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I once saw someone refer to the VR46 riders academy as weaponised Italian hooligans and I swear I will never find a better name and I think about it constantly
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
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.
