((because I don’t THINK I’ve seen a ficlet about this yet.))
Yuri stared up at the cold, plain ceiling of the Beijing hotel that Victor and he were staying in, and pressed his fingers to his lips.
His eyes sunk shut and instantly his imagination burst into life. The coldness of the ice barely reaching him through the heat of the exhilaration. The knowledge that he’d done something not even the world’s top skater could do. The adrenaline coursing through him as he skated over to the sidelines.
The glint in Victor’s eyes as he made it to the edge of the rink. The split second of fear and shock as Victor launched himself towards him, and then…
Yuri sighed and pulled his fingers away from his lips again, re-opening his eyes. It just didn’t cut it. His fingers didn’t feel at all like Victor’s lips, that soft pressure against his own. He would have loved to have said he could remember the smallest details about the moment, but the reality wasn’t much like that. It had all been over so fast, a swirl of a wonderfully warm and fuzzy feeling and then Victor was pulling him off the ice and he was being presented with his second place medal and Victor hadn’t said anything about it since.
So… what are we, now?
Yuri frowned at the ceiling, nervously bunching and twisting the sheets in his hand. They’d kissed, like actually proper on-the-lips, and Victor’s smiles since then had seemed a tad warmer than usual, and his glances a little more meaningful, but he’d still not mentioned anything about it.
Yuri wasn’t going to lie, when they’d stepped back into the hotel he’d spent a tense thirty seconds bracing himself for the moment when Victor would pin him against the wall and start kissing him like that again, but Victor had just thrown his coat down on the chair and flopped down on the sofa, ranting mindlessly about how Chinese sofas were so much softer than Russian sofas.
Maybe he just got over-excited, Yuri thought to himself, and there was no ignoring the pang that ran through him. Maybe he only meant it as congratulatory thing. He is kind of weirdly open like that.
Was it really something Yuri should be worrying about, then? Judging by the fact that Victor hadn’t said anything about the kiss since, and when he’d said he’d only meant to surprise Yuri… It seemed like the answer was clear cut. So then, unless Yuri had actually wanted to be kissed, it didn’t matter.
Did I want it?
That sent a different kind of shiver down his spine. He couldn’t honestly say he’d particularly dreamt about kissing Victor before, although a few times when Victor had leaned in close, Yuri would be lying if he said it didn’t cross his mind.
Now, though… now was different. Now it felt like there was something missing, always the ghost of a presence on Yuri’s lips, a kind of fierce tingling that refused to be satiated. It didn’t matter if he’d wanted it before or not, he wanted it now, and that could not end up well. Not if Victor didn’t mean it the way Yuri thought - hoped - he did.
Yuri sat up straight in his bed, seized by a sudden, uncontrollable desire to go talk to Victor. He was always supportive when Yuri needed to talk, right? From way back when Yuri had tried to base his short program on a pork cutlet bowl, Victor hadn’t picked on him for it - he’d said it was okay as long as it worked for him. That day at the beach - they’d discussed their relationship then, right? Yuri had talked about what he wanted Victor to be to him, and Victor had listened.
He’s not my idol anymore, he’s my coach and my friend, Yuri reminded himself, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and pushing himself to his feet. The carpet was soft, but unfamiliar beneath him. He longed to be back in Yu-Topia where he didn’t feel so anxious all the time.
Yuri gently pulled his door open, staring out into the hallway. Victor was rich enough to be able to afford an entire suite, with two rooms. His room was on the other side of a small lounge and kitchen.
He padded through to the other side, past the dinner table where two empty Katsudon bowls lay, across the carpet to the front of Victor’s room. Victor was a light sleeper, so there was no need to knock loudly. Just a few cautious taps scattered on the wood.
Yuri leaned in to press his ear against the door after he knocked, but it was too thick. He wouldn’t have been able to hear anything. So he twisted the doorknob and swung it slowly open.
“Yuuu-ri,” Victor purred Yuri’s name in his familiar way, his voice instantly calming any doubts that Yuri might have had. It was always so smooth and gentle, and that accent put a little spring in his voice and radiated his joviality outwards, “What’s bothering you?”
“H-How did…?” Yuri started, and then he stopped himself, feeling his face heat up. Obviously he wasn’t going to be sneaking into Victor’s room late at night if nothing was bothering him, “I just… want to sit with you for a little bit.”
Victor hummed, and shuffled over in his sheets, patting the spot next to him, “Sure. Are you getting nervous about the Rostelecom Cup?”
“Um… no,” Yuri stepped his way carefully to the side of Victor’s bed, trying to sidestep any used underwear he might have carelessly thrown about. He had a habit of doing that, “I was just thinking. About today.” He made it to the edge of the bed and crawled in, letting his legs slip under the covers.
“Mm?” in the darkness, Yuri barely saw the outline of Victor grinning, “What could you possibly be worried about from today, Yu-ri? Your routine blew everyone away.” He leaned on Yuri’s shoulder from behind, burying his nose into the crook of his neck and his arms slipping around Yuri’s waist, “I’ve never been more proud of any figure skater, ever.”
Yuri smiled to himself. Victor’s sheets were cold but his skin was always warm, and whenever Victor’s arms were around him - which was often - that warmth seemed to seep out of him and pool up in Yuri’s chest. He let his head lean slightly against Victor’s, and for the first time he was acutely aware of the quadruple Salchow his heart performed in jubilation.
“So is that it?” Victor asked, pulling away from Yuri to look up at him, “Is it something to do with your routine?”
“No…” Yuri sighed, already missing the warmth. He shifted and turned to face Victor’s outline properly. His eyes were adjusting to the dark, now. He could see the outline of Victor’s jaw in the dark, the soft bouncy lines of his beautiful grey hair, “It’s just… what are we, Victor?”
Victor tilted his head slightly. “We’re whatever you want us to be, Yuri,” he said, his voice tinged with amusement and a little confusion, “I thought I told you that.”
“But…” Yuri frowned. He was used to Victor being a little dithery and a little vague, but Yuri wasn’t like that, and it was killing him not having a name for whatever they had, “Tonight. On the ice…”
“Oh,” Victor finally seemed to get it now. They fell to silence for a few seconds more, a different kind of silence. Silences with Victor were usually enjoyable and gentle. This one was tense and awkward, “So you mean… you can’t sleep because you’re not sure…”
“Exactly,” Yuri affirmed.
“Oh,” Victor said again, but this time there was a smile on his voice, “Don’t worry, Yu-ri. There’s plenty of time to be sure about things later. For now, let’s concentrate on having a good night sleep so we can get up early tomorrow morning for practise, okay?”
“But that doesn’t help at all,” Yuri blurted, the words spilling out of his mouth. And it was true, it didn’t help. Alright, so Victor wasn’t expecting them to be boyfriends straight away, but he still hadn’t specified whether he’d actually meant to kiss Yuri or not, “Victor, I have to know what tonight meant to you. I can’t even begin to make a decision on how I feel about you until I’m certain of what you feel about me. I want to know if you- Agh!”
Victor leaned forward and curled his fingers around the collar of Yuri’s shirt, pulling him forward enough that he could tilt his head and dive in, crashing his lips against Yuri’s.
Yuri’s eyes shot open - but not for very long. Not when this kiss was so different to the one on the ice, when Victor’s hand cupped his cheek and there were absolutely no other distractions, where they had all the time in the world to kiss as long as they liked.
Yuri felt his own kind of warmth blossom in his heart, unfurling and stretching like a flower and settling all the way through him. His nerves buzzed excitedly, and suddenly he didn’t need Victor’s promise of being able to decide later. He already knew what he wanted Victor to be to him.
When their lips parted again it was with a soft ‘smack’, and for a few seconds neither of them moved an inch further away from each other.
“Try to get some sleep, okay?” Victor muttered, and with his eyes adjusted Yuri could make out the ghost of a smile on his lips.
He turned away and lay down on his side of the bed, nestling into the bed sheets, “Goodnight, Yuri.”
Yuri swallowed slightly, his lips buzzing. As much as Victor had been pressing, they’d never actually slept in the same bed before like this.
But you know what? Yuri thought as he slid down further into the bed sheets, turning away from Victor but extending his leg far enough back that they were touching each other. His lips had quirked into a smile that he couldn’t have gotten rid of even if he wanted to. I have a feeling a lot of things are going to be changing between us.
A light weight on his shoulder and a short motion out of the corner of his eye is what silences the table.
The wine glass Mor holds pauses en route to her lips. Cassian’s booming laugh cuts off. And Azriel sets his utensils down from where he’d been picking apart the meat with a faint clinking on his plate. Amren alone remains quiet, smirking over her glass of Rhys doesn’t want to know what, the only one who seemed to anticipate this moment.
Rhys looks to his left and finds Feyre with her head on his shoulder and she’s…
His entire body goes still in that moment, his heart the only thing bursting with life inside of him. Feyre’s only been in the Night Court for maybe a month and sleep has been hard to come by. But she’s sleeping now. Next to him. On him. And she seems oddly peaceful about it in a way he’s never seen her before.
He remembers the nightmares. He remembers all of them. But none of the terrors that flashed through him in a flurry of panic and sweat for three months after he came home from that mountain compared to the one he had to wake her up from himself. How Feyre had thrashed on the bed, talons ripping the sheets, the anxiety on her face when she’d finally gotten a hold of herself and had to fly to the bathroom before it all came screaming up her throat.
The blood. The tears. The pain. Miles and miles of pain choking the life out of her and all Rhys could do was sit and watch it unfold, hoping she wouldn’t stop him from rubbing circles on her back until it was over. He’d tucked her in that night, stayed a while. Didn’t leave her side until he was sure she was okay again.
He wonders if this will be one of those times, except…
Keeping his entire body rigidly still, Rhys moves only his eyes and catches Morrigan staring at Feyre. She glances at Rhys and a soft reassuring smile blooms on her face. “You were saying? About Cassian’s last trip to Adriata?”
And that’s that. That’s all she says. And Rhys goes on telling the story that only moments ago had Cassian in stitches about his own antics and Azriel quietly shaking his head.
And the entire time, Rhys sees Morrigan, the cousin who knows every secret he has carried for weeks now, staring at him. Staring at Feyre. Staring and smiling. Because they both know that Feyre can barely fall asleep in her own bed, much less in front of their inner circle. Because they know this means something. Because they know this is the beginning.
Because they know that maybe Feyre had been about to smile too before she felt comfortable enough to fall asleep on her mate without knowing it.
And Rhys feels this little seed of hope inside him crack, a tiny sprout peaking out to see some sunlight.
The rest of dinner is pleasant. Feyre doesn’t move once. When Rhys scoops her up to lay her on the sofa so he can go over updated plans for the mortal realms with Azriel on the balcony, she remains ever tranquil. Cassian begins piecing out dessert on the table and Mor digs in before she has even finished plating it in front of her. Amren shakes her head but doesn’t say anything.
Dessert is nearly finished when Cassian cuts off telling his version of visiting Adriata, the table going eerily quiet again. Rhys freezes because he just knows. He felt Feyre even before Morrigan put her hand on him and whispered, “Rhys.”
Feyre twitches on the sofa uncomfortably. Rhys can see her eyes rolling back and forth rapidly beneath her closed lids. Her hands curl into fists and constrict around her chest. Sweat begins to pull across her brow.
He’s up in a heartbeat.
“Feyre,” he says kneeling next to her and his voice is more a sob than a plea. “Feyre, wake up.”
Rhys shakes her. Shakes her until she groans and wakes up, sitting bolt upright, the hands just on the verge of letting those razor sharp talons inch out of her digging into his shoulders as she grabs him. He doesn’t even feel the pain.
“A dream,” he tells her. “It was just a dream.”
She’s breathing deeply. Her eyes flit to the table where Rhys’s friends - her friends now - are watching and quickly flit back to find Rhys’s eyes. They’ve never seen her in such a state of panic. And it terrifies Rhys how she’ll feel about that.
Suddenly, Feyre sucks her lips in and he knows she’s holding it all in. He starts breathing with her, deeply and loud enough for Feyre to hear. She mimics him.
“In,” Rhys says. “Out. In. Out.”
She shakes her head, more at herself than him, and he hears the words past her broken mental barriers.
I’m not going to throw up. I’m not going to throw up. I’m fine. I’m okay. This is okay. It was just a dream. It wasn’t real. This is real.
When she murmurs ‘this,’ her talons release on Rhys’s shoulder, but her fingers left in their place give a little tug on his tunic and Rhys instinctively leans forward. He doesn’t move nor stop his labored breathing for her until she slows down, until her lips release, and her grip slackens.
But she’s tired. He can see how utterly exhausted she is despite sleeping all through dinner. A thousand years of sleep might not be enough to erase the kind of fatigue he and Feyre both suffer from.
Feyre looks at him, the blue-grey of her eyes more grey tonight than blue.
She had been so peaceful, he thinks.
Can you take me back? She asks him through the bond. She doesn’t even have to ask him to lower his shields for her to come through. Pl-
Rhys has her in his arms before the word is even finished in their heads. He will never make her beg him for anything. And then without another word or so much as a look at anyone else, they’re soaring off the balcony into a smooth flight through the night wind.
Rhys tells Feyre to look up at the stars, but it makes no difference. She’s asleep again long before they reach the townhouse.
I hated LA when I first got here. Hated it. Now, I think I’ve welcomed it finally when I found this bizarre charm to it. It’s this huge city, but it’s got these kind of cracks that are just bursting with so much life and story. I don’t know. It’s very romantic and artistic in many ways. The palm trees, the sunsets. But at the same time where the sunset’s made out of smog by cars.
Summary: The world is black and white to everyone. At least, until they reach 18, and realise who their soulmate is or meet them for the first time - and then colour will burst into their life, one shade at a time. You’ve been desperate to graduate high school and move away, but you can’t run from fate. - ft. big brother Yixing Scenario: Soulmate!au Word Count: 5,977
A short sci-fi story written for @caffeinewitchcraft’s Caffeine Challenge #12. My brain took the prompts and veered off a bit, but this was fun to write! The title means “The stars incline us, but do not bind us.”
I was born on the
Saratoga, a class 2 transport
running supplies between the consolidated colonies of the outer ring
in the records as the middle day of seven in a Night cycle as we
drifted between suns, all lights
on emergency use only until
we could make it in range of
the next system to recharge the auxiliary
batteries. Mom always said
that Night stretched so long because I was hoarding all the light for
myself, so I could burst to life as five pounds six ounces of
screaming starfire. She said
she knew I’d be fine out here in the black, that she knew I could
make my life here and be happy without a sun and a planet because
even from that very first moment she could see the light in my eyes;
a true spacer, whose inner fire keeps them warm even in the darkest
never had the heart to tell her she was wrong.
like this: I was seven sol-years
old and setting foot on a planet for the first time. Gravity dragged
at me. My feet and hands felt heavy, my head hurt. The floor seemed
to roll out in front of me, curving and bucking when I tried to walk.
I fell more than a few times,
and my mother tried to get me to go back to the shuttle, but I
refused. Everyone else in my class had been planetside, even Monica
and Neil, both two years younger than me, and I was determined to
have my turn.
of the station attendants gave me a pair of crutches and I gritted my
teeth and kept going, one shaky step at a time, until I was through
the doors and really, really
in-atmosphere for the first time in my life.
heat of the sun felt like a caress over my hair. The breeze tugging
at my shipsuit was a revelation. There were sounds I’d never heard
before, smells I’d never dreamt of, more colors than I’d ever
thought possible. Actual living animals
flew above me. Vibrant green plants pushed between cracks in the
stone path, utterly
It was too much. I
cried. I screamed. I curled in a ball on the ground—real, solid
ground!–and bawled my tiny heart out while the sun beat on my neck,
and I refused to move no matter how my shipmates coaxed and pulled
and scolded. Mom always said after it was some kind of sign, that it
was proof I knew I belonged in space, even that young. The rest of
the adults laughed about it for years. They’d muss my hair
affectionately whenever it came up at a party, or a holiday, or a
community hearing, or a graduation ceremony, and say things like
That’s our Astra, and A
born shiprat, you are.
Capricorns are very much about soliciting their real place in the ‘real’ world. His gifts await in the realm of organization, pragmatism and ensuring efficiency found within the existing structures. Capricorns
are a unique sign of the zodiac. This is partly courtesy of their curious tendency to
‘age backwards’. Considered ‘late bloomers’ in astrology, Capricorn people
really burst into life when they can sit back and finally enjoy the revenue of many years of hard work. He wants to build something
important in the world that stands as testimony to his dedication
and effort, and becomes eternally illuminated when these projects
finally see fruition. The comfort that comes with age is usually enough
to free the Capricorn from his inborn feelings of responsibility, duty
and unworthiness. By the time they are elders, Capricorns have the ability to really let go and delight in simple things in a childlike way.
The Capricorn life is filled with many lessons leading to the
attainment of will power. Their ruler, Saturn is a powerful ally that
throws multiple, time consuming obstacles in his path, though Saturn, the alchemist always provides
the promise of immeasurable success once these are overcome. The early
life of the Capricorn seems harsh, with many conflicts arising not only with
authority but also within himself. Typically reserved as children, he was scared of expressing his true feelings and emotions.
Young Capricorns are eager to shoulder adult responsibilities and feel
more comfortable around people older people, and will seek out friendships with people outside their peer group on purpose. Sometimes Capricorns only allows himself to express his inner child when he is almost too old to enjoy it.
In their 30’s, following the first Saturn Return, Capricorns finally begin to release hold of all
the self imposed restrictions and limitations. He slowly allows
himself to relax into life a little more and start growing into his
own skin. The Capricorn youth can be plagued by the
monologue of a vicious inner critic; the inner judge that is always
quick to criticize and deliver a well timed reality check. As Capricorn
ages, he learns to create that equally opposing voice. This is the voice that
tells him how beautiful, intelligent and vital he truly is. With every
birthday crossed off the years, the Capricorn becomes lighter, freer and
truly blooms as the incandescent flower he is.
March, a time for irony
the sun returns in all its golden splendor
our world bursts magically into life
young hearts renew their quest for love
while old souls sit in silent contemplation
smiling softly, trying vainly to recapture
those days, when they and everything were young
Around us, life bursts with miracles–a glass of water, a ray of sunshine, a leaf, a caterpillar, a flower, laughter, raindrops. If you live in awareness, it is easy to see miracles everywhere. Each human being is a multiplicity of miracles. Eyes that see thousands of colors, shapes, and forms; ears that hear a bee flying or a thunderclap; a brain that ponders a speck of dust as easily as the entire cosmos; a heart that beats in rhythm with the heartbeat of all beings. When we are tired and feel discouraged by life’s daily struggles, we may not notice these miracles, but they are always there.