#fem!riders

[burarano]

Fem! racers👙

[star-s-631]

Here we go with my design of f!Marc and f!Casey

[sunnyeti]

Intermission - AO3

Casey/Vale, Female riders, lesbian sex, infidelity

Casey's canines are sharp. They've always been, Valentina remembers, had always felt delicious pressing against her neck, pointy and dangerous.

Vale drinks some more water to keep her hands busy while she looks at Casey. She looks good, here, at the Ranch, with Vale's entire academy all but throwing themselves at her feet, begging for feedback and for praise.

Maybe ready to beg for something else too, Vale ponders, what with the way Pecca keeps laughing at everything Casey says, shifting on her feet like her pussy is already drenched. Bez isn't doing much better – she's staring at Casey with big eyes like all she needs is one word to drop to her knees right in the middle of Vale's track.

Casey won't fuck them, Vale knows, and self-satisfaction swells in her guts at the knowledge. No, Casey is a proud wife nowadays, a proud mother too, the kind of woman old school mothers are proud to call their daughter. Casey is a model of conservative femininity – the slick blond hair, the family, she even retired so early from racing that she's been cosplaying a housewife for over ten years.

She's men's wet dream, really, which is probably why Valentina had loved to fuck her so much. There was also the racing, the overtakes, the bitchy way Casey sometimes used to speak about her to journalists, which made Vale want to hold her over her knee and spank. Yet, truly, even without it all, Vale would still have fucked her.

Because fucking Casey meant one thing only – Casey, darling dutiful wife Casey, could get fucked better by Vale than by her husband. She hated it, fuck, Vale remembers how mad and tense Casey was on the rare occasions when she reached out first and knocked on Vale's motorhome. Red cheeks, back straight as if she expected to walk into the decisive fight of a war, Casey had looked so mad at herself for wanting it that it made Vale want her even more.

Casey barely moaned during sex, she said maybe three words through the entire thing, her pointy teeth digging into her lips, forbidding herself from being loud and honest about her pleasure. That had never bothered Vale, honestly. Casey's body was red and trembling from the moment Vale's fingers traced her skin, her nipples hard and her cunt drenched, her legs jerky while Vale fingered her, her eyes glossy when Vale took those same slick covered fingers and pushed them past her lips.

She's terrible at oral, Casey. She chokes too easily, and always forgets to put her lips over her teeth. Valentina hadn't minded – feeding Casey her strap and watching her choke on just a few inches of it, spit drooling over her chin and falling in between her perky tits was just as arousing as watching anyone else take her to the root.

In front of her, Casey rests a hand over her hip, saying something with a sharp grin that makes everyone around her burst into laughter. Casey's smirk only widens, self-satisfied, pleased with her court. She had had the same expression in 2013, when she had come to the paddock in Phillip Island, the people's lost princess back to wave and smile.

They had crossed paths after the podium, and Casey had congratulated Vale on her third place. At least, that's the words she had said – Congrats on the third place. Tight battle. Her smile had been mean, her smirk wide, and Vale had known what Casey actually meant immediately. You got lucky. Should have been fifth place, Vale.

Valentina had smiled and had asked Casey if she wanted a drink. Casey had paused, but she had eventually agreed. An hour and a half later, Vale was forcing Casey's third orgasm out of her, licking her cum as it spilled out of her cunt and then kissing her, making Casey taste her own want and pleasure on Vale's tongue. It had been a nice weekend.

Casey passes a hand over her hair while Bez asks her something, pulling her ponytail tighter. She keeps her hair shorter, nowadays, barely past her shoulders. After giving birth to two kids, Valentina guesses she doesn't need to prove her womanhood anymore. No fear of being called a dyke for riding bikes, no fear of being cast out by mommy if she finds out that Casey kneels when a woman orders her to, pants and whines when her face is straddled by a pussy.

Vale passes a hand over her buzzcut, her tits pressed tight inside her leathers. She never bothered with bras, her A cups not worth the discomfort. Casey's leathers are halfway undone, pooling at her hips. Through the thin black fabric of her neoprene underlayer, Vale can guess the shape of her sports bra. The bra roundens Casey's tits, ruining them. 

Casey tits are not round, they're pointy, pear shaped, sitting low over her chest, the areola of her nipples almost looking too big over them. Vale licks her lips, remembering her taste, the sensitivity that afflicted Casey like a curse, that meant she could come from just having her tits played with.

Valentina regrets to never have fucked Casey when she was pregnant. In 2012, Vale wanted to break her neck, and in 2017 she simply had not reached out. Vale's always wondered how big Casey's tits got while she was pregnant. She wondered if her tits would have leaked milk if Vale had played with her nipples well enough, if she could have made her run dry, or if Casey would have refused her touch, too sensitive.

Vale won't ever know, she guesses. Casey's performance of femininity is simply that – a performance. Pushing two kids out of the same cunt she let women fuck.

The academy girls leave Casey alone, going back to their gear, getting ready to go out on track again. Casey starts to do her leathers up again, throwing a glance towards Vale, her blue eyes vibrant in the afternoon light. Valentina wonders what she sees, when she looks at her.

Her, Valentina, the dyke who fucked grid girls, and riders, the woman who has an academy of proteges but no child of her own, the woman who cuts her hair with rusty scissors or clippers, the woman with no tits, no hips, no curves. It might be disdain, it might be indifference, but most probably it's a spark of aching jealousy.

Valentina knows it, and she believes that Casey does too. Everyone plays their assigned parts on the public stage, and the two of them have long since mastered their roles, learned their lines and learned not to change them.

Vale can like wearing lace panties, she can enjoy the way the fabric feels over her hips, over her bush – she still won't wear anything but men's boxers. Casey can like to fuck women, can love the weight of their bodies pressed to hers – she still smiles at her husband and wears his wedding ring.

Casey pulls up the zipper of her leathers, then tilts her head towards the track, her eyes locked into Vale's.

"You're coming?" She asks. Vale has missed her stupid accent.

"In a minute," she replies, and Casey nods, then turns and leaves.

Vale watches her go, watches her hips and her ass sway. She wonders how hard Casey will pretend that she doesn't want to have sex, tonight.

[366kmph]

i wish you would write a fic where mig is a butch lesbian 🫶 ik this is not a plot summary i would love literally anything

(from this) yayy of COURSE i will. i love her. this got kinda longg so see below the cut. if youre seeing the time this is being posted. no youre not. hope this is what you were looking for! <3

The sun feels relentless out on the track. These are the days Mig feels most insane, when the last sticky tendrils of August are refusing to let go of a hot, hot summer, and everyone who isn't insane or a tourist is lounging on a shady terrace with a cold drink, or else napping through the heat's peak in shuttered rooms. At least here, up in the gently rolling foothills of the Apennines, it's not as bad as in Cattolica where they meet the sea, where the flatter ground cradles a stiff, still heat when the winds aren't blowing in off the Adriatic quite right. That's part of why they chose the Ranch, today; none of them fancied the tacky, dark asphalt of Jeepers. As Mig peels her gear off—black leathers, an awful mistake—she thinks that perhaps the decision was inconsequential. Her whole body is covered in a film of sweat, and she feels flushed and a little unsteady, and thirsty enough to drown herself under the outside tap that they use to fill bowls for Vale's dogs, when he brings them here. The impulse hits her with her legs still entangled in her suit; Luca's expensive insulated water bottle, abandoned helpfully on the table at her hip, will have to do.

"Are we getting naked for lunch this time?" someone calls from the mouth of the covered area—Franky, amusement at his own joke threaded through every syllable. "Someone should've told me, I would've worn my nice boxers."

"Fanculo," Mig says emphatically, water spilling over her chin that she doesn't bother to wipe away. It's deliciously cold. "I can feel every single drop of sweat that's sliding down my asscrack, man, I have no time for jokes."

Franky laughs; closer now, coming into the shade. He's wearing black too, but the lighter, looser fabric of dirtbike gear, and although his forehead glistens with sweat he seems perfectly comfortable. Mig sees him think about mentioning the black leathers, or the way she's forgotten to unfasten her boots, or the hole at the waistband of her boxers where her thumb finally burst through a threadbare patch this morning; he doesn't say a word, but he looks back up at her face and it's all there anyway, caught in a single glint in his dark eyes.

"Ti taglio," she mutters, as she crouches to free her feet. He just laughs again; a shame. Too many years of empty threats between them.

-

Once finally free of her suit, Mig pulls on the cargo shorts she left inside and doesn't bother with a shirt. A few of the guys have dragged some chairs to the place where the roof casts a sharp shadow, and they spill over the boundary; Bez bathed in light and squinting at his piadina emphatically, Franky stretching just his legs into the sun with a bowl of pasta on his lap. Pecca picking through a little cardboard box of chicken and rice, half a metre inside the safety of the shade. There's a free chair next to her. She'd sent Mig an article about skin cancer last week, which she had not read, but said thank you for anyway. Made a mental note of, in case it was one of those things they had to keep an eye on. But in the here and now—

Mig pulls her chair up, a little guiltily, next to Bez.

-

She's almost finished her pasta by the time Luca clatters out of the door with just a coffee; a macchiato, in one of the little ceramic cups they use when the ranch isn't too busy. Pecca, who turned at the noise, throws Mig a look—too obvious, her slender eyebrows furrowed—and Mig pulls her mouth tight and shakes her head. Not now.

She clears her throat, clears her face best she can, looks away from Pecca and back at Luca, tipping her head as she rounds behind Mig's chair. Throws out a ciao that receives a distracted, lazy echo.

Luca hesitates for a moment in the sun. She looks like she's just walked out of some modelling catalogue, decked out in spotless Honda gear from head to toe, with big sponsorship sunglasses and her long hair down and glowing gold. Mig grins and drops her fork to pat her own thighs as loudly and obnoxiously as she can with both hands. It earns her a look; Luca's slender fingers pinching to pull down the sunglasses for maximum effect. Her eyes flash, bright and pale, over the rims. The chastening effect is somewhat spoilt, Mig thinks, by the fact that she has to squint slightly against the harsh light.

"I have no idea how you've ever convinced anyone to fuck you," Luca says, sunglasses replaced. Her face is unreadable again except for a faint twitch of her lips; it's unclear whether she's directing that at the crude invitation, or at the whole picture—Mig sprawled in a plastic lawn chair in undone cargo shorts and a sports bra soaked with sweat, with tanlines and chapped lips and a buzzcut Luca called 'choppy' just last week. Mig doesn't care, not really, but she also can't let that go unchallenged.

"Ah, don't pretend you don't know, Lucrezia," she says, shifting in her seat a little, letting the words roll ostentatious and syrupy off her tongue. Quiet, just in case. Sometimes Luca likes to act as if it's a secret. It can get her hackles up, especially if Vale's around.

Sometimes it just makes her scoff out a laugh, and wave a hand rudely, and keep walking over to the empty chair next to Pecca, who presumably does not ever make crude references to bad teenage hookups, and not just because there were none. She settles in the shade; the sunlight fades out of her hair, turning it back to brown. Her knees fall apart, careless, as she takes a sip of coffee. She lays her other arm equally carelessly over the armrest, and flicks her wrist to tap the backs of her dangling fingers, just lightly, momentarily, against Pecca's thigh.

Pecca's head snaps around, eyes bright and lips awkwardly pulling up at the corners as best they can around her mouthful of food. Luca, as usual, isn't even looking at her to see it.

Mig almost wants to slap her. She can feel the frustration, fizzing in her chest like winner's champagne coming back up the wrong way. Suddenly right at her throat, brought quickly to the fore in the heat. She can't help herself.

"I suppose even your tastes can change, Lu," she says, voice loud enough to carry. "Right, Pecca?"

"Mig," Luca says sharply, as Pecca grunts out a chicken-muffled what?. She blinks at Mig, and then Luca, who has tightened up like Mig has taken a ratchet to every one of her joints. Jaw clenched, face turned away from all of them, out to the track. Almost like Mig did hit her. There's no answer for Pecca there.

In her peripheral vision, she sees Bez glancing up at them, nervous. Sensing something that he'll dismiss, probably, in a few minutes. If Luca stops looking like that. If Mig can diffuse it, settle them all down. Laugh it off.

She usually can.

[burarano]

🎀👩🏻‍❤️‍💋‍👩🏽fem! Fermin Aldeguer and Pedro Acosta🦈💘

[burarano]

fem! and man! Fermin Aldeguer sketch⚘️

[366kmph]

4'10 dyke mig with the most powerful game (stroke and otherwise) on earth is genuinely real to me thank you for your service

🫡🫡 i can't take credit for this alone.. my beautiful mutuals including but not limited to @telecommunikate and @tartquez (PLEASE feel free to chime in) are also big proponents of dyke mig having the most inexplicably incredible game! its just true!! she is TINY but sturdyy. she does strap-specific workouts. more and more now that she doesnt have to keep (as) fit for riding. her jokes aren't very funny and her dress sense could be described as similar to a 14 year old boy's and she has a slightly messy buzzcut that she does herself (occasionally it is allowed to grow out into a mullet which she also does herself of course) but she also has such an ease in herself and a confidence. an ability to talk to anyone, the audacity to think they'll want to hear her out and is ALSO a brilliant listener (in many respects..). loves to pleaseeee. acts like her height isn't an issue and so most of the time it simply isn't. people (the academy) don't know how she does it but its not out of nowhere. she puts in the hours!

[star-s-631]

Doodle of Ducati girls (might draw properly later)