#f1femslashfest

Rules:

Only F/F content allowed. That includes ALL women and women aligned individuals.

All drivers and pairings are allowed. TP's and pit-crew are as well. They just have to be rule 63'd.

Any media types are allowed. If you want to make art, go ahead! If you want to write a fic, be our guest. If you just want to post meta about how you think a girl!driver would act, that's cool too! Any sort of rule 63 or femslash is welcomed.

Have fun! This is meant to be a fun fest to simply increase the amount of femslash in the fandom.

Timeline:

We have a collection on ao3 where prompts are being collected. You do not have to use a prompt if you have your own ideas, but we wanted to let people submit stuff just in case. Prompts will close on December 31st, 2024.

Content is due IN February. It can be any day you'd like. The idea is to post stuff during the month. If you submit your fic to the ao3 collection, we will be staging them to post throughout the month.

We will be opening up an existing fem!driver discord for people if they'd like to have a place to talk about femslash and their ideas. Our only rule there is that if you don't like, you don't engage. We all have our favorite drivers and we're going to be respectful.

We are tracking #F1femslashfest!

Lando doesn’t look like she believes her, but then she's distracted from the topic of Lewis, because she looks over at Oscar again. Charlie’s eyes follow. For all of the Australian driver’s F1 reaction times, she is basically rendered useless in any social setting by Lando’s mere presence. Case in point, she almost drops her entire drink down her front. 

“Maybe you should go rescue her?” Charlie says. 

Lando sighs, but she doesn’t seem that cut up about it. “Be back in a bit.” 

Charlie gives a courteous nod, and watches her go – watches as Lando’s curly hair mop of hair beelines through the crowd, and Oscar perking up as Lando heads towards her. 

Just as Charlie wonders if it is written in a motorsport manual somewhere to have strange psychosexual relations with your teammate, she turns to the bartender and orders herself another apple martini. When she turns around–

“Buonasera,” Lewis says, with a downward tilt of her chin. That voice, like rich velvet. It’s Lewis, who is dressed in bright yellow, in what might be described as street couture construction chic, in the kind of clothing that Charlie could only ever aspire to wear, without being the butt of a joke. (She now feels very underdressed and uncool, even in her finest next-season Jacquemus.)

Now, Charlie is no spring chicken. People throw themselves at her all the time, the predestined child of Ferrari. And she's well aware of how the temperature changes when she walks into a room. The value of her technical skill and social capital and that gnashing, unwieldy thing that is the rosso corsa brand, bleeding and beating and alive in her palms. She is well aware of her status as a patron saint, the vaunted subject of the tifosi's hopes and dreams and hymns. She loves it, even.

And yet. To walk with Lewis is to understand anew what it is to be anointed.

Because it’s Lewis. Multiple time world champion, multi hyphenate, philanthropist, game-changer – Lewis who has herself struck down other giants to stand tall in the pantheon of greats, the same one that Charlies dreams of being one day. And knows herself to be capable of, even if the results don't show it yet.

It seems Lewis however has no such concerns about their difference in status. Instead, she smiles. “That what you’re drinking?” 

“It’s my usual!” Charlie exclaims.

“Nah. We’re doing shots. Celebrating the pre-season in style.” 

“Aren’t we supposed to be good before the season starts?”

Lewis tilts her head, and her microbraids jangle slightly with the motion. She’s had them woven through with silver and yellow stars. Charlie had tried not to stare at how beautiful she’d looked at the photoshoot they did last week. 

“I think you’ve been plenty good,” Lewis says. "Haven’t you?”

“Are you joking with me, or trying to butter me up?”

“Can’t it be both?” Lewis demurs. So maybe she has a point there.

Charlie opts to smile back cordially, instead of having a meltdown about what this all means, in the middle of a Monaco nightclub. At any rate, Lewis doesn’t wait for a response. She just flattens both palms on the bar and kind of, poses radiantly, in that Lewis-like way, one stiletto heel crossed behind an ankle, not calling for service per se but with the utter confidence that the gravity in the room will eventually tilt towards her in some way. To Lewis’s credit, this pose also makes her ass look pretty incredible. Charlie diplomatically opts not to say this part aloud.  

Meanwhile the bartender, who has made themselves scarce, materialises like a bee zooming towards a puddle of sugar water. Perfectly timed. Lewis and the bartender exchange a couple of words, and the bartender disappears, ostensibly to find the most outrageously priced organic and ethically produced liquor bottles in the entire +377 area code. 

Charlie's throat suddenly feels dry. Music shimmers in the back, switching to something with a growling bass. Lewis doesn’t shimmy, but does drum her fingers on the bar to the beat. 

“This sounds like a song I knew before,” Lewis says. “Maybe Nico played it for me.”

“I don’t think they do 2000s music here. That’s for Thursdays,” Charles says.

Lewis pins her with a stare. “Charlie. Did you just call me old?”

Charlie puts one hand on her chest. “I would never, Ms. Hamilton.”

Lewis shakes her head, and the earlier tension eases a little. 

“Do you dance?” Charlie feels the need to ask. She’s not entirely sure why she’s asking. Lewis might as well be a god. She somehow can’t picture a god dancing. Gods are meant to be observed in ancient pictures, static and unmoving, or their likeness protected behind museum glass. She is not sure which category she considers Lewis to be in right now. She is equally surprised at her own rapacious curiosity, to find out if there’s a beating heart in there after all. Some flesh and blood for her to sink her teeth into. 

(It’s not the first time she’s felled a god. But at least Seb still takes her calls.) 

For her part, Lewis laughs. “‘Course I dance. Right song, right person.”

“And am I I the right person?” Charles asks.

Lewis holds Charlie’s gaze, and the music builds again. So much Charlie feels its pulse, from the tips of her toes to the back of her calves, the gentle quake up her spine– lust and hunger notching its way into the soft and vulnerable places where she hadn’t allowed it before. Not with Lewis, at least. 

And for a moment, so quick she almost notices, Lewis’s expression changes. Mouth curling at the corners in surprise, eyes lighting up with interest, as if she has been waiting for Charlie to drive on the limit with her, too.

But quick as the moment arrives, it passes. The shots appear on a tray, and Lewis’s attention is elsewhere. Always pulled in many directions, a woman with many ambitions, and short on time. 

She picks up the pair of shot glasses, and passes one to Charlie. When she leans on the bar again, the muscles in her arms flex, and Charlie tries again not to stare.

Charlie isn’t quite sure how to proceed. So she says the first thing that comes to mind. 

“What is it that we are drinking to, then?”

“Life. Love.” Lewis shouts. She leans closer to Charlie. Lewis smells like water and cocoa butter and something oudsy. It makes Charlie a bit dizzy, but maybe it’s just the lights and her harder-than-usual run this morning. It’s not like she was getting competitive about the season already. Of course not.

“And to winning, again.” Lewis says, low and conspiratorial. “Forza Ferrari.”

Charlie says nothing. She’s heard the words before of course, a million times. But not from Lewis. Not like this. In her mouth, it takes on a new shape, a whole new meaning. It becomes a secret, and Charlie doesn't want anyone else to know it.

So Charlie nods. Gives her assent. She clinks her glass into Lewis’s, and they both tip their heads back. The music throbs in her ears now, and the alcohol burns all the way down, settling uneasily in her stomach.

Lewis wipes her mouth with a napkin that’s materialised out of nowhere. Charlie is conscious that there are people all around the periphery who are staring at them both, but strangely, Lewis is staring just at…her. As if waiting for her to say something. Make the first move, initiate the dance.  

And in the cavernous space, the neon lights, it feels like the moment before an honest conversation. Of camaraderie. Of wonderment.