galex-ybrain

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timely reminder to treat your pretty princesses well!

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What else can i do？

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wet bedraggled cat

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Cele in glasses resurfaces!! Check out his tagged photos on insta! He must wear contacts and then when he's tired or can't be bothered, wears glasses 🤔

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MUGELLO 2025 | Marc Marquez on the top step of the podium.

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Sprints HATE to see them coming

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celestino vietti during fp1 at the italian gp

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i mean

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il boss

-@/DLenz96(twt

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2025italianGP | onboard camera of pecco after the race

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dance, a death knell : rosquez demon au / 1.4k words (pt. 1)

The heat is stinking, and the air of it thick with sweat and used fuel. It writhes like a living thing in Valentino’s nose and mouth: a gleaming snake of human effort. He minded it less when he wore it too, when this pack of animals was somethin he belonged to. But in clean t-shirts and behind track fences, it festers like death. Pervasive and strange despite the squirming familiarity of it.

Hot dust floats in the swath of light between motorhomes. Valentino stands just out of it, leant against a red lacquered wall, chin tucked to his chest. People keep him waiting now, more than they used to. This is something he’s learning to accept.

Noise lifts his gaze from the sun-washed pavement and his dust-covered shoes. Movement stirs the curtains of the opposite trailer: Márquez, somehow released prematurely from the meeting that’s keeping Francesco from him. Special treatment, as always. An apple seed of bitterness bursts between his teeth.

A bang: the sudden sound of a cabinet closing with more force than needed. Thick fingers appear through the curtains to pry the porthole window open an inch. Valentino stiffens without meaning to.

Then the smell hits like a wall.

He’s come across a long dead thing only once before. Too young to be on his own, escaping from Graziano’s watch with very little effort. Catapulting himself across the ruins of an old farm property, lithe like a weasel over upturned chairs and broken fences, till the house — shambles, only half a roof over its walls — became too interesting to ignore. He’d fit his little fingers into the stuck door jamb and leant his whole weight against it. The thing gave with a groan that rattled his teeth, hinges splitting as it buckled in. And then the smell — something furred that had come in through the roof and found itself trapped.

Valentino hadn’t stuck around to figure out what it was. He’d made it fifty metres away, maybe, before the hot scent of rot caught up with him and forced him in half to throw up in the dirt.

This is rot, too — and it knocks him similarly, threatens to swipe his feet out from under him and leaves him sagging against Pecco’s motorhome, shirt pulled over the bridge of his nose.

The stench disappears as quickly as it had arisen, but not before Valentino’s careening mind can string together a horrified realisation.

— there is a dead thing in there where Marc is a dead thing, or him, dead

He takes a burning breath, and the thought evaporates upwards. Through the material of his shirt, laundry detergent and his own mild sweat and deodorant, something comes again. Hot and heavy, the darkly perfumed oil of a foreign massage parlour; jasmine and saffron and patchouli, a thick red scent that he can taste deep in the back of his throat.

His feet carry him up the stairs of Marc’s motorhome like a hunting dog made to follow its nose. The smell deepens into something alive and pulsing, and the door opens before he can knock. Marc stares up at him.

The wrongness strikes him as the smell had. Marc appears like a palimpsest, shadowed beneath himself. Every angle, a few degrees off. The light doesn’t catch in the wet of his eyes the way it should. Valentino stumbles, pushed down a step by baser instincts from times long past. A primal sort of fear. The hair on the back of his neck lifts up, and when his lips part to speak, the scent pools on his tongue.

“What have you done,” he manages, choking on it.

Marc smiles, jackal teeth and garnet-red gums.

“I know gods who do not lay blame as well as you,” he sneers. His voice, too, is wrong. 

Valentino wets his lips, tries not to gag. The engine of a scooter kicks to life somewhere behind them, and Marc’s eyes — too dark, too deep — lift to find it. Nobody comes across them and the noise dies into the distance. There is nothing to save him here. Valentino has never heard the paddock so silent.

“You will come in, yes?”

The thing borrows Marc’s cadence. Eases the words out in a way Valentino recognises, so that illusion of choice dances in his swooping inflection. Valentino looks down and sees claws attached to familiar hands.

It’s hotter in the trailer than outside in the wrath of the sun. He doesn’t know how it happens — how in a blink he’s on the other side of the door, on the other side of Marc, suddenly swept into the furnace like he’d been picked up and put down again by a terrifying invisible power.

He doesn’t waste his breath crying, “How did you—?”, not with those black eyes on him, pinning him to the carpet.

Marc spreads his arms in a gesture that should be welcoming. He nods towards the two-seater couch.

The decision is ripped from him. He’s sitting before he can even blink, dragged through the room by magic like marionette strings. Marc’s cackle follows Valentino’s panicked attempt to orient himself.

“People have forgotten how easy it is to have the things they want,” Marc says, sounding like no one Valentino knows. His voice is a foreign rasp; a wild animal accent from somewhere ancient. It grinds like a sword on whetstone and rings like church bells in Valentino’s ears. “Of course, for a trade. There are no knights for me, anymore — so easy, they were. Your kind comes close. A lot of wanting in this trade, you know. ”

“What did you take from him?”

The question rushes out as a whisper past shaking lips. What did he give you, Valentino should ask, what the fuck could he want so badly?

The demon grins. The expression is too smooth, too blank — perhaps that’s why Valentino recognises it. The impossible surface of a frozen lake; armour with no gaps. A smile Marc dons like a mask.

“There was no taking,” he says. His hands come together over his stomach and open slowly, palms up. The pose of a giving saint. “Only an equal exchange. His pain, which I will wear, for him, which I will wear.”

Vomit surges up Valentino’s throat. He gags, covering his lips and looking away. Marc seems to slip into the shadows as soon as Valentino stops looking directly at him, pooling into black nothing in the dark corners of the room. He swallows, steeling himself. Marc is still there when his gaze returns, shoulders loose, face wrought in a smile that would be pleasant if it weren’t so wrong.

“You — so when, for how long, just — always? When is he —” — himself?

Valentino severs his breathless ramble. The demon rocks back on his heels, looking satisfied.

Maybe it shouldn’t matter. Maybe this should be something Valentino can distance himself from, at least enough to settle his stomach: mind only catching on all of Marc’s sharp points for the fear of someone getting hurt and no other reason — nothing to do with feelings. 

But it does matter. Valentino is terrified. The thought of Marc — his mind — locked away somewhere while this demon fronts in his skin. Valentino thinks he’s going to be sick. His brain fidgets for a prayer, something to rinse away the spit and fumble holiness across his teeth so that he might come out of this alive.

Sub tuum praesidium confugimus,

“No. For a time determined. So that I may have legs to stretch in the light. Skin to feel the cooling of rain. A body to walk amongst humanity without the burden of their wretched stench, how it gags me.”

Sancta Dei Genetrix.

Marc sniffs at the air. His face turns leonine, predatory. Valentino can smell his own sweat, the sharp tang of it. He must reek of fear.

Nostras deprecationes ne despicias in necessitatibus,

“Do you know what you feel for him?”

The room starts to shrink. Walls closing in and shadows growing long. Marc steps closer, hands tense, claws gleaming. He snarls.

“Does he?”

sed a periculis cunctis libera nos semper,

The recital turns frantic inside his head, louder and louder till he’s screaming it.

“Stop that, will you.”

Sharp teeth flash white in the near-dark and the stench returns — rot and flowers, thick as honey and blood. Valentino’s eyes start to stream.

Virgo gloriosa et benedicta.

The blackness swallows him.

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Death, taxes, and Bezz being the biggest babygirl in MotoGP (why is he crowd surfing??? this boy is insane 😭)

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serve of the century

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he can't hear you!!!!