scooped the mail off the floor. “Relax, you drama queen. It’s just lunch.”
“It’s the lunch. The monthly family lunch!” Lana clutched her own face like she might faint. “We need to be ready! Mentally! Emotionally! Culinarily!”
Justine stirred the sauce, biting her cheek to keep from laughing.
“And what, exactly, is the emotional goal of this lunch?”
Lana hopped onto a stool, eyes sparkling.
“Maybe... you and Dad could, you know... kiss. Just a little one.”
Justine nearly dropped the spoon.
“Excuse me?”
Lana shrugged innocently. “Everyone else has their mom and dad together. Why can’t I?”
Before Justine could answer, the doorbell rang.
“HE’S HERE!” Lana shrieked, launching herself off the stool and bolting for the door.
“Don’t tackle him!” Justine called after her, half-laughing, half-dying inside.
By the time Justine wiped her hands and got to the front door, Carlos was already inside — dripping from the spring rain, holding Lana on one hip like she weighed nothing.
He grinned at Justine over her head.
“She nearly knocked me over.”
“She’s training for karting and wrestling championships, apparently,” Justine said, stepping aside to let him in.
Carlos set Lana down with a soft kiss to her head. “You ready for lunch, champ?”
“She’s been running a Michelin kitchen in there,” Justine teased.
Lana beamed proudly, grabbing Carlos’s hand and dragging him toward the dining room.
“Come on, come on! Before it gets cold!”
Carlos shrugged off his jacket, brushing past Justine. His fingers accidentally — or maybe not — skimmed her wrist.
Warm. Familiar.
She swallowed hard and followed.
Lunch was loud, messy, and absolutely perfect.
Carlos twirled spaghetti onto Lana’s plate, pretending to miss every time she opened her mouth in mock outrage.
Justine tossed bread rolls at both of them like missiles.
“Team Meeting Rule Number One,” Carlos announced halfway through, raising his fork like a scepter. “Serious pasta faces only.”
“Serious pasta,” Lana nodded, cheeks full. “Serious kissing later too.”
Carlos choked on his water. Justine snorted so hard she almost inhaled a bread roll.
“Lana!” she gasped, half-scolding, half-laughing.
“What? It’s a good strategy.” Lana shrugged, totally unbothered.
Carlos wiped his mouth, shooting Justine a look across the table — a look that said, your daughter is a menace and also maybe she’s not wrong.
Justine shook her head quickly, cheeks burning.
Focus on the pasta.
Focus on anything but how Carlos’s smile still made her stomach flip.
After lunch, they trudged into the garden, bundled in jackets. Lana raced ahead, sliding to a stop in front of the kart.
“She’s READY!” she declared, arms wide. “Touch her with respect!”
Carlos chuckled, crouching to inspect the tires. “Nice polish job.”
“I used the good cloth,” Lana said proudly.
Justine stood back, arms crossed, watching Carlos work. His hands were steady, careful. He talked softly to Lana as he pointed out tiny adjustments.
She used to love watching him like this. Focused. Gentle. So sure.
Carlos glanced up, caught her staring. His mouth curved slightly — a secret smile, just for her.
Justine looked away too fast. "You're gonna spoil her, you know."
"She deserves it," Carlos said easily, brushing a smudge off the kart's side.
Beside him, Lana flopped dramatically onto the grass. "If you kissed, everything would be perfect."
“Lanita...” Carlos groaned, dragging a hand through his hair.
“What?” Lana huffed. “You already love each other. I see it!”
Carlos stood up, brushing dirt from his jeans, and tossed Justine a helpless grin.
“She’s persistent.”
“She’s six,” Justine said, laughing under her breath.
“And a tactical genius.” Carlos slung an arm loosely around Lana’s shoulders, tugging her close. She giggled, squeezing his waist.
Justine watched them — the easy closeness, the warmth — and something soft and painful bloomed under her ribs.
Carlos reached out, plucked a leaf from her hair without thinking.
His fingers brushed her temple. Light. Familiar.
Neither of them moved for a second too long.
“Thanks,” she murmured, voice too soft.
Carlos smiled — that slow, fond, just-for-her smile — and something in her heart cracked wide open.
Maybe Lana wasn't wrong after all.
"I still love you" — spain, their old house.
The house smelled the same.
Like warm stone, lemon trees, something sweeter tucked in the corners.
Justine sat stiffly on the couch, one leg tucked under her, trying not to look at the family photos on the wall. It felt wrong to be here without Lana.
It felt dangerous.
She pulled her hair into a loose knot at the top of her head, sighing.
It’s fine. He’s just dropping her off. Five minutes. You’ll leave. It'll be fine.
The front door clicked open.
Justine stood automatically, smoothing down her shirt, heart hammering.
“Hey,” Carlos’s voice floated through the hall.
She stepped forward — and blinked when he appeared alone, keys jingling in his hand.
“Where’s Lana?” she asked, frowning.
“With Blanca,” he said, kicking off his shoes without looking at her. “They went for ice cream.”
Justine's stomach dropped.
“You— You didn’t text—”
Carlos shrugged, stepping closer.
“I thought maybe... we could talk.”
The distance between them disappeared faster than she could process.
He looked older, somehow. A little tired. A little beautiful.
Still Carlos.
They stood there, breathing the same air, five feet apart but it felt like none.
Her fingers twitched at her side.
“You’re not supposed to do that,” she said softly.
“Do what?” His voice was low, rough. Dangerous.
“Make this harder.”
Carlos exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair.
“You think it’s easy for me?”
The floor tilted. The house shifted around them, the old memories seeping out of the walls.
“I miss you,” he said simply.
Justine shook her head — tiny, trembling.
“Don’t—”
“I do.” His voice cracked. “I miss... all of it.”
She blinked fast, but the tears still blurred her vision.
“I had to leave,” she whispered.
“I know.” Carlos stepped closer, close enough to touch. His hand hovered near her face, shaking slightly. “You’re still the only home I ever had.”
Her breath hitched.
The first touch was a disaster — messy, desperate — her mouth crashing into his, his hands burying themselves in her hair, hers gripping his t-shirt like she was drowning.
They stumbled backward, bumping into furniture, laughing into each other’s mouths and gasping for breath.
Buttons popped. Clothes slipped to the floor. Skin against skin, fast and frantic and somehow careful.
The bedroom door slammed against the wall and neither of them cared.
It wasn’t just sex — it was every fight, every apology, every late night they used to share, poured back into each other like they could fix it all with hands and mouths and whispered names.
Justine cupped his face between her palms, forehead to forehead.
“I still love you,” she said, half-sob, half-prayer.
Carlos made a broken sound deep in his chest, kissing her like he could answer without words.
Later, tangled in sheets that still smelled faintly of their old life, Justine traced lazy patterns across his bare chest.
Carlos chuckled lowly, catching her hand, kissing her knuckles one by one.
“Gonna fall asleep like that,” he murmured.
“Might be the point,” she teased back, voice rough with emotion.
He sat up, pulling her with him.
“Shower,” he said, tugging her toward the bathroom. “You smell like a mechanic.”
Justine laughed — real, startled. “You smell like a stable boy.”
They stumbled into the bathroom together, the light harsh and too honest. Carlos fiddled with the tap, cursing when cold water sprayed.
Justine leaned against the doorframe, smiling softly.
“What?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.
“You,” she said simply.
He grinned — that damn grin — and crooked a finger at her.
“C'mere.”
She went. Of course she went.
Warm water steamed the mirror, soaked their skin. Carlos pressed kisses along her wet shoulder, her collarbone, slow and reverent.
They washed each other like it meant something.
Because it did.
Afterward, they toweled off awkwardly, bumping into each other, laughing like teenagers.
Carlos caught her face in his hands again, kissing her forehead.
"Stay," he whispered into her hair.
Justine’s heart shattered into a thousand brilliant pieces.
Maybe they couldn’t fix everything.
Maybe they didn’t have to — tonight.
She leaned into him, letting her eyes drift closed.
If you're driving for Cadillac and I'm driving for Cadillac which one of us is going to play second fiddle to a world champion to the detriment of our advancement 🤔
AI-generated fic in fandoms is so troubling and insidious. i've said it before and will say it again: generative AI should not be allowed to take root in fandom spaces, and especially not in one of the last hideouts for fandom creatives, which is here on tumblr and also on ao3.
maybe many of the new readers reading fic in the tags now i assume are young and excited to surround themselves with universes and stories. and if you're reading this, i want you to extend the same courtesy and good faith to you that elder internet forum folks had extended to me, so that i had time to digest and understand–
please understand that writing fanfic and creating any fanwork is something we do out of passion, care, and necessity. making things takes time. executing creative ideas takes time. it requires an extraordinary level of energy. creative work is the process.
it’s not something that is typically done in hours, even days. and it's often something people are doing outside of other commitments and pressures. it is, first and foremost, a labour of love.
fanfic is not written by a machine that endlessly reflects and echoes people's work until it is unrecognisable anymore. fanfic is written by people who are dreaming and have an idea they want to sketch out. or just because they want to enjoy something with no guilt in this late capitalistic hellscape.
because fandom is one of the last online third spaces we have left.
i don't know how many more times i have to explain that the companies behind genAI do not have your best interests at heart. profit is their motive. reducing the value of art in the world for the sake of "efficiency" is their motive. because they do not care. they do not believe art needs a heart. they do not believe art needs YOUR heart, or rather they are happy to take the work that comes from your heart and use it to feed their bottom lines. companies like this crawl the works of millions of others (including ao3 recently btw, unauthorised), and use the works of those who bothered to do it the hard way first, only to spit a strange, reanimated, soulless thing out of it.
they believe art can be flattened and endlessly regurgitated. they believe originality can be replicated and that they can cut human impulse and joy out of the equation.
do not feed into this.
do not use gen AI to write fics.
do not support people that do so, and give them any legitimacy.
because joy is what fandom is about.
fandom was born out of a desire to imagine beyond, to colour outside the lines, and by nature is meant to be a space for people to cultivate enjoyment.
you do not cultivate enjoyment by getting a machine to write the story for you and by sublimating your desire to the machine.
you get community by sharing the thing you love with people and ideating it with people and staring endlessly at your blinking cursor sometimes even if it hurts, even if it feels like pulling teeth with dental floss, and even if it takes you 100000x longer – because trust me, people will respect you and your writing far more. because you tried. because IT IS YOURS.
writing (or any form of making) is a distillation of something only you can say to the world in your own way. and yes fanfic is a legitimate expression of such work, because otherwise why would so many people have been moved by the stories or art and talked about them and remembered them?
and if you really don't see a fic out there that fits what you want - then maybe it's time that you tried to tell it for yourself. you're capable. you have something you want to say. you have the capacity to imagine.
so do what writers have done for centuries: believe.
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